Airs and Graces

by Toby Bishop

Mistress Winter looked at her. The lamplight made hollows in her thin face and shadowed her eyes. “What are you thinking, Larkyn?”

  “Mistress Winter, I’ve known breeding and birthing since I was small, and I’ve never seen such a likeness except between sire and son.”

  Mistress Winter looked away, gazing at Winter Sunset as if answers might be found in her neatly folded wings. “Nor have I, Larkyn,” she mused softly. “Nor do I want to be thinking this now. Or speaking of it.”

  “Nay,” Lark said. “Best left unspoken, I suppose.”

  Mistress Winter sighed. “You’re wise beyond your years, Larkyn.”

  “I know. ’Tis what happens when you lose your parents early. You have to grow up.”

  “You have been lucky in your family, just the same. Your brother—”

  “Oh, aye! My brother is the finest man in the world. They all are!”

  It may have been the lamplight, or the cold air, but Lark thought she detected a faint shine in Mistress Winter’s eyes. But as they went about their tasks, filling the water buckets, carrying a bit of muck outside, she thought she must have been mistaken. Mistress Winter spoke of this and that, made suggestions and gave orders. Her tone was as sharp as ever, and Lark found that comforting.

  THIRTY-SIX

  THE rhythm of farm life had a soporific effect on Philippa. She rose in darkness, but the fire already crackled in the kitchen grate when she made her way downstairs, and the strong black tea she remembered from her earlier visits was ready, waiting under a tea cozy. The table was set with thick mugs, plates of sliced bread, a wheel of cheese, a dish of yellow butter and one of homemade preserves. The brothers were there before her, and Peony was bustling between sink and stove and table. Larkyn came downstairs soon after.

  Everyone ate breakfast in the typical Uplander silence. It felt companionable to Philippa, and peaceful. By the time the crowing of the rooster drew them all outside to their chores, Osham and the Council of Lords, William and his schemes, even the Academy seemed very far away. Only Francis still weighed on Philippa’s mind. She wished she had been able to pay him a visit before the holiday. She had spent her only free day escorting Margareth’s body home to her family, but she promised herself she would go straight to Fleckham House upon her return.

  She and Larkyn put wingclips on their horses and walked them to the north pasture to cavort in the snow. As Philippa gazed into the ice-choked currents of the Black River, and listened to the winter birds chattering in the dry hedgerows, time seemed to cease flowing.

  Larkyn had been tossing snowballs at Seraph to see him kick up his heels. When Seraph trotted off to nose beneath the snow for a bit of grass, she came to stand beside Philippa. She tossed her last snowball into the rushing water, and said, a little fretfully, “’Tis not the same having Peony in the house. I used to do all those things.”

  Philippa had to rouse herself from her reverie to answer. “Do you mind very much?”

  “I don’t mind when I’m not here,” Larkyn said frankly. “But when I come home, I have to remind myself not to be finding fault with everything she does.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “Nay, nor should I do it,” Larkyn said. “And so I keep it to myself.”

  “It seems to me she does quite well for your family.”

  Larkyn shrugged. “Aye. And it doesn’t matter, does it? But everything here is so dear to me, every beast, every tree, every plant in the kitchen garden.”

  “It’s all wonderful, Larkyn.”

  The girl turned her vivid eyes up to Philippa. “Is it? Does it seem so to you? I would think Islington House to be a grand place.”

  Philippa’s lips twisted. “I think you could say that. Grand, and too big, and too cold, with a dozen servants and every room crammed with drapes and vases and uncomfortable furniture. As a girl, I preferred Fleckham House to my own. Especially when Duke Frederick still lived there, before his succession.”

  The horses ran up behind them, and they turned to greet them. Seraph snorted and blew, and danced away from Larkyn’s hand, inviting her to play again. Even Sunny pranced, kicking up sparkling fountains of snow. As they strolled back toward the barn, the little herd of brown goats, sporting their thick winter coats, trotted out to meet them and stood staring at Seraph and Sunny, ears turning back and forth, tails twitching. Larkyn walked among them, scratching polls, rubbing their backs. They clustered around her, bleating, butting at her pockets for treats. Philippa marveled at the circumstance that had caused Black Seraph to be foaled at Deeping Farm, with this particular girl to watch over him.

