He’d thought the two would plague him with questions and accusations once they got him alone. Marius was dark with hurt and ruffled sensibilities, and it would be like him to choose the worst possible moment to air these. Jack, too, wasn’t a tactful man. But they both held their opinions back, though the weight of them was nearly tangible.
He must look terrible.
By the time they reached his ‘draughty garret’, Wyn was blurry with fatigue and deeply grateful that they hadn’t taken advantage of him. Stormwinds knew what he might say, pain and fatigue loosing his carefully guarded tongue. But they were being strangely considerate, despite the anger he could sense in them both. That warm and complicated feeling lodged in his throat again; it was so very human of them.
He did as Hetta had bid and collapsed onto his bed. Fleetingly, he wondered how she was coping downstairs before darkness billowed up to meet him.
16
Carnelion Hall
Carnelion Hall was the largest room in the house, though it shrunk when filled with Valstars and assorted others—Hetta noticed one of the maidservants loitering at the back, attempting to look busy. Everyone was waiting for Hetta to speak, though not quietly, of course. One couldn’t have three or more Valstars in one place and expect any degree of quiet. The half of the family who already knew about the fae were busily explaining this to the other half, with varying degrees of fact and tact, and the half that hadn’t known were reacting according to their natures.
Hetta fiddled with the top button of her coat, reassuring herself it was done up and hid the fact that she was missing her blouse. She still felt oddly naked.
“I know one may think one has witnessed something with one’s own eyes, but the eyes are actually extremely unreliable instruments,” Uncle Percival said to a glowering Aunt Sybil. “Why, one of my colleagues, a professor of psychology, reports that…” His wife punctuated his increasingly tangential speech with firm nods, clearly waiting for a pause in which to insert her own professional opinion. Caro didn’t join in her parents’ academic musings and instead shrugged helplessly at Hetta.
“My nan used to tell me about fairies as big as carthorses, with teeth as long as my arm!” the housemaid was saying enthusiastically to Hetta’s half-sister Alexandra. Her eyes grew round. “Do you think that was one of the ones that attacked Mr Tempest?”
Alexandra bit her lip. Hetta didn’t hear her response, but she suspected it was a negative. Alexandra had met the fae Gwendelfear, after all, who hadn’t in any way resembled a carthorse.
Prior to inheriting the lordship, Hetta hadn’t had much occasion for public speaking, and yet since her ascension she seemed constantly called upon to do so. She moved to stand in front of the large fireplace in the centre of one wall. Opposite, racks of swords and banners hung, ageing monuments to ancestors she couldn’t readily name. Taking the battle accoutrements as a prompt to begin her own campaign, she straightened.
“Right,” she said loudly. There was a susurration of shushing. Hetta tried not to fidget as the room’s attention crystallised. “So…as you’ve undoubtedly gathered, the fae are real. As some of you already know, we had an encounter with them before, not long after my father’s funeral. You may remember our houseguest, Miss Gwen? In truth, she was the fae Gwendelfear, come to try and take advantage of my newness to my role.”
This was only a half-true and carefully pruned version of the actual story. The Choosing Ceremony had been deliberately sabotaged, so that Hetta had only appeared to be lord when in fact she wasn’t. But only a handful of her relatives knew that and, as Hetta had since been chosen for real, it seemed best not to re-open the case.
There was some resistance to her statement, but when Hetta looked pointedly at Aunt Sybil, her aunt grudgingly confirmed, “It’s true.”
“We saw off Gwendelfear and another fae monster, and I had hoped that that would be the end of it,” Hetta continued.
“Gwendelfear helped us, though!” her half-sister Alexandra piped up. Heads swivelled towards her, and she blushed. “I mean…”
“She did,” Hetta allowed. “The fae can be good or bad or not, much like regular people.” She ought to encourage that idea; it would make it easier for Wyn if the day ever came when he let himself be seen. “And today one of the fae from Gwendelfear’s court came to our aid when another lot of fae attacked Wyn and me at the bank. Both the bank manager and Wyn were injured in the attack.”
