Bee Sting Cake

by Victoria Goddard

  My uncle stared silently at Hal for an uncomfortably long time, then essayed a sketchy bow, turned on his heel, and stomped out of the room.

  “I wonder,” said Hal, once again in his normal tone and posture, “whether he is aware that he is already a character in a melodrama?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Night Ideas

  “WE THOUGHT YOU MIGHT want company.”

  I looked up from where I’d been sitting by the fire in my bedroom, trying to read a favourite book I’d left there, but not heeding the lines. It was late, but I’d kept the fire blazing.

  I blinked at Hal, who’d opened the door without ceremony and was smiling down at me. “I beg your pardon?”

  He edged in, followed by Mr. Dart, who let the door swing shut behind him. “‘No knocking, halloos, crying that there were elephants, nothing.’”

  I smiled at the quotation from Aurora. “‘And not even a pot of wine for the visitor.’”

  “Whatever would we do without Fitzroy Angursell? That’s all right. We brought our own.”

  It was the old bedroom I’d had whenever I’d stayed over at the Hall, with wallpaper in green and gold stripes and furniture in comfortable brown leather and dull gold velvet. It had always made me think of being underwater. After my excursion the week before, which had involved a period of time submerged in the Talgarths’ moat, I revised my thought to ‘being underwater on a sunny afternoon’. Midnight in the Talgarths’ moat had been like being in an inkwell.

  Mr. Dart gave Hal the choice of seats; he chose the other upholstered chair before the fire. Mr. Dart tugged over the footstool for himself. Neither of them said anything. I thought of all the times they had stood up for me, stood beside me, stood behind or before me. I swallowed and drew the cloth of the old dressing gown Mr. Dart had lent me tighter around myself.

  “He was still a suicide. Nothing changes that.”

  They exchanged glances. Then Hal said, “Forgive the impertinence, but are you sure?”

  I stared at him, unable to collect his meaning. “There was a note.”

  “There was also a brother who inherited due to his disgrace.”

  I stared at him some more. Hal looked very serious. I made an involuntary noise somewhere between a cough and a cackle. “Are you implying—do you mean—how can you suggest such a thing?”

  “Your uncle would not be the first person in history to take steps to ... ensure ... a succession he was not, properly speaking, otherwise entitled to.”

  “He would not be the first uncle to do so,” said Mr. Dart.

  “Has this honestly never occurred to you?” Hal said, giving me a hard look. “The moment you said that your older uncle was kind to you and your younger uncle was glad to inherit on your father’s death I wondered.”

  “I suppose you’ll suggest Sir Rinald’s death by hunting was Sir Vorel’s doing, too.”

  Hal shrugged. “Most people take advantage of situations, rather than create them. All he needed to do was promise your mother he would write to the command staff at Eil and be as mystified as anyone when they never replied. He might even have intended to have gone farther, but then there was the Fall. He wouldn’t have needed to do anything else after that.”

  “But ...” But I stopped there, for I could see Sir Vorel smiling down at me as he explained to my mother that of course we would keep staying at the old dower cottage, that he would see his brother’s widow not be left destitute and alone now that the sordid truth was out. She need not return to her own family: he was the head of her family now, and he would protect her.

  And my mother, trying not to cry.

  And then the Fall, and when we made it to Arguty House, him saying that now more than ever we should stay at the dower cottage, for the Woods were right on the Border and had assuredly become dangerous as well as strange with all the magic rearranged by the Fall. But still making us beg for every scrap of food or assistance he gave us.

  And my mother, telling me over and over again that she loved me, that it didn’t matter what anyone said, that my father had been a good man, that Sir Vorel was doing his best with a bad situation.

  I realized I was saying this out loud. “He was always so jolly about it,” I said. “I hated him.”

  I had never said the words aloud. I flushed, but refused to put my hand over my mouth in childish reaction. I glared defiantly at them.

  Mr. Dart pulled out a bottle of wine from the pocket of his dressing gown and filled the glasses that Hal produced from somewhere. He passed me one, then said quietly, “And when your father returned?”

