I sat forward, my cup of tea forgotten.
Pomeroy continued. “Though I am an officer of the Mysterium and will do my best to prevent dangerous use of magic, I also report back to my grandfather on the state of magic in the country.”
Corwen gave a low whistle.
“See?” Lily said. “George is an ally.”
“Not so fast, Lily,” Corwen said. “Because Mr. Pomeroy is reporting back to his grandfather doesn’t mean he’s sympathetic to magic users.” He turned to Pomeroy. “I am, of course, referring to the rowankind.”
Pomeroy picked up his teacup and almost spoke to the tea rather than looking directly at us. “I’m aware this household has secrets, and I’m not seeking to either learn or expose them. On this I give you my word.” He took a considered sip; when no one offered any denials, he continued. “I’m very fond of Li—Miss Deverell—so I will simply say that if there’s anything I can do to help this family—anything—I would be happy to render assistance.” He took another sip of tea and waited for a response.
“And you should know, Corwen, that I’m very fond of Mr. Pomeroy.” Lily reached across and squeezed Pomeroy’s fingers.
“I see,” said Corwen, not seeing at all.
“I must leave you now.” Pomeroy returned Lily’s finger squeeze and stood. “Please remember what I said.”
“Mr. Pomeroy, there is one thing you may be able to offer advice on.” I jumped to my feet. “Your grandfather is a peer of the realm. If a person needed to ask for an audience with the king or send a letter for His Majesty’s personal attention, how would he do it?”
Corwen looked at me sharply, but I merely shrugged.
“I’ve seen His Majesty, of course,” Pomeroy said, “but never had cause to speak to him or do more than bow when once my grandfather and I came upon him unexpectedly strolling in Green Park with the queen. I believe he likes to pretend to be ordinary on occasions, and since it’s only a minor eccentricity, his staff and his ministers play along.”
If only we could catch him when he was being ordinary.
Pomeroy frowned. “You might send a letter via the Clerk to the Privy Council—one of them, anyway—I believe there are four at the moment. My grandfather did once say Sir Stephen Cotterell was a good man to know.” He tipped his head to one side. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking why you need to send a message to the king?”
“It’s on behalf of some friends. In view of what’s happened today, it’s suddenly become more urgent.”
He nodded, content to take my word for it or, if not content, at least resigned.
If the Fae heard the Mysterium had hanged six rowankind, there would be trouble.
4
Plain Speaking
“TELL ME ABOUT George Pomeroy,” Corwen demanded of Lily after the Mysterium officer had retrieved his horse from the stable yard and clattered off down the driveway. If he was going all the way back to Barnsley tonight, he would likely not arrive back until after full dark, but he could always put up at the inn in Cawthorne if clouds obscured the moon.
“You were unnecessarily harsh, I thought.” She rattled our teacups as she put them back on the tray. “George is trying his best to be fair.”
“He’s Mysterium. He doesn’t have to be fair. He doesn’t even have to be truthful. Didn’t you hear what he said about his grandfather being worried about the amount of power the Mysterium has?”
“It’s precisely why he wouldn’t abuse the power.”
“That’s what he says.”
“He has a good heart. I know it.”
“Don’t get too close, Lily. Don’t lose your heart to that good heart.”
Looking from one to the other, I knew Corwen’s warning was too late. I interrupted Corwen’s tirade. “Has he made an offer yet, Lily?”
“An offer of marriage?” Corwen’s voice rose.
“What other kind of offer could there be?” I asked. “Well, Lily, has he?”
“He might have.”
“Might have!” Corwen was on his feet and pacing the room now. “Make up your mind. Has he, or hasn’t he?”
“He hasn’t spoken to Mother yet, but she likes him.”
“Mother’s idea of suitable marriage partners isn’t always the best. Look how she tried to talk Freddie into proposing to Dorothea Kaye.”
“Well, that was never going to work, was it? For more reasons than one. But as soon as he turned into a wolf, she saw sense.”
“And what about you, little sister? Supposing you marry your Mysterium man, what do you think he’ll do when he discovers you’re the black wolf that lopes across the moor in the moonlight? Or are you presuming to keep him ignorant for the rest of your lives together? And what about the children?”
Lily’s mouth had developed a pout. She knew all this, but she obviously didn’t want to think about it. “Then I shall have to tell him beforehand.”
Corwen’s face drained of blood. “Lily, if you tell him and he doesn’t accept it, he’s a danger not only to this family but to magicals everywhere. He could go running to the Mysterium and tell them everything, and then there would be such changes as you never want to see happen. The rowankind would be the least of our worries. If you tell him and he rejects you, I’ll have to kill him.”
Now Lily’s face was as pale as Corwen’s. “You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.”
“I could, and I would before I saw magicals hunted down. That would certainly attract the Fae’s attention. They could easily decide humans weren’t worth the trouble they caused.”
I touched Lily’s arm, and she jumped visibly. “Although our dealings with the Fae have been civilized so far, they have the power to destroy every last human on these islands.”
