The Heartreader's Secret

by Kate McinTyre

And yet he found himself forgetting about William and Agnes’s cold, furious eyes, about Rosemary acting like a complete stranger, about Rachel pulling away from him on the stairs, and even about Emilia Banks and her secret laboratory. The pies were sweet and juicy, the candied apples were hard on the outside and deliciously tart on the inside, and he found that he finally understood the particular joy Fernand had always taken from apple cider. Buffy, the kitchen girl whose name had been included in the list of locals with agendas that Olivia had him make, was grinning brilliantly when she ladled some of the stuff out and handed it to him in a warm clay mug. The warmth and spices played on his tongue; the cider was tart and sweet and had a fine bitter edge. He sighed happily.

  “Enjoying yourself?” Olivia asked at his side.

  “Yes!” he exclaimed back. He had to speak loudly to be heard over the sound of conversation and music. Normally, he hated raising his voice. Here, it felt rather like the appropriate volume. He held up his mug. “This is good!”

  She laughed delightedly and clinked their mugs together. The cider sloshed inside. “I should hope so,” she teased. “My family’s only made our fortunes on it since before your ancestors partnered up with Richard Lowry!”

  “I can’t believe you don’t come here every year!”

  A cloud crossed her face. “Oh, hardly worth it, even for all the fun.” With her mug of cider, she gestured vaguely at where Elouise Faraday stood, regal in russet brown velvet, surrounded by a group of similarly elegant matriarchs. “It’s like she’s particularly aware, upon seeing my face, that she can’t see Ollie’s.”

  Chris swallowed and nodded. “That’s not fair of her,” he heard himself saying, without meaning to. He cringed away from his employer, but she merely shrugged.

  “She thinks I’m a monster,” she said, and her voice curdled on the last word in the way that it always did. “I’d think that the presence of such a creature could ruin any celebration, hmm? Best I just keep it to Midwinter.”

  She buried her face in her mug of cider, and Chris raised his to drink as well.

  “So,” his employer said brightly after a moment. “Enjoying yourself so much that you’ve forgotten entirely about why we’re actually here?”

  Chris snapped his head up and looked at her with wide eyes. “I–no! I mean… that is to say….”

  Olivia laughed and clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Heartless! Don’t worry. I’ve had my eyes and ears open.”

  “And?”

  “I haven’t noted anyone acting especially off-character. And there don’t appear to be any notable absences.” She winced. “Other than Mabelle, that is. I don’t exactly blame her, after the afternoon she had, but…” She looked up at the sky. “I do wish it wasn’t so overcast,” she said, and a wistful string threaded through her voice. “You really would be amazed at the way the stars look on a night like this, so far from the bright lights of the city. Like… like the ice crystals trailing off a fiaran.”

  Around them, tiny white lights began to bloom.

  Gasps and murmurs of appreciation went up around the crowd as illumination returned to the Festival grounds. Little bulbs of incandescent light, each no bigger than a penny, flickered to life above them in clusters and groups like bunches of flowers.

  “Amazing!” Olivia gasped, reaching up to the closest one. It hovered above their heads near a garland of cloth autumn flowers, but it was high enough above that even Chris couldn’t touch it.

  “How beautiful…” Chris breathed.

  “It appears we have stars after all!” Olivia smiled broadly and then narrowed her eyes. She scanned the sky as if looking for something specific. “This must be the reason for all those damned black wires I saw hovering about, but… do you see any spirit glow anywhere, Chris?”

  Chris blinked and looked about. The quality of light was exactly the white glow of an alp, but Olivia was right. He didn’t see the telltale black nimbus anywhere. Which meant… “Just like the light in the dining room,” he said quietly. “Another application of this ‘new technology from Vernella,’ I suppose.”

  “Exactly.” Olivia folded her arms. “And there’s absolutely no way Em could have installed this before she left. We were out here just this morning, and none of it was set up yet!”

  “Which means….”

  “Which means that someone else appropriated her work, learned how to use it, and is using it to light a bloody Festival—hardly! Or…” She tapped her foot. “Or, more likely, that she had another partner. Not just Roger.” She scanned the crowd with narrowed eyes, looking as if she were sighting down the barrel of a gun. “Someone here tonight. And I’ll bet my last royal that she’s the same one who mailed that letter.”

