Bee Sting Cake: Greenwing & Dart Book Two

by Victoria Goddard

  The priest called for the Lady’s gift of fair play and a good year for the Fair ahead, the choir sang one last hymn, and we all rose decorously and followed priest and acolytes and choir and Important People out of the church, each of us in our own order from first-ranked to last.

  As we waited for our turn to shuffle into the aisle I girded myself for Hauling the Net, the second major stage in the game of Poacher.

  Mr. Dart, walking beside Sir Hamish, winked at us as they passed.

  Hal leaned over Sela’s head to whisper in my ear. “Ready to run the gauntlet?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mr. Inglesides has an Idea

  THE GAME OF POACHER, as my father taught it to me, has four primary stages: Casting the Lure, Hauling the Net, Laying the Table, and Measuring the Tale.

  Early-stage players think the point lies in figuring out what cards to take and which to discard during the first rounds of the game.

  Slightly more advanced players try to calculate the effect of the common cards on their opponent and take that into account.

  Excellent players are running through the probabilities of which cards are in the discard piles, which are in their opponent’s hand, and which is the Emperor Card, the last to be played.

  I’m not sure what exactly I’d call myself, except that my father had taught me how to play Poacher as if it were the game of life, and my mother had taught me—well, that there was a game behind the game, and that for the true master of the game, the cards you were dealt didn’t actually matter. The true art of Poacher lies not in how one reacts to what one is given, but in shaping the other player’s understanding of what they have in their hand and on the table before them.

  I felt as if I had spent my whole summer reacting. Reacting to my stepfather’s questions about my future, to Lark’s beguilement and betrayal, to Hal’s support, to my illness, to Three Years Gone, to the weather in North Fiellan and the craziness of Ghilousette. Reacting to Mrs. Buchance’s suggestions and my uncle’s insinuations, to the town’s general opprobrium and the occasional bright spot of friendship. Reacting to finding a fish pie, to being attacked by Violet, to being caught up in cults and magic and organized crime. Reacting to the Honourable Rag’s baiting, to my grandmother, to the dragon, to Hal—

  Reacting was no way to win at Poacher, nor, as I was beginning to see, at life.

  I smiled at Hal, who had agreeably let Sela take his hand, turned to offer Lauren my own, and was surprised by a sudden wondering smile from Mrs. Buchance. “Good morning,” I said cheerfully to her, then greeted Mr. and Mrs. Inglesides, who were seated in the row behind us, along with their large progeny and a few strangers.

  “Good morning, Mr. Greenwing,” said Mr. Inglesides, quiet mischief in his eyes. It occurred to me that I would quite like to play Poacher against him. Last week he had indicated he was of a radical turn of philosophy, but we had not yet had much of a chance to talk. He indicated the woman beside him. “My sister-in-law, Mrs. Eglantine. She’s come down for the Fair. Iris, this is Mr. Greenwing, who was Mr. Buchance’s stepson. He’s just come back from university.”

  By this time I had made it into the aisle, so I was able to bow to Mrs. Eglantine, who looked astonished. “Greenwing? As in the play?”

  I smiled at her, noticing how a few people in the pews behind her, in the aisle around me, were listening. This was like Poacher: if you were prepared, you could turn any card to the story you wished to be told. “Yes, although the playwright was unfortunately much misinformed about the true facts of the case.”

  “Oh?” said Mrs. Eglantine, but her attention was drifting to the conversation going on behind me between Sela and Hal.

  “Are you a duke?” Sela was asking.

  “Yes, I’m the Duke of Fillering Pool,” he said easily.

  “And you’re friends with Jemis?”

  “Yes, we met at university.”

  Sela heaved a great sigh. “I’m not even in school yet.”

  Hal laughed. “Well, I’m sure you can’t be all that far off.”

  I lost track of their conversation as Mrs. Etaris came up to me to be greeted in turn. Her husband, the Chief Constable, had his eyes on Hal as he gave me a short nod before striding off in the direction of my uncle. Point, I thought, and bowed extravagantly to my employer. “Good morning, Mrs. Etaris.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Greenwing,” she replied, eyes brimful of humour. “I am somewhat disappointed to see you here; I was eagerly anticipating the wild froth of rumours that would surely be circulating in your continued absence.”

