by Toby Bishop
At last, Philippa patted Sunny and started up the beach toward the fire. She pulled off her cap and gloves, and folded them into her belt. By the time she reached the circle, one of the soldiers had poured out a mug of the hot wine for her, handing it to her with a bow. She gave him a nod of thanks and came to stand beside Francis.
“You saw something,” Rys said.
“I did.” Philippa sipped from the mug, and held her free hand out to the fire. Her cheeks and nose were reddened, and strands of gray and red hair were slipping from her rider’s knot. “I saw smoke, and what looked like buildings, just inland from the sea.” She indicated the eastern horizon with her chin. “It’s at least three days’ walk, I expect. They must have crossed the plateau and dropped down on the eastern side. There’s a valley there. I kept a prudent distance, but there must be some way to climb down from the plateau. Perhaps this is their winter camp. It has some shelter, trees for a windbreak. There’s a bay quite close. You can reach them by water and climb up from the shore.”
“They didn’t see you, then?” Rys asked.
Philippa set down her mug. “I don’t think so,” she said. Francis saw how the lines fanned around her eyes, the toll the chapping of the wind took on her face. He took her mug from her and refilled it himself from the kettle. She tucked the loose strands of hair back into her rider’s knot. “There are several buildings, low, rather long. A sort of compound.”
“Then you couldn’t see if the children were there,” Francis mused, then felt foolish. “Oh, sorry. Of course you couldn’t see.”
Philippa gave him one of her restrained smiles. “I did try,” she said. “But I didn’t want them to see us. If Rys and his men—and you,” she amended, “if you retain the element of surprise, you’ll have a better chance.”
“Very good,” Rys said. Francis glanced at him and saw that he had brought a sheet of thick paper and a charcoal stick. He began to sketch what they already knew of the coastline. “Can you show me, Mistress Winter?” he said, handing the charcoal to Philippa.
“I think so.” Setting down her mug, she took the charcoal and spread the paper across her lap. She began to draw with a sure hand, with Rys watching over her shoulder. She drew several inlets as landmarks and showed a few stands of the scrubby trees. “Here,” she said, reaching a point to the east. “You’ll see a great black rock formation thrusting up from the sea. Sea stacks, I think they call them in the Angles. Beyond it is the bay. Sunny and I will guide you. There are many such rocks, and I can’t think how you could tell this one from the others.”
Rys was nodding and chewing on his lower lip. He called one of his captains to him, and together they pored over Philippa’s map. A moment later, they excused themselves and went to confer with the other men.
Philippa sighed then and rubbed her eyes with her fingers. They must be burning, Francis thought, after so many hours of peering down on the snowfields. “You’re tired, Philippa,” he said. “You must eat something, then rest. I wish you didn’t have to fly tomorrow.”
“One more day,” she said. She dropped her hands, and her eyes met his. “I can make it one more day,” she repeated. “But tonight I feel every one of my years.”
“Well done, though, Philippa,” Francis said warmly. “Oc will remember this.”
“Don’t speak too soon, Francis,” she answered. “We don’t have them yet.”
FIFTEEN
WHENEVER she was not required in the classrooms or the library or the Hall, Lark haunted the stables. When she was forced to go to the Dormitory, to sleep, she left Bramble in Tup’s stall, though Erna frowned at her. She tried to explain to the stable-girl that she was worried about Tup, but the girl was so slow Lark ended up simply commanding her to leave be. Erna looked at her dully, and said, “Yes, Miss,” in a way that made Lark feel a bit guilty. But it was necessary. As it was, even with Bramble sleeping in the stall with Molly and Tup, she herself could hardly sleep at night for worrying about what Duke William might do.
Every evening she and Hester watched the skies, hoping for the return of Mistress Winter and Winter Sunset, wishing for good news of the kidnapped children, praying the weather would hold. Once Lark looked across the courtyard from the Dormitory and saw Mistress Morgan standing in the window of her office, also gazing at the northern horizon. Lark almost started across the cobblestones to go to her, to share her vigil, but then she remembered who and what she was, and she turned to the stables instead. She glanced back before going in, and saw Mistress Morgan still standing there, one hand on the sash.
