Storm Glass (The Harbinger Series Book 1)

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Quite a while, it seems,” Fitzroy said. “She will be living with us. I’d like to take her to see Lady Maren, but neither of us has really slept, and I think a new frock and some breakfast would also do before an introduction. Will you arrange it?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Pullman said, never taking her eyes from Cettie. “I’ll put her up in the servants’ quarters, if it suits you. She’s a bit young for a servant’s frock, but we’ll try to find something that fits.”

  Cettie thought it more likely that Mrs. Pullman would pitch her over the side of the estate as soon as they were alone together.

  “No, not the servants’ quarters, Mrs. Pullman,” Fitzroy said, gesturing with his other hand to the building in front of them. “Here, in the main estate.”

  Mrs. Pullman almost tottered over at that. “The main estate?”

  “Indeed.” He turned and dropped to one knee in front of Cettie. The smile he gave her was cheery, but she could see the weariness in his eyes, the haggard look of a man with burdens. “I will see you again at breakfast, Cettie. Mrs. Pullman is the keeper of Fog Willows. She will take care of you while I rest and then attend to some business.” His smile broadened. “You are safe here. There are no ghosts.”

  Cettie bit her lip, seeing the look of aggrieved ire in Mrs. Pullman’s eyes. No, the keeper of Fog Willows didn’t like this arrangement one bit.

  “Thank you,” Cettie stammered.

  Fitzroy straightened, tousled her hair in a gentle way, and then turned to leave.

  “What should I call you?” Cettie blurted out, feeling embarrassed.

  He hesitated, his back to her, his hands clasped behind him. She could tell he was discomfited by the question from the way his fingers clenched into fists, nearly shaking. But he turned and gave her a wizened smile. “You can call me Fitzroy,” he said. “That is the name I am most used to hearing.”

  Cettie tried a curtsy, but Mrs. Pullman’s haughty smile assured her she’d failed. The other servants smirked at her, too, and her ears burned hot at the humiliation. There was much she needed to learn. But Cettie was an observer of people. She would figure out the customs of this new world. She was determined to succeed, to stay. It was her only chance.

  Mrs. Pullman led her all the way to the end of a lengthy hall, turned left, and continued walking down an even longer one. At the end of that one was another turn, a series of steps, and then another deeper passageway bringing them back the way they had come. It led them past the dining room, into the kitchen, and finally to a winding staircase at what seemed to be the farthest corner of the family mansion. Mrs. Pullman climbed the steps ahead of Cettie, having asked her to mind what she touched and not say a word. The stairs wrapped around the interior of a circular tower, and the climb wasn’t too difficult. Even in the interior of the tower, there wasn’t a smudge of soot. That struck Cettie as especially baffling. There was so much light, yet no candles, no puddles of wax on the floor. And no smoke. The air was so clear. They arrived at a room with a locked door, and Mrs. Pullman withdrew a set of black keys from her waist, searching among them for the right fit. She then fit the key into the lock and proceeded to stand there, solemnly, presumably waiting for something to happen.

  Cettie felt a little nudge of pressure in her mind, as if she’d been poked. Then she heard the lock click. Mrs. Pullman swung the door open, revealing a smaller stairwell, wide enough for only one person, which led up around the turret again. As Cettie passed the door, she felt something about it tug at her, almost as if it were alive. She paused, trying to determine the source of the feeling.

  “Tsk, come along, child,” Mrs. Pullman scolded.

  Cettie obeyed and followed her up the stairs. They led to an open room that was completely circular, the walls full of windows veiled by gauzy curtains. Cettie whirled around as she walked, finding about a dozen arched windows that faced every direction. The room was gently lit and contained a sturdy and comfortable four-post bed made of dark mahogany and loaded with mattresses and pillows and blankets. There were chests made of stamped leather, a cloak rack, and a small writing desk full of paper and styluses.

  “This is my room?” Cettie gasped in wonderment, in love with it immediately. Rooms had four walls—this had none, only windows.

