“You wish me to hasten his going, Sir?”
A dry laugh from Grouted. “How do you reconcile murder with all your religious stuff?”
“I believe the Almighty has chosen me as a tool to cleanse Murkmere of its blasphemous past, My Lord.” Silas sounded offended. “I’d simply be giving death a helping hand. I’d do appropriate penance, of course.”
“Merely joking, man. But you won’t need to do anything in Gilbert’s case. He’s failing daily. I thought he’d go at dinner.” A glass clinked back onto the tray. “You’re a clever young man, Silas Seed, but I do believe you’ve forgotten one thing.”
“You refer to the swanskin, Sir?”
“Dammit, man, how could I doubt you?” Grouted slapped his thigh in delight. “When I read your last report I thought it was the proof we needed.”
“I believe the skin was her mother’s, Sir.”
“Whether it was or not, it doesn’t matter a damn for our purpose. It’s a bird’s skin, ain’t it? We must get hold of it.”
“I can seize it tonight while Miss Leah is in the ball-room, Sir.”
I heard Grouted suck noisily at his thick lips as he thought. “I don’t want her to discover it gone yet. Could be awkward. I’ll give you the sign tomorrow while she’s playing hostess. You must be certain she doesn’t suspect anything before I leave.”
“She won’t, Sir.”
“Good, good. A young girl keeping a filthy swanskin in her bedchamber — sewing it, you say?”
“Yes, My Lord. I saw her with my own eyes.”
“It’s enough to damn her. She desires to change shape; she wants to be a bird! That’s our proof, Silas.”
“I shall get it, Sir.”
“It will be good to have you running Murkmere, Silas, to know I can trust you. The Eastern Edge is too far-flung from the Capital. It’s my most rebellious corner. There have been too many risings recently, too much unrest. But with you here …”
“I know the Almighty is with me, My Lord. I’ll stamp rebellion out; I’ll kill it dead.”
“You dealt very nicely with that traitor packman.” Grouted was amused, well pleased with his spy. He gave a rumble of laughter, hitting his thighs in satisfaction; and Silas permitted himself to join in with a polite, chilling little laugh of his own.
They were toasting each other when I heard the faint noise outside. Two guests were walking on the grass outside the window. As I stared round, they looked directly at me through the twilight: a hawk and a jay in evening dress.
I’d never thought so fast. While laughter echoed in the room on the other side of the curtain, my hands fumbled at my back. I undid my apron, slowly turned, slowly began to polish the window with the apron, giving the couple a polite smile as I did so and bobbing my head, as any maid should on seeing her superiors.
They walked on unhurriedly without a backward glance. I must have been invisible to them, protected by the dark jigsaw of the leaded panes.
And now the laughter had stopped in the room behind me. I waited, but there was no more conversation. I heard Lord Grouted heave himself up, followed by the heavy tread of his feet to the door.
Had Silas gone too? I couldn’t be sure. I sensed he was still there. Did he suspect that someone was hidden behind the curtains? Was he standing in the middle of the room, his head cocked, listening? Surely he couldn’t see my feet?
I kept absolutely still. The room was silent, but for the crackle of wood burning.
Suddenly he was at the pair of curtains on my left. I could hear the slither of his silk coat-skirts, the quick, excited hiss of his breath. There was the sharp rattle of brass rings as he wrenched the curtains apart. I clenched my fists and shut my eyes, and waited for him to tug at the thick velvet in front of me.
I would have been discovered, surely, if Lord Grouted hadn’t shouted impatiently back into the room, “Well, are you coming with me or not? I think it’s time to introduce you to the Council, eh, boy?”
And Silas was gone, almost at a run, his patent shoes clipping the floor, and the curtains still jangling next to me.
XXV
Decision
But Silas wouldn’t forget his suspicion; he might come back unexpectedly.
I peered around the curtain. The room was empty, the fire still burning bright. Then I saw the huddle of feathered rags by the leather chair.