And in the middle of this time of waiting, the Klee girl arrived at the Academy.
The Honorable Amelia Rys was narrow of body and face, with brown eyes and unremarkable brown hair. She wore a vivid blue tabard girdled in gold, with a full and elegantly draped skirt. Her hair was caught back in a jeweled net, and her boots, when she stepped down from her carriage, were small and high-heeled. Two footmen hurried to unload several trunks and a tapestry valise. A maidservant trailed Mistress Rys as she swept up the stairs to the Hall, the footmen following.
Hester and Lark and the other second-levels came out of the dry paddock, where they had spent the morning drilling with Mistress Star. They goggled at the entourage invading the Hall. Mistress Morgan appeared in the doorway and stood waiting, her hands linked before her.
Lark whispered, “Just have a blink at all that fuss!” as the Klee girl, with the practiced grace of a courtier, dropped a curtsy to Mistress Morgan.
Everyone in the courtyard could hear Mistress Morgan’s firm admonishment. “That will be your last curtsy, my dear. Ever.”
Amelia Rys rose and stared at the Headmistress. There was a frozen, awkward moment, when the footmen’s mouths fell open and the maidservant put her hand to her throat. At length, the Baron’s daughter nodded. “Have I erred, Mistress?” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I do apologize. I hope you will soon instruct me as to the proper comportment.”
Mistress Morgan inclined her head, held out a hand to indicate that the girl should follow her inside, then turned with a flip of her riding skirt’s hem and went into the Hall. The maidservant started to follow, but Matron appeared, and pointed, wordlessly, to the Dormitory. The doors closed behind the Headmistress and the new student, and the Klee servants, laden with baggage, trooped back down the stairs and across the courtyard toward the Dormitory. The carriage, with its driver and four magnificent gray draught horses, stayed where it was.
The second-level girls dashed across the courtyard to circle the big grays, admiring them. The driver gazed down at them in amazed silence as they exclaimed over various distinctions of the horses.
“Look at those fetlocks!” Anabel exclaimed. “Why, you could fit two of my Chance’s onto those big bones!”
“And so tall!” Grace breathed. “Their withers are higher than my head.”
Lark smiled up at the driver. “They’re well matched, aren’t they?” she said. “And so beautifully groomed. Tails like silk, I would say.”
The driver lifted his cap. “Thank you, Miss. I would ask you young ladies not to startle them.”
Hester said indignantly, “Don’t be ridiculous! We would never startle horses.”
She was right, of course. The girls circled the animals, and spoke to them in soft voices, but made no sudden moves. In moments, the big horses were bending their necks, sniffing at the girls’ faces, their ears flicking comfortably back and forth.
“May we bring them a treat?” Beatrice asked, and dashed off toward the kitchen without waiting for permission. When she came back, she carried a pocketful of carrots and slightly withered apples, and when the driver, laughing now, nodded his permission, the four enormous carriage horses were soon munching, tossing their heads, standing hipshot and comfortable in the cold sunshine.
“Larkyn!”
Lark looked up from scratching behind one of the horses’ ears to see Mistress Morgan beckoning to her from the doorway of the Hall. Lark gl
anced at Hester, who shrugged and grinned, and Anabel, whose forehead creased with worry. Lark shook her head at her. “Don’t worry, Anabel,” she said hastily, as she spun about to run up the steps. “I haven’t done anything wrong in days!”
When she reached Mistress Morgan, she saw that the Baron’s daughter stood in the shadows of the foyer. The Headmistress stepped back to allow Lark to pass inside, saying, “Larkyn Black, this is Amelia Rys, our new student.”
“Aye,” Lark said cheerfully. “So we guessed. Welcome to the Academy, Amelia.”
She saw the girl’s thin eyebrows rise, and her narrow lips pursed a little, but she inclined her head. “How do you do, Miss.”
“Oh, you can call me Black,” Lark said with a smile. “Everyone does.”
The thin eyebrows rose farther, and the purse of the lips remained. “Indeed,” the Klee girl said. Her tone was neither cold nor warm. It was, Lark thought, perfectly noncommittal.