  Mrs. Pullman chuckled coldly. “This is my room,” she said deliberately, turning around to face her, commanding her attention. Cettie shrank from her physical size. She looked like the kind of woman who would beat a child. “This is my trust. I’ve worked here since I was a child. My mother was keeper of the house before me. I earned my position here. You are unfit to blacken the master’s boots. Any urchin within a dozen leagues of this home would feel the privilege of standing where you stand. What makes you think such a foul creature as you deserves such finery? The rest of your kind will never see curtains so soft or blankets so warm as these in their short, miserable lives. I don’t know what you did or what lies you told to convince Master Brant to bring you here. He is much too kindhearted. Unfortunately, that has always led him to be deceived by those who would take advantage of his . . . his generosity.” Her jaw clenched with suppressed fury. “Like you.”

  Cettie felt herself shrinking inside. But deep down, the spark of rebelliousness began to sizzle. She didn’t know what Cettie had suffered. She didn’t know her at all.

  Mrs. Pullman walked grandly to one of the curtained windows and pushed the veil apart. “Come, child.”

  The view was dizzying. It would look so different in the daylight, but it was already enough to steal her breath. Just below the window was the spine of a roof that ran parallel to the tower. It didn’t just slope down—the roof was dangerously steep, carved with two crescent-moon shapes. Up close, she noticed the stone tiles of the roof were arranged in a colorful diamond-shaped pattern that spanned the length of the vast roof. As her eyes followed the pattern, she found herself studying the main manor house, with its turrets and spires and steeper roofline. Partway across it was a series of bulwarks and an enormous cathedral-like spire. The landing pad was yonder, but the zephyr was gone. The enormity of the grounds, visible by moonlight, made it difficult to take everything in. There were a thousand places to explore, and her heart craved to do so immediately.

  “Those are the master’s rooms,” Mrs. Pullman said, pointing toward the cathedral-like spire. “You saw where we met you and how far we walked to get here. These belong to me. They overlook all the grounds except for the servants’ quarters, which are on the far side over there. They cannot be seen from here. I don’t care to see them. The butler, Kinross, rules that wing. The rest is mine.”

  Mrs. Pullman sniffed and released the curtain, blocking Cettie’s view. She folded her arms, striking an imperious pose. “Now, young lady, let me be very clear with you. You will probably only be here for a few days. Master is very distracted. There are changes afoot in the government, and his ministry is pulling for more power. There may come a time, in the very near future, when our beloved master becomes the prime minister.” Her wrinkles and crags smoothed out as she contemplated the idea with relish. “I cannot imagine someone better equipped to fill that role.” Then the wrinkles crisscrossed again. “I cannot allow anything to distract him from this opportunity. Especially a poor, unwanted waif such as yourself.”

  Cettie began to grow restless with indignation and the threat of dashed hopes. Her blood was heating fast in her veins. She glared at Mrs. Pullman, feeling the woman poised to snatch something away, a treasure she had only just found.

  “I see the anger in your eyes,” Mrs. Pullman said knowingly. “If you desire to stay here in Fog Willows, then I suggest you watch your temper and mind your tongue! One word from me, and you will be taken back to the Fells where you truly belong. Cross me, child, and you will die in one of those abominable tenements, coughing on your own blood. I’ve seen it happen to the strongest of children. Even the wealthy who live below aren’t spared. Do we understand each other?”

  Cettie licked her
lips, trembling. It felt like her new existence was already tottering, ready to crash down and shatter. A sick feeling spread in her stomach. She had no idea what Fitzroy’s family was like. Maybe they all would wish her gone, too.

  No, she couldn’t let that happen. She would find a way to make them like her.

  “Yes, Mrs. Pullman,” she said.

  A wrinkled smile. “See that ladder yonder, leading to the trapdoor? You’ll sleep up there. In the attic. I’m sure you’ll be grateful for a floor to sleep on at night. There are worse places for an urchin.” Her eyes flashed with accusation.

  “I know,” Cettie whispered, working hard to keep her sense of panic down.

