by Airs
“Well,” Francis said, with a listless gesture, “I was sitting up at the time.”
Philippa dropped her gloves on the bed, and leaned forward to touch Francis’s hand again. “Francis, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you, of all people, needed protection from him. He wanted you to come here, after all.”
“I don’t need protection from my brother,” Francis said, with a little flash of spirit. His color had risen a little, giving Philippa hope. “He struck me, but only once. And he hasn’t come back to this room since.”
“I think,” Philippa said, “that he spends all his time in his private stable, beyond the beech copse. With the filly.”
“The winged filly,” Francis said. “I still can’t believe it.”
“None of us can,” she said. “But you’ve seen him, so you know how changed he is.”
“He’s living in a sort of—a sort of prison. A prison he created for himself.” A little color rose in Francis’s face. “He is a man in a woman’s body, and his mind is coming apart under the strain.”
“Yet the Council won’t listen.”
Francis drew a shaky breath before he went on. “The Council Lords carry on a long tradition of respect for the Duke. You may have trouble standing against him.”
“I don’t care, Francis. This waiting will make me as mad as William. And the future of the winged horses is more important than the future of one cranky horsemistress.”
He sighed, and his brief color faded again. “I will come to the Rotunda,” he said. “To support you.”
“You will not,” she said firmly.
“But the consequences of your going alone—”
She interrupted him. “Consequences be damned. This has gone on long enough.”
FORTY
FRANCISwas glad to be out of the confines of the bedroom at Fleckham House. He was thoroughly sick of being an invalid, tired of berating himself, furious about William but helpless to intervene. Lord Beeth sent his carriage, and its four matched grays drew it swiftly toward the Uplands on a glorious day, with birdsong pouring from every tree and hedgerow. The carriage was fully equipped with a driver and two footmen, all in the scarlet Beeth livery. One nurse had come along, but the bloodthirsty physicians were left behind.
From the window of the carriage, Francis caught sight of Philippa and Winter Sunset flying ahead of them. Sunny looked like a great red bird, her wings glowing in the sun like fine parchment. Philippa made a slender slash of black against the achingly blue sky. Behind Philippa came the young flyers, Larkyn and her pretty stallion, Black Seraph. Francis leaned close to the window to watch them until the scalloped roof of the carriage cut off his view.
They made one stop at a town called Dickering Park, for Francis to be helped out of the carriage by the nurse and go into a tiny, low-ceilinged inn to have a meal, use the privy, rest a bit. Philippa and Larkyn would already be at the farm, making preparations. The innkeeper bowed and fussed over the great event of having the Duke’s younger brother in his establishment. Francis ate a joint of lamb and a plate of buttered bloodbeets, as much to please the innkeeper as to satisfy his own hunger, and drank a bit of cider. When it was time to leave, he was embarrassed to realize that he had no money with him. It had been a long time since he needed money of his own, and he had given no thought to it.
As he touched his coat pocket, where his purse might have been, the footman stepped up quickly, and said, “Nay, Lord Francis, his lordship has taken care of everything. Don’t trouble yourself.” Francis was forced to nod, and thank him, and as he was helped back into the carriage, he swore to himself this dependence would soon end. One way or another.
Deeping Farm surprised him, when the carriage finally trundled out of the road and down a lane of packed dirt. The barn, though newly whitewashed, was a simple square with a slanted roof. There was no paddock. The house was tall and narrow, with a slate roof and small windows. The front door, it seemed, was completely blocked by an overgrown laurel hedge. The kitchen door, which opened as the carriage pulled into the barnyard, was shaded by a twisted rue-tree in full leaf. Everything was smaller and dingier than Francis had expected. Behind the house, a blackstone fence enclosed a kitchen garden, and all around stretched the black dirt of empty fields. What was it about this simple place that so enchanted Philippa?
Philippa and Larkyn came out through the kitchen door with a plump, rosy-cheeked girl in a long apron.
Philippa greeted him, and introduced him to the aproned girl, whose unlikely name turned out to be Peony. Francis, leaning on the nurse’s arm, was led into the high-ceilinged kitchen, redolent with the scents of meals long past and one, it seemed, soon to come.