“And might even spark off the same in other lands,” Corwen said. “Before I’d let that happen, I would kill Pomeroy, though I wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“Well, that’s no consolation!” Lily gave a strangled sob, turned, and fled from the room. I heard her feet on the stairs and her bedroom door slam.
“Was I too harsh?” Corwen asked.
I shook my head. “You told her the truth. If only there was some way to test Pomeroy’s reaction. After all, it’s not as if we’re sure he would go running off to the Mysterium. Your father didn’t when you changed.”
“That’s true, but whether that was out of consideration for me, fear of what Mother might do, or a desire to protect the rest of his family—his normal family—from scandal or investigation, I really can’t say.”
“All of those things.” Corwen’s mother stood in the doorway, her dress creased and her hair softly mussed as if she’d been sleeping and hadn’t had time to let her maid see to her toilet. “Lily sounds upset. What did you say to her?”
“How are you, Mother?” Corwen’s voice was full of concern as he jumped up to lead her to a chair. She looked fragile. She’d been broken by the loss of her husband, even though she’d had a year to get used to the idea that he was never going to recover from his apoplectic fit.
“I’m all right, Corwen, don’t fuss. Tell me what you said to Lily to upset her so.”
“A few truths about what might happen if she told Pomeroy about herself and about magicals and he decided to take it all to the Mysterium.”
“Ah, I thought it might be something like that. He’s been a regular visitor here since your father passed. I have to say I like the young man. He seems very decent and quite besotted with Lily.”
“And she with him,” Corwen said.
“Indeed.”
“I can’t see a solution, Mother. She can’t enter into a marriage without telling him, and she can’t risk telling him because if he reacts the wrong way, it will end in either disaster for this family or his death.” He pressed his lips together and then said. “If I didn’t do it myself, the Fae might send so
meone, or, for that matter, the Lady. Neither can afford to have their secret revealed, not as the law currently stands.”
“There are people who share and guard the family secret,” I said. “Maybe all is not lost. We simply have to find the right way to introduce George Pomeroy to the wider magic world—maybe in a small way to see how he reacts. When Freddie revealed himself, the servants hardly acted surprised.”
“And speaking of Freddie, Mother, how are your hands?”
She held them out. “They’re fine. The scars are fading.”
The worst of the scars on her right hand were still red. However, the smaller ones were already fading to thin white lines, though the flesh around the base of her right thumb was uneven. Considering the size of Freddie’s fangs, the damage could have been a lot worse. I shuddered to think what might have happened if he’d gone for her throat. He would definitely not have survived. I think Corwen might have killed him himself.
“How is my wayward son?”
“Physically, he’s fine,” Corwen said, “but he’s still in some turmoil.”
“Tell him I forgive him.”
“I will, but, frankly, I’m at a loss.”
“May I see him?”
“It wouldn’t be wise to bring him back here.”
“Then can you take me to him? Is it allowed?”
“Allowed? Yes, of course, but you might be better waiting a while. Let him think about his life as a wolf and see if time helps.”
Corwen didn’t say that Freddie didn’t want to resume his life in Yorkshire. That was a discussion for another time.
* * *
That night we took the opportunity to begin drafting a letter to the king. The Fae had given us the task of contacting him on their behalf, but we had little chance of success. The king was both protected and isolated by his court, and though we could petition for an audience, our request might never get further than one of his under-secretaries.
The Fae had a distorted idea of how government worked. It had been many years—centuries, in fact—since they had dealt directly with a monarch. Things had changed. The Fae still had the idea that a king was omnipotent and accessible to his subjects, just as the Fae Council could be approached by any Fae or rowankind, regardless of their place in the hierarchy.
So though both of us regarded the letter as a forlorn hope, we were determined to try our best. It almost broke our marriage apart. I wanted to explain matters, Corwen wanted to keep it terse and to the point. We argued about whether we should both offer to meet with the king or whether it should be one of us alone. I said it should be me. Corwen said it should be him. We did agree, however, that the king would likely not be willing to meet with two people if we were asking him to come alone.
I wanted to inform the king that six rowankind had been hanged in Sheffield for their magic, but Corwen said if the rowankind in general were not already under suspicion, then it might tip the balance against them. The last thing he wanted to do was to stir up more trouble.
Reluctantly, I agreed.
In the end this is what we came up with.
To His Majesty George the Third, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland King, Defender of the Faith.
Greetings.
With all due respect to Your Majesty, Your Majesty’s Government, the country and the people of Great Britain and Ireland, an urgent matter regarding the safety of the realm has come to our attention. As this matter concerns magic, I cannot, for fear of my life, give you my name or abode. However, I will undertake to explain everything in person if Your Majesty will agree to meet with me.
I will come alone and unarmed and trust Your Majesty will do the same. Should Your Majesty wish for observers at a distance, please let them stay one hundred paces back. When Your Majesty hears the nature of this matter, I’m sure you will understand. The information is sensitive and of a similar nature to the information which used to be reported to you in private by a succession of gentlemen referred to by the name of Walsingham.
