“Fairy!” Emibelle cried merrily, wrapping her other hand around Lucy’s and squeezing it tightly. “What childish nonsense have you been spouting now, Lucy-Goosy?” Looking at her foster sister, she teased at the Ward’s disheveled curls. “But I think she’s been caught in a windstorm. What happened to your hair, dearest?”
The music for the next dance began to play and Emibelle gave Lucy’s curls a final fond pat. She shrugged, indicating their hopeless state. Dropping her foster sister’s hand, Emibelle took up Lorey’s instead.
“We can’t stand around in such a stupid manner, for Master Lorey is wanted on the floor with darling Simone, and I’ve been pledged to get him there on time!”
With a giggle, she pulled the Scadian boy away and they melted into the crowd. Lucy could only glare after them, not sure whether to feel pleased or embarrassed that the beautiful boy thought of her as a fairy. Shaking her head, she marched forlornly to the refreshment table.
* * * * *
Jas trudged along the road, his sense of fear mounting. He and Whyl had spotted the house on the low hill, alight with festivities, and were rapidly approaching the estate’s tall gate without having formed a plan.
Suddenly, in front of the shiphand, Whyl cursed and fell to the ground. There was a sharp wail and Jas dropped himself to the earth as well, just in case. “What is it?” he demanded in a whisper, his breath blowing up dust.
“I don’t know,” Whyl growled, searching the dirt road, “it just leapt out at me.”
“The Scribe?” Jas asked foolishly, pushing himself lower into the dirt. His question was met with a derisive meow.
“It’s a damned cat,” Whyl said angrily. “Be gone with you!”
The cat mewled back indignantly, sitting serenely in the road. Whyl took a few running steps in its direction and it scampered away.
Jas dusted himself off resentfully. Instinctively, he looked around to make sure he hadn’t been seen and cursed his overwrought nerves for the mortification of a dusty beard.
Continuing his trek, Jas reached the heavy iron gates moments after the determined Whyl. They stood at the open entry, surveying the fine estate beyond, and heard the rumble of a carriage approaching. Nodding to the horseman as it drove by, Whyl waited for it to pass and then followed it at a brisk pace. Jas stalked behind as well, caught off guard, and was surprised to find himself pulled behind a hedge when the carriage had stopped at the door.
Whyl watched from the bushes as a well-dressed older woman—announced to the doorkeepers as Lady Mirian—stepped carefully down from her carriage and was admitted to the estate. In a short time her horses moved off, and the way was clear once more.
“We should just go to the door,” Jas said in a whisper, “and say that we know an evil man is within. Surely they’d want to know this.” He heard a rustling from behind him and jumped in shock, but saw in the light of the great house that it was just the same orange cat from the road.
“The Scribe is known here, or he wouldn’t have been received,” said Whyl, shooting down the shiphand’s plan. “We must be more circumspect.”
“But what can we do?” Jas asked helplessly. “There are two doormen, you’re unarmed, and I have only my short dagger,” he whined, taking the small blade from its scabbard as a demonstration. He shook his doubtful head, “We should’ve grabbed weapons. I don’t know what I was thinking. We set off in such a hurry…”
Whyl let Jas ramble. Without a word, he grabbed the orange cat by the scruff of its neck. Holding it out before him, the former prisoner marched boldly towards the entrance. Jas could think of nothing else to do but scamper on his heels.
“We found the little bastard,” said Whyl familiarly to the guards.
“Don’t bother us with such trifles as your wife’s scullery cat,” said the doorkeeper dismissively. “Be gone.”
Jas took a step back towards the hedge obediently, but Whyl stood his ground.
“Be gone?” he laughed derisively. “Do you know who this cat is?”
The guards looked uncertainly at one another and then glanced at the loosely gripped cat, which mewed grumpily. “He’s a rat chaser, I’d hope,” said the first guard. “And if you don’t remove yourself from the property, I’ll see to it that you’re removed by force.”
“This cat,” Whyl replied, undaunted, “is Lady Mirian’s present to the smallest Delahaye girl.”
