The Secret's Keeper and the Heir

by Jackie McCarthy

  “You can hate me all you desire. You’re a teenager, it’s what you’re designed to do,” said Fenric with a quiet intensity. He limped across the room, bending down painfully to grab the frock again. “You will, regardless, wear this dress.”

  “You can’t make me!” Lucy cried from her seat, tears now streaming down her sun-freckled face.

  “I can’t?” Fenric asked, his eyes full of command. “You’re the ward of the Lord Delahaye and my charge, which means you live by our pleasure. You’ll do exactly as we say, for it’s the job of adults to guide those who aren’t yet equipped to know better.”

  * * * * *

  Jas Hawkesbury knew better than to speak to the Turnagain’s prisoner without the Captain’s permission, yet he found he couldn’t help himself. He clenched and unclenched his aching fists, at times pulling out his dagger and at times hastily stowing it away. His heart beat in time to the creaking of a ship he would never love, but upon which he would likely float to the end of his days.

  Standing vigilant guard, Jas eyed the sleeping man’s bulging pocket which, he knew, contained the journal he so desperately wanted to read…

  As though aware that he had company, Whyl’s eyes fluttered open at last. “It feels like we’ve stopped,” he said, looking around the dark hold. “Where are we?”

  “Dunsmere on Chaveneigh,” Jas answered quietly, unaware that he was once more twirling his dagger upon a wooden beam. “It’s the place Fenric asked to be brought.”

  A look of shock and hunger stole over Whyl’s weary face. He asked loudly, “Fenric asked to come here?”

  “Aye, specifically,” Jas answered. “I wonder what that darned puzzle of a man is up to.”

  “As do I,” Whyl said in agreement. “Perhaps I could weigh in if given the details. Tell me, what’s his business here?”

  “To visit his niece, or so he claims,” Jas said, shaking his head. “To bring her a dress, perhaps. He’s been talking about a dress for a ball—”

  “A dress!” Whyl exclaimed, jumping from his bed. His shackled arm caught and stopped his motion in mid-thrust, pulling him back to the cot, where his head impacting on a low beam. “I must see the dress!” he cried, oblivious to the pain.

  “Careful there!” Jas said, reaching out. Whyl seemed to want none of it, so the shiphand added quickly, “You can’t see it. He’s already taken it.”

  Whyl threw himself back on the cot, mumbling and cursing that they were already too late.

  “Why are you afraid of a dress?” Jas asked as the hairs on his arm raised eerily.

  Whyl looked aside, as though wondering whether or not to trust his visitor. He touched a reluctant hand to his head, and was startled when it came away with a hint of red. His panicked eyes turned to Jas, “Oh gods, am I bleeding?”

  “Here, let me…” Jas pushed the man’s head back, brushing skilled hands through the sandy hair. “No, it’s swollen, but it’s fine.”

  “Why is it wet?” Whyl whined, touching his head repeatedly. “That has to be blood—”

  “Whyl!” Jas barked, commanding the frightened survivor’s attention. “Why are you afraid of a dress?”

  “It’s not the dress that I worry about,” Whyl said, annoyed and poking at his skull, “it’s what the murderer put in it. Haven’t you heard about how the first queen was killed?”

  “Killed?” Jas asked, releasing the prisoner’s head. He felt his gooseflesh rising. “Nay. Everyone knows she died of natural causes…”

  “That’s what everyone thought,” agreed Whyl, raising himself to his elbows. “But then they tried to re-dress her body for the funeral ceremony. Each attendant who touched her gown became ill within days, and all were found dead not long after. The dress had been sprinkled with a deadly poison.”

  “But I…” Jas stammered, rubbing a confused hand against his forehead, “I’ve never heard any of this.”

  “Well, you’re at sea most of the time,” Whyl said in explanation. “And it’s such an old crime by now…”

  “Aye, I suppose,” said Jas. “And now he brings a dress to a girl—”

  “That’s right! You said it was his niece?” Whyl remembered, his eyes now wide with fear. “A girl of age to be the heir?”

  Jas examined, this time in waking, the prematurely aging lines of Whyl’s face. He wondered what Fenric had done to this poor fellow, and what the enigma intended to do to the girl next. “I’d been wondering that myself,” he told the captive.

