The Lord of Stariel

by A J Lancaster

  But Marius didn’t pick up on her mood, the mention of the ceremony making him grimace. “Good, good,” he said vaguely. He’d gone far away, lost in his own thoughts. It was typical of him—one second intuitive, the next entirely oblivious. She still couldn’t tell whether his anxiety about the Choosing Ceremony sprang from a wish to be chosen or a fear of it. Perhaps it was both.

  “You’re older than cousin Jack,” Gregory said, as though the thought were so sudden and strange that he couldn’t keep from speaking it.

  “Yes.” Hetta smiled at her younger brother. “He is two months my junior, though it isn’t polite to remind me of it.”

  “That means you—” Gregory broke off, darting a look at his brother.

  Marius came out of his distraction and said sharply: “Yes, Hetta goes before Jack in the ceremony. Though I hope you haven’t forgotten cousin Cecily—she’s even older than me.” The Choosing Ceremony went according to birth order.

  “And Aunt Sybil may yet rule over us all,” Hetta said lightly, though that wasn’t very likely. There had never been a recorded instance of Stariel choosing within the same generation as the deceased lord if the members of younger generations were of age.

  Gregory gave a nervous laugh, and Hetta decided it was time for a change to a less fraught subject.

  “But what did you come racing in here for, Gregory? You were looking for Marius?” she prompted.

  Gregory’s eyes widened. “Oh! Yes. I forgot. Grandmamma said the flowers for the casket must be grown at Stariel, but Aunt Sybil said it’s more important that they’re lilies, even if we have to order them from Greymark, and Grandmamma said ordering flowers from elsewhere would be bad luck for the lord’s funeral, and Aunt Sybil said that was ridiculous superstition, and Grandmamma said there was nothing wrong with a little spirituality and her bones told her that lilies were bound to appear if they were wanted, and Aunt Sybil said even the most superstitious fool couldn’t conjure lilies outside a hothouse in October, and so I said I would check the greenhouse, but I don’t know a lily from lavender.”

  Marius’s lips twitched at this unbroken recitation, but he shook his head. “It wouldn’t matter if you did—Aunt Sybil is right. There’s no lilies to be had.” He said it with regret. Like Gregory, he would clearly have liked to support their often hare-brained but infinitely more sympathetic grandmother. The greenhouse was Marius’s domain. Strangely, for one so deeply disinterested in farming, he had a great passion for botany.

  “Oh. I guess they’ll have to sort it out between them then.” A heaviness crept over Gregory, as if he had suddenly remembered why they needed lilies. “Do you think it matters if the flowers come from Stariel or not?” It clearly mattered to Gregory, but he looked to his older brother for direction, his face still so young, despite the changes time had wrought.

  “Well,” Hetta said, taking a deep breath to hide her nerves. “There can be lilies from Stariel, if you want.” She waggled her fingers theatrically. “Or at least, flowers from Stariel that will appear to be lilies.” Her heart stuck in her throat as she waited for their reaction, and she formulated half a dozen defensive responses as to why she wasn’t ashamed of her profession in the time it took for comprehension to dawn in her brothers’ faces.

  Gregory brightened. “Could you really?”

  Hetta was suddenly off-balance. How did you cope with enthusiasm when you’d steeled yourself for disapproval? “Er—yes, I think so, if Marius will direct me to some appropriate stems for the base of the spell. They only need last for a few days.”

  Gregory practically vibrated with excitement, and she caught a glimpse of the cheerful eleven-year-old she’d known. Oh—of course Father’s denouncement of me would only make my profession more appealing to a teenage boy, she realised with a lurch of perspective.

  Marius wasn’t a teenage boy, but he was also the family member most familiar with her abilities. His reaction was somewhere between consternation and amusement.

  “I don’t know, Hetta…illusory lilies on Father’s casket…” He trailed off as she met his eyes.

  “Appropriate, though, don’t you think?” Gregory missed the sharp subtext, but Marius didn’t. His mouth thinned. Their father had always cared more for the look of the thing than the reality below. “But he would have wanted the flowers to come from Stariel, lilies or not.” That, Hetta was sure of; Father had always thought anything inside the estate infinitely superior to the rest of the world’s offerings.