If Your Majesty is willing to meet with me on the last day of February at noon, please come to one hundred paces east of the White Lodge in Richmond Park. I will be waiting.
From A Loyal Subject
It wasn’t the best letter either of us had ever written. It was difficult to know where to start and how to end. We couldn’t put in details because it might be read by a secretary, or an underling to the secretary. We needed enough content to intrigue His Majesty without giving away any details, so I hoped the name of Walsingham would tickle the king’s curiosity and help to impress on him that there was serious news to impart and we had information based on sound knowledge.
Also, the White Lodge was currently the home of Mr. Addington, the first minister. I hoped the location would give the king confidence to meet us there.
We couldn’t entrust the fox-girl with such a letter. She would be in as much danger as we were if apprehended. We thought of sending it to the Deverells’ man of business in London and asking him to place it anonymously in the hands of a reliable courier to deliver it to Sir Stephen Cotterell, Clerk to the Privy Council, but that would have to be handed over at the palace gate and might end up on the wrong desk altogether.
“Pomeroy’s grandfather,” I suggested to Corwen. He gave me one of those looks that asked if I was off my head.
“No, listen. Pomeroy said he was gathering information on magic and the Mysterium and passing it on to his grandfather, the Earl of Stratford.”
“And . . . ”
“If the Earl of Stratford delivered a letter, surely it would reach the king.”
“But how do we persuade Pomeroy and the Earl of Stratford to act as go-betweens in this matter?”
“We’ll take Lily to talk to Pomeroy in the morning.”
“You’re putting a lot of trust in someone who is, essentially, the enemy.”
“Can you think of any better way?”
He admitted he could not and went off to find Lily to make the arrangements.
* * *
I fell asleep in Corwen’s arms, worrying about Lily, Pomeroy, and the Mysterium. I can only think that was why my dream took me through several encounters with Walsingham. It seemed he’d been dogging my footsteps ever since I’d become aware of my family obligation to free the rowankind. He’d inserted himself into Philip’s life and won over his loyalty to the cause of keeping the rowankind subservient and ignorant, turning my own brother against me. That wasn’t entirely surprising, of course; Philip was never one for family loyalty.
My dream skipped over the incident on board James Mayo’s flagship when I’d blown up the ship in an attempt to kill Walsingham. I’d thought him dead until that awful moment on board the Guillaume Tell when I discovered that, even maimed and blind, he’d been instrumental in imprisoning a variety of magicals, rowankind, goblins, witches, trolls, hobs, and even a kelpie. And chief among these, Corwen and his brother, Freddie.
I shuddered to think of Walsingham, even in his maimed state, having the power of life or death over any magical creature, but Corwen and therefore his brother were special to me, and I knew what Walsingham was capable of. My dream went where reality had not. I saw scenes of torture and death. Walsingham had Philip, my traitorous brother, with him, even though I knew that Philip was dead. Walsingham was the brain and Philip his eyes and hands.
In my dream, Philip was about to put out Corwen’s eyes with a hot iron. He’d already lopped off Corwen’s left arm at the elbow to make Corwen as maimed as Walsingham. That was the point at which, Freddie, in wolf form, leaped and tore out my brother’s throat.
It was the surge of joy that woke me, and the guilt that immediately followed it. I’d killed Philip to save David and Corwen, but I’d felt nothing but guilt ever since. I didn’t want to think I could find joy, or even relief, in my own brother’s death.
I must have been restless. Corwen was awake at my side.
“Bad dream?”
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
“You know I sleep with one eye open, like a wolf.”
I chuckled. Corwen was certainly a light sleeper.
“Were you worrying about Pomeroy?” he asked.
“Not so much. I know you won’t do anything drastic unless it’s absolutely the last alternative. It was Walsingham. I couldn’t get the bastard out of my dream. Philip was there, too.”
“Philip’s never going to trouble us again.”
“I know.”
“And Walsingham’s somewhere in a French prison. With his state of health, and what I’ve heard about the treatment of French prisoners of war, I would be surprised if he isn’t dead by now.”
“I don’t know. He’s tough. Surviving the explosion on James Mayo’s ship proved that. I was stupid. I should have put a bullet in his brain when I had the chance instead of leaving him to the French.”
“You didn’t have it in you to kill a cripple in cold blood. I respect that. Come here.”
He pulled me closer and nuzzled the sensitive spot just below my ear. Pretty soon I wasn’t thinking about anything but Corwen.
5
Mysterium
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, as soon as the weak winter sun had crept over the horizon, we set off for Barnsley in the family coach with the reliable John Mallinson up on the box. Lily had sent word to the mill not to expect her until the afternoon. As we were preparing to leave, Corwen’s mother had appeared in her winter redingote and said she wanted to pay a visit to the milliner on Market Hill. It was encouraging to see her taking an interest in something, even if was only hats, so we made room for a fourth person and Mallinson produced an extra rug for Mama’s knees.
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