Airs and Graces

by Toby Bishop

  Moments later, the horsemistress was gone, striding around the side of the house to the service entrance. Lark led Sunny and Tup into the stables.

  The stables, too, had an abandoned air. They felt cold, and there was no straw in the stalls. Blankets and towels and saddles waited on racks in the tack room, all coated with a layer of dust. She put the horses in adjoining stalls, and told Tup to wait while she took Sunny’s saddle off and rubbed her down. When Tup was done, too, she went in search of water.

  She found buckets and a tap in back of the stables, and pumped water for each of the horses. It would have been better, on this cold day, if she could have warmed it, but there was no wood for the close stove. She carried the buckets to the stalls, then went back to the tack room.

  She took two blankets from a stack and shook them out, sneezing at the cloud of dust that rose from them. Everything had the look of having lain untouched for months, as if no one had been in these stables or this tack room for a very long time. She hung the blankets over her arm and started back to the horses. She was almost out the door when she noticed the clean, new-looking bin set in one corner. There was a grain measure hanging on a hook next to it. Neither bin nor measure bore any trace of dust.

  Curious, she turned aside and lifted the lid of the bin with her free hand. It was full to the brim with fresh oats.

  “Handy,” she murmured. She went to blanket the horses, thinking she might as well feed them each a half measure while they waited. It was not until that was done, and she was scooping oats with the measure, that she realized that the icon inside her tabard had grown warm as toast. Busy as she was, she hadn’t noticed it at first.

  Alarm shot through her, and she straightened, dropping the measure into the bin. She pulled the icon outside of her tabard before it should burn her skin, and looked around, her breath coming faster. Something was wrong.

  She fairly ran back down the aisle to check on the winged horses, but they were standing peacefully in their stalls. Even Tup, for once, was still. Lark went outside to look across the courtyard toward the house. Mistress Winter had apparently gone around to the service entrance. Lark saw a light in the kitchen, where Mistress Winter was probably having tea with the housekeeper. There was no other sign of life, neither in the grounds nor in the upper floors.

  Slowly, cautiously, Lark moved around the back of the stables and looked down at the copse of beeches. She knew what was past those bare trees. There was a small, secret stable there. Lark had seen it, one terrible day. She did not, truly, want to see it again. But the icon burned against her breast, and she had to know why.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE branches of the beech trees were bare and gray in the winter sun. The roof of the stable showed just beyond the leafless grove. The meadow that sloped up on the far side to the wood at the top of the hill was the very one through which Lark and Tup had run for their lives. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  A slender, clear stream of smoke rose from beyond the grove to dissipate in the cold air. The stable beyond the beech grove, unlike the one where Sunny and Tup waited, was being heated.

  Lark puzzled over this. Everyone at the Academy knew that when the Duke had removed to the Palace, he had taken all of his horses with him, along with his stable-men. There had been some resentment that Duke Frederick’s favorite stable-girl, old Jolinda, had been sent away from the Palace in favor of the new staff.

  Lark took a step forward, then another. It would take too long to go around by the road, but she could climb down the snowy bank behind the main stables, slip through the beech copse, have a look out the other side. She glanced back over her shoulder, but there was no sign of Mistress Winter. She could go down to the copse, see who was using the stable, and be back before Mistress Winter was finished with her arrangements. She buttoned her riding coat to the neck, and started out.

  The bank was steeper than it looked. Her riding boots were soft, with no traction. After only two steps, she lost her footing, and half slid down the sharp incline toward the grove. Her riding gloves filled with snow as she braced herself on her hands. At the bottom she took them off, shaking out the snow so they wouldn’t be ruined, and tucked them into her belt. She brushed snow and bits of dry bracken from the back of her habit as she walked through the trees. She stood behind the thickest one she could find, peering at the stable.