Gobchick’s eyes were shut, but he was breathing. He was bound tightly to the chair by his chain, which imprisoned his arms brutally as if he were a parcel, and then was wound around the chair leg.
It was difficult to free him. He was heavier than I expected, and I had to be quiet. But finally I pulled the last length of chain from under him and looked at him helplessly. On his gaunt face there were fresh bruises, like stains of blackberry juice. I wanted to weep for him.
Then suddenly he opened a glinting eye and gave me a wink. “Little Missy!”
Relief flooded over me. “Are you much hurt, poor Gob-chick?”
He rolled over and sat up, screwing up his face. “I’s had worse beatings. I feigns a little death, and then he stops. ’Tis a fool’s life.”
“Not anymore.” I showed him the loose chain. “You saved me just now, Gobchick, you didn’t tell them I was there. I want to save you. You’re free.”
He looked at me with his sad, old face. I thought he hadn’t understood. “Go!” I cried. “Escape the house now, in the dark! They’ll not see you, I’ll not tell.”
“But what use is freedom to me, Missy?” he said. “I’d be afeard of it. ’Tis too big stuff for an old fool.”
“Please, Gobchick. You’ll never be hurt again. If you go to my aunt in the village, she’ll shelter you. I’ll tell you how to reach her. She’ll get the blacksmith to saw your chain off.”
He shook his head, but a smile lit his face.
“Gobchick, please!” I stared at him, nonplussed, not understanding his slowness, desperate for his escape. My hands fell uselessly to my sides. I begged a last time, for I couldn’t stay with him longer. “Please, Gobchick, go!”
He reached across and stroked my face, still smiling. “No, Missy. I cannot. ‘Tis enough that you gives me the choice.”
I knew then that I could not budge him for all my begging. “The story of the avia,” I whispered. “Which meaning is true?”
The flames glowed on the bones of his skull, and his wrinkled cheeks were deep crevasses of shadow. “Men invent stories to tell the truth as they sees it. Both meanings is true, Missy. It all depends on how you sees the nature of the Almighty, whether He be forgiving or no.”
“But are the avia real, or invented by men?”
“You ask a fool to tell you the answer?”
“You’re the cleverest fool I know, Gobchick.”
“I’s talked to men who’ve seen them.”
“They’ve seen the avia?”
“Aye, so they said.”
“Then the old story is true.”
“One man might see, but another might deny. All men see things differently, little Miss.”
I looked into his wise eyes. “How can I save Leah?”
“You will know.”
But I didn’t know. In truth, I hadn’t the faintest idea what I should do.
I stood in the silent passage outside the library in a fever of worry and indecision, my hands pressed to my cheeks. Leah would have left the Master by now; she would have had to rejoin the guests in the ballroom.
What a weak-wit I was to hesitate when she was in such danger, I thought suddenly. I must tell her the truth about her mother’s nature and what the Protector and Silas were plotting. And warn her, if the Master hadn’t told her already himself, that he intended to go to the tower at midnight.
In the silence I heard a drift of music; the dancing had begun again.
I hurried along the passage, which grew hot and bright with burning lamps as I neared the ballroom. The music grew louder, building to a series of crescendos. The doors were open, and I s
tood to one side so I was hidden, looking through, searching for Leah.
Beyond me masked couples swirled in the candlelight. On each crescendo the gentlemen flung the ladies from them, but just as it seemed they would fall to the floor, their partners saved them with the flick of an arm, scooping up their limp bodies, drawing them close. Then the pairs careered on, clinging to each other in hectic abandon, the bird heads too big for the frail limbs beneath.
The heat from the lamps made me feel dizzy, so that I had to cling to the doorjamb; the music thudded violently in my ears. Beneath the masks faces glistened and mouths smiled grimly. As the music drove the dancers on, their movements grew more desperate, as if they knew they were doomed, as if they knew only the strongest among them would survive the future.
And strongest of all was the Lord Protector.
I had seen Porter Grouted, and once again he was partnering Leah. Caged already by the ruthless grip of his arms, she didn’t see me as he swept her past, the dreadful mask he wore dwarfing her neat head, the bill almost grazing her cheek. I’d never be able to speak to her alone.