  Mrs. Pullman glided over to a little table and picked up a small brass bell. The wrinkles on her hands showed bulging purple veins. “When you hear this, you will come down straightaway.” She rang the tiny bell, and it gave off an interesting, birdlike sound. “When you go through the door at the bottom of the stairs, there is no coming back unless I open the door for you. Only I hold the keys to the locks. If you find a locked door, you let it alone. It is part of the Mysteries. You will wait for me, at the door, until I come to bed each night. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Pullman.”

  “And if you speak a word against me, girl, I will know it. And you will regret it.”

  Cettie couldn’t remember the last time she had worn a new frock. She’d been dunked in a bath in the servants’ quarters and scrubbed like the laundry until she was pink and clean and then wrapped up in towels and changed. Her hair was then brushed out, and she wondered if Mrs. Pullman had ordered the servants to make her cry, given how vigorously they applied themselves to the task.

  “You’re a scabby one, you are,” said the maid assigned to the indignity. “All skin and bones. You came from the Fells with Lord Fitzroy? Well, how does that rank? I was in a lottery for five years ’fore I got a chance.” She continued to brush out Cettie’s hair. “Your hair’s too dark, miss. You look like a black goose, you do. And those are freckles, are they? I can try to take them off for you.” She grinned in a mean-spirited way, turning Cettie’s face this way and that as she scrubbed it. “Have to work extra hard now, because of you. Still have my regular chores to do now that it’s daylight. Not that I’m complainin’. It’s good to have work.” She pursed her lips. “Your eyes are pretty at least. Not much to the rest of you There now, let’s get that frock on.”

  After the ordeal was done, Cettie was hurried back to the main wing of the estate to the master’s rooms. Her eyes could not get enough of the marvels and riches around her. Tall portrait paintings hung from gilded frames on the wall. Little vases of flowers and lovely mementos were perched on stands and tables. Cettie wasn’t used to such splendor, and the value of what she saw baffled her. Just a few of these treasures could have fed dozens of urchins for months. There were no chunks missing from the plaster, and very little dust.

  After climbing a wide swath of steps—so tall Cettie had to crane her neck to see them all—they reached a curious chamber. It was not a sitting room. In fact, there were only two small stools in the whole room. It was full of benches and tables, and on the tables were contraptions she had never seen, let alone dreamed about. Glass vials and metal stands, iron devices that looked like a bug’s pincers, and a beaten-leather apron that lay discarded to one side. The device that caught her imagination most was a strange apparatus of glass vials nestled in an iron frame. It looked like a jewelry case, but instead of holding gems, the vials were half full of a silver substance.

  Fitzroy stood at one of the tables, his back to her, writing something with the stub of a pencil on a set of bound ledger sheets. A huge curtained window loomed in front of him, and he gazed outside, prodding his bottom lip with the pencil.

  The maidservant coughed to get his attention, and he turned around.

  “Ah, Cettie. Here you are. I was growing anxious to see you. It’s morning, but I should have known not to worry. Mrs. Pullman is always quite punctual. I’d like to introduce you to the rest of the family.”

  “What is that, sir?” she asked, unable to hold back her curiosity. She squirmed closer to the glass-and-iron contraption, trying to see it better.

  “Oh, this? The container was a gift from my wife. The substance inside comes from the mines my family runs. She thought I might like it displayed in my office. It’s become a little pet project, actually. Even though I focused on the Mysteries of War at school, I was always more interested in the Mysteries of Wind.” He must have noticed the confused look on her face, for he added, “Are you familiar with the four branches of the Mysteries, Cettie?”

  “I thought there were four branches of our government called the Ministries. Are they the same?”

  “Yes, each ministry corresponds with one of the Mysteries. I took for granted that you’d understand my meaning. I am part of the Ministry of Wind presently. You see, when I left to fetch you last night, I noticed some quicksilver missing from the tube. Just a little. But my eyes must be getting old because it’s there again today. I checked it over and over. I added these little marks to the glass a while back because I’ve noticed this phenomenon before. They help me to measure the changes in the quicksilver.” He coaxed her forward and showed her the marks. To her astonishment, she noticed a small stone bowl next to the display. It was full of the silver, except it looked wet.