  “You were right to wonder,” said Whyl quickly.

  Jas, shocked to find his dagger once more in his hand, thrust it down and into the wooden beam. “Then that must be his play,” he growled, angry to have been found sitting idle while the mad Scribe was on the loose. “That’s what he set out to do all those months ago. He’s found the female heir. I must tell the Captain—”

  “No!” Whyl yelled, grabbing at the over-excited sailor. “No. We must lay our tiles in order first. I can’t explain why, but your Captain has taken a dislike to me. He can’t simply be told to feel differently, Fenric is far too tricky to let go his admirers without a fight. You must prove it to the Captain. You must catch the Scribe in a lie.”

  “Catch him in a lie…” Jas echoed. “But he’s too smooth—”

  “You’re a smart man,” Whyl interrupted. “If anyone can see through the Scribe’s slimy artifice, it’s you.”

  “Catch him in a lie,” Jas repeated, this time sounding confident under Whyl’s praise. He knew not only that he could do it, but that he had to do it—for the safety of his friend, his shipmates, and, quite possibly, for all of the known world.

  * * * * *

  Lord Delahaye always thought that his sitting room felt impossibly small when he had visitors. The room was fine, he supposed, except for the fact that it contained company. It was a great imposition, most of the time—the need to entertain the friends of his wife and daughters when his own study was so comfortable and empty.

  With a wry grin, Delahaye set down his cup of tea and smiled mildly at the two young people who sat across from him, each on opposite sides of a long couch. At one end was his middle child, the broadly beaming Emibelle. At the other end sat a young man, new to the neighborhood. The boy, Dunstan Lorey, nodded at them in turn over his own tea and took a quiet sip.

  “I wish I’d known of your visit sooner,” said Lord Delahaye, picking up a lump of sugar and stirring it into his hot brew. “My wife may have been found in time to attend us.”

  “I’d meant to be later in my arrival,” Dunstan said by way of an apology. “I had hopes to bring my father, but he’s not well. I wasn’t sure you’d be as interested in seeing me without him.”

  “It’s no worry, my boy,” said Delahaye kindly. “You’re more than welcome to come for refreshments on your own. My only regret is that my daughter Emibelle”—he motioned to his daughter who, though it didn’t seem possible, smiled even more broadly in return—“is the only one to keep you company. My two other daughters are in town appraising bonnets, you see. And my ward is being reunited with her uncle after many years”—he gestured to the house above them—“though I suppose they could both spare a moment for tea. Shall I ring for them?”

  “Please, don’t trouble anyone,” Dunstan begged. “What is tea with a stranger to a reunion of family? It can be difficult to have relatives far away.”

  “Yes, yes,” the Lord Delahaye nodded rapidly, moved by the consideration in the young man’s words. “I imagine you would know something of that. Tell me, how are you settling—”

  There was a knock on the door and a manservant appeared. “Lord Delahaye,” he said with a bow, “there’s a problem on the grounds. They say it requires your urgent attention, sir.”

  “Of course, one moment,” said Delahaye with a rueful sigh. “We’re trying a new event planner this year, and so far it seems as though the world has decided to never run smoothly again. I’m afraid I must be excused. If you’d like, I’m sure my Emibelle and o
ur Gerhin would be delighted to give you a tour of our estate and grounds.”

  Dunstan looked across the couch as a grinning Emibelle scooted inches closer to him. He shook his head humbly, “I’m already imposing on the lady’s time.”

  “Please. My daughter lives to show off her pretty things. Isn’t that right, Emibelle?” Lord Delahaye said with a laugh. The girl nodded, blinking her blue eyes slowly. “See, it’s no imposition at all,” he continued. “Think nothing of it, young man.”

  * * * * *

  Cricket’s thoughts ran wild, and yet there were no thoughts at all. He took several mincing steps backwards, trying to keep his nakedness covered.

  Meanwhile, watching the boy’s red-faced struggle, Auk and the shipmen, as well as the shipboys who had stopped their scrubbing, turned to watch, their faces lit at the absurdity. They laughed and pointed, yelling comments about the inadequacy of his size and shape.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a snake quite that small parading itself around with such pomp,” said Nial from aloft.