  She remembered it well, a simple rectangular place, without the gambrel roofs of the Academy stables, and with only one paddock and a long, fenced pasture. A little drive, with a hitching post and a mounting block, separated the beech grove from the stable. The nearest door, closed now against the cold, led directly into the tack room. Both halves of the door leading into the back paddock were also closed, and the gates of the paddock and the pasture beyond it were latched. She saw no horses. Had it not been for that smoke, the clear gray smoke of well-dried wood burning, she would have believed the place deserted.

  She stayed where she was, watching for any sign of movement. She saw none, and almost gave it up, even turning around to climb the bank again. But when she turned away, the icon of Kalla burned hotter against her tabard, driving her back to gaze across the little drive. Something was there, in that stable. Something she was supposed to see.

  At the opposite end from the tack room was a glazed window. There would be a box stall there, perhaps even the very one where Tup had been held. The window was a problem, though, set half a rod’s height from the ground. Even on tiptoe, she wouldn’t be able to see in.

  She waited another moment, watching and wondering. She tried to persuade herself that the warmth of her icon might be her imagination, or the heat of her body, created when she stumbled and slid down the bank, but she failed.

  She took one last look over her shoulder to assure herself there was no one about, then dashed across the drive. The mounting block scraped on snow and rock as she half dragged, half pushed it to the wall. It wasn’t heavy, but she took a sliver in her thumb and lamented having taken her gloves off. She sucked at the sliver as she climbed up on the mounting block, steadying herself with her other hand on the sill, and peered into the dimness within.

  The bright sunshine made the glass opaque, and only her own reflection looked back at her. Lark gave up on the sliver and cupped both her hands to the glass.

  There was a horse there, wingless, gray, munching hay from a bin.

  She pressed her nose to the glass, trying to get a better look.

  The stall looked as if it were well provided, straw on the floor, water bucket in its place. Lark moved her hands to get a better perspective, and looked again.

  She drew a quick, delighted breath. There was a winter foal in the stall, a tiny thing, its fluff of mane and tail silvery white in the gloom. Lark smiled to herself as the little one nosed beneath its dam and started to suckle.

  Her smile faded a moment later as the foal moved into a slender shaft of light from her window. “Oh,” she whispered. “Wings!”

  Her heart began to pound with the import of her discovery. She leaped down from the mounting block, and spun about, to hasten to find Mistress Winter.

  She cried out when she found her way blocked.

  Duke William wore a long black coat, littered with bits of straw. His narrow trousers were dirty, too, and his boots were scuffed. His pale hair hung untidily around his shoulders. She barely had time to register all of this before his hand shot out, and he gripped her arm with iron fingers. “Aha, brat,” he hissed. “I have you now!” In his other hand he held the magicked quirt, and as she tried to pull away, he struck her with it, a painful blow directly at her face, raking her cheekbone so hard that her vision blurred.

  The sudden violence shocked her. She struggled against him, and when she couldn’t get her arm free, she kicked at him, catching his shin with her riding boot. It was a feeble effort, but he swore, and struck at her again with the quirt. She threw up her left hand to protect her face, and briefly caught the cold, hard leather. She couldn’t hold it
. The touch of the leather was worse than the pain of her arm, twisted in his grasp. She felt her skin break and a hot trickle of blood start down her arm.

  William started to laugh, a low, exultant sound that sent icy tremors of fear through her belly. He pulled her half off her feet as he dragged her toward the tack-room door. He shoved the door open with his foot and threw her inside as easily as if she were a sack of grain.

  She fell headlong on the hard wood floor, and twisted around to face him. Her cheek stung, and she knew she would be bruised by morning—if she lived till the morning.

  “So, brat,” Duke William said lightly. He tapped the quirt into his right palm and smiled crookedly down at her. “What a nice surprise. We’re going to have some fun.”

  PHILIPPA bade the housekeeper of Fleckham House farewell and promised that someone would come with Lord Francis to see to his nursing care.

  “Aye, Mistress,” the housekeeper said. “His Grace left us shorthanded here, right enough.” She was a thin woman with a tight expression and a tendency to speak sharply. Philippa thought she had best send two nurses, one for the night and one for the day, lest Francis be dependent upon this cold woman. She was efficient, but she was hardly sympathetic. “I don’t suppose you know how long he’ll be here?”