  The musicians finished the jaunty number they’d been playing. While the rest tuned their instruments up, the lead violinist sawed a few bars. Everyone, including Olivia, raised their hands over their heads to clap and cheer.

  “What—” Chris began.

  “Ah, what timing!” Olivia practically sparkled. “Ask about the lights! Whoever strung them must be in that line! And please, keep an eye out for anything suspicious!”

  She bustled behind him, placed both hands on the small of his back, and pushed him in the direction of the largest canopy and the shiny wooden dance floor.

  Already, everyone was forming up into two lines; women on one side, and men on the other. Chris caught a glimpse of Rosemary’s white dress and black curls in the lady’s line before Olivia steered him into place and took her position opposite his. Her eyes glimmered across the way. His heart did a somersault. Will Cartwright had taught him to dance the waltz, a memory that Chris very carefully shelved. That was the extent of his knowledge of dance. ‘Ask about the lights,’ Olivia had said. As if his partners would be talking about anything other than what a fool he was about to make of himself!

  The lead violinist kept playing those same few bars. The line of ladies tittered excitedly.

  “You’re still here,” a voice in his ear said.

  Chris half-turned, startled and had to swallow down a burst of pure loathing as Dayton Spencer glared at him. At least Chris was tall enough that Spencer had to tilt his face to meet his eyes, which filled him with some measure of petty satisfaction.

  “Was I meant to be gone?” he asked.

  “Missus Faraday made it clear that she didn’t mean for her daughter to be present for so long.”

  Chris flashed him a little half-smile. He meant it as a challenge, and he could tell by the way that Spencer’s brows pulled together that it was taken that way. Well, good. “Why?” he asked. “Are you nervous about losing your chance to steal her inheritance?”

  Spencer’s jaw bulged. “Oh, I like that,” he spat. “You’d know everything there is about stealing an inheritance, wouldn’t you?” He looked Chris up and down and scoffed. “And just look at you. Uncle Fernand’s ward in more ways than one, I would bet.”

  A moment of perfect clarity snapped through him like the flash of a silver fish on a line.

  But the other violins joined in with the first, both sides of the line began clapping excitedly, and the fish dove back beneath the waves.

  Olivia grabbed his arms and whirled him in a circle, grinning wildly. She linked their hands and spun around. She dipped a low curtsy to him. She spun him again. And then she was gone, dancing left as he was jostled to the right.

  He had no idea what he was doing. He was jostled from a pretty house maid with a riot of freckles, to a stout orchard labourer with arms thicker than his legs, to a finely dressed young lady who couldn’t be a day older than Rosie. The last sniffed at his faltering, clumsy steps, but then he was swept off again and was looking at Presa, one of the kitchen girls from that morning. She grinned widely, showing off one chipped tooth. She was careful with him, and by the time he was off to the next partner, he thought that perhaps, maybe, he understood some of the steps.

  He found himself facing thick round glasses and big brown braids. Si
ster Margaret laughed. “Maybe we’ll see you there, your Deathsniffer said?” she shouted in his ear while they pulled close. “I’ll bet! She’s a bloody Miller, herself, and neither of you said a word about it! What all are you lot actually doing up here in the country? Something tells me that you know exactly what’s all going on. More than I do! We’ll have words, mark that!”

  Before he could respond—lie, dissemble, something—she twirled back, shook a finger at him, and moved to her next partner. All he could do was swallow and do the same.

  Rosemary looked at him with her lips folded in a line.

  “I see you’re dancing,” he said.

  “I see you’re trying to do the same,” she retorted and led him through the turns and whirls with aplomb. She never missed a step, and when she curtsied, spun him, and was off, she wore satisfied little smirk on her face.

  An older woman who smelled of lavender and mothballs, a pretty young thing with dog violets braided into her hair, a plump, plain-faced girl who nevertheless danced like a bloody angel.

  Rachel.