  PHILIPPA found Pamella alone in the coldcellar one afternoon. Brandon had gone off with Edmar, his special favorite, and Pamella was churning butter. Philippa could still hardly believe that this was the same duke’s daughter she had known in Osham. Pamella, who had been such a spoiled, willful girl, worked the paddle on the churn as if she had been doing it for years.

  Philippa stood at the top of the steps looking down at her. The slanting door was folded back to let in the cool sunshine, and Pamella, her hair braided and bound in a kerchief, her apron splashed with cream, bent over the churn to test the butter’s consistency.

  “Good morning,” Philippa said.

  Pamella looked up, wiping a drop of perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. She nodded to Philippa. Her mouth and throat worked with visible effort, but no words came, and after a moment, she shook her head apologetically and turned back to her churning, plunging the paddle into the heavy cream.

  “Can I help?” Philippa asked.

  Pamella shook her head and pointed to herself, then the half-churned butter.

  “Yes, I can see you’re good at this,” Philippa said. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  Pamella gave her a brief nod without ceasing her work. Philippa said, “Larkyn and I are going to ride into the village. Can I bring you anything?”

  Without looking up, Pamella shook her head.

  “Perhaps something for Brandon?”

  Pamella’s eyes came to her then, and the expression in them startled Philippa with its fierceness. Pamella brought her forefinger to her lips, then she shook her head with deliberate meaning.

  At first Philippa couldn’t think what she was trying to tell her. She frowned, then said, “Ah! You’re asking me not to speak of him?”

  A nod.

  “But surely the villagers…they must know by now that you’re here, and that Brandon is, too.”

  Another nod, but Pamella pointed to her own breast and shook her head again.

  “I see. The village doesn’t know who you are or where you came from.”

  Vigorous nodding met this. Pamella’s throat worked, the muscles rippling down its length. Her brow furrowed as she struggled to speak, succeeding in producing one word through a spasm of lips and tongue. “Spy.”

  “Ah.” Philippa felt a rush of pity. “You mean William’s spy, don’t you?” A nod. “Oh, Pamella, I’m so sorry. I wish I could help you. I…I have my own troubles with your brother.”

  Another nod, slow, resigned.

  At that moment, Seraph whinnied from the barn, and there was a rattle of hooves on wood. Philippa excused herself with some relief and hurried across the barnyard. Larkyn was saddling Sunny, it turned out, and Seraph was complaining about having to wait his turn. Philippa relieved Larkyn of Sunny’s rein, and let her go to her little stallion, scolding him all the way.

  Philippa tightened Sunny’s cinches and checked her wingclips, then led her out into the barnyard. The sky remained clear, as it had since they had arrived, and she thought they could perhaps take a flight up into the hills after their errand. That would settle Seraph, and the exercise would be good for Sunny, too.

  She mounted, and Sunny tossed her head, eager to be off. “Wait, my girl,” Philippa murmured to her. “Larkyn and Seraph are coming, too.”

  As she waited, Pamella came out of the coldcellar and stood beside the ste
ps, watching her. On an impulse, Philippa rode close to her. “Pamella,” she said quietly. “Perhaps you need to see a doctor. Your brother Francis is at Fleckham House for a time, and if you wanted to go there, I could make arrangements, speak to him—”

  But Pamella, her eyes flooding with sudden tears, shook her head, hard, and fairly ran into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. Philippa stared after her. She didn’t realize Larkyn had come out of the barn, with Seraph at her heels, until the girl spoke.

  “She hides whenever anyone comes, my brother says.”

  “But does she hide the boy?”

  “No one in Willakeep, except me, has ever had a blink at the Duke,” Larkyn said. “They wouldn’t realize.”

  “Ah. No. I suppose not.” Philippa reined Sunny around, and they started down the lane, side by side. They didn’t speak of Pamella again that day, but sympathy for her, and worry for her fatherless child, nagged at Philippa all afternoon, spoiling the peace of the day.

