The Prince of Secrets

by A J Lancaster

  “My name is Marius Valstar, and I’m here on behalf of Lord Valstar. Would you be able to give me news of Mr Thompson, by any chance?”

  The woman’s friendly expression changed to uncertainty. “Mr Thompson is unwell.”

  “I know he was injured yesterday,” Marius said. “That’s why I’m here, really; to check that he’s all right. Well, that and to pick up the car. Do you know where that might be, by the way?” He leaned on the counter and smiled at her. “Sorry, I’m a bit scatter-brained this morning, bombarding you with questions and just assuming you know what I’m talking about. Do you know what I’m talking about or should I backtrack a bit and explain?”

  She smiled. “Perhaps a little explanation would help.”

  He didn’t know why, but his general scatter-brained aura often made women warm to him, and thankfully it seemed to be working on the receptionist. Maybe it was just his rakish good looks—ha! After a bit of back-and-forth, she relaxed slightly and told him Mr Thompson was at home and no one knew when to expect him back. The kineticar, it transpired, was currently parked behind the bank next to its stables.

  Marius thanked her. “My apologies for causing such a bother.”

  The receptionist—who by this point Marius had learnt was named Ms Hutchins—bit her lip and then blurted out, “What did happen to Lord Valstar yesterday? We were all in a flutter with Mr Thompson unconscious, and I could have sworn I heard a gunshot…but then they were gone.”

  “Ah,” said Marius intelligently. Why hadn’t Wyn been more explicit about what story he wanted Marius to tell? You’re the one who wanted people to stop keeping secrets on his behalf, his inner critic pointed out. But it was one thing to say this and quite another to do it. He couldn’t just…coldly out Wyn.

  Wyn never told my secret to anyone, Marius told his inner critic firmly, to which it responded: Funny how you forgot to mention that when you were arguing with Hetta…

  The receptionist’s expression was beginning to go blank at the edges, and he realised he’d been silent for too long, distracted by his own internal debate. Say something! Anything!

  “Ah—I don’t know all the details,” he said cautiously. “Lord Valstar was very upset by the…altercation.” There. That was vague enough, wasn’t it?

  “Mary said—she got there first—she said she saw…things. Creatures.” Ms Hutchins pursed her lips. “And Mrs Thompson, she said…”

  “What did she say?” Marius prompted, but Ms Hutchins shook her head, apparently reluctant to say the word ‘fae’ aloud, though he could practically hear her thinking it.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “Shall I get someone to show you where the car is?”

  “It’s clearly not nothing, though,” he said, trying to look as unintimidating as possible. He smiled at her sheepishly. “I said I’d try and find out what kind of chaos my sister and our steward had left in their wake. I’d rather know than be left guessing! Creatures, you said?”

  She nodded. “Yes. One of them bit Mr Thompson. And Mr Tempest—although he did not seem so badly affected. I trust he is well?”

  There was something in her tone that made Marius suspect Mrs Thompson had said something about Wyn to the staff.

  “He’s recovering,” Marius said. “Is Mr Thompson—do you know how he’s doing?”

  She shook her head but then reached out to pat him reassuringly on the arm. “But he was already doing better yesterday, by the time Mrs Thompson took him home. I’m sure he will recover.”

  “That’s good,” Marius said. “Please pass on my—and Lord Valstar’s—best wishes. If there is anything we can do…” He shook his head. “Um…also, I think our accounts books are still here. Mr Tempest asked me to fetch those as well while I was here.”

  Again, that flicker of something in her expression at the mention of Wyn. Some species of cat had clearly been released from its bag, though it was hard to say if it was merely a tomcat or a fully-fledged lion. That was a dreadful metaphor.

  Marius didn’t pursue it, and the receptionist found him a clerk to fetch the accounts books and show him where the car was parked. The clerk did a double-take at Marius’s name too. Just what, exactly, was being said about the Valstars and Stariel in this establishment?

  “I gather my sister caused something of a stir yesterday,” he said to the clerk as he was escorted through the panelled hallways of the bank. The boy looked barely older than Gregory, all awkward angles and oversized feet.