  “Snake?” sneered Seto from the decks. “More like a worm!”

  “Shoulda known, though,” said Cyrus dismissively. “Look at his hands.”

  “Like a woman’s!” Omer concurred.

  “Stop laughing!” Cricket screeched. Though he would’ve given the world for it to be otherwise, his protestations came out in the high-pitched scream of a girl. The noise was drawing more onlookers and his cheeks, which were already a flush crimson, were growing redder by the second. “Shut up!”

  “Calm yerself, boy,” Auk said, patting the halyard by his hand. “Go get dressed and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

  “He’ll have a tough time getting dressed, don’t you think?” said Seto, pointing upwards. Agitation growing, Cricket traced the line under Auk’s hand as it shot up to the mast. Aloft, his underclothes fluttered in the breeze, the slightly soiled fabric displayed for all to see. One sailor, Omer, fell over laughing, and several more join in.

  Cricket could no longer hear them, the blood in his ears rushed by too loudly. There were mouths moving, words being said, but he heard nothing and saw only through a tint of red. What remained of his vision was focused on Auk, who held the line on which his pants now flew…and upon whom he didn’t hesitate to place blame.

  Without warning, Cricket hurried at Auk, pushing him into the ship’s low rail and driving his shoulder into the man’s chest. The Second, unprepared, fell back to the rail. Managing to get his arm under him and onto Cricket’s neck, Auk pushed the boy away harder than he intended. The sudden force sent the young shiphand crashing to the floor. His skull impacted the unyielding boards of the deck.

  Cricket’s vision failed for a moment, becoming blurry. Dark figures with soft edges gathered around him. Unaware that he was doing so, Cricket began to beg for mercy.

  The fight was over. Taking pity on a boy he hadn’t wanted to battle in the first place, Auk lifted the young shiphand and set him upright. “Get downstairs and get dressed, do ye hear me?”

  “Yes sir, yes sir,” Cricket said, nodding his head despite the dizziness. “Yes sir.”

  “After that, stay out of my way,” Auk added. “Turn yerself around, ye yellow-bellied excuse for a shipman.”

  Cricket nodded, deaf to the world. He saw Auk’s disapproving face, but it was spinning and in double.

  His shirt was released and he scampered off unsteadily, back below decks and into the darkness, wishing he’d never woken up.

  * * * * *

  “I wish you’d never have come here!” Lucy screamed, tugging the other end of the pink frock, which Fenric held fast. “I wish you’d have just stayed away, like you always have! You might as well kill me now.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” snarled Fenric, releasing his hold.

  Lucy fell backwards, engulfed in ruffles. She tore at them, struggling to regain her footing. Once upright, she let out a wordless cry and ran from the room, rending and tearing at the robust pink fabric as she went. Fenric rose to follow the trail of scraps.

  “I hate you!” she cried, letting strips of ribbon and lace litter the rail above the foyer. Unable to do further damage to the stoutly made dress, she tossed it over a curved railing, where it fluttered down into the estate’s grand foyer.

  Not bothering to see where the offending fabric had landed, Lucy continued to yell at her guardian, “I hate you! Why are you treating me like a child?”

  “Perhaps because you act like one,” answered a different voice entirely.

  Lucy stood stock still, frozen in horror. The frock had fallen beside her foster sister, and it was moving. Grinning, Emibelle lifted the dress theatrically from the head of their guest and Lucy felt she might die. Below the travesty of pink was the caramel-colored boy from the high-heather. Released from the onslaught of fabric, his hair ruffled, he looked about for the naughty child who was causing such a fuss.

  The boy locked eyes with her for only the briefest of moments, but she saw in them recognition. Lucy thought, unequivocally, that her life couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  “This might go on for a while,” said Emibelle, leading the disheveled Scadian boy and a disapproving lady’s maid from the room.

  “I’ve seen that girl before,” Lucy thought she heard the young Lorey say as he walked. “I’d thought she was a peasant.” Emibelle’s giggle pealed through the hall. Then they were out of sight.

  Lucy looked back at Fenric, her face still frozen in an expression of horror. “Ugh! You’re ruining my life!” she cried, stamping off. Anyone watching could have no doubt: she believed every word.