  That darkness from earlier shadowed Marius’s face again, but he covered it with a smile. “Very well, Hetta. Let’s smuggle you out to the greenhouse before the others realise you’re here, or the game will be up when Greg announces there are lilies aplenty.”

  Hetta had imagined many scenarios for her return to Stariel House. None had involved illusory lilies, and she had to repress the urge to laugh as they made their way down the hallway and to the back western stairwell. Of course nothing here would be predictable. She ignored the knot of tension gathering in her stomach. Why not simply enjoy the chance to put off confronting her older relatives for a little while more—even if it was for a slightly ridiculous reason?

  Gregory eagerly offered himself as a potential distraction, should they encounter any of their aunts, but his willingness wasn’t put to the test. They met only a few house servants, who nodded politely as they passed but were otherwise entirely preoccupied with their own tasks. Hetta suffered a sad blow to her sense of self-importance—apparently she didn’t warrant more than a flicker of mild interest, even from the servants who had been here before she’d left. But I suppose they must be busy, given the excessive number of Valstar relatives descending upon them all at once.

  They reached the greenhouse and encountered its sole occupant, a tall, brown-skinned man with pale blond hair. He was crouched, cutting a sprig of mint, and he rose with smooth grace at the sound of their footsteps. His eyes widened slightly as Hetta followed her brothers in. In his surprise, he spoke, she thought, without regard for their presence.

  “Henrietta Isadore Valstar,” Wyn said, drawing the syllables out as if enjoying the sound of them. His eyes were still the same deep russet-brown of horse chestnuts, his mouth still full and shaped for humour, but everything else was…changed.

  Attraction coursed through her, unexpected as a lightning bolt, and shocked Hetta temporarily mute. Wyn Tempest had come to Stariel House several years before Hetta had left home. He’d been a friend to the young, rebellious Hetta, and they’d written to each other in the intervening years—unofficially, of course; young men did not write letters to unmarried ladies to whom they were not related. But Hetta had written those letters with the mental image of a stork-like, wary youth fixed unchanging in her head, not this quietly confident man. The sharp angles that she remembered hadn’t softened, but they were somehow transformed into a cut-glass, alien beauty.

  How could he have changed so? Surely she would have noticed if Wyn had been like this before? She felt both strangely breathless and annoyed at herself for being so.

  Wyn’s eyes sparkled. Hetta flushed and hoped he hadn’t guessed somehow what she’d been thinking.

  “Do you not recognise me, Miss Hetta?” he said slowly, each word quivering with amusement. His voice had ripened too; now it made her think of plum brandy. “Allow me to reintroduce myself.” He gave a little bow. “You may recall me as a stray who turned up some years ago and who has since proven difficult to dislodge.”

  “Of course Hetta remembers you, Wyn,” Gregory said before Hetta could answer. “What are you doing in the greenhouse?”

  Wyn waved the green mint leaves he’d just cut. “Mint-and-berry friands.” His eyes met Hetta’s. “I’m Acting Assistant Head Cook at this precise moment,” he told her solemnly. “Although it is not my usual role. One of the maidservants is ill.”

  “I know that!” I’ve been exchanging letters with you for years, she nearly said but managed to snap the words off. She didn’t care what p
eople thought of her reputation, but she didn’t want to get Wyn in trouble.

  Wyn beamed. “So you do know who I am! I did not like to assume, Miss Hetta. You looked very surprised just now.” His eyes gleamed. He had guessed what she’d been thinking. Curse him. She narrowed her eyes at him, in part for that and in part for all the ‘Miss Hetta’-ing.

  He didn’t seem at all repentant as he bowed and excused himself, leaving Hetta alone with her brothers in the greenhouse. Hetta stared thoughtfully after him. That’s two unreasonably attractive men in the space of half an hour, she thought distantly. Goodness knows what the next two weeks will bring, if that’s a representative sample of the populace now.

  She was recalled by Gregory, who shifted from foot to foot with anticipation.

  “Are you going to illuse the lilies or not?”