  I bowed again, less extravagantly this time, and offered her my arm. “May I escort you in the general direction of the White Cross, ma’am? Despite my unanticipated presence, I believe I might be able to supply the barony with a few items of gossip.”

  Mrs. Etaris laughed and set her hand lightly on my elbow. We ambled forward. I was conscious of the way the rest of the congregation was split between attending to their own concerns (a small minority), casting speculative glances and whispers in our direction, and casting even more speculative glances and whispers on Hal. Hal was still talking enthusiastically with Sela. Beyond him in the churchyard the tableau of all the worthy gentry of Ragnor barony.

  “All of them bar one,” said Mrs. Etaris as we came to the door to wait our turn to greet Father Rigby.

  She was looking out the doorway at that same grouping of gentry. “Oh?” I said, smiling, wondering if she meant my grandmother—or me.

  She grinned at me, well-feathered hat tilting slightly back as she moved her head. “I am glad to see you in such fine fettle, Mr. Greenwing.”

  We shuffled forward two steps to Father Rigby. The priest was plump, ginger-haired, and full of slightly erratic intensity. He reached out his hands to Mrs. Etaris. “Mrs. Etaris, good morning, good morning. How are you this fine day?”

  “Very well, thank you,” she murmured politely.

  He turned to me and looked remarkably blank for a man who had been my priest for four years. Time to lay the next card on the table, I thought, and on cue Mrs. Etaris smiled.

  “Mr. Greenwing, I’m sure you remember Father Rigby. Father, this is Jemis Greenwing; he’s recently back from Morrowlea after a walking tour of the four duchies.”

  “Oh yes,” said Father Rigby, his puzzled expression not clearing. Perhaps his blankness was for some other reason? I glanced past him, breaking uncomfortable eye contact, and saw that half the congregation was watching this interaction. I smiled brightly at the priest. There were too many reasons for the priest to look puzzled to even begin to count at this moment.

  I decided the next move would have to take place outside, so I bowed to the priest. “Good morning, Father. It was so, ah, homely to hear you speak of the Dartington Harvest Fair the way you always have. Now that I’m home in Ragnor Bella I’m sure I will see you more frequently.”

  The priest frowned briefly. I wondered just what he’d been hearing from his congregation over the last two weeks. “You plan on staying? I mean, since you had not come back from university during the holidays, we—that is, I had heard you would not be returning? Especially after your stepfather’s death ...”

  That I had missed Mr. Buchance’s funeral was a regret I would hold the rest of my life. I bowed again. “I regret very much that I was in Ghilousette and had not given sufficient direction to Mrs. Buchance that she could reach me with the news in time for me to return for the funeral. As for my plans, no doubt they may change somewhat now that I have begun to reconcile with my grandmother, the Marchioness of the Woods Noirell, but as it stands, yes, I intend to stay in Ragnor Bella for the foreseeable future.”

  Since Father Rigby was one of the great gossips of the barony, anyone who had not heard that directly would certainly hear it very soon. I glanced out into the churchyard, saw Hal and Sela talking to Mr. Dart, and bowed again at the priest. “I must go find my friend, the Duke of Fillering Pool—we want to enter our names in a competition for the
Fair. Good morning!”

  “Good morning,” the priest replied faintly. I offered my arm to Mrs. Etaris again, and we made our way with all decorum across the yard.

  In a briefly isolated moment, Mrs. Etaris murmured, “Very fine fettle indeed, Mr. Greenwing. I’m sure the gambling ring has already moved from rigging the choirboys’ race to betting on you.”

  “THE CUSTOM,” MR. DART said to Hal, “is for everyone to proceed to the White Cross, where the Squire—that’s my brother—and the Bailiff of Dartington take entries for the competition.”

  “I am beginning to comprehend why this Fair is the talk of four baronies. The heart of culture is taking the time to do the unnecessary in the most picturesque manner possible.”

  “You’ve been listening to Jemis about his radical philosophers, haven’t you?”

