“Hello again, Matthew,” I told him, returning his smile.
“And a good morning to ye.” Matthew’s thick, rustic accent made my smile bigger. “Yer here t'see the horses, then?”
“Yes, please.”
The happiness on my face must have been obvious, because Matthew laughed under the brim of his hat. “Right, miss. We got plenty of those, so we'll be picking you one and you can be on yer way.”
I turned to Cate, brushing my hair out of my face so I could see her clearly. “You are more than welcome to come with me, Cate, but if you would rather go back to the manor, I am sure that Matthew can watch me if I stay nearby.”
“I have chores to finish, Miss Ellie, but thank you,” Cate mumbled. She gave me a short curtsy and scurried back toward the dark shape of the manor, her red-gold hair whipping against her shoulders. I watched her until Matthew cleared his throat and I remembered to turn around. I had already decided that while I was questioning the animals about the Kingsclere sisters, I would ask after Cate. Someone was obviously beating her, and badly, if the bruises on her neck had been any indication. I was determined to put a stop to it.
“We got here some of the finest horses in Seria,” Matthew said proudly as he led me into the stables. They were well kept. The smell was hardly as overpowering as some I had been in. “We've raced 'em at the Palace fer over a hundred years, and win more of'en than not.”
A beautiful white mare on my left stuck her gray nose out over the stall door and nuzzled my shoulder as I passed her. I stroked her face, petting the velvety tip of her nose as she snuffled around my fingers. “That's Corynne d'Reixa. She's a fine girl, Cor. Sweetest horse I got, but fast as a falcon af'er a sparrow. She's won us the Ronin Cup six times, not countin' the race a few weeks ago when she worked up 'er hind leg. She'll be racin' again next spring, mayhap.”
“What does it mean in Amendyrri?” I asked. All great racing horses were named in Amendyrri, a smooth, low language with lots of open vowels. Serian was much harsher sounding, and the Amendyrri always complained that there were far too many duplicate words and spelling changes.
“Queen o' the Wind,” Matthew said.
Corynne nosed at my wrist, perhaps hoping for a hidden lump of sugar, but I had nothing to offer her. I patted her snout. “Sorry, girl. I don’t have anything for you to eat.”
“Matthew has some carrots in his pocket,” Corynne said. “You could ask him.”
“Are you supposed to have them?”
Corynne tossed her head, but like most animals, she was not surprised that I could understand her. They always seemed to know that I was different as soon as they saw me. The Ariada in me could not be hidden from them.
“No,” she admitted. I got the feeling that Corynne was not a very good liar.
“Well then, you will have to ask Matthew later.” Corynne huffed, but continued being friendly while I patted her until I looked over at the next horse. “Who is this handsome one?” He was thick chested and tall, obviously not a racing horse.
“That's Sir Thom. He's my own horse, helps me with my work.” Sir Thom snorted when I reached out to touch him, not as trusting of strangers as Corynne, but he allowed me to pat him anyway. Matthew raised his eyebrows. “Well, then, look a'that! Thom don't take to just anyone.”
“He will take to me. Most animals do.”
“Corynne likes carrots too much,” Sir Thom said. “She don't understand she has to work fer 'em.”
I laughed and moved on to the next horse. The hide over his shoulders rippled as he sniffed at my hand, but he moved in to my caress without fear. “That's Brahmsian Synng,” Matthew said. “He's Corynne's younger brother. We'll prob'ly race him next spring. Corynne's still got one more year left in her if her injury don't flare up again, but we're hopin' Brahms'll take the Cup a fair number of times when she's done.”
Brahms's ears twitched at the compliment, and then he refocused his attention on me. “I’m just as fast as Cor is. I could beat her.” His nostrils flared. Corynne tossed her mane a few stalls away, indulgent of her sibling's comment. “Do you want to ride me?”
I nodded my head and turned to Matthew. “He seems like a fine horse. May I ride him?”