  3

  Lilies and Starflowers

  “What would be best for the base, Marius?” Hetta asked, looking around the greenhouse.

  Marius considered her request with quiet abstraction, the tight line of his shoulders relaxing slightly. Hetta could imagine him alone here, happily absorbed in recording the growth rates of peas or some such thing, the only sound the gentle creak of the weather against the walls. As if on cue, it began to rain again, and the greenhouse became a cocoon beneath the gentle patter.

  Gregory made an impatient noise and Hetta shushed him. She understood that there was significance in this choice, this secret. No one had asked Marius, the botanist, what flowers should go on Father’s casket.

  Eventually he shook his head. “Not in here.”

  The rain hung as a fine mist in the air as he beckoned them out of the greenhouse, through the barren flower-beds, now dark and wet, towards the Home Wood. He roved, searching for something, and eventually gave a cry of triumph and swooped down upon a stunted bush. He rose to show them his choice. They were large trumpet-shaped flowers with soft white petals and blue inners, a variety native to Stariel.

  “Starflowers,” Hetta said.

  “Yes.” Marius turned one in his palm, expression closed.

  “Of course,” said Gregory. “Why didn’t the two of them think of that?”

  “I expect Grandmamma would approve,” Hetta said warmly, since Marius seemed too lost in thought to reassure Gregory. Hetta took the damp flowers from him. “Let’s go back to the greenhouse.” The fine drizzle had probably fluffed her hair out to approximately three times its normal volume already. Would it be shallow to illuse it to look sleeker before she went back into the house?

  Illusion had become, if not mundane, at least everyday for Hetta. For Gregory and Marius, it was an altogether different case. Technomancy might be acceptable hidden away in kineticars or in the new elektric lights, but one did not dirty one’s own hands practising it openly as a trade if one belonged to the higher classes. In Meridon, society’s attitude was slowly changing, but in the isolated North, they still held to their prejudices. The magic of Stariel Estate was a rare exception, made dignified by tradition, and even that was still mainly considered the private business of Stariel’s lord. Illusory magic, with no purpose other than to entertain and with its strong association with the theatre houses, dens of promiscuity, and loose morals—well, could there be a more unsuitable occupation for a well-born woman? Hetta had quite enjoyed the loose morals of the Meridon theatre scene, but she had no intention of bringing that up in front of her brothers.

  Once back within the shelter of the greenhouse’s glass walls, she began to craft the illusion. This was a simple enough piece of magic, but there was some added complexity in making the illusion strong enough to last for several days. Most illusionists were limited to casting illusions in the then-and-now; tying off an illusion and giving it enough power to sustain itself when she stopped actively pouring energy into it was part of what gave Hetta her mastery. The lilies would have no scent, or at least only the scent of the starflowers, but hopefully no one would notice or think to check them for illusion. But Hetta wasn’t truly worried about the latter. Who would be rude enough to scrutinise funereal flower arrangements through a quizzing glass?

  Gregory gasped as Hetta traced her fingers along the starflowers’ petals, weaving light in their wake. They’ve never seen a master like me, she thought with professional pride. Travelling fairs and local theatres often included minor illusionists, and even members of the upper classes dabbled in it—for light entertainment between friends, not for a living, of course; that would be beneath them—but Hetta had proper training and, just as importantly, talent. With untrained illusionists or those of lesser ability, one didn’t even need a quizzing glass to be able to tell it wasn’t real. But when Hetta had finished with the starflowers, the only way to tell they weren’t true lilies was by feeling carefully along the starflowers underneath and noticing the difference in tactility where the fake petals extended slightly past the real ones. Illusion was only light and heat; there was no solidity to it.

  She held out the bunch of lilies to Gregory, who examined them in mute awe.

  “You can take them in ahead of us. It’s probably best if my reappearance doesn’t coincide with the ‘lilies’ if we don’t want to give anyone a reason to doubt them.”

  Gregory grinned. “I won’t give the game away; never fear!” He set off, a bounce in his step that hadn’t been present before.

