by Airs
WILLIAMrode down the lane from Fleckham House, but turned to the left at the road to go to the small stable, where she waited for him. He slid down from the saddle, and Jinson came out to take the gelding’s reins. William walked slowly as he went in through the tack-room door, savoring the
anticipation of seeing her again.
He paused just outside the box stall. The mare eyed him with only casual interest. The oc-hound jumped to his feet, stiff-legged and growling. But the filly—his filly—trotted forward, her ears pricked, her delicate nostrils flaring at his familiar scent. William opened the gate and let the foal butt her head against him. He rubbed her pale, stubby mane, and ran his fingers over the faint dapples on her silvery back.
Every inch of her gleamed in the winter sunlight. His own nostrils flared, tasting her fresh, oaty smell. He still felt surprise at how pleasant it was to touch her, and to feel her velvet lips nuzzle his palm, looking for treats. In the past, he had only cared about how fast a horse could carry him. He had never expected actually to like the little creature.
The oc-hound stalked past him, tail stiff, lip curled. William kicked at him, and the dog snarled, but ran off down the aisle to Jinson, who had just come in from the tack room. Jinson stroked the dog, then straightened. “Can’t you get a different dog for her?” William said testily. “I don’t like that one.”
“There’s a bond between the winged horses and the oc-hounds, my lord,” Jinson said with irritating sincerity. “We’re pressing our luck as it is.”
William was tempted to order him, but the warmth of the filly pressing against his hip distracted him. He cradled her delicate cheek in his hand. “All right, little one,” he said indulgently. “If you like him, I won’t make him leave.”
Jinson kept his distance, but he said, “She’s growing fast, m’lord. I think we could start her on some mash.”
“She’s still suckling, though?”
“Aye, but the winged horses mature earlier than wingless ones. She could use more.”
“Good, Jinson. See to it.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
“When will she fly?” William asked, still stroking the satiny hide.
“Well, m’lord—the horsemistresses say—”
William raised his head. “You’re my Master Breeder,” he said in a silky tone. Jinson, it seemed, understood that voice. He took a half step backward. “I don’t want to hear what they do. I want to know what I can do.”
Jinson cleared his throat and looked miserably unhappy. William teased the filly’s forelock with his fingertips. “Well,” Jinson said. “They—that is, I understand that winged horses fly at about twelve months. Then they begin to carry saddles, and sand weights to gain strength. They don’t carry the girls—that is, riders—until they’re about eighteen months.”
“It seems a long wait.”
“Aye, m’lord, but you don’t want to injure your filly.”
William raised his head again and fixed Jinson with a hard gaze. The man dropped his eyes to his boots,
and William chuckled. “No, no, Jinson, you’re right, as it happens. I don’t want to injure her.” He stroked her once more, and then stepped back, out of the stall. “She’s perfect,” he mused, looking down at her. “My little jewel.”
“Aye.”
“Diamond,” William said.
“Beg pardon?”
“Diamond. Her name is Diamond. A single name, like the founders of the other bloodlines.”
“Beautiful, m’lord. It’s perfect.”
“Indeed. As she is.” William shut the half-gate, and nodded to Jinson. “You can let the damned dog back in now.”
THIRTY-FIVE
PHILIPPAreceived a tersely worded invitation to Islington House for the Erdlin holiday, but she dropped it into the grate the moment she read it and crouched beside the fire to watch the card with her family’s crest go up in smoke. She had received, and accepted, a more rustic invitation. It had come, in fact, with the mail coach, a carefully lettered note from Deeping Farm, the Uplands. The invitation was from all the Hamleys, inscribed on plain paper, but Philippa felt certain the hand was Brye’s. She hesitated only a moment before scrawling her acceptance on a piece of the thick stationery stamped with the wings of the Academy, then she put the note into her bureau drawer, under a pile of handkerchiefs.
At luncheon that day she felt Larkyn’s gaze following her. As she went out of the dining hall, the girl was waiting for her beneath the portrait of Seraph. Larkyn’s dark curls were almost exactly the color the artist had chosen for Seraph’s mane and tail.