Peony curtsied, and blushed even redder, and mumbled, “Oh, aye, me lord, what a—oh, my goodness—we’re just so glad.”
He couldn’t find a proper way to respond, but he tried to smile and nod to her. He was exhausted, his muscles trembling. Philippa showed him the bed made ready for him in what was no doubt supposed to be a parlor, but he said, “Please, Philippa. I want to sit in a chair, at least to start with. My dignity is in shreds.”
She squeezed his shoulder. Her fingers were strong and hard, as he might expect from a horsemistress, and he wondered if there was any strength left in his own grip. Peony pushed forward an ancient wooden armchair that looked as if it had been mended a hundred times. As he fell into it, he was surprised to find how comfortable it was, as if the wood had molded, over the years, to the human form. Soon he had a mug of strong black tea in his hand, a plate of some long, narrow biscuits before him, which Larkyn informed him were called crooks, and a padded stool for his feet. Though the day was warm, a small, cheerful fire crackled in the hearth, and something bubbled busily on a close stove. Dented pots hung everywhere, and some sort of fetish hung above the sink, with tattered skirts and a half-ruined face.
Francis thought it was hideous, and he struggled against a sense of being utterly and uncomfortably out of place.
And then his sister came into the kitchen, a small boy with the ice-blond hair of the Fleckhams clinging to her skirts.
“Pamella,” Francis said. He held out his hands, and she ran to him, falling to her knees beside his chair and burying her face in his shoulder. The boy, his dark eyes filling with tears, hung back, sniffling.
“Pamella, are you well? Is this your boy?”
His sister, his imperious, spoiled, willful sister, shook her head against his shoulder, and the only sounds she made were heartwrenching sobs. Francis put his arms around her and held her, but the scene only added to his sense of strangeness. Pamella had never, in all their childhood together, wept in his arms, or indeed ever cried except when she wanted something from her father. He held her and gazed at Philippa above her head. Philippa shrugged, and Larkyn took the little boy’s hand while they all waited for the storm to subside.
In time, Pamella’s tears dried, and Larkyn urged the little boy forward. She said, “This is Brandon, my lord.”
Francis put out his hand to him. “I am your uncle Francis,” he said.
The boy took his hand solemnly, squeezed it, then retreated behind his mother. Francis drank his tea, watching his sister from the corner of his eye. She had taken a seat near the fire, and the little boy stood beside her knee. Pamella was thinner than he remembered, and there was no color in her cheeks. She kept her eyes on her hands, twisted together in her lap. And the boy, Brandon—Francis found he could hardly bear to look at him, though he seemed a likely lad. He didn’t know why he felt that way, but he was too weary to puzzle it out.
When everyone had finished their tea, Pamella jumped up to help Peony clear the mugs and the pot. She gave the last of the crooks to her son, then pulled on a long, worn coat, and went out the kitchen door.
This time, when Philippa urged Francis toward the bed in the parlor, he gave in. The nurse helped him out of his boots and trousers, and he lay down in a nest of pillows and old, soft linens. Beyond the curtained windows, the sky d
arkened to violet, then to a starry blackness. Francis watched birds flit to and fro past the window until he drowsed, lulled by the lowing of cows from the barn and the occasional bleat of a goat.
He woke to the sounds of pots clanking in the kitchen and desultory conversation. The nurse was gone, but a plain pottery cup and pitcher rested beside his bed. He poured himself water from the pitcher and drank it. By the time he had set it down again, Philippa was in the doorway. A big man stood beside her, with a broad-brimmed straw hat in his hands.
“Francis,” Philippa said quietly, “are you awake? This is Brye Hamley, the owner of Deeping Farm.”
“My lord,” the farmer said. His voice was deep, resonating in the old parlor. He had thick, graying hair, and strong features.
Francis said awkwardly, “I’m sorry I can’t get up to meet you, Master Hamley. It’s kind of you to allow me to stay here.”