  It began to drizzle again, the sky a leaden grey. Marius and Hetta waited in the greenhouse, the silence full of unsaid things. Marius absently traced the edge of a tray of seedlings.

  Eventually Hetta said: “I hope Gregory doesn’t resent me for my absence.”

  Marius cocked his head. “If he has, perhaps your presence now will make up for it.”

  “Are we still speaking of Gregory?”

  Marius sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His damp black locks grew increasingly dishevelled, giving him the appearance of a slightly rakish scholar. “I don’t begrudge you your escape, Hetta,” he said eventually. “The gods only know I’d have been off like a shot if I thought I could manage it.”

  “It’s not my fault you didn’t have the chance.” They both knew that Hetta being female and younger had made their father able to wash his hands of her when she’d rebelled. The same was not so for Marius, despite Lord Valstar’s preference for his nephew over his eldest son. If Marius had announced his intention to pursue some other profession far away, he’d have been brought swiftly to heel.

  “I know,” he said quietly. He gazed towards the house through the murky walls of the greenhouse. “Are you ready?”

  “I have to face them sometime, don’t I?”

  He grinned. “Unless you plan to sleep out here, yes.”

  An ambush awaited them in the red drawing room. But it could’ve been worse—it could have contained, oh, thirty relatives rather than merely four: her stepmother Lady Phoebe, Aunt Sybil, and Hetta’s two younger half-sisters. The illusory lilies rested in a vase on a side table, but of Gregory there was no sign.

  Hetta checked an urge to turn away on the threshold. The room’s occupants reacted to her presence with variations of surprise, delight, and disapproval. This last was mainly from Aunt Sybil. She sniffed like a wet dog, as if she resented being unable to lament Hetta’s impropriety at not coming home for her father’s funeral.

  “Henrietta!” Lady Phoebe exclaimed, rising. Time had made her look younger, somehow. She had the appearance of a porcelain doll, with large blue eyes, slightly too widely set, and flaxen ringlets arranged in a neat coiffure. Her hands moved restlessly, like small birds. “You came! You must have got the telegram!”

  “Of course she got the telegram,” Aunt Sybil said snidely. “What else would bring her here?” She was a tall woman, and her mourning gown and rigid seat on the chesterfield gave her the look of a bad-tempered crow.

  Hetta deplored statements of the obvious, but her sympathies immediately went to her stepmother. As a child, Hetta had been unimpressed when her father remarried, but she
had more appreciation for her stepmother now. Lady Phoebe had written punctiliously every quarter for the six years she’d been gone, long missives full of small details about her siblings, the names of the latest litter of kittens, and gossip from dinner parties with local gentry. Hetta was sure Father hadn’t known about the letters.

  “Yes, I did, Phoebe. I’m glad to see you again, although sorry it’s under such circumstances.” She made a brief nod in Aunt Sybil’s direction. “Good morning, Aunt Sybil.” She smiled at her two youngest siblings. “And Alexandra and Laurel, although you probably don’t remember me very well.”

  Her half-sister Alexandra blushed, tongue-tied. She was fifteen years old and had also undergone the same disconcerting transition from child to adult as Gregory in Hetta’s absence. She had her mother’s golden hair, delicate features, and wide blue eyes. She’d apparently also inherited her mother’s indecisive disposition, as she glanced sideways at Lady Phoebe for guidance.

  “You sent us the puppets for Wintersol last year,” little Laurel said, taking in the details of Hetta’s appearance. She was still a child, at least, but no longer the toddler Hetta remembered. “The fairy ones.”

  “Yes,” said Hetta. Then, because something in Laurel reminded her of herself, she added, “They were from a play they ran at the Sun Theatre, where I have lately been working.”

  Laurel’s eyes rounded. “You work at the theatre?”

  “Yes,” said Hetta, in defiance of Aunt Sybil’s growing displeasure. Phoebe made a faint gesture as if to encourage Hetta to retract her words. From the corner of her eye she could see that Marius looked faintly amused, but he remained silent to avoid attracting Aunt Sybil’s ire. Traitor. “I’m the illusionist for the troupe.” She said the words with exactly the cool confidence she’d wanted, and it hit her then: they have no power over me.