Airs and Graces

by Toby Bishop

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  WILLIAM felt as if his whole world had become one of the smell of horses, the crunch of straw, the taste of sawdust. He stayed in the filly’s stall day and night, watching her suckle, seeing her begin to strengthen. Her slender legs steadied, and her coat of puppy fur thickened. He summoned Jinson when the stall needed mucking out, but otherwise no one came near the foal except her dam and himself.

  The dam, being wingless, accepted William’s presence. The foal, however, was wary. He saw her nostrils widen when he approached her, heard the intake of her breath as she sniffed at him. He kept a careful distance. He didn’t want a disaster like the last one.

  He sent Jinson to fetch Slater, and when he arrived, he ordered, “Slater! Get to the apothecary. Tell him to make it stronger.”

  Behind Slater, Jinson frowned, but Slater only grinned, showing his snaggleteeth, and said, “Aye, me lord. Back in two hours, then.”

  “M’lord,” Jinson said, when Slater had gone out into the snow. “D’you think that’s wise?”

  “It’s not a question of wisdom,” William said. “It’s a question of courage.”

  “But, m’lord, you—the changes—”

  “Poor Jinson. You just don’t understand, do you? I’ve had a bellyful of those horsemistresses and their monopoly. Men like you will praise my name one day.”

  “Your Grace, the risk—”

  William made an exasperated noise. “That’s enough, Jinson. When I want your views, I’ll ask for them. Now get me some food, and a bottle, port, or brandy. Both.”

  Jinson did as he was ordered, but to William’s irritation, he was not done making suggestions. He stood in the aisle outside the stall, a covered plate in his hands, a bottle under each arm. “M’lord,” he said, with evident diffidence, “the foal should have a dog with her, an oc-hound. Then you can—”

  “Not yet,” William said. He took the plate and set the bottles in the straw. “Now go. I won’t need you for a while.”

  “But, Your Grace, if she has a dog for a companion, you don’t have to—”

  “Damn you, Jinson! Don’t you see how important this is? Do you want another dead foal?”

  Jinson’s look of misery at this made William want to throw one of the bottles at his head. “Oh, Zito’s ass, Jinson, leave. Let me do what needs doing.”

  “Aye, m’lord,” Jinson said. He walked away, shoulders slumping, feet dragging with reluctance.

  William turned back to his filly, admiring the way the filtered light coming through the small, high window shone on the ghostly dapples across her back. He pried the cork out of the bottle of port and sat down, his back against the wall, his legs stretched across the pallet of blankets that had served as his bed for the past two nights. He took a long draught of rich red wine, then sighed, a deep sigh of satisfaction.

  The filly lifted her head at the sound and cocked her ears toward him. Toward him, he noted, with a thrill of pleasure. Not away, not laid back. Toward him. Even better, she took one cautious step in his direction.

  He sat very still. When she didn’t move away, he said, softly, “You’re exquisite, my little friend. You’re like a perfectly cut diamond, aren’t you? Every facet catching the light, every detail glorious.” Her ears flickered, and he chuckled again. “Not that I would hesitate to put you down, little friend. But I confess, I would be sorry to lose something as beautiful as you are.”

  When she took yet another step toward him, he held his breath. She was everything he had dreamed, the realization of every ambition. She was, of course, merely a means to an end, but…the liquid glory of those eyes, the delicate cut of her muzzle, the silver glow of her mane and tail…He would have been less than human had he not felt moved by such a creature.

  And she was his. His filly. His little diamond.

  She took another step closer, and William almost wept with joy.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  HESTER and Lark stood in the shadow of the stable door watching Amelia Rys bid her father farewell. The snow had persisted in the week since Baron Rys and Mistress Winter had brought the injured Lord Francis to the Academy. There had been no flying, and little exercise, and every girl and horse at the Academy was restless.

  “I don’t trust her,” Hester told Lark.

  “I like her, Hester.”

  “It’s not that I dislike her. But the Klee are known to be devious, have always been so.”

  “Have they?”