“An honor to have you.” Hamley bowed, and looked Francis over as if taking his measure but seemed to feel nothing else needed to be said. He glanced around the parlor, and evidently finding all was in order, nodded to Philippa and went back into the kitchen.
Philippa crossed to the bed, and straightened the quilt over Francis’s legs.
“Philippa,” Francis said. “The boy, Pamella’s boy. Isn’t there something about him—”
He broke off. She pursed her lips and looked behind her, as if to be certain no one could hear. “There is something about him, certainly,” she said. “And both Larkyn and I have remarked upon it.”
“I can’t think what it means.” Francis sighed, feeling slow-witted and impatient with himself. His mind shied from the implications of Brandon’s face, his eyes, the cut of his chin and nose. He passed his hand over his eyes.
Philippa came to the bedside. “Do you need anything, Francis? Shall I call the nurse?”
He shook his head. “No. I just—I hate people seeing me like this.”
“Give it time,” she said.
“Philippa,” he said, his jaw tight with frustration. “I have given it time. Too much!”
Before she could answer, the girl Larkyn appeared in the doorway to say, “Supper’s almost ready, Mistress Winter.” She carried a little stack of napkins in her hand. “Will Lord Francis eat with us, in the kitchen, or shall I bring a tray?”
Philippa said, “I think a tray, Larkyn, thank you.”
Francis wanted to protest, but he hadn’t the energy even for that. He turned his eyes again to the window, where a faint moonlight now silvered the laurel hedge. He wondered if there was truly any reason that his recovery would be quicker in this rustic place than it had been at Fleckham House. He was utterly sick of being an invalid, of spending all his time in bed, of needing help for every simple act. It might have been better if the damned Aesk woman had finished the job while she had the chance. And he couldn’t help wishing, for the hundredth time, that it had been he, rather than poor Lissie, who had put an end to her cruelty.
FRANCISslept poorly, tossing and turning in the unfamiliar bed, listening to the creaks of old timbers, the whisper of feet moving on the floor above him, the chitter of some nocturnal creature in the walls. He finally fell into a heavy sleep just as the first gray light of dawn showed through the curtains. Moments later, it seemed, a rooster crowed vigorously from his coop as if the safe arrival of day were his sole responsibility.
Francis opened his eyes, unsure for a moment where he was. He turned his head on the pillow, and found that someone, a vague figure in the semidarkness, was bending over his bed.
He was only half-awake, and he thought for a moment that he must be dreaming. When he drew a startled breath, the unmistakable scent of horse filled his nostrils.
It was the young flyer. Larkyn. She was already dressed in her riding habit, black tabard and divided skirt. She leaned above him, with something in her hand. He squinted, trying to see what it was, wondering if he should protest.
The light grew steadily brighter outside, and now he could see her face, her smooth brow furrowed, her eyes pools of shadow, her lips pursed as she concentrated. She moved her hand across his body, and then up over his chest, and he saw that she held the fetish he had seen in the kitchen. She spun it, making
its skirts swirl, blurring its distorted features into a face of nightmare. She murmured something under her breath, and repeated the motion, then, with a little smile, she touched his blankets with her fingertips and was gone, leaving Francis to lie pondering what it all meant.
He managed, with his nurse’s help, to be outside in the barnyard when Philippa and Larkyn took their leave. The day was even warmer than the one before, presaging a hot summer. The air smelled of newly plowed ground, freshly turned compost, and goats. The two winged horses cantered up the lane to launch into the blue sky. Francis watched them, leaning on a staff someone had found in the barn. He didn’t take his eyes off the shining red horse and the gleaming black one until they dwindled in the distance, then he turned to assess his surroundings. With a heavy heart, he admitted to himself that this had been a terrible idea. He was stuck here, on a farm in the Uplands, in a cramped, dingy farmhouse with people he didn’t know and who didn’t know him. The air was sweet with growing things, it was true, and the atmosphere was restful. But he had nothing in common with these people.