Lark glanced at Mistress Morgan for guidance, and thought she saw the dance of humor in her eyes. “Like yourself, Larkyn,” the Headmistress said, “Amelia comes to the Academy alone. Her beginning is as unusual as yours, in its own way. You had a foal born out of season, and Amelia comes with no bondmate yet. It will be difficult for her, I think, to feel a part of the Academy. Under the circumstances, I thought you would make the perfect sponsor for her.”
Lark inclined her head. “Aye.” She grinned at Amelia, a little wickedly. “Would you like a blink at the stables?” The Headmistress’s lips twitched, but the Klee girl only fixed Lark with her brown gaze.
“A blink?” she said. “You must translate for me, Miss—that is, Black. This is not a term I’m familiar with.”
Lark laughed. “Never should you be! I’m a farm girl from the Uplands, as my own sponsor will remind you at every opportunity, and I speak our dialect. Come, with the Headmistress’s leave, I’ll give you a tour.”
She put a hand under Amelia’s slender arm, finding it hard and muscled beneath her fingers. The girl tolerated her touch for a moment, and then, subtly, lifted her arm away.
Lark bit her lip, trying not to be offended. She led the way out of the Hall, trusting the girl would follow. Mistress Morgan’s bemused gaze warmed her back as she and the new student went out the double doors and down the steps.
“A loner, my mamá would say.” Hester had finished Goldie’s grooming, and she came to hang over the gate of Tup’s stall, watching Lark finish her chores. She kept her voice low, though Amelia Rys was not in the stables. She was in the Hall, receiving instruction from the Headmistress herself. Her trunks and valise had been arranged in the Dormitory, the maidservant unpacking everything, arranging things in drawers, badgering Matron for storage space.
“Wait till she finds out her maid has to go.” This was Anabel, who draped her long, slender form next to Hester’s, and idly held out her thin white fingers for Molly to nibble at.
“Did you come with maids, both of you?” Lark wondered. “No one in the Uplands has such, except perhaps the horsemistress in Dickering Park.”
“We didn’t,” Hester said. “But Petra did!”
Lark and Anabel both giggled. “Maybe Petra should have been her sponsor,” Anabel said. “They might have a lot in common.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Amelia doesn’t seem like a snob to me. She’s just—aloof.” Lark put the currycomb on its shelf and gave Tup one more pat. She hated to leave him, but she gave a low whistle, and Bramble came at a trot, obligingly going into the stall when Lark opened the gate.
“Why do you put Bramble in Seraph’s stall?” Anabel asked.
Lark avoided Hester’s eyes. “Oh, he just likes her,” she said weakly. “And Bramble doesn’t mind.”
Hester said briskly, “Come on, you lot. Suppertime at last!” The three of them hurried out and across the courtyard to the Hall, joining the other girls streaming in out of the cold.
Lark cast a look up at the sky as they went, and a little shiver of unease went through her. The stars were invisible tonight, hidden by high, thin clouds. “Smells like snow,” she said, half to herself.
Hester laughed. “Black! How can you smell snow?”
“I just can,” Lark said. “When you live in the hills, you learn it.”
Hester put an arm around her shoulders. “Mistress Winter knows what she’s about,” she said. “You have to trust her.”
“I know,” Lark said. “But I wish—I just wish she would come back. The weather could turn at any time.”
They were caught up in the tide of girls, swept along to their places at the long tables. Mistress Morgan brought Amelia in after everyone was seated, and the girls at Lark and Hester’s table had to move while a place was set. Amelia Rys stood watching this proceeding without reaction, her eyes running up and down the table as if assessing every girl. Lark had the impression she would remember every face and know exactly where they were sitting.
Lark put a hand on the back of the empty chair and smiled. “Do you sit here, lass,” she said. “And I will introduce you.”
Amelia Rys’s eyebrows quirked at the “lass,” but she took the chair, and sat. Lark had just begun to name the girls on either side when a hush fell over the dining room. Lark stopped speaking and followed the turned heads to the doors. Her mouth dried, and her heart sped when she saw who had interrupted the Academy’s supper.