There was a beat of silence, followed immediately by Uncle Percival objecting. “My dear Henrietta, whatever may have happened, your conclusion cannot be correct. Fairies!” he scoffed.
Hetta ignored him. “At this point, I must ask you not to leave the bounds of the estate. You all know Stariel’s magic, but you probably don’t realise that it offers protection against the fae. This is a precaution only, and I’ll be doing my best to bring this to a quick resolution.” Did she sound too much like a pompous government official? But maybe that was a good thing in this case; people took officials seriously, didn’t they? And she had to make her family understand the danger, whilst also not unnecessarily alarming them or setting their backs up, as she seemed to constantly do. Maybe I need to check if one can purchase manuals on speech-giving.
“You can’t mean that!” Aunt Sybil spoke this time. “And I don’t know what’s going on, but why has this become such a problem now? We never had this trouble when Henry was lord.” There was a general rumble of agreement. “You clearly don’t have a clue what you’re dealing with!” Aunt Sybil pronounced, warming to her audience.
“I have more of a clue than you do!” Hetta snapped back before she could help it. Hetta could hardly be blamed for the fae coming back to the Mortal Realm for the first time in centuries—something her father hadn’t had to deal with! Though these particular fae aren’t here because of some general change in the world, she thought guiltily. They were here specifically because of Wyn. Maybe a more selfless lord would consider giving him up, for the good of the wider estate; Hetta already knew she wasn’t that lord. She’d already lost her old life and dreams to Stariel’s lordship; she’d made her peace with that, begun to construct new dreams on Stariel’s foundations. She accepted her position would mean making necessary sacrifices sometimes, but there had to be some room for the individual woman’s wants amidst the vastness of the estate and all its people, didn’t there? If she didn’t fight to hold on to some bit of selfishness, she feared the estate would swallow her up until only Lord Valstar was left.
And Wyn isn’t a necessary sacrifice anyway, she thought firmly. Setting aside her personal feelings, the estate would find his loss most inconvenient. And if they could sort out the business between him and his father’s court, wouldn’t it be good for Stariel to have one fae they could trust on their side?
“Well, how are we supposed to help when you’ve clearly been hiding things from us?” Aunt Sybil demanded. “How long has this been going on?”
Hetta bristled. “The attack just happened today! And you’ve known the fae existed for the same amount of time that I have!” More or less.
Aunt Sybil changed tack, huffing. “Well, why haven’t you sought an expert? What about Lord Penharrow?”
Lord Angus Penharrow was their neighbour, and the person responsible for sabotaging the Choosing Ceremony. He’d been courting Hetta before she found out what he’d done. Only Jack, Marius, and Wyn knew this; the rest of the family only saw that something had soured between Hetta and the neighbouring lord. Probably Aunt Sybil thought Hetta was just being missish.
“Penharrow Estate,” Hetta said through gritted teeth, “is less magical than my left foot, and so Lord Penharrow is possibly the person least qualified to offer advice on this matter. Please, if you are aware of any magical estates that might offer us some insight, do share, Aunt.”
But her other relatives piped up with their own questions. She’d lost control of the room. Caro watched her intently, and Hetta realised that she was waiting for her to reveal Wyn
’s secret. Temptation gripped her. What would happen if she told them all, here and now? Would their affection for Wyn outweigh the shock of the revelation? But she shook her head curtly at Caro. She wouldn’t force Wyn to choose the path she wanted.
How was he doing now? Surely Jack and Marius wouldn’t have let him climb all those stairs up to his chamber? They wouldn’t be so foolish, she reassured herself, even if Wyn was. They would have put him somewhere sensible on the ground floor.
“Well, thank goodness I invited Lord Featherstone to visit after Wintersol,” Aunt Sybil was saying, abruptly jerking Hetta’s attention back.