  “PAMELLA tells me that William keeps spies in the Uplands,” Philippa said to Brye Hamley. They were strolling on the edges of the Erdlin Festival, which filled the town square with revelers and music and a bonfire that blazed so hotly no one could stand near it. Larkyn and Nick and Peony had gone off in search of friends, and Edmar, with Brandon on his shoulder, wandered through the dancers, dipping and twirling to make the little boy laugh.

  “Duke has eyes in every part of Oc,” Brye said. “Tithe-men, prefects…spies.”

  “Was it so under Duke Frederick?”

  Brye shrugged. “Never noticed then. Never mattered.”

  “Ah. Indeed. Everything has changed for you.”

  He stopped in front of a booth and dropped a coin on its counter, coming away with two mugs of sweet, hot wine. She was on the point of refusing but then decided it didn’t matter, this one time. Sunny and Seraph were safe in the barn at Deeping Farm, and it was Erdlin, after all. The wine was too sweet and spicy for her taste, but that didn’t matter, either. She said, “There is no more talk, I hope, of confiscating your farm?”

  He grunted. “No. But it’s not over yet.”

  “No. Nor are my troubles with the Duke.”

  He led her a little away from the dancers and noise. She was aware that people were watching them, and in an odd way, she enjoyed it. A horsemistress in the company of one of the stalwarts of the village must be something new to Willakeep. He said, “You went before the Council.”

  “Yes.” The warm wine, the festive air, and the comforting presence of Brye Hamley eased Philippa’s reserve. “It was bad.”

  He waited in an easy silence as she hesitated. After a moment, she said, “I brought suit against Duke William for interfering with the bloodlines.”

  “That’s how we got Tup, I reckon,” he said.

  “Evidently,” Philippa said. “Though he has not admitted it.” Her lips tightened. “But now, he has bred another winged foal, and kept it for himself. I—we saw it, Larkyn and I.”

  “Aye. She told me.”

  Philippa bit her lip, wondering if Larkyn had also told her brother about William’s attack on her. But surely, she thought, she wouldn’t have done that. She knew too well what her brother’s reaction would be.

  She blew out a breath, irritated at the secrets and posturing William had made necessary. She drank again from the spicy wine and forced a small laugh, as if the whole thing had no real import, as if it were not her very life at stake. “Duke William has asked for me to be sent down from the Academy, from my service. He asked that my brother take me into custody at Islington House.”

  Brye looked down at her, and his eyes glinted with firelight. “Daysmith and Beeth will never allow it.”

  She stared at him, surprised. “Do you know the Council Lords, then?”

  “Aye,” he said grimly. “Know who has Oc’s interests at heart, and who doesn’t.” He looked away, to where the villagers and farmers of Willakeep danced before the bonfire, celebrating the winter holiday as if they hadn’t a care in the world. “Bloodlines are important. So is broomstraw, and the bloodbeets crop, and a dozen other kinds of business.”

  “You’re right, of course. I’ve been thinking of this only from my own perspective.”

  “’Tis natural,” he said. The firelight glimmered on his cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw. Threads of gray in his hair shone silver. “But this business distracts the Council from necessary business.”

  They drank in silence and watched the revelers, until Edmar came up, with a sleepy Brandon now draped across one shoulder. “Taking the lad home,” he said to Brye. He nodded to Philippa. “Leave you the oxcart, though.”

  Philippa said quickly, “I don’t mind walking.”

  “Nay,” he said. “Not necessary. ’Tis not so far. Good Erdlin to you both.” He turned, with the boy securely lodged in the crook of his arm, and headed out into the darkness.

  Brye leaned back against the trunk of an ancient oak and drained his cup of wine. “Never thought to see my brother Edmar so attached to someone as he is to that boy.”

  “Pamella wouldn’t come tonight,” Philippa said.

  “Nay. Doesn’t like people to stare at her.”

  “You mean, because she doesn’t speak?”

  “Aye. Except to Edmar, of course.”

  Philippa, startled, said, “Pamella can speak to Edmar?”

  Brye chuckled, a deep, rich sound that restored the sense of holiday to the evening. “Aye, Philippa. Pamella can speak to Edmar, who never speaks more than five words at once! You may be shocked to know it, but I think there may be an understanding between the two of them.”