“A'course, miss. I've heard tell yer a fair rider. Spring weather's been nasty, an' he hasn't been getting out as much as he likes. Don't push him too hard, though. We got to have him in good condition when we train him fer this fall.”
Matthew saddled Brahms for me and helped me up onto his strong back. The feeling of a powerful horse between my legs again made me smile wider than I had in weeks. Brahms shifted slightly, his hooves scraping the ground, obviously eager to be off. With a light slap on his rump, Matthew sent him running as I gripped the reins.
Although I had been riding since I was a little girl, I had never been on a galloping racehorse until I met Brahms. The difference between him and the Sandleford horses was obvious as soon as he started off across the fields. He rolled over the ground like a strong wind, and it was easy to see how his sister had been named if she was anything like him. “What does your name mean?” I panted.
“Meadow Song,” he huffed as he pounded across the dirt.
I rode Brahms until lunch. When I dismounted, I had made a loyal new friend.
CHAPTER 4
BLUE PATCHES OF shadow tucked themselves in the wet, muddy grass as I visited my tree, unwilling to surrender to the morning light. Baxstresse stood above everything else, watching the small black shapes that scuttled in its wide fields, but not interfering. Occasionally a farmer would gaze up at the turrets and rub at his damp brow, tired even at the beginning of the day.
Birds fluttered over the uneven dirt, tugging at worms and pulling seeds free with their beaks. The air was wet and heavy as it settled into the gutted field, drying and thinning as the sun crawled over the horizon. Spring at Baxstresse was melancholy. Damp grays and browns dominated the landscape. No trees, no mountains, flat as a rough-grained board.
I was picturing the flowers that my sapling would wear in winter when Belladonna came to me. I had been at Baxstresse for a little over a month now. Though my sapling had grown taller, its leaves were still hard green buds dangling on their arched stalks. I rested one hand against the whitish-red bark and waited as she came awkwardly over the mud clods. It was one of the rare moments when she did not move gracefully, like a tall cat.
A single branch from the sapling scratched my cheek, pointing straight at my stepsister like a dousing rod. I pushed it away, but it sprang back into position. A sharp wind blew through my skirts and bent the sapling forward. It almost looked as though it was bowing to Belladonna in greeting, welcoming her.
“You never told me why you asked for a hazel sapling,” she said as she studied my tree. It was one of the only times I had heard her speak plainly, perhaps even kindly, to me. Generally, we gave each other meaningless polite comments when other people were around.
“My mother,” I answered. Belladonna smiled as though she understood. Perhaps, I thought, she did understand about mothers. “She loved gardens and trees.”
The fresh wind returned, tossing Belladonna's dark curls. “Your mother was lucky, then.”
“She died young.” I was no longer bitter about it. My tears had scoured most of that away months ago. Visiting the hazel tree to remember her was slowly helping me heal.
“She was lucky even for that, though. Lucky that she had something to love. My mother doesn't love anything anymore. You can see the kind of emptiness that leaves.”
I frowned. “Doesn't she love you?”
Belladonna's eyebrows lifted. They were bold and dark, but thin and highly expressive. “She thinks she does, but I have too much of my father in me, and Luciana has too much trickery in her.”
I lifted my chin against the wind from the north, gazing curiously at Belladonna's china face. She looked like a beautiful antique doll, the kind you never allow children to play with, and she seemed just as forbidden. She was
far taller than I was, and I could sense that she was well muscled through the fabric of her dress. The perfection was almost offsetting. My freckles burned, even in the spring cold.
“And what do you love, Ellie?” Belladonna asked, studying my face as carefully as I had studied hers. A few strands of straw hair blew between my lips, and I pulled them away.
“Everything I left behind at Sandleford. My mother, the animals, old Father Matthias, my friends. And you? Do you love something?”
Belladonna gave a thoughtful pause, staring directly at me. I could not read her eyes. “Yes, I think I do.”
“You think?” The wind died suddenly, and my arms tingled as the blood blossomed under the surface of my skin again. There was a slight flush along Belladonna's collarbone, the only imperfection on her clear skin. It crept up one side of her neck, and I could not force my eyes away. I could even see her pulse beating next to the cord of her throat, above the hollow where her neck met her shoulder.
