by Toby Bishop
“Lord Francis?” Lark’s voice cracked, and the tears threatened again.
“Brye will explain this to you,” Mistress Winter said. “Your brother understands the world as it has come to be.”
“But I thought—you’re a horsemistress! No one can order you away!”
Mistress Winter’s face softened a little, and she said in an undertone, “I thought that, too, Larkyn. It seems I was mistaken.” She looked down at Lark, her eyes shadowed with sorrow. “I must go, for the sakes of all of you, girls and horsemistresses. In time, I hope…” She swallowed, and looked away again.
“But,” Lark whispered, “what about Winter Sunset?”
Mistress Winter gave a sour laugh. “The Master Breeder assures me he will care for her.”
“He can’t!” Lark cried.
“So I told him.”
“So the Duke means for her to die.”
Mistress Winter’s bitter expression was her answer. Still, Lark persisted. “You’re not really going to give her up, are you? You could go to the Uplands, to Deeping Farm…or to Marin, or perhaps the Angles…”
Mistress Winter put out a hand and pulled Lark up out of the chair. “Listen to me, Larkyn,” she said. “There is no place in Oc, or in all of Isamar, that I could hide. The Duke’s eyes are everywhere, as you and your family have already learned.” She led Lark toward the door and opened it. Lark began to sniffle again, but Mistress Winter squeezed her shoulder, hard. “You’re a young woman, now, Larkyn. And you’re a flyer. You must learn to accept things as they are.”
A moment later, Lark found herself standing alone on the steps of the Domicile. The bright day had turned dark for her, the brilliant colors dull. Tup whinnied and cantered to the pasture fence. She went to meet him with slow, painful steps, to bury her face in his silky mane and try to comprehend the immensity of what had happened. “Never, Tup,” she whispered against his warm neck. “I will never accept this.”
LARK spent a sleepless night and finally rose when the sky lightened enough to see to dress. She washed her face and pulled on her tabard and skirt. She tiptoed down the stairs in her stockinged feet and sat on the Dormitory steps to pull on her boots before she hurried as quietly as she could across the dim courtyard to the stables. A lamp burned quietly in the tack room, and Lark felt certain Mistress Winter had spent the night there, with Winter Sunset. It was what she would have done.
She had only just reached the doorway when Mistress Winter appeared, leading Sunny. Jolinda, the stable-girl from the Beeth stables, was on the mare’s other side. Lark quickly stepped into the shadows, hiding herself in the gloom as the two women and the winged horse emerged into the dawn.
She heard Jolinda say, in a choked voice, “I’ll go to Fleckham House myself. I’ll take care of her, Mistress.”
Mistress Winter said, in a gentle voice Lark had never heard before, “No, please. The Duke will be there, and my brother as well, coming in a carriage to take me to Islington House. It’s better they don’t see you.”
“But Winter Sunset—” Jolinda’s voice shook, and she pressed her lips together.
“Yes.” Mistress Winter bent to tighten Winter Sunset’s cinch. “I know you’re worried about Sunny. But I beg you, stay here, watch over these girls, especially Larkyn Black. The Duke hates her almost as much as he hates me.”
“Why?”
Lark bit her lip, and watched as Mistress Winter stroked her mare’s neck with a loving hand. “He’s mad,” she said flatly. “Drunk with power, with obsession…and whatever potion he’s used to change his body has pushed him over the edge. Promise me, Jolinda. Promise me you’ll stay here, no matter what.”
“Aye, Mistress. If it’s what you want.”
Lark watched Mistress Winter lift her head, scanning the familiar outlines of the Hall, the Domicile, the Dormitory, the stables. The sky brightened, illuminating the emerald paddocks, the hedgerows in full bloom along the lane. She jumped up into the saddle, then said in a low voice, “Do you know, Jolinda, now that the moment is here, I can hardly bear to leave it.”
Jolinda tried to answer, but sobbed instead. Mistress Winter’s spine stiffened at that, and she lifted Sunny’s rein. She spoke to her, and the mare started toward the gate.
“Mistress Winter! Wait!” Lark stepped out into the light. Mistress Winter twisted in her saddle, and Lark ran to her, seizing Winter Sunset’s rein. “Were you not going to say goodbye?”