  Philippa shook her head in amazement. The Lady Pamella, known far and wide for her temper tantrums, for her strings of admirers, for her dancing…to have an understanding with the stolid Edmar was too much to take in. “What does she say to him, Brye?”

  “He won’t say.”

  More secrets, she thought, but she kept that to herself. There were far too many secrets in the world, and she wished they could simply lay them all out in the open, like moldy sheets that needed airing in the sun. Brye went to buy more wine, and she accepted it, and drank it. They watched handsome Nick cavorting through the square with one girl after another, poor Peony trailing after him in an obvious plea to be noticed. Larkyn flitted here and there, greeting old friends. Brye and Philippa stood where they were, in the circle of the drooping oak branches, and watched the bonfire burn down to embers.

  When he put his hand under hers to help her up into the oxcart, the touch, though it lasted only seconds, felt like a caress. Philippa tilted her head up to look into the glory of the icy, star-filled night, and her heart shivered with pleasure. Her body did, too, in a way she thought she had vanquished long ago.

  She shook herself and wrapped her cloak tightly around her. Such foolishness, she thought. As if she were a first-level girl mooning after some youthful crush.

  When they reached the farm, she went straight to the barn to check on Sunny and to lean against her warm neck for a time, reminding herself where her first loyalty lay.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  SLATER delivered the girl, slightly grubby and shivering with cold, to a small room at the back of Fleckham House. It had been intended, William thought, as a parlormaid’s room, sparsely furnished and tucked away under the rafters. It was empty now, dusty and abandoned. The bed had no sheets, and only a thin blanket and worn coverlet covered the straw ticking. William had trouble lighting the fire that had been laid, and sneezed at the dust. By the time Slater knocked, then opened the door, he was in a towering temper.

  “This house is falling apart,” he glowered, barely looking at the trembling girl, other than to notice she had dark curls, recently cut short, it appeared, and wore some sort of black tabard and skirt. “Tell Paulina if it doesn’t look better the next time I’m here, she’ll be out of a job!”

  “M’lord,” Slater said equably, “you don’t want them servants kn
owing you’re here, do you? Might lead to questions.”

  William slapped his thigh with his quirt and paced to the tiny window. He had to bend at the waist to look out. The scene beyond was truncated by the slope of the roof, and showed only a bit of the park, the gardens now filled with snow, the forest beyond. “Damn that Philippa,” he said. “I should have made her find another place for my brother. I loathe creeping around.”

  “’Tis all about the foal, though, isn’t it, m’lord?”

  William turned on Slater, ready to snarl some insult at his devotion to the obvious, but the girl had begun to snivel, and she distracted him. “Not another weepy one, Slater, ye gods,” William said.

  Slater gave the girl a sharp slap on her back, and hissed, “Listen, girl, if you want to get safely home, you’d best straighten yerself up.”

  She choked back her sobs and tried to wipe her face with her black sleeve. The tabard was far too large for her, and when she moved her foot, William saw that her skirt was divided.

  “Slater, what is this?” he demanded. “Is she wearing a riding habit?”

  Slater gave him a snaggletoothed grin. “Aye, m’lord. And doesn’t she look a good bit like—you know, sir.” His laugh was low and suggestive. “The brat. From the Uplands.”

  “I don’t know—lift your face, girl, so I can see you.”

  The girl looked up at him. She was small, like the farm brat, but her eyes were a light brown under heavy lids, and her hair was greasy and ragged-looking. In his current mood, he would have preferred to vent his rage on some drab who looked like Philippa Winter, but he would not admit that to Slater.

  William shook his head, feeling suddenly weary to death of the whole thing. “Oh, you take her, Slater,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “I’m not in the mood after all.”

  At this, the girl began to sob again, her eyes rolling to Slater and then back to William, pleading. This made him laugh. “Little fool,” he said. “You’ll be better off, believe me.” From where he stood, he stretched out his arm to chuck her under the chin with his quirt. He hit her just hard enough to make her head snap back, and she cried out, stumbling backward to bump into Slater, then trying to step to the side to get away from the touch of Slater’s dirty hands.