“No, for I took pity on him and swore Phoebe to secrecy. She thought it a very good joke. But I confess I never expected Wyn to go through with it!” Unspoken had gone the knowledge that her father wouldn’t have thought it so, and Hetta wouldn’t have put her friend in danger of dismissal over such a small thing.
“How could you think so little of my honour?” Wyn mimed taking a blow to the heart. His remark had turned the conversation to childhood pranks, and Hetta was suddenly a part of things again. She stared at Wyn a moment, wondering if that had been his intention all along.
The third bottle of wine was getting low and all the scones had been eaten when the storm finally rolled over Stariel. They had barely ten seconds’ warning between the first ominous rumble of thunder and the sudden deluge. The shrieks they made as the cold rain hit were less indignant than they would’ve been three bottles prior, but nonetheless they all scrambled for the door to the stairwell. Wyn and Hetta between them scooped up the bottles and mugs—it hadn’t occurred to either Marius or Jack that they would need to do so. But Wyn was, technically, a servant, and Hetta had long since been accustomed to waiting on herself.
Spluttering and half-drenched, the four of them began to laugh in the darkened stairwell. Hetta didn’t know why it was so funny, but the mood infected them all, and they laughed until they were wobbling against the walls and gasping for breath.
The laughter ebbed, leaving them still squashed in the dark atop the tallest tower. Marius began to fumble for a sconce, but Hetta summoned a ball of light before they could all break their necks. Stariel House hadn’t yet had the new elektric wiring installed. The magelight managed to stay impressively steady despite Hetta’s inner ear insisting the world was swaying gently. Being the illusionist to a theatre troupe gave one a lot of practice at certain skill sets, though she couldn’t reliably cast anything more complicated than illumination under the influence, not if she wanted to convince anyone. Hetta gave a little burble of laughter, remembering some of her more amusing failures.
“Handy, that,” Jack remarked, blinking up at the magelight. It threw his face into sharp relief, draining him of colour. Hetta realised she’d cast this time without worrying at all about her audience’s reaction, the first time she’d done so at Stariel since her return. The thought warmed her all the way through.
They descended, the tower creaking around them as the weather beat against the stone. The short dash across the courtyard threatened to burst her wine-given bubble of happy numbness, but they stumbled into the house before the cold could truly penetrate. The house was much warmer than the tower had been, and the heat buoyed her up again, even as she ran a hand ruefully through her damp hair.
“Suppose it’s time to seek our beds,” Marius said, a wisp of regret in his tone. Jack’s answering grin was almost a grimace. Darkness and wine had brought camaraderie and nostalgia, but they all knew it would dissipate in the light of day, leaving awkwardness in its place.
“Happen so,” Wyn agreed. He held up the wine bottles. “I’ll just take this lot down to the kitchen and make it right.”
They bade each other good night, and Jack and Marius disappeared into the main part of the house after securing candles for themselves.
“I’ll help you,” Hetta said, waving the mugs she’d retrieved.
“I appreciate it.” Wyn’s tone was oddly formal.
They didn’t speak as they made their way down to the kitchens. Outside the storm rumbled against the house, but here the world extended no farther than the silvery light. Hetta couldn’t make out Wyn’s expression in the gloom, and he’d become a creature of strange angles and shadows, his pale hair the most visible part of him.
They reached the kitchen, and Hetta allowed the ball of light to grow and lift towards the ceiling, throwing the room into sudden relief. She put the mugs down on the bench. Wyn didn’t look at her, moving rapidly around the room, washing the bottles and storing them, rinsing the mugs out with swift movements. Hetta took them from him with one hand, reaching for a tea towel with the other. Her fingertips brushed his skin, and little quivers of awareness hummed through her, disproportionate to the touch.
“I am glad you are here,” Wyn said lightly, his tone at odds with the tension in his body. “We should finish our match in person while we have the opportunity.”
“You want to triumph over me in person, you mean,” Hetta replied, prodding him sharply in the shoulder.