“Larkyn—” Mistress Winter’s lean face was like marble in the cool dawn light. “Larkyn, let me go. It’s time.”
“But—won’t you let me—or Lord Francis—”
“Let me go!” Mistress Winter snapped. She clapped her heels to Winter Sunset’s ribs, and the mare burst into a quick trot. In moments they were through the gate, cantering down the flight paddock.
Lark ran after, and stood on the rails of the fence to watch as Winter Sunset, her red wings glistening, launched into the rose and blue of the dawn sky. She banked toward the White City, then north toward Fleckham House. Lark stayed where she was even when she could no longer see them, until she heard Tup calling from inside the stables. Then, with dragging steps and aching heart, she climbed down from the fence. Mistress Winter had not looked back, not once.
LARK drilled with her flight, this last day before the Estian holiday, but her heart wasn’t in it. Tup seemed to know, and he was even more willful than usual, darting above the line, falling out of formation before she was ready. Only when it came to the Graces did he pay attention. At least he understood that much, that the Graces were their greatest challenge. He flew the pattern perfectly, tilting gently to keep Lark in position. He banked neatly to the left, then to the right, giving her plenty of time in between to adjust her balance.
When it was time to come to ground, she was afraid he might refuse. She put a hand on his neck and willed him to behave. She didn’t think, today, that she could bear to be scolded. He soared obediently down over the hedgerow at the foot of the return paddock and galloped easily toward the stables. When she dismounted, he nosed her cheek and whimpered. She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his mane for long moments, letting the pain of the day wash over her, letting Tup’s warmth and energy soothe her.
As she brushed him down, and cleaned and oiled his hooves, she kept thinking of Mistress Winter and Winter Sunset. They would be separated by now, Sunny whinnying desperately from that awful stable, Mistress Winter walking away, carrying herself in that stiff way she had when she was trying to hide her feelings. Her heart would be breaking. Lark remembered the perfect agony she felt when Tup went missing, and for Mistress Winter, there was no turning back. Even if the Council relented, it would be too late. No winged horse had ever recovered from being permanently separated from its bondmate. Winter Sunset would go mad, endangering herself or others, and have to be put down, or she would go into a decline and die of her own broken heart.
Lark understood that Duke William would not care. The death of Winter Sunset would be the final, triumphant conclusion to his revenge against Mistress Winter.
Lark wondered if she would ever see Philippa Winter again. Philippa Islington, she would be now, bereft of her winged horse and her horse’s name, shut up in disgrace at Islington House.
Everyone felt the same tension Lark felt, in the stables and in the Hall. Herbert snapped at the girls and complained to Jolinda. Jolinda had been silent all day, going about her tasks, and the girls spoke in hushed tones when they spoke at all. Only Amelia Rys seemed her usual calm self, but no doubt she was distracted by the first flush of being bonded.
Supper went past in a deadly silence. The horsemistresses ate almost nothing, and even the ever-hungry students had little enthusiasm for the summer salad and poached fish. They emerged from the Hall into the clear twilight, and Lark paused on the steps to look up into the lavender sky. A quarter moon had risen to ghost above the spires of the White City. Islington House was somewhere in the eastern part of Osham.
Perhaps Mistress Winter and Winter Sunset were both looking up at that bit of moon, aching with longing to be together.
There were still horsemistresses and students in the courtyard, some on their way to the stables, some to the Dormitory and the Domicile, when a phaeton, with two lathered horses in the traces, came clattering onto the cobblestones. Hester and Amelia had reached the bottom step, and Lark went down to join them. Everyone turned to see who had come tearing up to the Academy at such a pace.
The driver reined in the horses with a great jangling of bits and harness. Lark didn’t recognize the tall, red-haired man who stepped down from the phaeton. But she knew the lean figure of Duke William coming behind him. And she knew the look on his face, and his habit of switching at his thigh with his quirt. He was in a rage.
A little flame of hope began to burn in Lark’s heart.
Hester breathed, “Kalla’s heels, that’s Lord Islington! Mistress Winter’s brother!”