Philippa stopped beside the portrait and raised her eyebrows at Larkyn. “Did you wish to ask me something?”
Larkyn’s cheeks flamed. “I—I thought you might have—”
“Ah. You know, then, of the kind invitation I received from Willakeep today.”
The girl was practically bouncing on her toes. “Was it—I mean, Brye asked if you would mind—we just thought, after all that happened—”
“Indeed,” Philippa said. “There are no secrets here, it seems.”
Larkyn blushed harder.
“But you’re right. It would be awkward in the extreme for me to go to Islington House. I prefer spending the holiday here, at the Academy, enjoying the solitude.”
Larkyn’s face fell. “Oh. Oh, aye. Of course.”
Philippa relented and allowed her stern expression to soften. “Larkyn,” she said. “It is the nicest
invitation I have received in years. I’ve already written your brothers to say that it will be a great pleasure for me to spend the Erdlin holiday at Deeping Farm.”
The joy that lighted Larkyn’s face gave Philippa’s heart a twinge of something like pain. “Oh, Mistress Winter! Lovely fine, that is! And we can fly there—together!”
“Indeed,” Philippa said, composing herself. She couldn’t think what it was in this child that confused her feelings so. “Indeed we can. I look forward to it.” She drew her gloves from her belt and her cap. “And now. You have a flight, I believe.”
“Aye.” Larkyn spun about in a swirl of skirt and coat, and dashed out of the Hall. Philippa, smoothing her cap onto her hair, followed more slowly, but a smile clung to her lips, and it felt good. She would put aside her cares for a time, sleep under the Hamleys’ venerable roof, eat good farm cooking. She couldn’t think of a better way to spend the holiday.
THEYwere fortunate in the weather. Two days before the holiday began, a dusting of snow fell in the early morning, but the sky cleared by afternoon and stayed that way. Lark and Mistress Winter, who had the longest flight to make, would depart first, while the rest of the students and instructors were still preparing. Amelia was off to Arlton to spend the festival with her father at Prince Nicolas’s court. Hester and Anabel and the other second-level girls had to ride home in carriages and phaetons, their horses trotting behind. Only Lark, of her class, was allowed to fly, since Mistress Winter was going with her.
They led their horses outside, and Mistress Winter asked Lark to keep Sunny’s rein for a moment while she conferred one more time with Mistress Star. Lark stood in the chilly sunshine, feeling buoyant with anticipation at seeing her family, her goats, her cows, and her own homely bedroom once again. Little Molly bleated from the stable, making her feel just a bit guilty, but Herbert had promised to look out for her. And Bramble, of course, would keep her company.
“Very odd, if you ask me,” came a voice behind Lark.
She turned to find Petra Sweet in the stable doorway, leaning against the jamb. “I didn’t ask,” Lark said.
Petra straightened and came out into the sunshine. Her boots squeaked on the thin layer of snow.
“People are talking,” she said, pursing her thin lips. “Wondering why a horsemistress—the assistant Headmistress, no less—should want to spend Erdlin at a goat farm?”
Lark turned her back on Petra and stroked Sunny’s mane. It glowed scarlet in the sunshine, brushed to a silke
n sheen by Amelia just this morning.
“It’s just strange,” Petra said, coming closer. “Especially since I’ve heard that she’s leaving the Academy. Sent down by Duke William because she killed Mistress Strong.”
Lark whirled, and stamped her foot. “You don’t know anything about it,” she said. “Mistress Strong attacked Mistress Winter, because…” She stopped, remembering. She had promised never to speak of it.
“Yes?” Petra said. “Because?”
“Mind your own business, Sweet.”
Petra’s mouth tightened more, until her pinched face looked something like a dried apple. “Listen to me, Goat-girl,” she said. She stepped very close to Lark, her chin thrust out. “You’ve brought nothing but grief to the Academy. I blame you for what’s happened to Mistress Winter. First the crossbred colt, then you won’t use a saddle—”
“I use a saddle now,” Lark protested.
“You’re just trouble, Black. None of this would have happened without you!”
Lark’s throat closed, and her delight in the day evaporated. Tup, sensing her mood, whimpered, and Petra said scornfully, “That crybaby of yours! Can’t youdo something about that noise?”