“I think,” she repeated. She gave me a fluid smile, her eyelashes brushing her cheeks as she blinked. She turned away, pulling her blue shawl tighter about her shoulders against the biting air. Immediately, the breeze returned, though not as strong as before, as if it knew it was supposed to start up again.
Belladonna took two steps back toward the manor. “You never told me why you came,” I said. She turned and looked back over her shoulder, her lips parted.
“I didn't, did I?” Her face told me she was not going to.
Afterward, when I thought about it, the conversation seemed so surreal that I wondered if I had dreamt it.
***
Belladonna usually spent most of her evenings reading in the library, but she began to visit in the early afternoon after our strange conversation. Since that was the time I usually did my own reading, we saw each other more often. Before, my only companion had been Trugel, an old tortoiseshell cat who enjoyed napping by the fireplace. Belladonna and I did not speak much at first, but she never picked a chair too far from mine. I told myself that both of us wanted to be near the fire, but secretly, I wondered.
I learned a great deal about my stepsister by catching glimpses of the titles she read. She enjoyed poetry the most. I often found her with her nose buried in dusty collections older than her great-grandparents. Her tastes were varied, however, and I watched her devour A History of Seria, The Breeding and Training of Racehorses, and even Serian Fairy-Stories. She also was particularly fond of the scandalous romantic poet, Erato.
After a few days of reading silently together, Belladonna and I started sharing small, absentminded exchanges. “Do you really think manticores existed?” she asked one afternoon as she perused A Bestiary of Magickal and Non-Magickal Beings.
I looked up from my own book. “I have no idea. The last reported sighting was supposedly hundreds of years ago, wasn't it?”
“Archaeologists have no solid proof, though,” Belladonna muttered, flipping her page. She looked up again to ask me something about unicorn tears later, and we had another conversation about astronomy the next day. My stepsister's interests seemed to be completely unrelated. She was fascinated by everything and anything, and she read any book she could get her hands on.
Perhaps our strangest conversation occurred when I caught her curled up with Queen Toreau's Lover. I put down my own book of poetry, one that Belladonna had recommended, and stared at the title, quite surprised. I probably should have expected it. Belladonna did, after all, read anything that had words on it, even if it was not particularly appropriate literature for a lady. I wondered vaguely where she had gotten it.
Belladonna looked up, blinking the glassiness from her eyes as they focused on me. I felt a hot blush creep up one side of my neck and flower across my cheeks. I ducked my head to continue reading my poetry. Belladonna laughed. “I knew it,” she said, still grinning. My blush was so fierce that it was almost a deep scarlet.
“Knew what?” I asked defensively.
“That you were innocent.”
I knew that my burning face had already confirmed her guess. But I was supposed to be, I told myself much later as I paced in my room. I was marrying age, and no intelligent girl would risk her chances of finding a good match for one night. Marriage and the physical aspects of love had never interested me anyway. I did not gush about them like other girls my age. I was naïve and sheltered, but I knew it, and I did not care.
Belladonna was obviously much worldlier than I was, but there was no way for me to know the extent of her experiences. Her teasing might have even been hypocritical. I did notice that she watched my face more after that day. “Your face colors prettily when you are embarrassed,” was all she said when I asked her why.
***
While I was learning as much as I could about Belladonna, I was also making inquiries about Cate. The horrible marks that I had seen on her arms and throat made me feel ill. Sometimes they called themselves up again in my mind. The memory of what I had seen when she moved her hair off her neck made my stomach clench with disgust and fear. I was determined to find out what was happening to her.
I thought hard about why someone might want to hurt Cate, but I could not come up with any reasons. She was always polite, quiet, and hardworking, and so I assumed that the marks had nothing to do with an unsatisfactory performance. The culprit was just mean spirited, and had singled out Cate because she was too shy to defend herself. At first I suspected Jamison, the proud steward, but he did not seem like a very physical person. He was all pomp and pride. Getting his hands dirty just to beat a maid did not seem to fit his personality.