  * * * * *

  The Lord Delahaye was surprised to find a crowd of servants grouped around the old Oak, though his surprise grew less when he saw his wife at the center of it. She had a knack for silly things, he knew, and despite his own practical nature, he found her flights of fancy endearing. His surprise returned, however, upon seeing a strange boy speaking to her. “Is there a problem?” he asked the crowd.

  “Nay sir,” said Teridal, the Groundskeeper. “It just be the Gardener here—”

  “Oh, husband,” called Lanelle, her innocent smile growing wide upon seeing him. She knew to leave business of the estate alone, but she couldn’t help getting sucked into trouble from time to time. “I hope you don’t mind, I was walking about and—”

  “Of course, my love,” he said with a grin of his own. He planted a kiss on her upturned forehead, then brought his attention to the strange youth at her side. “I don’t recall hiring a gardener.”

  “Nay, I didn’t think so neither—” said a mystified Teridal.

  “One doesn’t need to hire me, you must understand,” said the boy haughtily. “It’s my job to know when I’m needed.”

  “Isn’t that just so?” Lanelle said dreamily. She nodded her head knowingly and turned to her husband with a pout, “Melvie, would you believe it? We might just be the last of the fine families not to have a dedicated Tree-Talker.”

  “My sweet, why would we need something so silly?” the Lord Delahaye asked.

  “Don’t tease me!” his wife said with a giggle. “I know you’re determined to be so very practical, but this time your science will meet my fancy. This young man is from Umbury, just outside of Lelan. There’s a dedicated Flora University, where he studies with, oh what was it again, darling?”

  “Professor Kaille,” said the boy promptly.

  “Professor Kaille, that’s it!” Lanelle echoed. “How marvelous! You know, I think I heard Lady Malaroux talking about him the other day. Wasn’t he the one who had successfully communicated with the potted perennials? They spoke in signs, would you believe it?” She twisted her hands in the air, as though hoping to guess some of the signals herself.

  Delahaye bit back his cynical guffaw when he saw her eager, guileless face. “I suppose it’s enough that you do, my sweet,” he said with a patient sigh.

  The boy took this as a sign to contin
ue. “My Lady,” said he, “so you’re informed. I’m so thrilled—”

  Meliver Delahaye took careful stock of the intruder on his grounds. The boy’s outfit was that of a worker—somewhat worn and dirty. That could certainly be the mark of a gardener, but seemed very unlike the garb of a student. Also, he was far too young to be much of either. Watching the boy’s performance, however, the Lord Delahaye had little doubt that the boy thought himself a gardener of repute. This was all that was really needed, after all, to send his wife into fits of delight.

  Deciding to let this harmless farce play itself out, Meliver said, “If my wife appears to be informed, perhaps I should be also. To the uninitiated, I hope you understand, the idea of a grove of oaks deciding to revolt is the stuff of fairy stories.” Suddenly realizing he didn’t know to whom he spoke, Delahaye said, “And, pardon me, what did you say your name was?”

  “Rosenwaller!” answered the Lady delightedly. She clapped her hands in excitement to be so knowledgeable. “One of a rare few to earn the title!”

  The boy nodded in concurrence and approached him. “I can see you’re an educated man, so I’ll speak to you as such,” he said in a low voice. “A man of science in Umbury, with whom I study, has discovered Umumphum, a new kind of tree pollen that has recently migrated to Dunsmere.”

  “Umum…” Meliver attempted.

  “Umumphum,” the boy finished. “Very deadly.”

  “Deadly for the trees?” the Lord asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “Nay, to us,” the Rosenwaller explained. “You’ve heard the tale, surely, of the Mighty Crawl?”

  Meliver thought back to his childhood storybook. “You mean when Illiam tree spirits awoke and went to war?”

  “Aye indeed, sir,” the youth said, his gestures expansive. “Before the time of man, before even the time of the Three, there was the time of trees. They would walk about, ruling the land. But then the gods fell upon the land and wanted to make way for man, and so the trees were turned to stone…”

  “You mean wood,” Meliver interrupted.

  “Aye, yes,” the Rosenwaller said impatiently, “you know what I mean.”

  “I know of this tale, my lord,” said Sata the cook. “It’s the most ancient magic.”