  I frowned. “He was even jollier then. He acted as if nothing had ever given him greater pleasure. He was full of enthusiasm and plans for helping—how had I forgotten? He kept coming by, he insisted my father stay at Arguty House, he was all full of plans.”

  “He always was a hypocrite,” Mr. Dart said, then looked as if he wanted to cover his mouth with embarrassment.

  When had we gotten so mealy-mouthed? You read old novels from Astandalan days and it was as if no one had any manners at all, just elaborate ritual ceremonies and ribald wit.

  Mr. Dart coughed. “He always acts as if it was his doing that the Arguty estates are so profitable now, that he was so clever in building it up again after Jemis’ grandfather nearly broke it, when it was all Sir Rinald’s doing. Sir Rinald did all the work, and then he broke his neck hunting and Sir Vorel reaped all the benefits.”

  “Hmm,” said Hal. “He wasn’t so jolly to you in town, Jemis.”

  “He’s not happy I returned to Ragnor Bella. It upsets his wife to see me, apparently. I’m a reminder of our family’s most terrible scandal, you know, and certain to come to a worse end than my father.”

  “Is he actively trying to drive you away?”

  “He did tell me outright I should leave town.”

  “The devil he did!”

  I smiled crookedly. “He’s not the only one.”

  “It will be interesting,” Mr. Dart said thoughtfully into his wine glass, “to find out his reaction to the story you told tonight, Hal. Confirmation from an Imperial duke that Major Greenwing was not the traitor of Loe cannot be something he will welcome, if we are correct in our suspicions.”

  “But what about my father’s note?” I asked, trying not to sound pathetic.

  It was all too easy to imagine my uncle—but that was a dreadful thing to think about anybody, and I disliked him far too much to be able to think about it clearly.

  “I thought your last letter to me in the spring had an elegiac quality,” Mr. Dart said. “If something had happened to you I would have thought it was that sort of good-bye. I wouldn’t have thought murder.”

  “Oh,” I said numbly.

  There was a pause, then Hal said, “Well, this has been a most diverting day. What did you have planned for tomorrow? Now that I know that Ragnor Bella’s reputation is entirely undeserved, I am eager to help uncover its secrets.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Dart, “since there doesn’t seem to be anything to do but wait and see Sir Vorel’s reaction to your story, and you can’t sign up for the Fair competitions till Sunday, perhaps we might work on the dragon’s riddle. I reckon we should try the Woods Noirell.”

  “Oh!” said Hal, enthusiastically. “Then we can find out why there’s such a dearth of honey.”

  I rolled my eyes, sipped the wine. Found my eyebrows raising. “This is excellent wine. We never used to get given the good stuff.”

  “Your friend the imperial duke helps. Also I think Brock’s very impressed that you went to Morrowlea on merits.”

  Hal looked at me. “You were the Rondelan Scholar at Morrowlea?”

  “The Fiellanese one,” I muttered, though I was pleased, for that triumph had come before Lark and the wireweed and the bright and brilliant Jemis Greenwing that had not been the real one, after all.

  “Morrowlea’s the smallest of the Circle Schools. They only take one scholar from each country in Northwes
t Oriole.” Hal shook his head in admiration. “I always knew you were smart, Jemis, but that is an extraordinary achievement.”

  “We’re making him blush,” said Mr. Dart.

  “Oh, that’s no feat, Mr. Dart,” said Hal, and they both laughed heartily.

  “Oh, go away,” I said, and threw them out so I could go to bed and pretend to sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sir Vorel has an Idea

  INTENDING AS WE WERE to go chasing dragons, of course Saturday dawned as sodden and wet an autumnal day as anyone could imagine.

  We sat in the breakfast room staring out at the grey rain sheeting down. There was no chance of seeing the dragon; there was barely any chance of seeing the other side of the front lawn.

  “Well,” said Hal philosophically, “we are men of Alinor. Perhaps you have some books on magical fauna, Master Dart? We might as well do some research.”