  “You wouldn’t believe what Mary said! Said there were some kind of creatures in Mr Thompson’s office, but I didn’t see anything.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Did anyone else?”

  “No.” He paused. “But Mr Thompson’s wife, she was yapping about that other man, the steward. She didn’t like him much.”

  And still no one had said the word ‘fae’. Marius couldn’t blame them. A few months ago, he would’ve been reluctant to voice the word either outside of fiction. How strange though, that everyone knew what the fae were whilst simultaneously not believing they were real. How quickly we forget and things become mere children’s tales. How would the world change now that the fae were back? A deep uneasiness filled him. People would talk about this incident here, at the bank, even if they were currently reluctant to talk to Marius about it. Pebbles that start avalanches, he thought, feeling hopelessly out of his depth.

  Marius was distracted by this line of thought while the clerk went to look for the accounts books and returned frowning. “I’m sorry, Mr Valstar, but they seem to be missing.”

  Marius blinked at him. “What do you mean, missing?”

  “I think Mr Thompson may have taken them away with him.” The boy didn’t seem to know what to do about this. “We could send them up in the mailbag when he comes back, if you like?”

  “Er…yes, I suppose that would be fine,” Marius said, not sure what to do about it either.

  The clerk seemed relieved at his reaction and rushed to deposit him in the stableyard, where the kineticar had been parked forlornly in the back corner.

  “Do you mind if I leave you here, sir, if that’s all you need? Only I’ve got to finish a ledger before lunchtime.”

  “That’s fine. Thank you,” Marius said, and the boy left. Gods, the boy was barely an adult and already working his way into a profession, and what could Marius do? Identify a tree at ten paces? How had he gotten so old while remaining so incredibly useless? I’m not that old, he reassured himself, hand going self-consciously up to touch his hair just above his ears. The silver stripe there was only getting wider, to his despair. Aunt Sybil kept gleefully reminding him that Father had gone completely grey before the age of thirty-five, which gave Marius less than a decade, assuming he suffered the same fate. At least Father wasn’t balding, Marius consoled his vanity.

  He sighed and leaned against the metal of the kineticar, staring moodily around the stableyard. He wasn’t sure what Wyn had been hoping he’d achieve here, but it didn’t feel like he’d achieved it.

  The bank shared a stableyard with the buildings next to it, and it was a hive of activity completely unconcerned with his presence. Part of the yard had been converted into garage and parking space for the new kineticars, but there were still horses coming and going as well, interspersed with delivery boys on bicycles. Everything had a purpose, was in motion, apart from Marius.

  Except…across the courtyard a woman stood stock-still, watching him with the single-eyed focus of a predator. No one else had noticed her, even though she had a singularly striking appearance that should’ve made heads turn towards her. She was tall, taller than any woman Marius had met before. Her hair was a blond so pale it was nearly white, contrasting sharply with the brown of her skin, and it was arranged in a nest of elaborate braids. Everything about her was faintly not-right, out of place not just for a stableyard or for Alverness but for, well, everywhere. Her dress wasn’t a dress at all, but some kind of strangely cut long tunic paired with elegant black boots and
trousers that narrowed at her ankles.

  She seemed familiar, somehow, but before he could really process what he was seeing, she was moving towards him across the courtyard, quick and smooth as a blade. No one looked at her, although one delivery boy did abruptly veer to avoid crossing her path, without appearing to notice her presence.

  Marius scrabbled at the roof of the kineticar, but she was in front of him before his brain had caught up. She was only a little shorter than he was, and this close he could see her eyes were a pale brown that was almost gold. There was no warmth in her expression, even when she bared her teeth in a smile.

  “Marius Rufus Valstar,” she crooned.

  It was like having an ice cube tipped down the back of his shirt, every conflicting inner-voice suddenly aligning to shriek the same word: Danger! He took an involuntary step back. Wyn had been wrong about the fae not approaching him.

  Her smile widened. “Be pleased to see me. Be very pleased.” She tilted her head expectantly.