Amelia only pursed her lips in silence. Lark peered past Hester’s broad shoulder to see the men striding toward the Hall. She jumped when Meredith Islington roared, “Where is she?”
Everyone gaped at him, and he demanded again, “Where is my sister?”
No one answered. No one knew.
The hopeful fire blazed up in Lark’s breast. She put both hands over her mouth to hide her smile. The Duke stalked toward the stables, and Lord Islington to the Domicile, barking orders, demanding information. For an hour they searched the Academy, looking in every corner and nook, opening every door. They found Mistress Star, and badgered her with questions, to which she could only shrug and spread her hands. They insisted on looking in Mistress Winter’s apartment, in the small kitchen, in storerooms and attics. They found nothing, though Duke William threatened everyone he encountered with banishment.
It was long past dark before the two men, glowering with frustrated anger, climbed back into the phaeton and whirled away toward the White City. The horsemistresses and the students stood together in the courtyard, shoulder to shoulder, and watched them go.
PHILIPPA untied the bag from behind the cantle of her flying saddle, then unbuckled the cinches and the breast strap. She slid the saddle off Sunny’s back, took a towel from the bag, and rubbed her mare thoroughly from chest to tail. She walked her back and forth on the sand, staying close to the dunes in case one of the patrols flew over, but evening was coming on, and the horsemistresses of the South Tower should be done flying for the day.
She dipped a small wooden cup into the creek that ran down the beach to the sea, and sipped from it while Sunny dropped her head and drank. While she waited for Sunny to have her fill, Philippa gazed up at the quarter moon, pallid in the summer night. A breeze blew in from the water, refreshingly cool on her hot skin. It had been a warm day, and a long flight, taking the long way into the south, skimming the coastline to avoid being seen. It would be cold before morning, she knew, but there was little she could do about that. She didn’t dare build a fire, and she had only the saddle blanket to cover herself with. She had put cheese and bread in her bag, and a measure of oats for Sunny. She had managed to jam in a change of smallclothes and a hairbrush. She hadn’t dared pack anything more. Her books and her clothes had all gone into the trunk, to be uselessly delivered to Islington House.
The thought of Islington House brought a bitter twist to her lips. She hoped Meredith was storming around the White City, looking for her. She hoped William’s temper drove him into a fit as he badgered his spies and that ghastly Slater for information. But no one could tell him anything, because only one person—and his daughter—knew where Philippa had gone. And Duke William of Oc had no power over Baron Rys of Klee.
She led Sunny into the lee of a great boulder, where she spread the saddle blanket on the warm sand. With Sunny’s nose drooping comfortably beside her shoulder, she sat cross-legged on the blanket and watched the stars appear. Their reflections sprinkled the waters of the sea, breaking apart as the waves rolled onto the beach, shining again as the water smoothed. Philippa released a great breath and began to feel more relaxed than she had in weeks.
It was not such a long flight over the sea to Klee, perhaps three hours. She and Sunny had made the journey once before. One of Rys’s trusted captains would meet her on the shore.
She ate her cheese and bread, and drank more cold water from the creek. As the night enfolded her and Winter Sunset, she wrapped herself in the saddle blanket and lay down, wriggling until the sand conformed to her hips and shoulders. Sunny stayed close to her, and the rhythm of the waves soothed them both into sleep. Philippa’s last thought, before she closed her eyes, was that William truly was out of his mind if he thought she would ever allow him to separate her from Sunny. Sarah Runner had been right. She would have died first.
FORTY-TWO
NICK came for Lark at midday, to carry her home in the oxcart, with Tup trotting along behind, and Molly allowed, as a treat, to ride in the cart. Students and horsemistresses were saying farewells as they drove off in their families’ carriages or phaetons. Only the third-level girls were allowed to fly home alone, after receiving stern warnings from Headmistress Star about the changeable summer weather, about flying too far or too high, about taking chances.
Everyone at the Academy was sleepy and red-eyed, having stayed up far too late the night before. They had clustered in the stables, in the library, on their cots in the Dormitory, talking, exulting, asking anyone and everyone what they knew. No one, it seemed, had suspected anything, not even Headmistress Star. No one knew that Philippa Winter had meant to disappear with Winter Sunset, but no one was surprised.