  “So Mamá says. She and Papá asked me to keep an eye on her, and as you’re her sponsor, they wanted me to speak to you as well.”

  Lark frowned. “She’s been kind to me,” she said. “I don’t want to spy on her.”

  “Not spy. Just watch.” Lark glanced up at Hester’s plain profile and saw that her features were set, making her look older than her nineteen years. Making her look, indeed, very like her mamá.

  “Hester,” Lark said softly, “shouldn’t we give her the benefit of the doubt? That she simply wants to fly, as we do?”

  “We shall see,” Hester said, turning away from the view of the courtyard. “But there are political forces at work, and horsemistresses should always be aware of them.”

  Lark remained where she was, watching Amelia and her father embrace. The Baron climbed into the waiting carriage, and Amelia stood, the light snowfall dusting her brown hair and her black tabard. No emotion showed on her narrow features, nor on the Baron’s as he leaned out of the carriage to wave a final goodbye. They didn’t look deceitful to Lark, but they did look…purposeful was the word that came to mind. Like Brye when he was negotiating for a bloodbeet crew, or haggling over the price of broomstraw.

  From within the stables came a banging of hooves on wood. Lark spun about. “Oh, Kalla’s heels, Tup!” she muttered, and hurried down the aisle to stop him before he broke something.

  IT was a relief to everyone when the snow stopped. The clouds lightened, allowing a thin sunshine to pierce the gray. It was still not safe to send up the flights, but the girls were allowed to ride in the yearlings’ paddock, their horses wingclipped and warmly blanketed. They made something of a festival out of it, the third-years and the second-years all cantering about the paddock, down to the bare-limbed grove, back to the gate. Larkyn was there, with Black Seraph prancing, his tail arching, his mane rippling. Hester and Golden Morning trotted beside them, Hester as graceful in the saddle as she was awkward on the ground. Amelia Rys, Philippa noted, was perched on the fence near the dry paddock watching everything with that measured look she always wore. Someday, perhaps they would know what she was thinking. For now, she was as closemouthed as any princely diplomat, her father’s daughter through and through.

  Philippa stood outside the pole fence, savoring the scene of young girls and bright-coated horses against the backdrop of white snow and black tree branches. Bramble, still a little lethargic, pressed against her side, and Philippa stroked the oc-hound’s silky head with her palm.

  The story of Bramble’s injury was one of too many mysteries weighing on her mind. Larkyn, as Herbert tried to explain what had happened, had pressed her lips tightly together, suppressing her “snappy tongue,” Philippa supposed. When she asked her later, Larkyn shook her head, and said that no one would believe her, so she would say nothing. There was something troubling about the whole thing, more troubling than simply an injured oc-hound, but Philippa couldn’t think it through. Francis still lay in semiconsciousness, and concern for his recovery blurred her thoughts.

  The guest room was too small to keep Francis in comfort for long, and the Hall was too noisy, with horsemistresses and students coming and going all day long. Margareth and Philippa spoke at length about the problem, until Philippa remembered that Fleckham House was now empty, since William and the Lady Constance had removed to the Ducal Palace.

  They decided to send word to the Duke, explaining that his brother had been wounded and asking if Francis could be installed at Fleckham House while he recovered. They waited a d
ay for an answer from the Palace, then two days, but none had come. Philippa worried over this, teasing it in her mind, trying to fathom what William’s silence meant. He had opposed the whole mission, of course, but surely even William would not hold that against his brother, now grievously injured in an honorable cause. It seemed to Philippa more likely that if William was still angry he would send a curt letter of refusal.

  The third day she asked Margareth to send a letter, marked, as her own had been, for the Duke’s eyes alone. Again there had been no answer. According to all reports, the Duke had not been seen in the Rotunda or in the city for several days. It was generally supposed he had gone abroad with some secret purpose.

  Philippa had rested and recovered her strength quickly, and now the week of inactivity, the agony over Francis, and the mystery of William frayed her nerves.

  She watched the girls and horses galloping in the sunshine, and she hoped the weather would stay clear. Tomorrow, she would go to Fleckham House and make the arrangements herself. Francis was, after all, a Fleckham. He had a right to the comforts of his family home.