“You invited who? And what does that have to do with the price of peas?” Hetta said. The country metaphor came out without thinking, to her shame. Gods. If she wasn’t careful she’d end up sounding just like the elders on the village council, as unintelligible as sheep when they really got going.
“Lord Featherstone’s mother is one of my old school friends,” Aunt Sybil said, as if this explained anything. “I haven’t seen her in years—she married the old Lord Featherstone in our first season and moved away to his estate out in the Isles—but we correspond.” Her expression softened briefly. “In any case, it has been clear to me for some time that you are in no way prepared to rule Stariel, and my friend suggested that her son might have some advice to offer, as Featherstone is known for magical peculiarities also. Lord Featherstone often visits Greymark after Wintersol, and I invited him to stay with us for a few days on his way down.”
Hetta stared at her aunt, annoyed both by her high-handedness and the fact that she was actually offering something potentially helpful. Hadn’t Hetta already wondered if there were other estates like Stariel? Although she suspected Aunt Sybil might have been driven by other motives entirely. No doubt she’d like to see Hetta married off to some faraway lord, leaving Jack to rule in her absence for large chunks of the year.
“I appreciate the forward notice of houseguests,” Hetta said, unable to keep the bite from her tone. “And I’m happy to receive any advice Lord Featherstone has to offer on the subject. In the meantime, however, if you must go outside the bounds, I would like you all to take one of the anti-fae talismans Grandmamma prepared last time when we had our previous troubles with the fae.”
“What anti-fae talismans?” Uncle Percival demanded.
“Won’t that offend the good fae?” Aunt Maude asked. She was the most superstitious Valstar and seemed faintly smug to have her beliefs vindicated.
“I’ll need to make more,” said Grandmamma. “But you’re fortunate that I’ve a few done up already.” She burrowed about in her basket and pressed a small pouch into Uncle Percival’s chest until he had no choice but to take it from her. She handed the next one to his wife, humming cheerfully. “Willow, dear,” she said to one of Hetta’s youngest cousins. “Do you mind passing these out?” Willow took them from her grandmother, eyes wide. Grandmamma peered around at the rest of her relatives, who were all staring at her. She pointed at four of the cousins at random. “You lot, come upstairs to the stillroom and help me.” Then she turned and swept out of the room, but not before making sure her chosen minions had obeyed her command. They did, slumping after her half-dazed, half-amused.
Hetta would’ve liked to slink after them, but when she tried she was immediately set upon. Questions came from all sides, though frequently her relatives didn’t wait to hear the answer before cross-interjecting opinions at each other. Which turned out to be a blessing in disguise because after five minutes they were all so embroiled in debate with one another that she could escape.
The cooler and uncrowded air in the entrance hall was a relief. She took several deep breaths, closing her eyes to collect her thoughts. Two concerns jockeyed for prime position. The first was the need to seek out Wyn and make sure he was all right. The second was much more mundane: she was famished. Magical energy had to come from somewhere, after all. Kitchen first, she decided; then Wyn. Then a change of clothes.
She was halfway across the entrance hall when Marius and Jack came down the stairs from the floor above.
“What did we miss?” Jack asked.
“Much as you’d expect. Grandmamma is distributing anti-fae talismans. I’ve told everyone to stay within the borders for now.”
“How did that go down?”
Hetta gestured towards the hall. “You’re welcome to see for yourself. I, for one, am going to the kitchen to get something to eat.”
Jack contemplated the open door to Carnelion Hall and the low hornet-buzz of noise that sounded from it, squared his shoulders, and marched down the steps.
“Where did you put Wyn?” Hetta asked the two men. Marius was still standing halfway up the main staircase, frowning at Hetta. He didn’t appear to hear her question, but Jack grimaced on his way past and said, “His bedroom.” He shrugged at Hetta’s disapproval. “You try arguing with the feathery bastard when he’s set on something.” And he disappeared into Carnelion Hall without waiting for her to reply.