  Hal laughed. “It was that or participate in the conversations about poetry. I like poetry to read as much as the next man, unless that next man is Jemis in a fit of structural analysis.”

  “I listened to you explain the history of the development of pollination in plants.”

  Mr. Dart grinned. “I must admit that sometimes I wish I’d gone to Morrowlea with you, but I wouldn’t exchange my tutor for the world.”

  I wondered, not for the first time, what exactly had made Mr. Dart’s tutor that special—and for the first time wondered moreover whether there was a smidgen of more than a student’s love for his teacher in the warmth of Mr. Dart’s voice. Given his response to my teasing on the subject of matrimonial prospects, I decided to forebear comment. I surveyed the scene around us instead.

  The priest was still occupied with greeting his parishioners. Those who were taking part in the next procession were trying to form up, though they were thwarted in this effort by the total disregard of the congregation and the still-conversing priest.

  Ahead of us the thurifer decided to begin and strode off down the lane as if using the thurible to whack invisible enemies from his path. He nearly hit the Honourable Rag, who had crossed aimlessly before him to be insistently bonhomous to Dominus Gleason. This pleased me more than it should have.

  The thurifer was followed by two acolytes in green cassocks and white surplices. They bore the Lady’s banners, Green Lady on the right and White on the left. Behind them came the choir, lustily singing yet another of the harvest hymns, but somewhat ragged in their procession despite Father Rigby’s fluttering gestures. I eyed the choirboys’ ranks and could see why the gambling ring might be planning on nefarious activity there. There were four rival friends I was glad I didn’t have to mind.

  Behind the pushing, shoving, and angelically singing choirboys came Mr. Etaris, the Chief Constable, and next to him the Clerk of the Court. They bore respectively the flags of Fiellan and Astandalas—Hal, spying these, asked whether the fact that Fiellan was a part of the Kingdom of Rondé was always so thoroughly ignored.

  “Down here it is,” Mr. Dart replied cheerfully. “I can’t speak for the Middle or the North.”

  “It never ceases to surprise me how far south we are here. To think that Fiella-by-the-Sea is the far north for you!”

  “I saw Rondelan flags in North Fiellan,” I said vaguely, watching knots of interested parties clump together, break apart, group elsewhere, all of them talking; all of them, or so it seemed, watching the three of us.

  “We don’t have much to do with the government,” Mr. Dart agreed. “Our problems usually stay here or go all the way to the Lady on Nên Corovel, like last week with Miss Shipston, the mermaid.”

  Hal blinked, but before he could respond the priest suddenly recalled that he was next in the procession. The little gossiping knots broke up to follow the priest down the hill, and we were inexorably drawn after them. In the shuffle I found myself next to Mr. Inglesides.

  I nodded politely. “Good morning—or rather afternoon. It’s a splendid day, isn’t it?”

  “’Tis.” We walked a few yards in silence. It was a splendid day, the sky blue with a few puffs of white cloud here and there, the grass bright green, the hedgerows in full fruit—hawthorn, blackberry, spindle, sloe.

  For a moment I almost imagined I could smell the heavy-honey scent of the Tillarny limes, but when I turned my head into the wind all I smelled was incense. I sneezed.

  Hal, talking again to Mr. Dart, grinned over his shoulder at the noise before angling suddenly across the procession to investigate something in the lee of the hedgerow. Mr. Inglesides watched him squat down, then turned to me. His expression was so difficult to read—was he trying not to laugh?—that I felt my attention sharpen.

  Time for the next card drawn from the Happenstance pile—

  “Mr. Greenwing, lad, I like you a lot. I think you’re turning out a fine man indeed, one to make your folks proud. I’d like to see you settled, at home in yourself. I reckon the barony’d be far the better for you and your ideas.”

  “Oh,” I said, and added, because his tone was almost as ambiguous as his expression, “but?”

  He did smile, but it was directed at Mrs. Buchance, who had turned around to corral a straying Sela and waved at us in passing.

  “But,” he said in a low voice, nodding at his sister, “that is not right for either of you.”

  Mr. Inglesides was not like my uncle in any particular, but they had both raised the same concern.

  It was on my lips to protest that the thought had never crossed my mind except as a result of the warnings against it—for quite apart from my own tendency to fall in love with dashing criminals, it was uncomfortably close to incest; if there wasn’t a law against it I rather thought there should be—when it occurred to me that it might not be my heart that Mr. Inglesides was concerned with.

  So after we’d walked a few yards more, through the lych-gate at the bottom of the hill and onto the Borrowbank Road, I said, “I’m very grateful to Mrs. Buchance for putting me up these last few weeks. Now that the job at the bookstore is going well, I should be in more of a position to find my own lodgings. Have you heard of anywhere?”

  We proceeded along the lane, past Hal, who appeared to be taken with some sort of fern, and halted briefly while a tussle between two of the choirboys was resolved by their irate parent.

  “You wouldn’t think to stay with your uncle, then?”

  Ahead of us groups shifted position, revealing all the fine gentry of the barony clustering around Squire and Bailiff at the White Cross—or all of them except one.

  Hal joined us, brushing the dirt from his hands and beaming. I smiled at Mr. Inglesides. “Oh, no, I don’t think that would suit either of us. Not to mention Arguty Hall is rather far to come into town daily for 9:00, don’t you think?”

  Mr. Inglesides’ eyes twinkled. Hal, tucking his fern away in his notebook, asked, “How far is it?”

  “Six and a half miles.”

  “Well, you run that before breakfast.”

  Hal was not very good at Poacher.

  I shook my head in fond exasperation, contriving—I hoped—to express that Hal was ribbing me.

  Fortunately any questions Mr. Inglesides might have been inclined to ask were forestalled by our arrival at the White Cross. In the press forward I held onto Hal’s arm and angled us towards Mrs. Etaris, who would surely have an idea for how I might go about looking for lodging.

  She was standing a bit apart from everyone else on the south side of the waystone. A few yards closer to us Dominus Gleason stood, similarly alone—except when I looked again at him I realized his manservant stood close behind him. I blinked, wondering how I had missed the looming figure at first.

  Dominus Gleason turned his head from the waystone to our approach. A little smirk appeared and did not improve his features. “Mr. Greenwing. Have you had the chance to think about my offer? You are quite enveloped in magic, you know, and must be taught.”

  “So I have been informed,” I replied, with a short, uninflected bow. “Please excuse me—I must ask Mrs. Etaris a question.”

/>   The smirk hardened into a sneer; the old magister’s nostrils flared; he made his strange hacking laugh. “Mrs. Etaris? A nonentity, a nothing, a woman. Ask her any question and its answer will be domestic; there is no greatness to be found there, no way to learn—” his voice dropped, his eyes almost bulged with intensity—he made what he probably thought was a smile— “No way to learn, Mr. Greenwing, those things worth knowing.”

  How did the man make me feel so immediately greasy and soiled? I gave him an insincere smile. “As it happens, my question is entirely domestic. Good day to you, Domine.”

  I tugged an unresisting Hal along, feeling as if I were escaping some sort of oozing miasma. The very air seemed clearer and fresher next to Mrs. Etaris. I turned my back on Dominus Gleason and pulled out a handkerchief with which to wipe my hands. I was surprised to feel my muscles trembling, as if I’d just relaxed a great strain.

  “That’s your potential magic teacher?” Hal asked.

  I started. “I’m not—no. No.”

  “I didn’t say you should—quite the opposite. Good day to you, Mrs. Etaris.”

  “Mr. Lingham, Mr. Greenwing.” She curtsied slightly, contriving by the movement to shift us all over a few feet farther away from the magister. She went on in a lower voice. “Do you truly have a question for me, Mr. Greenwing, or did you merely wish to escape the magister? His metaphysics is somewhat muddled; nonentities can have their appeal.”

  Sometimes, in the game of Poacher, one was best served by a straight-forward and frank approach. I nodded. “Do you know where I might find lodging? Until Winterturn, at least.”

  Mrs. Etaris followed my half-intentional glance to the family grouping on the other side of the waystone: Mrs. Buchance and her daughters, Mr. Inglesides and his wife and children, Mrs. Ingleside’s sister and brother-in-law and their children.