They had behaved as one united body before the Duke and Lord Islington. Even Petra Sweet had been shocked by the ruling against Mistress Winter. It helped, of course, that not one of them had the faintest idea where the fugitives had gone.
Lark, though she was as tired as everyone else, felt she must be glowing like an unshaded lamp. The sunshine that had seemed so joyless the day before now seemed almost unbearably bright. She could hardly wait to see Deeping Farm, and Brye, and Edmar…she even looked forward to seeing Peony. With the weight of grief lifted from her heart, she felt so light she thought she might float right off the cart.
Nick grinned as they trundled out to the road, Molly swaying behind the high seat, Tup trotting happily behind. “Take a blink at you!” he said to Lark. “You must be that glad to get away from this place.”
“Nay, nay, Nick.” Lark laughed. “’Tisn’t that at all! Wait till I tell you!” And as they rode toward the Uplands, with the nuthatches twittering at their passage and squirrels scolding from beneath the hedgerows, she told him all about the Council of Lords, and Mistress Winter’s defiance of Duke William, and the awful decision that had come down from the Rotunda.
They reached Deeping Farm just as the sun set behind the hills to the west. Lark was nearly speechless at the sight of Lord Francis himself waiting for them in the barnyard, a pitchfork in his hands and one of Brye’s battered hats on his head. He looked sun-browned and strong. In his woven shirt and trousers, he looked more like an Uplands farmer than like one of Oc’s nobility.
Once Tup and Molly were stabled and fed, and everyone sat down at the long table to eat Peony’s fine pottage, Lark had to recite Mistress Winter’s entire story again. Brye frowned throughout, his face like a thundercloud, and though Peony and Edmar and Nick clapped at the end, at the delightful discovery that, somehow, Mistress Winter and Sunset had escaped from the Duke, Brye still scowled in rigid silence.
Lord Francis said, “She should have sent for me.”
Lark answered him, “Nay, Lord Francis, she feared for your safety. Yon Duke is set upon his road, and no one can stand in his way.” She blushed then, and added hastily, “Begging your pardon, my lord. I forget, at times, that he’s your brother.”
“Where did she go?” Brye asked.
Lark shrugged, and laughed. “No one knows, and that’s the best of all! If
no one knows, then no one can be forced to tell!”
“I hope she is someplace safe,” Brye glowered. “He’ll never have done searching.”
BRYE’S prediction proved true when Duke William clattered into the barnyard the next day on his lathered, exhausted brown gelding. Pamella came dashing in from the barn, sweeping up Brandon on the way, and hid herself and her son in the pantry. Larkyn called for Nick, who was in the coldcellar. Francis, who had been hoeing weeds in the kitchen garden, jumped over the blackstone fence to lend his support. He kept the sharp-pointed hoe in his hand as he stood in the exact center of the barnyard to face his brother. Larkyn was in the doorway to the stables, protecting her stallion. Nick Hamley brought the paddle of the butter churn up the steps, holding it in both hands like a club.
William leaped off his horse and tossed the reins to the ground. The gelding stood with his head down, his sides heaving.
“You’re going to kill that fine animal one day,” Francis said coolly.
“Francis,” William said. His face was red and his hair wind-whipped, but his tone was as icy as Francis’s own. “I’m surprised to see you looking so well. I understood you were somewhere dying.”
“I am far from death,” Francis said. “Which is more than I can say for your mount.”
William didn’t even glance back at his horse. “You, brat,” he said, pointing his quirt at Larkyn. “Cool my horse.”
Larkyn came forward gingerly, a wary eye on William, and took the horse’s reins. As he limped after her, Francis heard her speak to him in a tender voice. He said, “Not that you would understand, brother, but that’s the way to treat a horse.”
William’s lip curled. “You’re telling me how to handle horses, Francis? That’s odd, in view of my recent achievement.” He took a step forward, and Nick Hamley bridled at his approach, lifting the wooden paddle as if it were a bludgeon. William laughed. “Look at you, Francis! You and the farmer, prepared to do battle with your tools!”