  “Is that truly silver?” she asked, gazing at it.

  “It’s a type of silver. Look, watch closely.” He took a little tool from the bench, like a spoon, and dipped it into the bowl. The quicksilver quivered and danced, which made Cettie startle. He then scooped some of it up and dumped it into his palm. Unlike water, it held together, but it moved and wriggled as he tilted his hand.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked innocently, intrigued by the demonstration.

  “Not one bit,” he replied. “Hold out your hand.”

  She did so willingly, eyes widening. He tipped his palm over, letting the substance drop into her palm. Though she’d expected it to be cold or hot, it was neither. She giggled softly. It felt like the substance was alive and wanted to escape her hand and leap back onto the table. But she steadied herself and watched it with fascination.

  “Put it back in the bowl, please,” he said. “My wife is anxious to meet you. So are my children. Are you ready, Cettie? Do you think you could be happy at Fog Willows?”

  Immediately, she thought of Mrs. Pullman and her warnings. Her confidence started to shrivel. But she was determined. She would do whatever was needed to ensure she could stay there. Nothing was worth going back to the Fells.

  “I hope so,” Cettie answered, dumping the quicksilver back into the bowl. It was quickly subsumed with the rest, and she wasn’t able to see any further evidence of it having been a unique blob.

  If only she could settle in as easily.

  A certain type of woman will always have an impersonal contempt for other women. This woman deems all others as competition. Competition for affection. Competition for attention. Competition for reputation. Competition for power.

  —Lady Corinne of Pavenham Sky

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LADY FITZROY’S CHILDREN

  Cettie was prepared to like each member of Fitzroy’s family, but after her encounter with Mrs. Pullman, she worried about their reaction to her. Her nerves prickled as she walked the grand corridor to the family sitting room with the master himself. Music was coming from the room, all trills and swelling sounds, and her tread slowed as she made her approach, her heart aching in wonder. She was used to street musicians playing fiddles and pipes, but this was so much grander. It sounded like dozens of musicians were playing at once, creating a rich fullness of sound.

  A servant stationed at the door bowed to Fitzroy before turning the handle for them. As the door opened, the sound of the music gushed into the corridor, and the smell of breakfast drifted after it. She looked up and saw a smile on Fitzroy’s mouth.

  Thes
e must be his children—the boy looked to be at least sixteen, and there were two girls, the younger of which appeared to be around Cettie’s age and height. Lady Maren was seated on the couch with a blanket covering her lap. There were smudges and shadows under her eyes, and a general weakness radiated from her. Cettie had encountered enough ill people in the Fells to recognize that the woman had some sort of lasting sickness.

  As soon as Fitzroy entered, Cettie felt a subtle push against her mind, and the music ceased immediately. How curious! It was an unfamiliar feeling, one that made her slightly dizzy. Though there were some instruments in the room, no musicians were playing them. The two eldest children had been dancing together in the middle of the room by the couch where their mother sat, but they stopped whirling around the second the music cut off. Where had the music come from?

  “Papa!” squealed the elder girl, rushing toward the door with a bright smile. She had long dark hair that was braided only on one side and the brightest blue eyes Cettie had seen. A dimple flashed on her left cheek as she hugged her father. “Is this her?” she asked, giving Cettie a quick and thoughtful look.

  The young man came up next. He was lanky and nearly as tall as his father, but while he had a handsome smile, there was a look of distrust in his eyes. The youngest child held back, waiting with her mother on the couch.

  “Cettie, these are my children,” Fitzroy said. “This is Stephen, nearly a man himself, who decided to sprout this last year.”

  “Father,” Stephen said, flushing in embarrassment.

  “My second oldest,” Fitzroy said, putting his arm around the daughter who had first approached him and hugging her close. The girl tilted her head against his chest and gazed at Cettie without any apparent hostility. “Seraphinia. We all call her Phinia.”

  The girl lifted her head proudly. “One of the Fitzempress heirs was named after me. She’s a princess.”