There were male servants, of course, but none of them seemed to have the authority or the desire to give Cate the awful bruises I had seen. Even the groomsmen, as lecherous as gossip made some of them out to be, did not seem to treat her any differently than the other women. Finally, I questioned Mam as cautiously as I could. I trusted her, but you never knew who might be listening.
“Mam, do you know if Cate has a lover?” I asked, trying to sound spontaneous. She would suspect me if I acted too casual.
Mam narrowed her eyes suspiciously at me. “Why?”
I was surprised that I had made her suspicious so quickly. I tried to recover as fast as I could. “She is so pretty, but I have never seen her with anyone.” I adopted a look of genuine concern, although not for the reasons she thought. “She seems so shy. I thought maybe a sweetheart would cheer her up.” Or a jealous one would beat her, I thought.
Mam relaxed visibly. “Aye, Cate's a quiet one at that.” As always, her hands were busy. This time she was peeling potatoes and piling the skins beside her. I had taken to visiting Mam in the kitchen when I could, even if it was not really proper behavior. My mother had done the same thing, even though my father had tried to stop her.
“She always looks miserable. I just wish I could do something to make her happier.”
“I think you already have. Walking with you to the stables gets a smile out of her if little else does.”
“But she never rides with me,” I said. “I have asked her several times.”
“She's afeared of riding. Had an uncle what died falling off a horse and cracking his head. She likes to look at them, though, and Matthew's pleasant enough.”
I felt embarrassed for asking Cate to ride with me after I heard that. “Oh, how horrible. I never should have asked her. I honestly had no idea. She should have told me.”
“And how many words has she said to you since you came?” Mam teased, picking up another potato and cutting away at its skin. “Enough to be telling you her entire life's story?”
“Hardly enough to fit in a few lines of print. I’ll stop asking her to ride with me, but she may still walk with me if it cheers her up. So,” I continued, trying to turn the conversation back to my original topic, “no one has an interest in her?”
Mam's face tightened, but I thought little of it. She often gave me strange, worried glances. “None I can think of.”
I knew that talking about Cate would be useless for a little while.
***
Later that evening, I directed my inquiries to Sarah, another servant who had helped me dress on a few occasions. She was of an age with Cate and me, and I knew they spent time together in the evenings.
“Not that I've heard, miss,” Sarah said, looking nervously to her left and tucking a lock of brown hair over her ear. She was quite pretty, with a pleasant smile. “But maybe you should ask her.”
I looked at her curiously. “Ask Cate? She hardly says a word to me. Is she always like that?”
“Yes.” Sarah leaned forward, eager for gossip. “It drives me batty, really, but she's, begging your pardon, Miss, I really shouldn't be chatting with a lady of the house. Please, forget I said anything.” It took me several minutes to reassure Sarah that she had not acted inappropriately. I decided to question her further on another occasion.
Jessith and Brahms were not helpful either. Brahms tried to be, but he was not familiar with Cate. He only knew her because she accompanied me to the stables. The other cats that lived in the house were no help at all. There were six in all, including Jessith, and most of them, while polite in their own, distant way, redirected me to her. Apparently, she had decided I was her human. They did not want to interfere.
I was not hopeful when I tried to question Trugel, but she was the oldest cat in residence at Baxstresse and, with luck, might know something useful. When I tried to wake her up, she looked at me with glazed, confused eyes, as if she did not know who I was. Slowly, she raised her head from her favorite rug, purring scratchily as I rubbed her chin. She yawned, and I noticed that most of her teeth were missing. I felt sorry for her and decided to leave her alone.
Rucifee, a fat ginger male that spent most of his time in Lady Kingsclere's room, was slightly more alert. When he finally ventured out for his dinner, leisurely descending the stairs, I walked beside him. “Good evening, Rucifee,” I said, trying to be polite.
The Second Sister (The Amendyr Series) Page 3