  “Sorry—what? Who are you?” he said, heart hammering. What had Wyn called the sister who’d sent the creatures? Aroset. Was this her? How many sisters did Wyn have, and were all of them of the murderous sort?

  The woman frowned, and Marius’s temples began to throb.

  “Are you pleased to see me now?”

  “Sorry, I’m not sure that I am, exactly. I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” He felt unreasonably angry that Wyn had failed to predict this encounter, leaving Marius without a script for it. What did probably-Aroset want from him?

  Anger flashed across the woman’s eyes, and his headache became splitting, as if a swarm of bees had become trapped inside his skull. Compulsion, he realised with horror. She was trying to compel him.

  “Oh, leave off, Aroset, before you burst the mortal’s brain,” came a drawl from behind him. “I’m here to tell you Father has now put this business into my hands to deal with. Your…‘help’ is no longer necessary.”

  Aroset spun towards the voice, fury in her every line. Iron, Marius thought, taking advantage of her distraction to wrench open the door to the kineticar and slide inside. His headache snapped out of existence, and he locked the doors to the kineticar with shaking hands.

  21

  Red and Blue

  Marius’s absence hummed at the back of Wyn’s mind as he went about his duties; a small unease that wouldn’t settle until Wyn knew he was safely back. Fortunately, he had plenty to keep him occupied, as preparing for Wintersol would’ve kept even a fully staffed household busy. Wintersol was one of the most important festivals in the mortal Prydein calendar. The fact that it was also of importance to the fae certainly made it…more interesting than he would have preferred. For mortals, it was a celebration of rebirth, of the sun’s return after the longest night. The fae knew it as Wintertide, when the power of the dark courts reached its zenith. Already cold energy crackled over his skin, a blessing and a curse. It sped his healing rate whilst simultaneously waking parts of his nature he preferred to keep dormant.

  He had to take extra care to measure his words rather than snap them; to listen patiently to Lady Phoebe’s long list of anxieties instead of rushing to his next task; to calmly repeat instructions rather than snarl them when one of the staff forgot something; to suppress a burst of anger when the the still unfixed pipe in the lavender bathroom burst in a new and exciting location. He didn’t especially like this wilder, meaner, and more impatient version of himself, but it would pass. It wasn’t a sign, despite Lamorkin’s words about his bloodfeathers. He was not becoming his father. But not for the first time, he reflected that it must be nice to be mortal and unaffected by the shifts of seasonal magic. I have weathered this before; I will this year too. He didn’t think about what he’d agreed to undertake with Hetta, after Wintersol.

  “Are you sure you ought to be standing, Wyn? I can’t think it good for your leg,” Lady Phoebe asked with a frown when he came into the green drawing room to find Hetta. He’d given the cane back to Ivy after luncheon, finding it was beginning to hinder more than it helped.

  “It’s much better, thank you,” he tried to tell her, but she pressed him down into the chesterfield before he could protest. He didn’t need to rest, but he had a pang of helpless fondness for Lady Phoebe’s characteristic kindheartedness nonetheless.

  Hetta grinned at him from the other end of the seat. She and her grandmother, stepmother, and three younger half-siblings were making up boxes to go out to the cottages. Little Laurel, who was only nine, sat on the floor next to the coffee table, carefully affixing labels under the watch of her brother Gregory, who seemed cheerfully resigned to the situation, though both their hands were now ink-stained—as was the table. Magic tingled under Wyn’s fingertips, itching to magically remedy the situation. Not the time, he told himself firmly. Though magic would probably be necessary—nothing stained wood quite as badly as ink.

  Lady Phoebe followed his gaze and made a noise of dismay, abandoning Wyn for her children. “Gregory! Laurel! For goodness’ sake put some paper down if you’re going to dribble ink everywhere!”

  “You’re nervier than usual,” Hetta murmured, recalling Wyn’s attention.

  “I am,” he acknowledged. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he spread his hands in a gesture of unrepentant vagueness.

  Hetta glanced towards the window, though this drawing room didn’t face the driveway. The day had shadowed into the afternoon, but the hour was not yet so advanced as to cause concern over Marius’s return.