But I could speak to the Master.
I looked over to the dais, but he wasn’t there. Silas held court instead, surrounded by several members of the Ministration. My eyes searched the ballroom, but the Master was nowhere. Nor could I see Jukes and Pegg among the footmen hovering on the side with trays of drinks and delicacies.
Was it so late? Surely they hadn’t left for the tower already?
I slipped up to a footman. “What’s the o’clock, please?”
“When I was last in the Great Hall, lass, the clock hand was touching midnight.”
“I’m much obliged,” I said, and hurried back behind the ranks of footmen to the doors. I’d missed the Master. What should I do now? Follow him into the night?
I looked back as I left, at the dais where the Master should have been and where Silas was already producing the smiles, the conversation, and all the appropriate attentiveness of a host. Guests clustered round him, and I could see how he was charming them, nodding at their comments, bending to kiss the ladies’ hands, flashing them dark, sparkling glances. They were all succumbing as I’d done. He would go far as Master of Murkmere.
But I would outwit Silas. I’d rob him of the proof he needed. I’d take the swanskin before he did.
I moved quietly away, retracing my steps past the library. It grew darker and colder and I could no longer hear the music.
Then I picked up my skirts and ran, blundering past the flickering candles in their sconces on the walls, until I reached the backstairs. I didn’t look behind me. Swift as a squirrel I scurried up to the first landing. This part of the house was abandoned and quiet.
I rushed along the passage and lifted the latch on Leah’s door. I saw the glowing candles first, lit ready for her return, then a white face loomed at me, and a raised poker.
“Dog, it’s me,” I said, as startled as she was. “What are you doing, for heaven’s sake?”
“My duty,” she said prissily. “Making a nice fire to warm the mistress when she comes to bed. I heard running. You frightened me — ‘tis like the grave up here alone. What are you doing?”
She had been stirring up the embers of the fire, and I could feel their heat on my flushed cheeks. I thought quickly. Her face had its old, tight, wary look.
“The mistress needs a wrap,” I said. “She wants some air, she says, and it’s damp outside.” I took a deep breath and marched to the chest.
Dog put her hand to her mouth. Her face screwed into a grimace. “Surely not … that?”
“It will keep her warm.”
“But Aggie!” She looked as if she’d vomit.
“It’s what she’s asked for,” I said grimly. For a second my hand trembled on the lid, then I flung it back, forcing myself to look at what lay inside.
“Give me a candle,” I said.
Silently, Dog passed me the candle in the silver holder from Leah’s bedside table. I put my hand in. The feathers curled round my fingertips. In disgust, I gripped a handful of the stuff, squeezing it cruelly tight between my fingers, and wrenched the whole thing out. Dog gave a cry and sank back against the bed.
“Pull yourself together,” I said. “It’s only feathers. They’re wearing them tonight on their faces. At least our mistress doesn’t do that.”
“But she’s not one of the Ministration yet,” she breathed. “She has no right. Oh, Aggie, what will they say? It’s sacrilege for her to wear such a thing.”
I didn’t answer. Her frightened eyes watched me as I held the swanskin from me at arm’s length and, still with the silver candleholder in my other hand, left the room.
I hurried to my room, where I took down the laundry bag of rough hemp that hung on the door. A maid with a laundry bag would cause no comment. I loosened the string fastening and stuffed the swanskin inside, thankful to hide the foul thing away.
The candle guttered where I’d left it on my dressingtable and something gleamed next to it. I’d used Dog’s rush sewing basket when I altered my skirt, and the long sewing scissors stuck out under the woven lid. I looked at them, and on a sudden impulse seized them up.
I took a bodice from the drawer and wrapped the scissors so the points wouldn’t cut through the laundry bag, then thrust the parcel down beside the swanskin, drawing the string tight.
This time it would not be I who cut up the swanskin; the Master must do it himself.
It was as I left my chamber, clutching the laundry bag, that I realized I wasn’t wearing my maid’s apron. I’d left it in the library.