  But Mr. Dart had not entirely been joking, on another occasion, when he told me that his brother’s library was arranged by colour. It was not quite as bad as that—it was not that all the red books were together, and all the blue ones elsewhere—but it had been organized with a strong eye to aesthetics and much less to any desire to actually find anything.

  “I’m afraid it’s my fault,” Sir Hamish said, as we stood in the middle of the room admiring its appearance and trying not to be dismayed at the utter incoherence of its contents. “It’s such a beautiful room ... and we’re not a very bookish family.”

  “History is over here,” Mr. Dart said, striding over to the brass-chased mahogany shelves between two gorgeous Collian scrolls depicting the famous islets crowned with contorted trees of the Sea of Ten Thousand Pinnacles. He ran his good hand lightly across the spines. “General Astandalan, Alinorel, Collian, Voonran, Ystharian, Zuni ... even some outworld tomes ...”

  I walked over to stand beside him. The history books were completely clean and well-used, unlike most of the other bays of the library. But then Mr. Dart had always been keen on the subject. He used to ask my father for stories even more than I had.

  Still, as Hal had said, there wasn’t much else to be done—and I did like little better than delving into a good library. Hunting for dragons could take many forms, after all.

  “MY DEAR NEPHEW,” SAID a familiar voice.

  I looked up unthinkingly, mind still bemused by the intricate rhymes and glorious thundering momentum of Fitzroy Angursell’s Kissing the Moon (a work only slightly less well regarded than Aurora, and considerably more far-fetched, even though the latter was a comic satire and the former purported to be a true account of the Red Company’s visit to the Moon’s country).

  “My dear nephew,” repeated the voice.

  I blinked. My uncle stood there, damp hair curling becomingly, several chins tucked unbecomingly into the thin neckerchief, starched shirt-collar points wilting from the wet. A maid was just closing the door to the library behind him.

  “Sir Vorel,” I said blankly.

  He was holding his hands outstretched towards me. While I watched in total disbelief, he crossed the room, ignoring the arrested figures of Sir Hamish, Mr. Dart, Master Dart, and Hal, and took my hands in his own. Kissing the Moon slid down my arm and fluttered to the floor.

  He was smiling back tears. “My dear nephew, words cannot express my feelings at this juncture.”

  “Oh?” I said weakly.

  Words, he declared, failed him: but yet they came pouring forth. How astonished he had been last evening by the young Duke of Fillering Pool (with a bow to Hal, whose face was back to its hauteur). When his dear lady wife had come home from a dining engagement with the Terrilees (who were the Terrilees?), she told him how she had been stopped and regaled by not fewer than seven different parties along the way with the story of how the young Duke of Fillering Pool knew me from Morrowlea and had come to visit, —and when he had shared the Duke’s story of how my father was the hero, not the traitor, of Loe—how he had tossed and turned all night, thinking what he could possibly do—how Lady Flora had insisted he wait until the rain relented before he made even the two-mile ride to Dart Hall—

  “But how could I wait, my dear boy,” he said, “how could I wait? When I think of how wrong I was—when I think that if only I had listened to my brother, he might still be with us—with you—when I think of how I have treated you—”

  At this point words did fail him, and he choked up, finally let go of my hands, and plunged to stand with his elbow on the mantelpiece and hand over his brows in a gesture as affected as it was fine, breast heaving with emotion and oratory.

  I looked at Hal and Mr. Dart, who had identical expressions of incredulity on their faces. Master Dart and Sir Hamish were in the middle of exchanging a look I could not read, but which caused Sir Hamish to nod sharply and Master Dart to go to the door to murmur something to a servant on its other side.

  I massaged life back into my hands, and picked up Kissing the Moon from the floor, then stood there, smoothing out the bent corners, and had no idea at all of what to say.

  Presently Sir Vorel suppressed his heaving bosom (the words came unbidden to mind; for some reason they were in Violet’s voice), wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, and came back over to me. This time he took my right hand in both of his.