  “Of course not,” Philippa said with asperity. “I take it, Paulina, that you don’t look forward to the extra work.”

  The woman had the grace to flush. “I only meant…I was thinking of getting in extra supplies—food and linens and the like.”

  “Yes,” Philippa said. “You should do that. And you would do well to remember whose home this is.”

  “Aye, Mistress,” Paulina said, her voice a little softer. “I do remember. And I’m very sorry his lordship was injured. A terrible business, that.”

  Philippa stood up. “It was in a good cause, but we’re worried about him.”

  “You rescued the babes, though, they say.”

  Philippa took her cap and gloves from her belt. No one was saying much about the state of the Onmarin children. On the voyage home, young Peter had told his story over and over, with drama and much colorful detail. By the time they docked in Onmarin, he had made a dozen friends among the Klee and earned Baron Rys’s admiration.

  “The boy will be fine, I think,” she said. At Paulina’s look of interest, she shook her head. “I don’t know what to say about the girl.”

  “Did they savage the lass, then?”

  “I don’t know,” Philippa said. “But she’s a little thing, and she was frightened half to death. She was a sort of slave to this awful woman, and she took a great deal of abuse.”

  “What happened to that woman, then?”

  Philippa paused, looking around at the housekeeper’s spotless kitchen, every counter and pot and glass gleaming. She was reluctant to speak of how Lissie, in a fit of repressed fury, had stabbed the scarred Jonka to death. It sounded like a triumph, a sort of justified vengeance, but she feared it would be the final, perhaps even the lethal, blow to Lissie’s soul. She settled for saying merely, “The woman died in the attack.”

  Paulina nodded, apparently satisfied with this rude justice. Philippa pulled on her riding coat. “I will see you tomorrow, then I’ll be visiting his lordship often.”

  “Well. You’ll always be welcome, of course, but we’re not really set up for visitors.”

  Philippa did not bother to answer this. She let herself out the kitchen door without farewell, more preoccupied with thoughts of Lissie than of this cranky servant.

  Lissie had not spoken a word on the voyage home. She had neither eaten nor slept, but sat staring into the cold waves until the ship docked in Onmarin. Her mother had taken one look at her pale, stricken daughter, and swept her up in her arms, carried her through the streets of the village as if she were still a baby.

  Philippa nourished a hope that a mother’s care could rekindle the flame of life in the girl, but she had her doubts.

  She secured her cap on her head and began to pull on her gloves as she started across the courtyard. Beneath the snow, the gravel crunched under her boots. Everything looked orderly and pristine under its layer of snow, and her heart lifted a bit. She had been able to address one problem, at least, and there was still reason to hope for Francis.

  She was halfway to the stables when a shrill neigh shattered the peace of the morning. Hooves battered on wood with a sound that scraped her nerves. She quickened her step. “Larkyn?” she called.

  There was another whinny, and more banging. This time Philippa was certain she heard wood splinter, and hinges shriek. “Kalla’s heels!” she swore. “Seraph!”

  She heard Sunny’s answering neigh, loud and demanding, calling to her for help. She dashed into the stables and down the aisle, rounding the corner just in time to see Seraph blast the gate to his stall with his hind feet, again, and then again.

  “Seraph! No!” Philippa shouted. He threw up his head to glare at her, the whites of his eyes showing, his muzzle flecked with foam.

  Where was Larkyn? Philippa didn’t think she could calm Seraph without her.

  He bashed at the wood one last time, and this time it broke into four jagged pieces. By Kalla’s good grace, Philippa saw, he was wearing his wingclips. Though he charged through the broken gate, head shaking from side to side, snorting and sweating, his wings were safely folded beneath a blanket. But the door to the courtyard stood open, and Seraph spied it. Before she could think what to do, or how to stop him, he was off.