He smiled mischievously, and all at once Hetta saw in him the young Wyn she’d left behind. “It is, perhaps, a mite more satisfying. You take defeat so very gracefully in writing.”
They’d played chess for years via letters. It wasn’t Hetta’s preferred game—her temperament was more inclined towards cards—but chess was better suited to play at a distance from one’s partner. Wyn also had a fondness for the game that he could only rarely indulge with the regular inhabitants of Stariel House. Many of the inhabitants were perfectly willing to play with him, but although he had near-bottomless patience for the unskilled but willing, Hetta knew that he found such games unfulfilling. Marius was probably the most skilled chess player of the usually resident Valstars, but he was prone to putting extreme pressure on himself to perform well, making the exercise a stressful rather than enjoyable one.
Hetta wasn’t her brother and could play with both reasonable skill and cheerful emotional detachment. This was fortunate, since she lost far more often than she won.
“You’ll find I am just as graceful in person, in both victory and defeat. But it’s bad form to presume your triumph is a foregone conclusion.”
“Arrogant, isn’t it?” Wyn agreed in the mild tone he used when he was being deliberately provoking. He shook his head and added, “A serious character flaw. It would be much better for a man’s character if his chess partners did not lose quite so frequently.”
She flicked a tea towel at him. “I thought you were practising servility while I was away? Aren’t you head of staff now?”
“Yes, Miss Hetta.” His russet eyes gleamed.
The wine had made her just light-headed enough to resort to childish retaliation for the formal address. Besides, part of her wanted to reassure herself once more that this prim butler act really was only skin deep. How long could you play a role before it stopped being one? When did illusion become reality? She shook her head at her muddled thoughts.
Wyn’s hair had been mussed every which way by the wind, a hint of wildness at odds with the rest of his appearance. She reached up to tug at it, and he laughed and let her, leaning down obligingly.
“You are impossible,” she told him.
“Are you petting me, Miss Hetta?” His eyes looked nearly black in the low lighting. “Is that what current manners dictate must be done in Meridon?” He lifted one long-fingered hand and patted her gently on the head, as if she were a dog. “There, there. Gooood Hetta.” His own slight intoxication showed in his overly precise enunciation.
Hetta began to giggle at the utter silliness of the situation, and her laughter set Wyn off. It felt remarkably good, like something unknotting.
“Oh, I’ve missed you, foolish one.”
They grinned at each other. Hetta became aware, all at once, of how close they were standing and of the fact that her hand was resting on Wyn’s shoulder. She sucked in a breath. If she went up on tip-toe…
There was a clatter from the stairs leading down into the kitchen, and they sprang apart. The noise came from Marius, who entered with a complaint.
“Where do I find the water jug? I’m parched, and I’ll be damned if I can find the one in my room.”
“Ah—here,” Wyn said, his voice not faltering. He moved to fill a glass for Marius.
Marius abruptly frowned around at them. “What’s going on?”
Hetta answered him smoothly. “I just came to help Wyn put the mugs back—remember?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’ve grown worse at handling your liquor, if you can’t recall things I told you
not five minutes ago.”
This slight briefly distracted him, and he grinned. “Unfair aspersion. I’m only slightly touched, and I do remember.” His grin faded, and he looked between the two of them again, suspicion returning as he read some invisible current between Hetta and Wyn. “You should go to bed now, though.”
Hetta wasn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed at this sudden brotherly concern. “Heavens! I’m not five. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll take my leave now.” She did so, only fleetingly meeting Wyn’s gaze as she said lightly, “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
As she mounted the staircase towards her bedroom, she inwardly muttered a curse towards interfering relatives in general and older brothers in particular.
6
Grandmamma’s Remedy
Hetta woke with an aching head and a feeling of reluctant gratitude towards her oldest brother. She’d been in a strange mood last night, after the funeral, and who knew what foolishness she might have committed if Marius hadn’t interrupted.