Such panic swept over me then that for a moment I couldn’t even recall what had happened to it. I’d used it to polish the window and never put it on again. It must have dropped in a crumpled ball to the floor.
I tried to calm myself. No one would recognize it as mine even if they found it. But if Silas went back and found it himself, he’d know that someone had eavesdropped on his plans. It would be easy for him to discover from Mistress Crumplin who had taken in the port. I had to retrieve it.
While I’d been upstairs, lamps on wrought-iron tripods had been placed along the passage to the library. I felt perilously exposed in my taffeta skirts as I ventured between them, a butterfly following a trail of fire, and I soon knew the reason for them.
There was company in the library. I smelled the bitterness of nero and saw a spiral of smoke float beneath the door. Someone laughed; glasses clinked. Men and women, perhaps two couples in there, resting from the dancing.
I hadn’t the boldness to go in. I wasn’t dressed as a servant, and what would a companion to the Master’s ward want with a crumpled apron? No doubt it had been seen already by one of the guests in there now. And then my heart sank, for suddenly I heard Silas’s voice, corning clearly after a lull in the conversation.
I would have known that voice anywhere — low, melodic, amused — followed by appreciative laughter, as if he had fashioned some witticism to entertain his new patrons.
Clutching the laundry bag, I fled, dodging a startled maid bringing a bowl of sweetmeats to the library. At the ballroom I slowed, but no one inside saw me as I slipped past, into the passage to the kitchen wing.
As I reached the side door to the vegetable garden at last, there was the sound of voices and clatter in the kitchen beyond, the familiar bang as the door was thrust open. A steamy fug rolled round the corner toward me. Someone had come out.
I lifted the latch as silently as I could, almost dropping the bag in my agitation. For a second the door stuck as if it were bolted the other side, but it was only the damp. When I pressed my knee against the wood, it gave suddenly and I almost fell out onto the path.
I let out my breath with a gasp; it seemed I had been holding myself in like an overstuffed bolster for hours. The air was cool and damp, scented with rosemary and thyme, and I could feel moisture on my cheeks and hair.
I’d left the candle behind in my room, and there was no
moon to light my way. The stars between the heavy clouds were dimmed, like fish flicking through murky water. It was a long time since I’d braved the night. As I trod cautiously down the path, my old fears returned.
Most birds sleep in the night, but suddenly one may open a gleaming eye and swoop down to tear apart the disturber of the darkness. I thought of the Night Birds — ravens and crows and daws — and I shuddered, and my free hand found its way to my amber and didn’t let go.
The vegetable garden wasn’t silent; frightened, I listened.
Gradually I realized that the sound it held within its walls wasn’t the rustle of wings or the stealthy creep of bird claws on bare earth, but the echo of music from the ballroom. I fancied I could even hear conversation carried on the air, the reassuring mumble of people talking.
I calmed myself enough to find the door in the wall, past the black lines of raspberry canes. Through it, and I was behind the stables. Between the buildings I could see the yard lit with lamps. No one was about, or so I thought, until the youth that had been tending the pyre in the center crossed the cobbles not far from me.
It gave me a start, and perhaps I moved too quickly, for he looked up, and light flickered along the brim of his hat. But he didn’t call out; he hadn’t seen me; I was too deep in shadow. As soon as I could I dodged behind the wall of the coach house, my shoes soundless in the damp grass.
Even against the dark sky, it was easy to see the tower on the rise. I hurried across the open ground, thankful that without moonlight I couldn’t be seen. The grass had been cut recently and the ground was smooth. Even so, the hem of my beautiful skirt was soon wet through.
It wasn’t long before I was in the copse at the top of the rise, with the rank green smell of nettle and fern in my nostrils, the bushes dark around me. The hollows were pools of black. Gripping the laundry bag, I stopped to catch my breath.
Then a twig snapped somewhere close. I stood absolutely still, straining my ears. My heart began a desperate rhythm. I quivered with it from head to foot. Someone had followed me. Silas?
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