Hetta wasn’t sure she liked Jack’s new nickname for Wyn. Or…was it new? Jack had known Wyn was fae for years before she had. Maybe it was an old insult between them. Jack had only lately grown comfortable enough in her presence to swear. Should she consider that progress?
“How did he look?” Hetta asked her brother, who was still lost in thought. “Marius?”
“What?” He came out of his abstraction with a start.
“I asked how Wyn looked,” she repeated patiently. “Although from your demeanour I gather he wasn’t on his last legs, at least.”
“No,” Marius said slowly. His expression was still shuttered, a queer light in his eyes as he took her in. “Where are you going?”
She threw her hands up in despair and began to walk away. “The kitchens, numbskull, as I said barely thirty seconds ago. It’s nice to know you listen when I talk.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said, quickly descending the stairs to fall in beside her.
A heavy silence prickled between them as they made their way through the house. Drat. Hetta could hardly go and be appropriately soppy over Wyn with her older brother in tow.
“Hetta,” Marius said as they neared the kitchen. “Is there something going on between you and Wyn?”
17
Accusations
Hetta stumbled and Marius reached out a hand to steady her. His eyes widened. “There is something going on between you and Wyn!”
“Ah—” There didn’t seem to be much point in denying it, but Hetta found herself oddly tongue-tied. It was different, facing Marius cold, than it had been when Jack and Caro walked in on them. Besides which, Hetta was the same age as the other two, whereas Marius was older. And her brother. Which didn’t normally matter at all and yet somehow seemed to matter quite a lot when facing his shocked expression. “Yes,” she finished. She wasn’t ashamed of anything, she told herself. “Yes, there is.” To her irritation, it came out sounding defensive.
Marius’s reaction was, in many ways, the opposite of Jack’s. Jack had leapt quickly from shock to anger with characteristic decisiveness. Marius, in contrast, didn’t seem to know how to react. He went quiet, grey eyes wide.
“How long have you— What exactly—” he began inelegantly. He paused, took a deep breath. “How sure are you of his motives?”
“How can you ask that?” she whispered, low and furious. “You know Wyn—”
“Do I?” Marius said, voice rising. “Do I know him?”
“Yes!” Aware both that their voices were reaching a level that would travel and of the proximity of the kitchen and its occupants, Hetta dragged Marius into the nearest room. This turned out to be a storage closet, filled with buckets and brooms.
Hetta glared at her brother. “What in Prydein did you mean by that remark?”
Marius crossed his arms and glowered down at her. A mop-end was propped up next to his shoulder. “Just that. How sure are you of his motives? It seems mightily convenient that
he’s courting you just when he most needs sanctuary.”
“Oh, thank you for your faith in my judgement! And his! You must know he’d never do that!”
“Must I?” There was something hard and brittle in his voice. “I’ve known him as long as you, Hetta. Longer, really. All those years you were away—I was here. Wyn was here. Before you came back, I would’ve said I knew him better than anyone.”
“Honestly, Marius, it’s not like he’s transformed into a completely different person! He’s the same man we grew up with!”
“He’s not a man at all!”
Hetta didn’t understand why Marius was being so petty. “Does it matter so that he’s fae?”
“It matters more that he lied to us about it for so long. I don’t understand how you can forgive him so easily!”
And with a twist of perspective, Hetta suddenly saw the past through her brother’s eyes. Wyn was the nearest thing Marius had to a best friend. He’d trusted Wyn with his greatest secret—a secret he’d only admitted to Hetta under duress. And it wasn’t Hetta he’d turned to for help when his ex-lover tried to blackmail him. Wyn had been the person he trusted more than his own family. No wonder the revelation that Wyn had been keeping his own greatest secret close had shaken the foundations of their friendship.
“I forgive him,” Hetta said, speaking more softly, “because I know he didn’t do it with malicious intent, and I know he regrets it.” She shuffled her position so that the door handle wasn’t digging into her back. It was an awkward room to argue in, with Marius only two feet away.
The Prince of Secrets Page 15