by Jeff Wheeler
Sera could see it. His tanned face looked striking with his uniform. Her cheeks were suddenly very warm.
“He’ll be joining us in the tutoring sessions until he goes off to study. Have high hopes for him. High hopes indeed. I thought it might help the young lady to study alongside someone more her own age. At least until he goes off to school in the autumn.”
Definitely fourteen.
Somehow, Sera’s headache had managed to vanish.
CETTIE
CHAPTER TEN
SIR JORDAN HARDING
Cettie stared closely at the glass tube, silently counting the little black tick marks in her mind. The well of quicksilver within it was placid, but to her it felt alive. Since coming to Fog Willows months before, Cettie had become hungry for knowledge. She had devoured the primers and children’s books that Miss Farnworth and Anna encouraged her to read. The newfound skill of reading and the writings themselves had created a spark of some kind, and now a fire raged inside her.
One of her favorite places in the sprawling mansion was Fitzroy’s study, with all its bizarre equipment and tools. She didn’t understand the treasures of the room, but they fascinated her all the same. She loved wandering around and examining the glass vials full of quicksilver, the assortment of measuring spoons and stirring rods, the small pincers and crooked weights and measures.
Light rain dashed against the window, causing little specks of water to trickle down the panes. The bigger droplets, too heavy to stick, began to meander down the glass, gaining momentum as they picked up other drops. She couldn’t predict which path they would take. Water drops were full of trickery.
The marks in the glass showed the level of the quicksilver had dropped again. Pressing her lips together, she stared into the vial and tried to understand why the glob was one tick, maybe a tick and a half, lower than the day before. She took the pencil with its wrapped paper end and carefully wrote down the number of ticks it had fallen. Pencils were another of her favorite things—rare in the Fells but extremely common at Fog Willows. They came in different shapes and sizes, and the points could be trimmed with little knives to make fine or broad impressions. Anna liked to draw with them. The one she had given Cettie was a treasure. Cettie took very good care of it.
“Cettie?”
The girl’s heart began to hammer wildly. She’d been caught in Fitzroy’s personal study, and by the master himself. Mrs. Pullman thought it a great impertinence that Cettie liked to visit this room and never failed to ridicule her about it on the days she came there. Somehow the old woman tracked her movements constantly, even though they were rarely in the same room for very long. At night, before sending her up to the loft, Mrs. Pullman would offer a withering critique about what Cettie had done that day. But she was unfailingly polite in front of Lady Maren and Fitzroy.
Cettie was afraid of Mrs. Pullman, but the boundless curiosity that had been unleashed in her mind could not so easily be reined in. She found herself coming back to the study again and again despite the old woman’s censure. Despite her punishments. Still, the last thing she wanted was to be a nuisance to Fitzroy. She knew he enjoyed his study the best of any room in the house.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, trying to gather up her paper, but Fitzroy was already beside her, his brow wrinkled with concern, and he put his bare hand down on the paper, fixing it in place with his long, slender fingers. He was a trim man, never one to overindulge in food or drink. “Fastidious” was a word she had recently learned. She loved the power of words and how they could describe things.
“I’m not upset, child,” he said in a coaxing manner. He squinted and bent his head lower, trying to read the paper. Her insides shriveled with mortification, and she grew hot and sweaty.
His lips pursed, and he bent lower. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be. What have you written, Cettie?”
“I d-didn’t know you were going to be back,” she stammered, wanting to rush away, but that would only make her look guilty in his eyes. She hadn’t done anything wrong . . . well, except for being in his study uninvited. Though she hadn’t yet encountered him here, she was used to seeing him in the family rooms. Sometimes he would ask her to read aloud from her primer, and he gave her the same kind, interested, and indulgent attention he showed his own children.
He touched her shoulder with his other hand. “I’m not angry. I’m growing blind in my old age, and you’ve written so small. Are these numbers? Rows of numbers?”
She nodded mutely.
“You’re measuring something?”
She noticed the water stains on his cloak and the drops still clinging to his graying hair. He had only just arrived.
“The quicksilver,” she answered, squeezing her pencil hard, trying to keep its little stub hidden in her hand. She didn’t want him to take it away from her.
“Have you . . . taken any of it from the tube?” he asked her softly.
She shook her head no emphatically. “No! But some is missing. It’s lower than yesterday.”
“Show me what you’ve tallied here,” he said, dropping to one knee next to her. His eyes were brightening with interest.
She didn’t want to disrupt his schedule, but his demeanor encouraged her to speak openly. If Mrs. Pullman happened by, she would be punished for this familiarity. And yet . . .
“I’ve seen you count the black marks on the tube.” Cettie pointed with her finger. “So I started to count them, too. I count them four times a day and write the number here. Some days it doesn’t change at all. Some days it does.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Four times a day?”
She flushed with embarrassment. “I wanted to understand why it keeps changing.”
“Do you measure it at the same times every day? Or just four different times?”
She shrugged. “Different times. Mrs. Pullman doesn’t like it when I come here. I’m sorry for intruding in your study, Fitzroy.”
He laughed to himself. “Don’t apologize, Cettie. You’ve shown more interest in my work than any of my children ever have. I’m flattered, to be honest. So Mrs. Pullman scowls when she catches you here?”
Cettie kept her expression very calm. “Sometimes.” When Cettie was silent about Mrs. Pullman’s harassment, when she behaved meekly and in keeping with her station, the ghost didn’t visit her loft. If she said or did anything against Mrs. Pullman, however, she would get a visitor in the dark. Somehow the old woman could control the ghost. Cettie lived in fear of displeasing her enough for her to unleash it.
He pursed his lips. “Well, you have my permission to be in here. I just ask you not to touch anything you haven’t been taught how to handle. Do you know why?”
“Because it’s your study. I try to put everything back just the way I found it.”
“Good, good.” He beamed at her. “That’s very clever of you. I haven’t noticed anything out of place. I say this not because I mind you rummaging around in here. I don’t. But some of the things in here are rather dangerous. Do you see that vial over there? With the wax seal?”
She nodded with interest.
“That contains arsenic. It’s a deadly poison, but it has other properties that are helpful in doing experiments. I’m always very careful when handling it. I wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt. So, let me look over your numbers a moment.” He carefully lifted the paper and held it close to his eyes, poring over the markings. “You have a steady hand, Cettie. Some of your numbers need a little work, but considering how recently you came here . . . well done!”
She flushed with pride at his compliment, suddenly gratified that he’d found her here.
“Why does the quicksilver move?” she asked him. She pointed to a set of numbers—the change had been quite dramatic about two days ago.
“This is very detailed. You drew a line between each day, yes? Very smart. And, yes, it changed rather dramatically that day, didn’t it?” Pursing his lips, he shrugged. “It’s a mystery.”
&n
bsp; Her shoulders slumped, and a twinge of disappointment followed. Another Mystery.
He caught her change in expression. “It’s not like that, Cettie. It’s not one of the capital M Mysteries.” He wagged his eyebrows at her. “A mystery is something that’s difficult to understand or explain. Sometimes it’s impossible to explain. That is why we have these special schools—to educate people on what we do know, and all that we have yet to learn. I learned about quicksilver in school because it appears abundantly in my silver mine. But I didn’t know, and I still don’t, why the amount in this tube goes up and down. I don’t think I ever would have noticed it if my wife hadn’t given me this little contraption to store it in.”
The butler, Kinross, appeared in the doorway. He smoothed his vest and inclined his head. Cettie liked Kinross. Sometimes when he passed her in the hall, he would secretly hand her a little wrapped treat.
“Sir Jordan is just arriving,” Kinross said in his deep voice. “I think he saw you arrive home.”
“He’s out in weather like this?” Fitzroy said in surprise. “It must be important. Make ready to welcome him.”
“Of course,” Kinross said with a smile. Surely he had already given the order. He turned and left, and Fitzroy rose. He slid the paper over to Cettie with an approving nod.
“Is Sir Jordan our neighbor?” Cettie asked. She had heard Stephen and Phinia chatter about how outspoken and ridiculous he was.
“That’s right; you haven’t met him yet,” Fitzroy said. “He was the captain of a tempest. We served together for many years. He’s a dear friend.”
“I should like to meet him, then,” Cettie said.
Fitzroy was about to follow Kinross out of the room to greet their guest, but he paused and looked at her again. “When I got back from visiting the Fells, Anna asked me if you could stay in her room from now on.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Would that be agreeable to you? I know you’re staying with Mrs. Pullman, bless her heart, but I think you could do some good for Anna. The two of you seem to be forming a friendship. To be honest, I think she’s always been more than a little afraid of the dark.”
A cold, icy feeling slithered to life in Cettie’s heart. Cettie had learned since coming to Fog Willows that she was not Mrs. Pullman’s only victim. The keeper had firm control over life within the manor. To those who paid her respect and heeded her, she was generous and kind. But the servants who crossed her quickly came to regret it. If any of the servants were nice to Cettie, the next day they would shun her and give her fearful looks that told her Mrs. Pullman had interfered. Others were promptly dismissed for crimes the keeper deemed more serious. Cettie had already learned of one young scullion who had been sent back to the Fells. Stephen and Phinia were Mrs. Pullman’s favorites, but Anna had always seemed afraid of her. And if Anna was also afraid of the dark, it was probably for a reason. She wouldn’t see the ghost. She wouldn’t know what was tormenting her . . .
Cettie adored Anna and would have infinitely preferred sharing a room with her to sleeping in the cold, drafty loft above Mrs. Pullman. But not if doing so would make her friend even more afraid. Not if it would put her in Mrs. Pullman’s sights.
Fitzroy’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve always had to share a room, haven’t you?” he said in a soft voice. Then he lifted his hand reassuringly. “I’ll tell Anna that I’m still thinking about it. You don’t need to say another word. If you change your mind, just let me know.”
She wanted to tell him. Her breath started to quicken, the words nearly tumbling out of her mouth. But if she spoke openly, the keeper would know. While she trusted Fitzroy to do the right thing, to protect them, he wasn’t always home. Mrs. Pullman might wait to retaliate until the next time he left.
“Come, let’s join Sir Jordan for dinner,” he said, offering his hand. He’d been chafing it behind his back again.
Phinia sighed with impatience at her end of the dining table. Her voice was pitched low for Stephen, but Cettie sat close enough to hear it. “He thinks he’s so funny.”
“I just wish he weren’t so loud,” Stephen murmured back. “He and Father are such opposites.” There was no denying that. Cettie could hear the man’s booming voice before it reached the dining hall.
“I like Lady Shanron, though,” said Phinia. “She’s very fashionable. She’s invited at Pavenham Sky once a month.”
“I wish Father were invited there more often,” Stephen whispered.
As the Hardings entered the room, the sniping comments between the siblings ended. Sir Jordan was broad shouldered and completely bald. Though he was the same height as Fitzroy, he dwarfed him in size. Lady Shanron was a regal dark-haired beauty, and her dress was as elegant as Phinia might have hoped—an expensive red damask gown the color of wine. Her outfit nearly matched the coiffed tresses that could be seen beneath her elegant feathered hat. In their wake came their four children, the eldest a brooding young man about Stephen’s age, followed by two daughters, and then a fourth child, quite a bit younger—a son who looked so much like his father it was delightful.
It was as if a windstorm had blown into the room, and soon there were glasses chinking and bursts of laughter. Sir Jordan’s manners were indeed very expressive, and he was not only quick to laugh, he could hardly offer up a sentence without doing so. Fitzroy’s attitude was rather demure in comparison, but he had a pleased smile on his face, and Cettie could see that he genuinely enjoyed the boisterous company.
When they introduced Cettie to the Hardings, Lady Shanron was quick to compliment her on her pretty gown and dark hair. But she was more lavish in her praise of Phinia, and the two soon started to gossip together. Sir Jordan was pleased to meet Cettie as well and treated her not a whit differently than he did anyone else in the room.
They were well into their meal when the big man turned to her and said, “I would have offered to shake hands with you earlier.” He winced as he tugged on his big leather gloves. “But my hands are aching at the moment. You’d crush my fingers, I’m afraid, little woman!” Fitzroy smiled at the comment. “Truth be told, my hands always ache when it rains. I can always tell when there will be a storm, because my knuckles will start to throb. I have the hands of a hundred-year-old man, and I am only fifty.”
“Tell her why,” Fitzroy said meaningfully.
Sir Jordan boomed out laughter again. “He always insists on me retelling this story, to my shame. I don’t know why we continue as friends. Well, if you must know, when I was younger, I was quite a naughty child.” He chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “I got into more than my share of mischief.”
“You still get into mischief,” Lady Shanron said from across the table with a flashing smile.
“This is true,” Sir Jordan said. “It is a daily goal of mine to cause trouble in one form or another.” He laughed heartily again. Cettie liked him very much and found her worries about the ghost and whether it had followed her were banished by his jovial manner. “I have several brothers, you see. Brothers make mischief. That is the rule. We were running about the manor, causing havoc as normal. I was trying to chase my younger brother, and he was about to slam the door. I thought it would be prudent to stop it by sticking my fingers into the gap.” He winced and laughed at Cettie’s shocked expression. “We all learn, little woman, that before we can be old and wise, we must at first be very young and foolish. The slamming door broke my fingers. On both hands.”
Cettie gaped at him. “Did he get into trouble?”
Sir Jordan shook his head no slowly. “I have an absolute fear of doctors, my dear. I do not trust them. I hid my hands from my parents until the pain became too great. They insisted that the doctor be summoned, but I refused to see the man. I could be quite belligerent in my youth. And so my hands healed on their own. I can barely clench them, and not without great pain. But they did heal, and I didn’t see a doctor. Nor will I!” He laughed loudly again.
“Sir Jordan and I were never midshipmen together,” Fitzroy said. “But we did serve as l
ieutenants under the same captain. And when I was given my own sky ship, he began to serve under me. We have sailed through stormy skies together on many dark and frightening nights. And his hands could always tell when a storm was coming.” He clapped Sir Jordan on the back. “Which is why it surprises me that you’d come to Fog Willows on such a night.”
“This isn’t a storm, Fitzroy,” Sir Jordan said with a snort. “We’ve flown in much worse. No, I had to see you. I need your advice.”
Fitzroy looked concerned. He glanced over at the man’s eldest son, who was talking, limply, with Stephen.
Sir Jordan shook his head. “No, it’s not about my eldest, although you can see the damage he’s done by my lack of hair! No, it’s about a speculation I’m considering. The glass business is faring badly at the moment. Profits have shriveled. I need to do something, Fitzroy, or I won’t be able to afford Gimmerton Sough much longer.”
Fitzroy pitched his voice lower. “Is it truly so dire?” he asked with concern.
All laughter drained from Sir Jordan’s face. “It is,” he said grimly. “I may lose the manor.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DOLCOATH MINES
Mrs. Pullman entered the sitting room with Fitzroy after escorting the guests back to their sky ship so they could return to their own manor. Although it was only her first time meeting the Hardings, Cettie had found them to be pleasant and had especially enjoyed Sir Jordan’s sense of humor in the face of his troubles. He had shared with her, in his lighthearted manner, about a time he had visited Fog Willows to find that Mrs. Pullman had set out a tray of cinnamon treats for the entire family to enjoy. After enjoying one of the tasty morsels, he had proceeded to eat the entire tray himself before the rest of the family arrived. And so Mrs. Pullman never let him leave Fog Willows without handing him a small parcel filled with the round treats. Cettie wondered how a woman who could be so nice and thoughtful in public could also be so cruel in secret. Fitzroy didn’t see her darker side. He was completely blind to it. But, then again, Mrs. Pullman was quite efficient at her duplicity.