  Her eyes sparkled under the white fairy lights. She wore her hair in braided knots that bounced as she moved. She smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. Her dress was cut to fall like a dusty lilac waterfall around her tall, slender form, and when he put his hand on her back, the fabric was soft as a cloud. She had these dainty little white gloves that cut off at the wrists. They were beautiful. She was beautiful. He found himself lost in her eyes, in the delight he saw there. He wanted to pull her close and lose himself in her.

  “I don’t know how to perform this dance,” he heard himself murmur. “I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “I think you’re doing very well.”

  “I’m sorry I tried to kiss you.”

  She flushed. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you.”

  Then she whirled away from him, and he was left blinking helplessly at the end of the line, no lady before him. The world seemed less real, and he was dizzy from the scent of vanilla and cinnamon. At some point, it had started raining. A patter of drops fell onto the canopy overhead in a quick staccato rhythm. His palms were damp.

  “Run to the end!” the man beside him prodded. “You dumb blighter! You’ll hold up the whole dance.”

  He snapped back into place. The gentleman beside him waved him off while his lady companion laughed. Rachel had already moved down the line. He shook himself and did as instructed, jogging down the line of dancers until he reached the confused looking young lady at the other end. She smiled expansively and pulled him into another series of dizzying twists.

  The few well-dressed young ladies who had the air of aristocracy about them turned up their noses at his fumbled steps, but most of his partners laughed and smiled and glittered. He let himself be swung and spun from one woman to the next, lost in the wild sawing of the violins, until he found himself staring, once again, into Olivia’s ice blue eyes. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were bright, and her chest was heaving.

  She sparkled.

  The music ended.

  Olivia gasped and laughed and wrapped her arms tightly around him in an unprecedented show of affection. She shook as she laughed. All around them, people were applauding, cheering, whooping, and patting each other on the back. A young man nearby picked up a particularly small lady and spun her over his head while she squealed. The rain pounded on the canopy overhead. Outside, people were pulling down or covering up booths that hadn’t been fortunate enough to get a covering. Chris’s heart pounded in his skull.

  Olivia’s cool lips moved against his ear. “No conspicuous absences, though Norwood isn’t in attendance. Spencer is an arse. Foster seemed a bit odd, but I think it was just holdover from earlier.”

  Chris felt a tingle down his spine at her voice so close to his ear. He cleared his throat and pulled away a bit. “Sister Margaret is here. She seems…” Curious? Frustrated? “… strange,” he admitted.

  Olivia pulled back and nodded. “We’ll watch her,” she mouthed.

  The violins began to prepare another tune, and the dancers began to cheer and applaud, assembling into new positions. Chris bit back a groan. He wasn’t sure he felt up to another reel. His chest was still burning from the last.

  But Olivia grabbed his hand and pulled him away, out into the rain. The cold water shocked his senses. “That’s practically sleet!” he cried, but dutifully allowed himself to be pulled. “Where are we going?”

  “I have an idea. Questions later. Now. Miss McKenna said something suspicious?” Olivia asked.

  Chris shook his head. “I don’t know, Olivia.” He shivered, looking about for shelter, but Olivia pulled him onward. “She knows you’re a Miller. She thinks we know… something? She seemed more exasperated—maybe even confused—than anything else.”

  “Why? Because she can’t find Livingstone?” Olivia growled. “It doesn’t fit right, does it? This all reeks of… something. We really have to get her under the microscope. Find out who, exactly, has her here looking for the good doctor. Because we’ve officially tripped over her enough times that I’m calling it a pattern.” She shook her head. “We’d best make sure she doesn’t head right back to Summergrove and disappear before the night is over. Where the hell is Maris? She’s supposed to be here. We need a third brain! Or at the very least, a third body!”

  “Miss F-Faraday! Have you come to look at my uncle’s work?”

  “Hm?” Olivia looked up, startled. Chris followed her, feeling dazed. He’d been so caught up, he’d even forgotten about the rain. Cold water slowly trickled down his spine, but it wasn’t falling on his head anymore. They stood under a canopy, overlooking a large canvas sheet strung with photographs.

  Arthur Norwood smiled shyly.

  “Oh. You are here!”