Before Lark could even think of how to answer, Tup threw his head up, stretched his neck toward Petra, and bared his teeth a hand’s breadth from her face. She jerked backward, almost losing her footing on the slippery cobblestones. Lark whispered, “Tup! No!”
Petra recovered her balance and stood with her hands on her hips, two spots of red flaming in her cheeks. “Black! Your mongrel horse tried to bite me!”
“He wouldn’t have bitten you,” Lark said. Her cheeks, too, were burning, and she struggled to control her temper. “But he’s sensitive—”
“He’s spoiled rotten!” Petra spat. “And when we have a new Headmistress, I’ll make it very clear—or His Grace will—that the two of you need a strong hand!”
Lark drew a steadying breath. She kept her eyes on Tup as she spoke, in as steady a voice as she could manage. “Take a word of advice from the goat-girl, Sweet. Watch out for the Duke. Keep your blinkers open around him.”
“What? How dare you speak of the Duke that way?”
“Just remember what I said. I know you don’t like me, nor I you, but I don’t want to see you end up…well. End up in trouble.” She lifted her eyes now, and they met Petra’s curious ones. “You’re to be a horsemistress, and nothing should interfere with that.”
Petra tipped her head to one side, considering Lark for a long moment. “You’re serious,” she finally said.
“Aye. I’m serious.” Lark saw that the doors of the Hall had opened, and Mistress Winter, in her heavy winter flying coat and thickest gloves, was coming across the courtyard. “I know more than I ever cared to know about the Duke,” Lark said in an undertone. “Believe me, for your own sake.”
Petra gave a hoot of laughter. “As if I need advice from a country bumpkin!”
“Mayhap you don’t,” Lark said. “But now you’re off my conscience.”
Mistress Winter came up and took Sunny’s reins. “Ready, Larkyn?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Good. Let’s go while the weather is good.” Mistress Winter, with the nimbleness of a girl half her age, leaped into her saddle. Lark mounted, too, and picked up her reins. Both horses stamped their feet, blowing, rustling their wings with eagerness to be aloft.
“Good Erdlin, Petra,” Mistress Winter said.
“And to you, Mistress,” Petra said.
Lark opened her mouth to offer the same courtesy, but Petra turned her back and disappeared inside the stable before she could speak. Tup shook his bridle and danced sideways, making Lark laugh. As she followed Mistress Winter into the flight paddock, and they began their canter into the wind, she forgot all about Petra Sweet and her gibes. In moments, the two horses spread their wings and launched into the brilliant blue sky, leaving the ground and its worries behind them. Lark gave Tup his head, and he surged past Winter Sunset, leading the way. Lark glanced quickly over her shoulder to see if Mistress Winter minded, but she had given Sunny her head, too, and one of her rare smiles played across her face. With a shiver of happiness, Lark turned her face toward the hills, and home.
PHILIPPAwatched Seraph and Larkyn as they soared past her. The girl’s seat was so much improved, she could hardly credit it. When Larkyn had managed to deceive everyone at her first Ribbon Day by flying with only a handgrip and no saddle at all, Philippa had despaired of her ever accepting the necessity of the flying saddle, but it seemed now that this, at least, she no longer need worry about. Seraph was small and neat of body, his neck muscled, his tail arched and streaming in the wind. His wings, though narrow, were strong and steady.
But what set the pair apart was not just that Larkyn’s spine was erect and flexible, or that Seraph’s hoof tuck was picture-perfect. It was the delight they had in flight, the accord in their movements, the evident trust each placed in the other. With a swell of emotion, Philippa put her gloved hand on Sunny’s neck, feeling the heat of her body through the layers of wool and leather, the power of her wingbeats rippling up from the great muscles of her chest. They had worked together, she and Winter Sunset, for more than twenty years. They had suffered, and fought, and monitored young flyers. It was hard to think that Larkyn and Seraph might have to meet the same challenges, suffer the same tragedies, as she and Sunny had done; but they were strong enough, she felt certain, to deal with whatever their career might bring them.