Duke William, tall and lean in his black coat and narrow trousers, silver buckles, and embroidered vest, strode in from the foyer. His quirt was tucked under his arm. Lark folded her arms tightly, aware that Amelia gave her an inquiring glance.
The Headmistress, at the high table, rose. “Your Grace,” she said, with a stiff inclination of her head.
The Duke did not acknowledge her greeting. He stepped up onto the dais with a lithe movement and turned to survey the room. “Where is the Baron’s daughter?” he asked. His voice carried in the quiet room, high and clear.
A cool smile curved Mistress Morgan’s lips. “We have several barons’ daughters at the Academy,” she said smoothly. “I believe Your Grace knows that.”
Duke William took his quirt in his hand and lightly slapped his thigh. “You know whom I mean, Headmistress,” he said lightly. “Rys’s daughter. The Klee girl.” His eyes raked the room. “Whose bonding has been bought and paid for.”
A collective indrawn breath seemed almost to dim the light in the room. Lark, shocked at the insult, let her eyes slip sideways to Amelia Rys’s thin face. To her surprise, a light of something like defiance, or perhaps recognition, shone in Amelia’s eyes. With a slight clearing of her throat, the Klee girl rose in her place.
Lark almost put out a hand to stop her from curtsying to the Duke, but it seemed Amelia Rys had already learned that lesson. In a clear voice, she said, “Your Grace of Oc. I am here.” She inclined her head, and she didn’t smile. “Amelia, youngest daughter of Baron Esmond Rys.”
The Duke stepped down from the dais and came to stand near their table. The room was silent, the servers holding back with their steaming platters, the girls and the horsemistresses frozen in their places. Lark shrank down in her chair, wishing Amelia had not sat next to her. William’s black eyes glittered in the light from the wall sconces. “You look like him,” he said to Amelia.
“So I am told,” she said evenly. Lark could hardly breathe, but still she felt a rush of admiration. Would that she had such composure in the presence of the Duke! But then, Amelia did not know all that she knew about William of Oc.
William slapped his thigh once again with his quirt, and Lark flinched. His eyes passed over her, and his mouth tightened. “We would warn you against keeping the wrong company,” he said lightly.
“I assure Your Grace,” Amelia said, “that I need no such warning, though I thank you for your concern.”
William frowned. “We shall see.” He tucked the quirt back under his arm, flicked a glance over Lark, and looked back at Amelia. “We will discuss your future with the Ba
ron when—indeed, we should say if—he returns from Aeskland.” He turned around and stalked out of the dining room without looking back. A long moment of silence stretched around the room, until a burst of nervous conversation broke it.
Amelia, slowly, resumed her seat. Lark leaned closer to her. “I’m sure your father will come back safely,” she said. “He was trying to frighten you.”
Amelia’s cool brown gaze met hers. “I know,” she said. She picked up her salad fork as a server set a tiny plate of chilled bloodbeets before her. She speared one, delicately, then held it on her fork as she looked back at Lark. “He’s angry at being forced to allow me to bond with a winged horse.” She put the bloodbeet in her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. When she had swallowed, she added, “My father is a clever man. He’s thinking of the future. My being here strengthens Oc’s ties to Klee, and the Council of Lords likes that.”
“And you?” Lark dared to ask. She started on her own salad, watching this unusual girl from beneath her eyelids. “Are you glad to be here?”
Amelia laid down her fork and turned to face Lark directly, her face as composed as ever. She said, “I have wanted nothing else since I was a child.”
Lark couldn’t answer. She herself, as a girl in the Uplands, could never have dreamed of such a possibility.
As the meal went forward, the soup course and the fish course and the meat course, her eyes strayed again and again to the doorway where Duke William had gone out. She was hungry, as always, but a knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach, and she longed for the meal to be over.
The moment the servers cleared away the ice, Lark jumped up from the table and started toward the door. Before she reached it, the Headmistress’s voice stopped her. “Larkyn! Will you please show Amelia to the Dormitory, and her bed?”
Lark stopped where she was and turned around slowly. Mistress Morgan had almost reached her. Lark was alarmed to see how weak and pale the Headmistress looked, how her hand shook. When had she started using a walking stick? Lark hadn’t noticed before.