  “Yes! I decided… well, Uncle Francis d-decided, really…”

  “Just look at this!” Olivia exclaimed, bustling up to the canvas fall and trailing her fingers across the hanging photos.

  Norwood ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah,” he said. “Uncle knew he couldn’t a-actually attend, but he wanted some part of him to be p-present. He’s quite fond of Miller, and he thought the photos might be well received?”

  “Oh, yes. They’re quite good!” Olivia focused in on one in particular, which seemed to be a shot of the stable from behind. It looked quite simple and almost ugly to Chris, but Olivia tilted her head. “The composition is quite something,” she said, nodding to herself. “And the lines are so crisp.”

  “I’ll t-tell him that, Miss Faraday.”

  “Yes, do!”

  Chris waited, hands folded, as Olivia looked over the photos. Norwood gave him a tight smile. Chris returned it. He turned to look out over the Fairgrounds. The dance continued, this time in groups of four couples at once doing something far more complicated than the spirited reel he’d seen. He looked for Rachel, her lilac dress and bounding waves of hair, but his gaze zeroed on in Rosemary. Her hand was pressed flat against a boy’s, and they spun around each other, both laughing. It had to be the boy she’d thrown in his face. Monty. The lad was well turned out and dressed nicely enough not to look tawdry, but he clearly wasn’t from one of the surrounding upper-class families. Was he a townie? Staff? That wouldn’t do at all. Rosie’s eyes gleamed in the light from the little white bulbs. One thing was sure—his baby sister looked beautiful, and the boy certainly noticed it.

  A figure detached from the crowd watching the dancers and started out into the rain. Chris was only barely paying attention, his eyes fixed on Rosemary and her beau until he realized that the man was Dayton Spencer, and was coming towards them… and that at his side, nearly hidden behind him, Maris stomped in sync.

  “Olivia,” he said.

  She made a curious sound, turning about, and then—“Ugh,” she groaned. “Really, now? What is this?”

  Spencer stopped beneath the canopy. “Here’s the criminal,” he spat. “I demand an arrest.”

  O
livia and Chris exchanged a quick glance. Olivia’s eyebrows were up in her hair.

  “Well,” she declared. “I realize that I’m probably rather unpopular with you, Mister Spencer—”

  “No,” Chris growled, sliding forward. “I believe that he’s talking about me, and this ridiculous… martyr complex he has concerning Fernand’s attempt to inherit Rosemary and me—”

  Spencer sniffed. “You’re both arrogant sods,” he snapped. He jutted his chin between them. At Norwood. “I’m talking about him.”

  Norwood began to sputter and took a step back. “What on—a criminal? Me? I d-don’t even know who you are, sir, b-but I… well, I… r-rest assured, I’ve certainly never—!”

  Maris looked unimpressed. Her lips pressed flat into a line, and she sighed, looking from Spencer, to Norwood, and then, for good measure, at Chris and Olivia.

  “Hullo, Maris,” Olivia chirped. “I was wondering where you’d gotten off to.”

  Maris ignored her. “You said you have knowledge of a crime committed,” she said, directing her attention to Mister Spencer. “I thought you were taking me to the scene of a robbery or whatnot. What is this, now?”

  “Arthur Norwood,” Spencer pronounced, “is a dyed in the wool reformist associate. I have it on very good authority from a reliable source that he has extremist connections and has helped carry out dozens of operations against the people of Tarland!”

  “I s-say!” Norwood protested. His hands balled into fists, and he took a halting step forward. “That’s… w-well, those are quite the accusations to j-just—lob about, now!”

  “His mother is Doctor Livingstone’s bloody sister, for all the gods’ sakes! What more evidence do you need?”

  “Uncle F-Francis’s case was dismissed!” Norwood protested.

  “And even if not,” Olivia pointed out absently, having gone back to studying the photographs, “family connections are a poor thing to hold against a person. Imagine, if people judged me by my mother?” She shuddered. “Awful thought.”

  “Norwood is a person of interest on Hector Combs’s lists!” Spencer’s voice had risen quite loudly, and he was beginning to attract a small crowd. Chris wanted to shrink into the background. He wasn’t a part of this.