  “Are you worried about Marius?” she asked.

  “I would not have sent him if I thought he was in danger,” Wyn said, a reassurance to himself rather than Hetta. “Though I confess I’ll be easier once he’s back.” He changed the subject. “Sunrise is at 8:57 a.m.” The Kindlemorn ceremony was held at daybreak.

  Her nose wrinkled. “The joys of a Northern winter. Though I can’t claim surprise, given that the sun rose at roughly the same time this morning.”

  “Well observed,” he said lightly. Then, more seriously, “How are you finding it?”

  “The Northern winter? Boxing jars of cough remedy and sloe chutney?” She lowered her voice. “The thought of fae royalty descending upon us?”

  “Any and all of the above.”

  She sighed. “It’s cold and dark, and I swear the sun rose an hour earlier when I lived in Meridon.”

  “That was almost fae-cryptic, though I’m unsure whether to congratulate you on that.”

  She smiled. A stray bit of hair had fallen against one cheek, and without thinking he reached out and tucked it behind her ear.

  Behind Hetta, Alexandra shot Wyn a puzzled glance. Stormcrows, he was playing with fire. He raised an eyebrow in return, heart racing, and she frowned and looked away.

  “This is getting foolish,” Hetta said in an undertone, echoing his own thought.

  “It is,” he agreed, equally quiet.

  Her expression sobered. “After Wintersol.”

  “A promise or an ultimatum?”

  She blinked, surprised, and he realised his words had come out more aggressive than he’d intended. He took a long, deep breath, trying to settle the strands of dark energy vibrating over him.

  There was a pause in which she weighed him, grey eyes dark and thoughtful. “Yes,” she said eventually. “Yes, it is.”

  He gave a short, tight nod. She was right. One way or the other, this had to end. Stitching his self-control back together, he adopted a normal speaking tone: “So, my Star, about the schedule…”

  Hetta accepted his cue, and they each withdrew to their respective ends of the chesterfield. They talked of small domesticities, ignoring the invisible, magnetic force humming between them. Hopefully it truly was invisible. Alexandra’s attention continued to slide towards them periodically, but no one else seemed to have noticed anything amiss.

  They spent several enjoyable minutes arguing about how long it really took to walk to the Standing Stones from the house�
��Hetta maintained he was being too conservative whilst Wyn pointed out that a desire for more sleep didn’t magically shorten the distance just so that she could get up later.

  “I’m not going to sleep through Wintersol Eve!” she said indignantly. “When did I ever do such a thing before?”

  “Well,” he said apologetically, “I’ve heard that in Meridon the sun rises nearly an hour earlier. And this will be the first time in seven Wintersols that we are together. I don’t know precisely what you got up to on the other six.”

  Her eyes sparkled, and the invisible line grew tight enough that he could hardly breathe from resisting the urge to pull closer.

  “It is, isn’t it?” She folded her arms as if to stop her own hands wandering. “But I can assure you I haven’t outgrown the tradition yet.” Her eyes went suddenly distant, her fingers spasming. Pine bloomed in the air, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. “Marius has just crossed the boundary.”

  A weight slid from his shoulders despite his earlier assurance.

  Hetta was still staring beyond the drawing room. “He’s upset.” She blinked and came back to him, the faint scent of pine dissolving. Her eyes widened as she processed her own words, and she gave him a slightly panicked look. He had to stop himself from reaching for her. Instead he tried to will reassurance across the space between them.

  “But unharmed, if he’s driving?” he said.

  Hetta took a deep breath, steadying herself. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.”

  “Then we should see what he has to say.” Wyn got up, his leg taking his weight with a twinge.

  Hetta rose with him. “Don’t get into too much trouble without my supervision,” she told her younger relatives, who were mostly too distracted to notice her exit at all.

  She was quiet as she followed his limping exit. Giving in to temptation, he slipped his hand into hers once they reached the hallway.

  “For someone intent on keeping secrets, you take a lot of risks,” she said wryly, but squeezed back.