  He raced through the door, and plowed through the snow and gravel to the center of the courtyard, where he whirled on his hindquarters, sniffing the air. Philippa ran after him, calling his name, but when she came close, he reared, and slashed the air with his hooves, driving her back. He wheeled once more, his tail grazing the snow, then, with the scream of a young stallion in hot fury, he pounded away from Fleckham House, his tail high and his ears laid back.

  Philippa stood helplessly in the courtyard, watching him go. She would never catch him. Seraph was looking for Larkyn.

  LARK lay where she had fallen, where she had been pushed, and William held his magicked quirt across her chest, stealing her breath and her voice. When he twisted her small breast with his hard fingers, she could only whimper her pain and her fear.

  “Louder, little bitch,” he hissed at her. “I want to hear you howl.” He drew out the word on a long breath, giving her nipple a vicious pinch, pressing into her thighs with his knees so that she couldn’t move. Somewhere behind her, the mare snorted uneasily, and her hooves clattered as she paced in her stall.

  Lark struggled to breathe. Black stars danced before her eyes and coalesced into dark clouds. She had to get that quirt away from her, far enough from her lungs that they could function again. She gagged, but no air came into her throat. Her heart pounded in her ears. She thrust her hands against his shoulders, but he was too tall and too heavy.

  “Make some noise, brat!” She heard his words, his mouth so close to her that she could smell his odd, incongruous scent, but she could make no sound. “I said,” he shouted, “noise!” And he pulled the quirt away so that he could cut at her legs with it.

  It hurt, even through her riding skirt, a slashing pain across her shin and knee, but she hardly noticed. The quirt was gone from her chest, and she drew a desperately needed breath.

  “Scream, you little bitch!” he panted. His arm lifted and fell again, and the quirt cut her like a knife.

  The mare whinnied alarm. Lark sucked more air through her gritted teeth. William was not sane. His madness had a power of its own, a force that was hardly human. He wanted to savage her. He wanted to hurt her, to hear her cry out.

  And then what? If the stories were true, he could beat her to death. Or, worse, he could rape her, ruin her if he made her pregnant…

  All these thoughts raced through her mind in a flash, reminding her of Geraldine Prince, of her suspicions about Pamella…but there was no time to ponder them.
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br />   She caught another deep breath and used the strength it gave her to shove, with every bit of muscle in her small body, at William’s chest.

  Something soft met her fingers, gave way under her palms.

  He knew, and he straightened, seizing both her wrists in one long hand, and twisting until she thought the bones would break. “Don’t—you—ever!” he grated. He gave her wrists another wrench, then lifted the quirt above his head.

  She rolled her face to one side, just in time. The little whip caught her skull just above her ear, and her stomach lurched. “Scream!” he shouted. He leaned over her, his knees rolling off her thighs as he shifted, his hand vicious on her wrists. “Scream, brat, or I swear I’ll break your country neck!”

  And Lark, in pain and real terror, screamed, and screamed a second time as he struck her again. Though her hands were captured, with his weight off her legs, she kicked with all her might. She had practiced a thousand standing mounts, and she had labored in her family’s fields since she was a child. She was small, but she was strong, and she managed to throw her body to one side, ripping her arms free of his grip. He grabbed at her, getting a fistful of her cropped hair. It was too short, and he couldn’t hold it. Her scalp stung, and she knew he must have strands of her hair in his fingers, but she was free.

  In a flash, she was up and running, down the aisle. The bar was thrown across the divided door at the back of the stables. He was coming behind her, and there was nowhere to go. She saw the gate to the box stall, unlatched it with one practiced motion, and threw herself in to land on her knees in the straw.

  The mare whinnied, and backed to the wall, flattening her ears. The foal froze, head up, ears forward, eyes wide.

  Just as William reached the gate, Lark jumped to her feet. The window was too high, and had no latch in any case. There was a pallet of blankets in one corner, which was no help to her. There was nowhere to go. She murmured a plea to the mare for calm, then scurried behind the winged foal, putting the little creature between her and the aisle. It tried to back closer to its mother, stopping when its hindquarters touched Lark. She put one hand on its croup, and whispered, “Hold still, little one. Oh, please hold still…”