  “My dear nephew,” he said again—making me wonder irresistibly whether he had forgotten my name—“let me make things right for you. I have done what little I could under the circumstances for the love I once bore my brother, but with such unimpeachable support for his character—my dear boy, you must be angry with me. No, do not speak! Not yet. Not until I have said my piece. You have every right to be angry with me. I have not treated you well, my boy, I am ashamed to admit. You have always been a memory to me of—I should not say such a thing, to you least of all—but perhaps you most of all have the right to know—”

  He sighed heavily, and squeezed my hand. “My dear boy, your mother was like the Green Lady in springtime. It will not astonish you that Lady Olive of the Woods had many suitors ... but perhaps you did not know, could not know, that I was one of them. She chose my brother ... then she chose that merchant ... and I confess I was angry—for I had offered her everything I had, everything I was, but I could see that although it was not love such as she had known with my brother—she did love the man, merchant though he was—and I resigned my heart to another wife, and was glad only to see her happy. ... My dear boy, when your father returned and caused such distress to your mother by his reappearance, and his story was so incredible and he was so—well, changed—from the brother I had known—I was angry, and did not listen to his protestations that the story of his treason was false, that there had been a mistake.”

  He sighed even more heavily. “You can think how that has haunted me, how that has tortured me. When I think that if I had merely listened to him—if I had merely believed him, as was my duty as his brother—oh, my dear nephew, if I could only go back to that time and recant all the dreadful things I said to him—perhaps he might not have been driven to take his own life. And perhaps I might have been able to forgive him for having a son by her, when I never—”

  He smiled tremulously up at me. “My boy, I could not forgive him for the shame he brought to her. And I cannot forgive myself for not listening, for playing a role—however small, however large, only the Lady knows—in his last act. I have taken out my anger and my sorrow on you, who were innocent of all but loving your father, as a son ought. As any son ought,” he repeated, shaking my hand with both of his for emphasis, his eyes welling once more with tears. “Oh, if only I had—it is too late for that. But it is not too late—I pray it is not too late—to make amends to you.”

  “Sir Vorel,” I began, trying to tug my hand free.

  “Too long,” he said thickly, “too long have I insisted on this formality, as if I could thereby keep distant from the strength of my feelings. Too long have I hidden my—dare I say it? I must, I must, for if I do not now, my cour
age may fail, and I retreat once more behind the mask of courtesy and duty—too long have I hidden my love for you, my thoughts that you are my brother’s son and the son of the woman we both—loved—”

  “Sir Vorel,” I began again, as he began once more to sob, and this time when he raised his hands picturesquely to his face he took mine with them. I jerked my hand free. “I am astonished,” I said finally. “I do not know what to say.”

  “Words fail,” he said meaningfully.

  I rather thought they did.

  “My dear nephew,” he said yet again, “give me no answer now. We must—oh, there are so many things we must discuss. Where you are to live, for one. It is not suitable for you to stay with Mrs. Buchance.”

  Indignation managed to break through the mass of emotions threatening to suffocate me. “Mrs. Buchance has been the soul of courtesy and kindness.”

  I did manage to shut my teeth on, Unlike you, but the effort left my tone and sentence very abrupt.

  Sir Vorel gave me a smile that was indulgent to the point of condescension. “My dear boy, you are still very young, and unversed in the ways of the world. Your—stepmother—well—quite apart from the fact that her social class is not quite the thing—she is very young, and a young and very wealthy widow—well—people talk, you know.”

  Icy rage swamped every other sentiment. I was so angry I couldn’t breathe, and groped automatically for a handkerchief that was not in its right place, for I was wearing an outfit of Mr. Dart’s and not my own—

  “Your sentiments are very proper,” he said, smiling even more indulgently. “You can, however, and will, I am sure, look much higher. And you are very young to be settling down so ... domestically. Dear boy, you have barely seen the world! We must discuss many things—your allowance, for one—and of course, Lady Flora was saying only yesterday that perhaps it would be for the best if you were to come live with us, for you are, you know, my nearest living relative.”