The guards examined the cat again, finding it just as indisposed to regard them as before.
“Ugly little bugger,” said the first doorkeeper. “Don’t reckon she’d be wanting it.”
“Nah, it’s just dirty,” chimed the second.
“And why shouldn’t it be?” Whyl demanded with righteous indignation. “The state of the road here was atrocious. We hit a large bump and his cage broke free. Our lady was already running late, so my companion and I were sent to retrieve him. We chased him all through these disagreeable fields. Do the Delahayes take no pride in keeping their fields neat and trim or their roads passable? You should be ashamed!”
The doorkeepers, looking uncertainly upon the immaculately manicured grounds, weren’t sure how to answer. They shrugged and nodded in turn, mumbling sincere apologies.
Whyl accepted these confessions in stride, gesturing again to the cat, which had grown quite bored with his predicament. “Whatever the case, don’t be fooled by his current state of grooming. This cat shares blood with the royal felines of the House Mallar.”
“Mallar?” asked the guard, recalling his history lessons. “You mean the fallen family of Illiamna? Why would the girl want a Usurper’s cat?”
“Nah, nah, not the Usurper’s, the usurped,” said the second guard, reaching out to scratch the animal’s head. “I think it’s quite nice. It’s, like, a princess cat.”
“He just said it were a boy,” said the first guard with a roll of his eyes.
“Nah, all cats is girls,” said the second guard, returning to his place.
“You’re an idiot,” said the first guard, smacking his companion across the head.
“Fine, alright!” cried the young man. “Prince cat, then. Prince cat! And I don’t care what you say, I think it’s real sweet.”
“As do I,” said Whyl. “And don’t you think the little girl would be upset to lose the chance of receiving such a fine pet?”
The cat mewled a soft threat and the second man flinched. “I think she might be better off with a different cat, actually,” he said, backing up. “This one looks mean.”
“Not mean, merely annoyed to be kept from his new mistress for so long,” Whyl explained artfully. “Wouldn’t you be also, with the prospect of belonging to such a sweet girl?”
“Aw now,” said the doorkeeper, “I reckon that’s so.”
“She’s a real sweet little one,” said the second, smiling to himself, “rosy cheeks and all. I think she’d like a kitty.”
The guards looked at one another and then, as one, took a step towards the door. They spoke in a huddle.
Jas glanced back and forth between Whyl and the two guards, amazed to find that the ruse was working. He marveled at his companion’s quick thinking and felt a moment of pride. Maybe the naive boy had drowned, but the man who took his place was a master of resourcefulness and tact—he’d survived the fire and fury only to emerge stronger than before.
This was no longer a naive boy going out to sea for the first time, but a man who had gone through struggles and learned from them resourcefulness and tact.
From the huddle came short audible snippets of the doorkeepers’ argument. “He ain’t on the list,” said one. “It’s the Lady’s gift,” said the other. “I don’t think we ought to—” replied the first. “What if we send them in the back way?”
The guards turned back to Jas and Whyl, having found a solution.
“Alright, fellas,” said the first doorkeeper, “you’re to go in the back way, give the cat a proper bath, put it in with the gifts, and then go to wait in the stable
s with your carriage.”
Jas listened excitedly as the guard gave these instructions, suddenly feeling that their success had been imminent from the beginning. He didn’t stop to think how Whyl had come across the name of the estate or relative age of the youngest daughter. He supposed those details had been said at some point, but that he himself had failed to notice.
* * * * *
Rose hardly dared to breathe as the Lord Delahaye flipped through his correspondence and rattled through his desk looking for the letter that was then resting in her hand. He muttered to himself as he looked, talking himself through the last time he’d seen the lost page.
In the scant light of the cabinet’s interior, Rose examined the letter she’d accidentally stolen. On either side was the inked design that caught her attention—its angular, asymmetrical shapes still strangely familiar.