Her skull screamed in protest at the transition from horizontal to vertical but slowly subsided into a sullen mutter as she sat on the edge of the bed, contemplating her toes. The floor was pleasantly warm—a pipeline of the central heating system ran under her bedroom. She was glad no one else had realised this and claimed it in her absence. It might be smaller than most of the other chambers, but toasty feet were not to be sniffed at.
Her thoughts kept turning towards Wyn as she got out of bed and chose her dress for the day. It was still disconcerting to realise that she found him attractive. She felt almost indignant. How unreasonable of him to change so while she’d been gone! But more importantly, she wondered, was this new awareness one-sided, or had he too felt that charge between them last night?
Usually Hetta took a rather carefree approach to both flirting and the various enjoyable activities it could lead to, but Wyn was one of her oldest friends. That wasn’t something to jeopardise on a whim. Especially if it turns out to be a one-sided whim, she thought wryly. Besides, she would be gone from here in only a few days. It would be better to ignore any new impulses in Wyn’s direction if she didn’t want to complicate matters between them.
Decision made, she fortified herself with a few swallows from the glass of water she’d had the forethought to place on her bedside table the night before and began to dress. She chose a long-sleeved dress with a high, asymmetric collar. She hadn’t worn trousers since her return to Stariel. It would cause a stir when she did, since the fashion didn’t seem to have spread here yet, but she’d decided it was best not to provoke Aunt Sybil until after the Choosing. Her aunt would be looking for things to criticise until she was sure her son Jack had safely inherited.
The house was bright as Hetta made her way down to breakfast, the storm having passed over in the night. She met no one until she rounded a corner into the east wing and her youngest half-sister dashed past her with a plea: “Don’t tell Willow I went this way!” followed thirty seconds later by cousin Willow barrelling into sight, demanding: “Have you seen Laurel? We’re playing hide-and-seek.” Hetta loyally disavowed all knowledge and continued.
She was smiling as she found her way to the breakfast room, where she encountered Wyn in the corridor just outside, ferrying breakfast dishes. He must be filling in for the sick maidservant again. It was still strange to think of Wyn occupying the position he did at Stariel. Surely he was too young and too irreverent to be head of staff? He is older than you, though. And far more tactful, she was forced to admit.
And yet the strangeness wasn’t so much because of his position but because Hetta had always had trouble thinking of Wyn as a servant at all. She wasn’t the only one. The Valstars had long treated Wyn as occupying a category entirely of his own making, practically ever since he had turned up on their doorstep ten years ago and Lord Henry, with uncharacteristic generosity, had accepted him into the household with no explanation other than that the boy should prove useful. Wyn had never provided any further illumination on the subject, despite Hetta’s pestering; he could be maddeningly stubborn about his secrets.
“How’s your head?” He looked far too lively for someone who’d imbibed the better part of a bottle of wine the night before. She tried to read his expression for some hint of awkwardness, but there was none to be found. Last night had apparently altered nothing between them, for him. It was unreasonable to be annoyed by this, Hetta told herself sternly, even as she suppressed an urge to glower.
“It’s been better,” she admitted.
“There’s a bottle of Lady Philomena’s remedy on the sideboard.” He smiled. “You are not the only one so affected.” Grandmamma’s favoured tonic was a surprisingly effective cure for hangovers, though Hetta couldn’t help wishing for the strong coffee she would usually have sought out back in Meridon.
“I’d wager you put it there before you went to bed last night, infernally organised creature.”
His eyes were wide and innocent. “I try.” He bowed slightly.
“Oh, go away and be smug somewhere else,” she told him. He grinned and swept away with his tray.
Gregory appeared at breakfast looking wan but cheerful and promptly had a mild spat with his sister Alexandra over the allocation of blueberry muffins. None of the assorted aunts, uncles, or the newly widowed Lady Phoebe showed, to no one’s surprise, since they tended to take advantage of their age and status within the family to command breakfast trays in their rooms. Only a handful of the Valstar cousins had made it down, since they were not, for the most part, a generation of early risers.
Hetta sat down next to Gregory and tried to draw him out. “You missed a rather good bottle of wine on the top tower last night,” she told him in a low voice.
His eyes widened, and conflicting emotions flickered in his expression. Hetta read him easily enough: gratitude that she thought him adult enough to include; annoyance that his absence hadn’t gone unremarked.
She smiled. “Don’t worry, little brother. I’m not going to pry. Your movements are quite your own affair. But you should at least reassure Marius that you don’t intend to wander over a cliff in the dark; he worries about you, and he’s more sensitive than usual just now.”
They both looked across the table at the subject of this remark. Marius wasn’t a morning person and frequently didn’t make it to breakfast at all. As it was, he didn’t appear to have slept well; his hair was even more dishevelled than usual as he sat, wholly engrossed in reading the morning’s newspaper, his glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. One hand was held inattentively in mid-air, supporting a teacup at an angle that threatened to spill at any moment. Hetta was certain it contained a good dose of Grandmamma’s remedy.
“I’m not about to off myself,” Gregory said scornfully, although still in a quiet tone that wouldn’t be overheard. “In fact—” But he blushed, and Hetta surmised that Jack’s guess as to his activities last night might have some truth in it.
“Just so,” she said to spare him further embarrassment. “Well, I’m glad to hear it.” She gently turned the conversation to other things, asking him if he rode—which he did—and suggesting that he might help her reacquaint herself with the riding paths of Stariel while she was here. “Though I’ve no mount, of course. I don’t suppose you’d know if there are any appropriate beasts in the stables I might commandeer?”
Gregory began at once to enumerate the various horses’ qualities. He discarded Lady Phoebe’s mount outright as being entirely without any merit—her ladyship was a nervous horsewoman—but surprised her by saying thoughtfully that perhaps Alexandra’s spare mount would suit. Hetta had assumed that the daughter who bore the most physical resemblance to Lady Phoebe would also share her mother’s general nervousness towards animals.
“Alexandra is a keen rider, then?” How did she know so little about her younger siblings’ preferences? When had they changed from children into, well, not quite adults, but not children either? Even little Lau
rel, who was still a child, had changed out of all recognition. Last time Hetta had been home, Laurel hadn’t been capable of navigating foodstuffs unsupervised; now she calmly piled her plate high with kippers as if daring someone to stop her.
“Oh gods, yes,” Gregory said, recalling Hetta from her woolgathering. “Alex!” This last was addressed to his sister, who was pouring herself tea from the side table. She looked up. Her gold hair hung in a long braid down her back, making her look younger than her fifteen years.
“You shouldn’t shout across the room at me, Gregory. It’s vulgar.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have answered me then,” Gregory said irrepressibly. “And a fine thing for you to tell me it’s vulgar when you—”
Hetta interrupted him to avoid the inevitable disintegration into sibling rivalry. “Gregory has just been telling me you’re accounted something of a fine horsewoman, Alexandra.”
Alexandra bit her lip. “I do like to ride,” she admitted. “Marius told me you hunted.”
“I used to.” She sighed. “But it’s been a long time since I’ve been astride, I’m afraid. You’ll have to be patient with me. Where do you prefer to ride?”
She might have missed six years of their lives, but maybe they could find their way to a stronger relationship now, out of Father’s shadow. Hetta was determined to make a start, regardless. It had been her one true regret about leaving, the fact that except for Marius, her other siblings might as well have been strangers.
Talking to Alexandra and Gregory was also a very welcome distraction from Wyn, who continued to be as infuriatingly cheerful and courteous as always as he went back and forth into the room, refilling the sideboard and enquiring if anyone needed anything. The blueberry muffin argument had clearly happened before, because on one of his passes he deposited a fresh one next to Gregory, who’d been the loser in the earlier interplay. He caught Hetta watching and smiled briefly before disappearing again.
The Lord of Stariel Page 5