  THE next day was one of frosty white and vivid blue, crisp fields of snow glittering under a brilliant sky. It gave the Academy a festive look, and indeed, the Erdlin holiday was coming soon, when the girls and the horsemistresses would go off to their homes for the holiday. Philippa had not heard from Meredith. She squinted up into the snowy hills, and thought that, even though she had defied her brother, the summons to Islington House would no doubt come in due course. She supposed she should make a brief visit, but the idea of spending the whole ten days with her family filled her with ennui.

  Today, in any case, she would fly. It had been too long, and both she and Sunny were restive, eager for some kind of activity.

  Margareth had asked her to take Larkyn aloft with her. “She’s being punished again,” she said dryly. “Let us call it a drill with a senior instructor, meant to polish her skills with the flying saddle.”

  Philippa snorted. “Margareth. Larkyn is hardly going to think a flight to Fleckham House with me and Sunny is punishment.”

  Margareth smiled, wrinkles wreathing her faded blue eyes. She smoothed her white rider’s knot and laid her left hand on the embossed genealogy on her desk. “I was forced to discipline her,” she said, “because she deserted her flight. But by doing so, she saved an oc-hound, and I have been careful not to let her penance be onerous. We must have rules and standards, of course, but every girl in her flight understood what happened. Hester Beeth came running in from the return paddock as if her tail was on fire, demanding I allow her to fetch her mamá’s carriage to save Bramble’s life.”

  “Do you have any idea what happened to the poor dog, Margareth?”

  Margareth’s smile faded, and she stood, bracing herself on her hands. “I can only speculate,” she said in a confidential tone. “But I have never, in all my life, been so worried about the future of Oc. The next time you see the Duke, Philippa, have a care. He is more dangerous now, I fear, than ever before. And less predictable.”

  “I know, Margareth. But I won’t see him today. He hasn’t lived at Fleckham House since his succession, and in any case, they say he’s gone abroad.” She had bid Margareth farewell, climbed the stairs one more time to check on Francis, then, pulling on her cap and gloves as she went, she walked to the flight paddock.

  Erna brought Sunny out, prancing and blowing, energized by the sparkling day. “Sunny,” Philippa chided, as her mare sidestepped and tossed her head. “You’re behaving like a two-year-old.”

  Larkyn and Black Seraph appeared, the little black stallion whickering at Sunny, strutting as he came into the flight paddock, arching his tail. Philippa hid a smile as the two of them crossed to her. Larkyn’s step was so light she almost bounced. Her cheeks were pink with anticipation of a flight, and her short curls shone like black glass in the sunlight. She certainly did not look like someone doing penance for yet another infraction of the Academy rules.

  Larkyn knelt beside Bramble and ran careful fingers over the oc-hound’s neck. “Almost healed, this is, Mistress,” she said. “She’ll always bear the scar, but her fur will hide it. I think she’ll feel like her old self in a few days.”

  “I’m glad,” Philippa said. She stroked Bramble once more. “I’m fond of her.”

  “Aye, she’s a fine lass, she is.” Larkyn stood. “Off with you now, Bramble,” she said, with a flicker of her fingers. “Stay warm today.”

  Philippa’s throat tightened as she watched the oc-hound rise stiffly to her feet. Bramble paced slowly back toward the gate and stood beside it, waiting for Erna. Before she was hurt, she would have leaped over it without hesitation. Philippa set her jaw, wishing she knew who had attacked the dog, and why. Anger made her voice sharp as she addressed Larkyn. “Now,” she said, “let’s see how you and Seraph are doing with the flying saddle.”

  In truth, she was glad to have a chance to monitor the pair’s progress herself. Suzanne Star was an excellent instructor, but Larkyn and Black Seraph had been struggling to catch up with their class since their very first day at the Academy. She and Sunny hung back to watch their launch.