Rose could dismiss the symbol’s familiarity from the earliest portion of her life. The only symbols they used in the fishing villages were ones she knew by heart—those that showed which fish were running and in what quantity, or how to get through a particularly winding canyon to find good grazing on the other side. No, this symbol was one she’d seen after the attack on her home, and yet…it wasn’t a symbol she’d seen at sea. Those too she was learning quite well, and would’ve known immediately.
With a sudden gasp that she rushed to muffle, Rose remembered what the symbol was. She held it to the shaft of light that filtered in between the cabinet’s doors to make sure, and her heart sank as she recognized it.
It was a mask. It was the inked representation of the mask worn by the man with the wicked laugh and glacial stare.
Rose had seen him in a dream…only it couldn’t have been a dream, for here the mask was in front of her. Thinking back, she pictured him in the endlessly large room and heard the pure hatred behind his jovial words.
A loud banging brought Rose back to the moment. The Lord Delahaye, now wondering at full volume where the letter could have gone, was forcefully lifting and dropping the books that circled his study, opening cabinets as he reached them, and peering within. Rose sat stiffly in panic, unable to think of how she might explain why the Rosenwaller had tip-toed into his study only to hide in his furniture.
She felt a slamming next to her and knew him to be close. The wood around her rattled as he placed his hand on the knob, and she saw a crack of light where the cabinet began to open.
Screwing her eyes shut, Rose waited for the rush of air and the Lord’s stunned reaction when he saw his Gardener hidden in his study. His shock, however, didn’t come.
Instead, there was a knock on the door. “My Lord,” said a girl’s voice from outside, “your wife’s looking for you.”
Closing the cabinet the sliver it had been opened, Delahaye paced to the door and let the servant in.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” she said when she was admitted.
“Is there trouble below?” Delahaye asked. The servant answered that there wasn’t and he replied, “I suppose I’ve been away too long. Tell the Lady I’ll be there presently. I’ll find Fenric’s letter another time, if I haven’t imagined it to begin with.”
To Rose’s great relief, she heard the study door click shut once again. She released the tension in her body, noticing the sweat that had broken out across her skin. She tried to wipe the nervous beads from her brow but was impeded by the paper she held.
Though she was desperate to learn what the letter said, she was far too wound-up to recall her reading lessons at a time like this. She wondered all the same what it meant that the masked man was sending correspondence to the Scribe. Were they enemies? Were they friends? Did one give the other instructions?
Rose stuffed the letter into her pocket, not sure she wanted Fenric to see it at all. She considered her situation—that she was possibly trapped inside a rich man’s study—and wondered if the Scribe would take any steps to secure her freedom. She’d completed the task given to her, hadn’t she? So, if she was discovered, would he help her?
Rose didn’t know, but she doubted it.
With a start, the trapped girl realized that she hadn’t completed Fenric’s task. Or rather, she recalled that the Scribe had assigned her more than one. She was supposed to dance with the girl in the pink dress.
This second task seemed extraordinarily odd. Rose had never stepped foot in a nobleman’s house let alone danced in one. She’d heard tell of how complicated dancing could be, however, and the idea that she would be able to simply do it on a lark seemed laughable.
Unless, crept the dark thought, Fenric had spoken of this task with the cryptic vagueness with which he spoke about everything else. The symbol of the masked man flashed before her eyes, and Rose’s body tense with dread.
What if, she wondered, “dancing” with the girl actually meant to hurt her? She recalled the sickening clatter of bones as the mask man emptied a charred bag upon the floor. She remembered also the cold chill she’d felt when the Scribe handed her a blade. If, as Fenric said, life was a game, did that mean death was a dance?
Woozy with fear, Rose rushed to the study window and swung it open. She took several gasping breaths of the cooling night air, resting her head on the neatly cut stone of the window opening.
Dizzy head steadying, Rose noticed that a latticework of heavy vines had grown onto the outside of the wall, possibly strong enough to climb down. She swung her leg over without a second thought, wanting nothing quite so much as to escape.
* * * * *
The time to run was long passed, if it had ever existed at all. Lucivak regarded the small fire he’d managed to start in the fireplace, his ears keen for sounds of movement from within and without. He glanced once more at the injured stranger who laid still on the floor, arms crossed protectively over his belly.
