by Jeff Wheeler
Cettie couldn’t help but feel the sting, though she didn’t wish for anyone else to know, especially Sera, who would undoubtedly try to intervene. To avoid such a scene, she often spent dance class walking from one part of the room to another, trying to keep a smile on her face despite being repeatedly snubbed. The classes reminded her of Fog Willows and how Stephen and Phinia had always taken their dance practice so seriously. The younger Fitzroys cared far more for society’s impression of them than their parents did, though that was likely a result of what had happened to their mother, Lady Maren, when she was younger. She’d been shunned after a social fault.
Another dance had started, one of Cettie’s favorites—“Sky Ship’s Cook”—and she resisted the urge to add a bounce to her step as she walked. The class would be ending soon, which was a relief. From her peripheral vision, she noticed someone approaching her and began to hope that she might get asked to dance after all. Who would it be?
When she turned her head, however, she saw it was Mr. Skrelling. That was odd because he didn’t take this class. He had only taken the mandatory one year of social dancing and, from what she’d heard, stepped on a number of feet. His attentions to her were somewhat flattering, but he was always so serious and formal and completely incapable of registering when his presence wasn’t desired. It made her feel quite awkward.
“Miss Cettie,” he said with a curt, quick bow. He looked agitated.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Skrelling.”
“Might I have a private word with you?”
“I don’t see anyone standing near us,” she answered. She was unwilling to leave the room with him, especially without an escort.
“Ah, yes. That’s all as it should be. I would never ask for anything improper. I hope you realize, Miss Cettie, that I take your own interests very much to heart. Indeed, the very heart beating within my own chest pumps with a dual purpose. To sustain my life and to improve yours.”
His fanciful little speeches could be tiresome, but she gave him a pleasant smile, still baffled by what he was trying to say. His affinity for long-winded explanations sometimes made the listener rather lose track of the point.
“But I digress. I came because I wanted to tell you something. Not to cause you alarm by any means, but I have a certain”—he sniffed loudly—“penchant for observation. I believe I could safely say I know the face of every student here at the school. Every teacher and underling. And within the domains of Vicar’s Close, I could safely own—and this is not a boast—that I know the face of every shopkeeper, every landlord, and every person who normally inhabits the domiciles.”
Cettie was still baffled. “I’m grateful that you have such a prodigious memory,” she offered. Was he fishing for a compliment?
“If it pleases you to say as much, Miss Cettie. All my powers of concentration, observation, and memory are . . . as you know . . . at your disposal. Such as at the present circumstance. I have noticed, in recent days, someone new to Vicar’s Close. He is a man, I would approximate, of thirty years of age. He has dark hair, on the long side. Quite long actually. He wears a gray vest, a blue undercoat, and a gray overcoat. I would call him a merchant, for he resembles one, only I have not seen him conducting any business. He wears a hat usually . . . not the military kind, but a commoner’s. His looks, I shall say, are very serious. I would almost describe them as malevolent. He’s been watching your cottage.”
The last part got Cettie’s full attention. She had noticed someone from her window just the other day. She’d noticed the man just before Mr. Skrelling had arrived, and in the excitement of the day, she’d forgotten all about it. “Excuse me, did you say he was watching our rooms?”
“Perhaps I should have mentioned that from the start,” Mr. Skrelling said.
“Indeed, you should have,” Cettie said. “He’s new to the neighborhood, perhaps?”
“He’s too old to be a student,” he replied. “I’ve seen him standing at the corner, watching the street, more than once. It’s my nature to be suspicious in general. To notice things that seem out of place. The people who live here are friendly in general. He looks . . . not friendly.”
“And you are sure he has been looking at our rooms?”
“As certain as I reasonably can be under the circumstances. I thought it proper to warn you and Miss Fitzempress. Naturally, one does not just arrive at Muirwood by road. That’s impossible because the area is surrounded by woods and water. But plenty of sky ships have been arriving recently, including an unmarked one from the Ministry of War. He might . . .” He paused and shrugged before finishing. “Be an agent of the ministry. I’ve been told that there are certain men who spy on their behalf. I don’t seek to cause undue alarm, Miss Cettie. You look a little pale.”
Cettie was worried, but she didn’t wish for him to know it. “I am all right, thank you.”
“I apologize if I have upset you.” His jaw locked, and his lips moved as if he were trying to stop himself from speaking. Then he bowed to her again, turned, and started out of the room. The two rows of dancers were coming back his way and nearly collided with him. With eyes flashing, he turned toward the dancers as if to scold them, but at the last moment he managed to comport himself with dignity and strode out of the classroom.
When the song was finished, Mrs. Ajax gave some more instructions. “Remember, it’s turn to the right and clap and then turn to the left and clap. