A Skinful of Shadows

by Frances Hardinge

  CHAPTER 30

  The next day, Makepeace began discreetly searching for the charter.

  She woke early to find that some plain, clean and respectable clothes had been left out for her. Since everybody now seemed to assume that she was Lady Eleanor’s pet and hanger-on, she decided to play the part by running down to the kitchen to make her new ‘mistress’ breakfast. There she talked to the cooks, and befriended a skinny, honey-coloured cat who apparently went by the name of ‘Wilterkin’.

  The kitchen was smaller than the one at Grizehayes, and fiercely hot. She soon decided that, in Symond’s shoes, she would never have hidden the charter there for fear of the precious wax seal melting.

  Nobody stopped a young prophet wandering around the house. She supposed the soldiers were a little afraid of her, but they would be curious too, and would remember if she did anything odd. If she looked like she was searching, they might yet suspect her of being a spy.

  On the second floor, she found Symond’s room. There was no mistaking his blue coat, and the crest on his travel case. He had been given one of the better beds, and a little privacy. Nobody was nearby, so she took a risk and hastily searched the room. She found no sign of the stolen charter, which did not surprise her at all. Symond was too clever to leave it somewhere so obvious, and she was probably not the first person to search the room.

  In fact, she was quickly starting to realize that most of the house had been searched, torn up, ravaged and looted. In some places wooden panels had been splintered to see whether there were cavities behind, and some of the mattresses slit open. Nearly every floor was littered with debris.

  ‘Did this house insult your mothers or something?’ Makepeace asked a young private who was polishing boots, and bored enough to make conversation.

  ‘Well, it made fools of us,’ he admitted. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure nobody saw him gossiping with a seer, then beckoned her over and pushed open the nearest door. Beyond it lay a grand four-poster bed that had been stripped of nearly all its fine, embroidered hangings. ‘Do you see the hidden door over there?’ Opposite, Makepeace could indeed make out a door-shape, covered in the same brown fabric as the surrounding wall. Some of the fabric had now been peeled away at the right-hand edge, to show the pale wood underneath, but it had clearly once covered the whole door, camouflaging it against the wall.

  The young soldier crossed the room and tugged at a little metal ring to pull the door open. ‘There’s a secret room, do you see?’ Behind it a tiny room held only a simple mattress, a jug and a chair.

  ‘When the war broke out, the de Velnesse family who lived here chose the King’s side,’ he explained. ‘All the rest of us hereabouts – and the trained bands, the local soldiery – chose Parliament. So a great mass of us turned up at Whitehollow to arrest the knight who lived here. His wife surrendered the house, swore he had left already, and welcomed our troops in to be her guests.

  ‘It turns out her husband was hidden away in the secret room. The dinner she served us was drugged, and that night her husband tiptoed out – right past all the men sleeping in this room – and the two of them ran off with all the jewels and plate they could carry.

  ‘So I suppose we thought, if the house has one surprise like that, why not more? Maybe there’s treasure they couldn’t carry hidden away here somewhere. We can’t count on getting paid, so why not find our wages where we can? And if it means ripping up the house of traitors, so much the better.’

  The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a senior soldier, who gave his private a disapproving look. Makepeace walked away looking as imperious and all-knowing as she could manage.

  Elsewhere she found a few loose floorboards, but there was nothing beneath them. To judge by the fresh sawdust, optimistic soldiers had levered them up in the hopes of discovering some secret cache.

  They’re stealing everything but the walls, Livewell said quietly, sounding a little taken aback.

  Righteous armies are just made of folks, Makepeace said as kindly as she could.

  Livewell did not answer. Perhaps he was seeing his fellow crusaders in a new light. Or perhaps he was feeling slightly better about the Axeworths’ chicken.

  By the end of the morning, Makepeace was desperately racking her brains. Back in Grizehayes she had become very good at finding hiding places for things. Where would she have concealed the charter?

  It had to be somewhere indoors. Even if the charter was carefully wrapped, there was too much danger of damp in an outdoor hiding place. Inside the chimney pieces? No, like the kitchen they would be too hot. The wash-house and the icehouse would be too damp. Besides, Symond was a lord – he would probably avoid the places where the servants were always busy, because he knew them less well, and could not be sure how often everything was checked, used or cleaned.

  Most important of all, it had to be somewhere that would be overlooked by a whole garrison of soldiers bent on searching and dismembering the house in search of loot. It couldn’t be tucked inside anything that was likely to be examined, hacked open or stolen.

  It is now past noon, murmured the doctor. Symond Fellmotte might return at any moment.

  I know. The soldiers were trooping off to eat, and for a little while most rooms would be empty. Makepeace knew that this might be her last chance to find the charter.

  Could he have hidden it in plain sight among other papers? No, the expensive parchment would be obvious, and it was all too likely that it would be picked up and glanced at. Unless . . .

  Makepeace slipped down to the main hall again. The papers nailed to the inside of the great main door flickered and fluttered in the breeze. A cunning man might slip a parchment under these posters for a time. But when she tugged corners aside, there was no sign of a hidden charter. Her pride and excitement turned to disappointment. For a moment she felt personally aggrieved with Symond for failing to use such an inspired hiding place.

  He had not hidden his tree in a forest of other papers. Where, then?

  It must be somewhere nobody would think to look. What if they thought they had looked there already? What if they thought it had already yielded all its secrets?

  A hasty check – no the broken chests seemed to have no false bottoms. But what about the secret room? She hastened back to the master room, and pulled open the once-secret door using the metal ring. No, the hidden room behind had been pretty thoroughly searched. Even the mattress was slit, its stuffing pulled out.

  Then inspiration crept quietly into Makepeace’s mind, like a cat on to her lap. She turned her head to look at the door she was holding open. The once-camouflaged door, with its brown cloth covering now partly peeled back.

  When everybody else looked at it, they saw a door that had hidden a secret room. It would never cross their minds that it had secrets of its own.

  Very carefully, Makepeace slipped her hand between the wood and the brown covering, and slid it downwards, questing. Her fingertips touched parchment.

  Not half an hour later, she looked down into the courtyard from a high window, and saw a man dismounting. Even at a distance, she knew him at a glance. Symond Fellmotte had returned to Whitehollow.

  Heart banging, she hurried to his room, taking pains to avoid being seen. There was just enough time for her to hide behind the door before it opened.

  A man entered the room, and stooped to loosen one of his riding boots. There was no mistaking him, even though the poor light dulled his hair to a greyish, tired colour, like weather-worn wheat. When Makepeace closed the door behind him, Symond swung around, one hand reaching reflexively for his sword hilt.

  ‘I’m here to speak with you!’ Makepeace hissed, holding up two empty hands.

  Symond froze, staring at Makepeace, his sword halfway out of his scabbard.

  ‘Makepeace from the kitchen.’ His tone was flat with utter disbelief.

  ‘If you kill me, you’ll never see your precious charter again!’ blurted Makepeace hastily.

  ‘
What?’ The colour drained from Symond’s face.

  ‘I found it in the secret door and took it out. I’m the only one who knows where it is now, Master Symond.’

  He scowled, and the sword slowly scraped its way out, until he was levelling it at her.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked slowly. ‘You cannot be Makepeace.’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ Makepeace told him firmly. ‘The Fellmottes have not infested me, if that is your fear. They have tried more than once, though. I have you to thank for that.’ It was not completely true that she was Fellmotte-free, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to mention Morgan straight away. ‘I ran away from Grizehayes. It was the only way to stop them pouring their ghosts into me.’

  ‘What about James?’ Symond cast a careful glance around the room. ‘Is he here too? Let me talk to him.’

  ‘No. I came alone. I have you to thank for that too.’

  ‘Alone?’ Symond seemed to be recovering from his shock. ‘You stupid little baggage! You’ve just wandered into an enemy garrison, full of my well-armed friends, and told me that you’ve stolen from me. Tell me where my charter is, or I’ll let some air into your veins, then hand you over as a spy.’

  ‘Will you?’ said Makepeace, her heart thudding. ‘What would your new friends say if I told them about the charter? You can’t have shown it to them, or stories of Fellmotte witchcraft would be screaming from every news-sheet. And they’re not really your friends anyway, are they? Lots of them think you’re a Royalist spy. Imagine what they’d say if they found out you were hiding a decree with the King’s seal on it.’

  For a moment Symond’s expression dulled, and she realized that he was really, truly angry. She thought he might run her through, in spite of the loss of the charter. Then the corners of his mouth gave a little shrug, and he slowly slid his sword back into its scabbard again.

  Makepeace realized that her blood was surging with excitement, as it had while she was gold-smuggling.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Symond narrowed his eyes and studied her. ‘Why run to me?’

  ‘Who else has the same enemies, and knows them for what they are? Who else would believe me?’ Makepeace gave a sour laugh under her breath. ‘I don’t even have James any more.’

  ‘What happened?’ Symond asked sharply. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘He lives, after a fashion.’ Makepeace bit her tongue, trying not to sound too angry or bitter. ‘Your knifework on Sir Anthony left some ghosts without a home . . . and James was to hand.’

  Symond’s brows rose at the news, but Makepeace could not tell whether he was shocked, remorseful or just processing the information.

  ‘He should have run,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Not everybody finds it easy to abandon their comrades,’ said Makepeace darkly, then reminded herself that she was trying to set up an alliance. ‘Do not worry, I am not here for revenge. Perhaps I should be, but I would rather survive. We do not need to like one another to be useful to each other.’ Makepeace realized that she had echoed Dr Quick’s words.

  ‘So what do you want?’ Symond’s tone was now almost conversational, but Makepeace sensed that the anger had not gone. ‘Is this blackmail?’

  ‘No. I would rather be your friend, Master Symond. But you are not always kind or honest with your friends. I took the charter to stop you betraying me.

  ‘I need an ally, and a place to hide. But most of all, I need to know more about the Fellmottes and their ghosts. You were the heir. You were being prepared – you must know more than I do. There must be ways to protect ourselves against them. To fight them.’

  ‘I am fighting them,’ Symond remarked drily, ‘but I am getting Parliament’s army to do it for me.’

  ‘That is not enough!’ Makepeace said fervently. ‘I need to know how to battle ghosts that are already in a body. I need to save James.’

  ‘To save James?’ The young Fellmotte shook his head. ‘It is too late. If he has Inherited, he is lost.’

  ‘He Inherited five spirits, not seven,’ Makepeace parried. ‘Sir Anthony lost two ghosts after you left him for dead. James might not be crushed to nothingness yet.’

  ‘His chances are small,’ Symond replied, but he looked a little thoughtful.

  ‘But is it not worth the gamble?’ Makepeace could only hope that Symond had some grains of real affection for James. ‘He was your childhood playmate – you grew up together. He trusted you. He was so loyal to you that he helped you steal from the Fellmottes!’

  ‘I always liked his company,’ Symond said, in a carefully level tone. It reminded her of the flat, precise way he had talked on the night of his father’s Inheritance. ‘When I talked to him, I could pretend that the world was simple. It was like taking off armour.’ He sighed, and shook his head again. ‘He should have deserted when I did. I am not his keeper.’

  Makepeace swallowed her anger, and decided to change tack. The young aristocrat was no longer waving a sword at her, but it still seemed wise to convince him that she was useful to him, instead of just dangerous.

  ‘Then tell me what you know of ghosts, Master Symond, and let me try to save him. In return, I will be a friend to you. I am no kitchen girl here. I am Patience Lott, God’s own prophetess. Even Lady Eleanor vouches for me. I will hear your so-called friends plotting against you. I can warn you of dangers. I can even have “visions” of you fighting the good fight.’

  An incredulous smile started to pucker the corner of Symond’s mouth.

  ‘You may not be haunted by Elders,’ he said, ‘but you are changed. I never thought that you would prove to be the ruthless one!’

  Makepeace scrutinized Symond. She had never known him well, and even now she felt as if she were slithering across the surface of his icy, unreadable facade. Clearly he was having trouble understanding her too.

  ‘I am not changed,’ she said. ‘You never knew me. None of you ever knew me.’ It occurred to her that perhaps she had not even known herself.

  CHAPTER 31

  Symond dug out a bottle of rum from behind the bed, along with a wooden cup and an engraved metal one.

  ‘If the men out there knew I had this, they would all be craning their necks and hissing like geese,’ he said coolly. ‘They’re all prayer-mad. God’s blood, they have fits of the mother every time I swear! Where is the fun in being a soldier if you don’t drink or swear? Of course, the sergeant knows I bring bottles here, but he can’t punish me without admitting how often he searches my room.’

  He sloshed a little rum into the two cups, and passed the wooden one to Makepeace. She suspected that the wooden cup showed her the terms of the alliance he was willing to offer – with Symond as patron and master, not an equal. Makepeace took it, hesitated, then sipped. It seemed best to humour his pride for the moment.

  ‘My destiny was explained to me when I was ten years old,’ Symond said, staring into his cup. ‘I was taken to the vast family tree painted on the wall in the chapel, and told about the great ancestors I would truly know some day. I was “a new channel cut to hold a great river from the past”.

  ‘That was when my training started. Heirs of the house must practise contracting mind and soul, so as to make space for our future guests. The Infiltrators examine us regularly.’ He stared at the tip of his riding boot. ‘Sometimes they . . . rearrange our inner architecture. Apparently the results are more satisfactory if done over a long time, like training a hedge for topiary. Far better than having to hack a space of the right size at the last minute.’

  ‘They rearranged your soul?’ asked Makepeace, appalled. ‘Did that not change you?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Symond shrugged. ‘I have no idea what kind of man I might have been without it.’

  ‘What else did they teach you?’ Makepeace was beginning to wonder if she might have got off rather lightly with her three years’ drudgery in the kitchen. A decade of regular brain-pruning was a high price to pay even for lordship and luxury.

  ‘Well, they did not teach me
how to fight my ancestors’ ghosts! Quite the reverse. I was taught how to yield.’ A slightly bitter smirk. ‘It was drummed into me that my destiny was not only my duty, but also my greatness and glory. I drank the claptrap down, and was desperate to host my ancestors. After all, what would I be without the “great river” of those ancient souls? Just a muddy ditch.

  ‘But there were things I noticed. I began to work out why the Elders need us.’

  ‘Unhoused ghosts melt into nothing,’ Makepeace said promptly.

  ‘They do,’ agreed Symond. ‘Our bodies protect the Elders, and stop them blowing away in the wind. But there is more to it than that. Normal ghosts burn themselves out faster the more they move, talk or do. Have you noticed that?’

  Makepeace nodded. She remembered Bear charging at his erstwhile tormentors, his essence steaming away from him.

  ‘Ghosts inside a living person’s body wear themselves out too, but they renew themselves. Strength passes from the living person to the ghost. They’re like mistletoe boughs, drinking the strength from a living tree. We are not just their shelter. We are their food.’

  The thought made Makepeace shiver, but it also made sense to her. Her own guests were sometimes active, sometimes dormant. They lent her strength and skills she did not have, but now she thought about it, she often felt exhausted afterwards.

  ‘Have you ever watched an Inheritance?’ Symond asked suddenly.

  Makepeace flinched, then shook her head. She did not want to admit to what she had seen at Twelfth Night.

  ‘I have,’ said Symond, and for a little while his face had absolutely no expression at all.

  ‘My father,’ he said, after a pause, ‘was my hero, my teacher, my pattern for life.’

  ‘I liked Sir Thomas,’ Makepeace said, very gently. Symond gave her a puzzled, distracted glance, and she realized that her likes and dislikes had no meaning for him at all.

  ‘You never knew him,’ he said dismissively. ‘With everyone else he could be bluff and merry, but he was stern and exacting with me, because our conversations mattered. I feared him, admired him, and tried to please him. You cannot understand the bond between a lord and his heir. Sharing such a destiny means so much more than sharing blood. Lordship is a sacred trust, a duty of guardianship – the estate and title own us, as much as we own them, and we must pass them on unsullied.’ For a moment Symond did not sound quite like himself, and Makepeace could imagine Sir Thomas saying those words.