The fire popped viciously, causing the boy to jump in surprise. His heart had barely slowed when there was another alarming sound. A man yelled in the distance and a horse whinnied its displeasure. They were joined by other voices, all of which approached rapidly.
There was a loud banging on the door and Lucivak leapt up, bracing himself against the back wall. The voice at the door yelled, “Yov, what say you?”
Lucivak looked at the man he’d stabbed, fear apparent in his every feature. The man held the boy’s stare, his own face conflicted. Yov looked torn between options, but there was another yell from outside, rushing his decision. Cursing softly, he looked at the boy with a sympathetic shake of his head. “Go ahead, hide,” he instructed Lucivak. “I’ll not tell them you’re here. Go!”
Trained to obey, Lucivak ran to the cupboard, shutting himself in.
“Oy,” yelled Yov, raising himself with difficulty and hopping to open the door for his cohorts.
“Yov, ye drunkard,” said the voice at the door, “whatcha you gone and done to yourself?”
“It were the boy, Junke,” answered Yov.
There came the familiar sound of a body sitting on the table bench as Junke lowered himself upon it. “So the boy’s got a bite?” he asked. “And where did he go?”
“Lit on out of here,” Yov said, his voice shaking. “Knocked me out first, though, so I wouldn’t know how to follow. I’m surprised your lot didn’t see him in the town.”
“No, we didn’t,” said Junke, an odd tenor in his voice. “I suppose he must’ve eluded us.”
“Well now, I suppose so,” Yov agreed eagerly.
Lucivak could hear the desperate secret in Yov’s voice, but he hoped that Junke wouldn’t understand what it meant. There was a prolonged silence, however, during which Lucivak’s imagination ran the gamut of fear.
There was a creak when Junke rose from his seat and heavy footfalls as he approached Yov. Then there was a loud thud. Lucivak trembled and Yov screamed in agony.
“Where is he you worthless lichen-harvester?” demanded Junke. “Where did he go?”
“He left!” cried Yov wetly, speaking through newly loosened teeth.
As the shrieking continued there were new noises—those of furniture being smashed and overturned. There were periodically loud crashes as well, and the sound of splintering wood as it broke to pieces on the floor. Lucivak’s hiding place was shaken when the shelf next to it was flipped on its side.
Yov’s screaming ended abruptly and was replaced by an urgent, passionate insistence, “he went out the back. Please, Junke, he went out the back, I swear.”
The room became suddenly silent.
It may only have been a matter of seconds, but to the sobbing Lucivak, this moment stretched into eternity. It was also, in ways he couldn’t understand, the shortest moment of his life. His heartbeat was so loud in the quiet space that he was sure they must have heard it.
Out in the room, Junke heard no such thing. He heard only the anguished pleas of a man who was a terrible liar. With a grin, he gestured to the small cabinet and asked the bleeding Yov, “You mean he’s definitely not in here?”
Without any other warning, Junke raised a gigantic smith’s hammer above his head and crashed it down upon the cabinet, shattering it and its contents into pieces.
* * * * *
Tappan brought his hammer down heavily on the metal rivet again and again, slowly forcing it back into place. Such tasks were his favorite, since he’d used such motions day after day in his job at the quarry. His body was built for this work.
Moving his attention to the next rivet, he readied the two-handed hammer once more, measuring the distance and choking his hold for the most accurate hit.
“What were you and Misses Monkey talking about earlier?” asked a voice from the shadows.
Nearly jumping out of his shoes, Tappan lost hold of his hammer. It followed his backward momentum and clattered to the deck behind him. Picking it up, Tappan rested his hand upon it, wondering if this was to be the moment he finished things with the redheaded shiphand.
“Hey, Cricket,” he said casually. “We weren’t talking about anything.”
“You think I believe for a second you were comparing your knot knowledge?” Cricket demanded. “You think I’m an idiot? Well go ahead, don’t tell me, I got two tools of persuasion right here,” he said, kissing his own two fists.
The Secret's Keeper and the Heir Page 23