  Seraph’s gait was lovely to watch, his small, fine hooves precise in their rhythm, even on the snowy ground of the flight paddock. He sped to the hand gallop, then leaped into the air as easily as a bird might do. Larkyn’s thighs snugged tightly beneath the knee rolls of the flying saddle, and her hands were light on the reins, her spine straight, her chin tucked. As Seraph banked to the left, to hover at Quarters and wait for Sunny, Philippa watched from the corner of her eye. Larkyn did nothing wrong. She did everything as she had been taught, everything in the classical way, as all the flyers of the Academy were trained.

  But Philippa remembered seeing the two of them, Larkyn and Seraph, racing through the trees at the end of this very paddock, looking as if they were one creature, one heart, one mind, one body—with no saddle between them. They had no such union now, though there was nothing specific she could have said troubled her. Sometimes Philippa lay awake at night, and wondered how to teach Larkyn to sense her bondmate’s movements as easily with the saddle as she did without it. Surely, she thought, the strap Larkyn had created to get them through their first Ribbon Day, those first Airs and Graces, would never be adequate for Arrows, or for any of the complicated Graces required of advanced flyers. Larkyn must learn to use the saddle. She would have to master it through sheer will if her instinct could not do it for her. Philippa could see no other way.

  She and Sunny rose above the grove and banked around to join Larkyn and Seraph. Philippa signaled with her quirt that Larkyn and Seraph should fly ahead, and she and Sunny came behind, a little above, so she could watch. Larkyn flashed her a grin of sheer pleasure. And though Philippa signaled to her, and made the two young flyers execute a Half Reverse, then a brief Points pattern, when she and Sunny surged past them to lead the way over the White City, she indulged herself in a brief smile at the girl. No one knew what awaited any flyers, and perhaps less so with this pair than any other. Larkyn should be joyous when she could.

  They circled the copper dome of the Tower of the Seasons, and soared high above the Rotunda of the Council of Lords, its rooftop astream with the colorful pennants of the noble families. The wings of the horses, the red and the black, were no less colorful, vivid and shining against the white spires of Osham. The sea shone emerald green in the distance.

  Philippa felt, as she so often did in the air, that the troubles and worries of the ground lost their import. With reluctance, she laid her rein against Sunny’s neck and turned her toward the Ducal Palace and beyond, to the familiar grounds of Fleckham House.

  LARK took every care to show Mistress Winter that she had learned her lessons. She remembered to keep her heels down, to sit deep in the saddle, to tuck her chin. She would never, she thought, prefer flying in the saddle to flying bareback, but she would do what she needed to do. Though there were still months t
o go till Ribbon Day, she wanted no one to doubt that she would pass every test.

  Still, she knew how much nimbler she and Tup were without the burden of leather and wood and steel. Though they followed obediently behind Winter Sunset as she flew her sedate pattern around the Tower of the Seasons, and above the Council Rotunda, Lark knew they could have darted close enough to see inside the windows of the tower, could have dipped low enough over the Rotunda to snatch a pennant from its staff. The thought made her laugh, and Tup flicked an ear in her direction. She touched his neck with her gloved fingers and felt the surge of energy in his muscles. He stretched his neck farther, and his wings beat faster, until she had to rein him in a bit so as not to overtake Winter Sunset.

  “No, no, Tup,” she called, above the wind. “We have to follow. Our day will come!” To her relief, he obeyed her, but she felt simmering rebellion in every beat of his wings.

  The grounds of Fleckham House came up all too soon. Tup followed Sunny in, and Lark only jounced a little on the landing. Tup cantered beautifully, collected and graceful, and they reached the end of the park just a few strides behind Sunny. Mistress Winter dismounted, and Lark slid quickly down from her saddle.

  “There’s no one in the stables,” Mistress Winter said. “We’ll have to take them in ourselves.”

  “I’ll do it, Mistress Winter,” Lark said. “Why don’t you go on to the house?”

  Mistress Winter nodded, her eyes already on the big house. Its windows were shuttered, and its gravel courtyard lay covered with snow. The steps and porch were also blanketed in unbroken snow, as if no one had used the front entrance in some time. “Thank you, Larkyn,” she said. “That will save time.”