She lifted her face into the sunshine, and though the cold wind brought tears to her eyes, she savored every wingbeat as her bondmate carried her on toward the Uplands.
THElast time Philippa had been at Deeping Farm she had arrived in Lady Beeth’s carriage on a rainy spring day, her head and heart aching with fear for both Larkyn and Black Seraph. How lovely it was now to soar above the tiny hamlet of Willakeep, to circle the slate roofs and slumbering winter fields of Deeping Farm, to come to ground in the snow-softened lane and canter into the barnyard to be welcomed by a chorus of cackling hens, the bleating of brown goats, and Brye Hamley’s tall figure. Brye swept Larkyn into an embrace, then stepped forward to bow. “Philippa,” he said in his deep voice.
She nodded to him. “Hello, Brye.” She knew Larkyn glanced at the two of them with surprise at their familiar form of address. But Brye Hamley and Philippa Winter had been through three days of agony when Larkyn and her little black went missing, and a friendship had been forged. Philippa smiled at the
farmer. “I have looked forward to this very much,” she said.
“And we are glad you decided to come.” He held out his strong, work-roughened hand.
Philippa took it, remembering the tenderness those hard fingers had shown toward Bramble. “It’s good to see you again,” she said quietly.
Another surprised look from Larkyn, but Philippa pretended not to notice.
The girl Peony, plump and red-cheeked in a long apron, appeared in the kitchen doorway, framed by the bare branches of the rue-tree that framed it. She curtsied to Philippa, and greeted Larkyn with more respect than she had previously. Philippa could see why.
Larkyn stood with Seraph’s rein in her hand, her cheeks and nose pink from the icy winds aloft, her riding cap at a smart angle, her divided skirt brushing the toes of her boots. She looked every inch a flyer, and Seraph made an impressive sight, too, with his head high and nostrils flared to take in the familiar scents of the farm where he had been foaled. Larkyn touched the point of his wing with her quirt, and he folded his wings, rib to rib, shaking his head from side to side and snorting.
Soon the horses were settled with water warmed for them by Brye. Hay and grain was waiting for them in their stalls. Larkyn urged Philippa to go into the kitchen, promising to rub Sunny down and blanket her against the cold in the unheated barn. Philippa agreed, and Larkyn flashed her a brilliant smile. It was a day of color, Philippa thought, as she left the girl to her chores. White
snow, blue sky, the red and black of the horses wings, illuminated by the sun, and the vivid violet of Larkyn’s eyes. And in the kitchen there waited a pot of the Hamleys’ good strong tea, no doubt a plate of the crooks for which the Uplands were famous, and a crackling fire in the close stove.
She crossed the courtyard, enjoying the crunch of crisp snow beneath her boots. She ducked beneath the branches of the rue-tree and opened the kitchen door.
A wave of warmth met her, scented with the rich smells of freshly baked bread and some kind of soup bubbling in an enormous pot. The old farmhouse was a welcome sight, with its slanting staircase and high-beamed ceiling, its mismatched chairs and rows of battered pots hanging from hooks. The curtains, she thought, were new. Everything else in the place had the air and the security of great age.
She slipped off her cap and her gloves and was folding them into her belt when Pamella came in, her young son behind her. Philippa stopped where she was, her mouth open, the cap and gloves forgotten in her hand.
She had known they would be here, of course. It had been the greatest kindness that the Hamleys had invited Pamella—formerly the Lady Pamella, Duke William’s own younger sister—to stay with them.
Pamella, disgraced and disowned, had come with her baby son at the same time Larkyn and Seraph had been found, at last, safe in a witchwoman’s hut.
They had not even known the child’s name then. Only later, as Pamella began to trust the Hamleys, did she write her son’s name for Larkyn. Brandon had looked like a Fleckham, of course, with his pale hair and black eyes, nor had that surprised anyone.
But now, at nearly four, the little boy’s likeness to his uncle, Duke William, almost stopped Philippa’s heart.
She stared at the two of them. Pamella looked aged beyond her years, and the boy Brandon was straight and slender, tall for his age. Pamella pushed the boy forward to greet Philippa. Philippa, watching him walk across the ancient tiles of the kitchen floor, struggled for something to say.