Common—that was the word. He moved toward the blackstone fence that separated the kitchen garden from the barnyard and sat upon it, looking out at the rows of vegetables and vines. He had spent no time at all with commoners, not in all his nearly thirty years of life. He had lived a life apart, either with his family, or with Prince Nicolas, or even, during the Aesk adventure, with the Klee Baron. He knew nothing of how common life was lived, what they spoke of, what they read—if anything—or what they cared about.
His shoulders slumped as he let his weight settle onto the old stones of the fence, and he cursed himself for letting Philippa talk him into this.
Aweek after her return from the Uplands, Philippa presented herself once again in the Rotunda. She had rehearsed her petition, written down every word, changed it a dozen times. She meant to be clear, but she hoped to be respectful. Many of the Council Lords thought women should never speak in the Rotunda. Indeed, Duke William was not the only one who thought horsemistresses should have no rights above other women. Philippa struggled to phrase her statement to be as inoffensive as possible, but it was no easy task. She had a great deal to say. Subtlety would not serve.
Lady Beeth sent her carriage so that Philippa would not have to worry about stabling Winter Sunset in Osham. When Philippa, attired in a fresh habit and cap, her wings pinned prominently on the collar of her tabard, climbed into the carriage, she was surprised to find her benefactress seated inside.
“Lady Beeth,” she said, settling herself opposite. “It’s too kind of you to accompany me.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Hester’s mamá said with a grin. “And you must call me Amanda.”
“Then,” Philippa said, “please call me Philippa. And thank you for helping us yet again. I don’t know what any of us should have done without you and your husband.”
“What use is a title and a position if you can’t do some good with it? The Council Lords can use a bit of influence, if you ask me, and I’m only too happy to provide it!” Her hearty laugh boomed inside the confines of the carriage. Philippa managed only a smile. She was too tense to laugh.
It helped to be able to walk into the Rotunda in the company of Lady Amanda Beeth, to have little Lord Beeth bow to her, and escort her down the tiers to the petitioner’s chair. She walked with her back straight, her head high. She folded her cap and gloves into her belt, but she kept her quirt under her arm
as a badge of office.
There was a long wait while the Council observed its usual opening rituals. Philippa wished she could pace. Her fingers itched for something to fiddle with, but she left her gloves where they were and tried to relax her hands. She fixed her eyes on the emp
ty chair where Duke William should have been sitting. She felt like a boiling pot with a tight lid, and she hoped she wouldn’t explode before her chance came.
It was a great relief when, at last, Lord Beeth introduced her, and asked the Council to hear her petition.
She stood and clamped her quirt under her arm. “My lords,” she said. Her voice echoed off the hard floors and bounced back at her from the ceiling. There was silence in the Rotunda. Even the watchers in the gallery were rapt, no doubt hoping she was about to do something outrageous.
“My lords, the Academy of the Air has been without a Headmistress for months now, ever since the death of Margareth Morgan. Our spring crop of winged foals is half what it should be. The incoming class will be the smallest in memory.”
She waited for the rustle that greeted this announcement to cease, then she said, clearly and unequivocally, “Duke William sent down our rightful Master Breeder, Eduard Crisp, and replaced him with an incompetent.” Grim silence met this, narrowed eyes, stiff necks.
“Without the winged horses,” she went on, “Oc loses its edge over the other duchies and diminishes its bargaining position with other principalities. It’s not too late to save the bloodlines. I ask you, my lords, in the continuing absence of the Duke, to appoint a Headmistress, and to restore Eduard Crisp to his rightful position as Master Breeder.”
Several of the Council Lords shifted at that, and one or two began to grumble. Philippa raised her voice.
“Act now, my lords. If you wish to send me down, as the Duke has asked, do so. But give us Master Crisp, and give us a Headmistress. In honor of the memory of Duke Frederick and his ancestors, I beg you take action without delay.”
Amanda Beeth had advised her that when she was done speaking, it would be best if she simply excused herself. Philippa had no better advisor, and so she did as Lady Beeth had suggested. As she swept up the tiered steps to the aisle, and out to the door, she heard Lord Beeth begin to speak in his cultured voice. Someone interrupted him, and she heard her own name spoken in anger.
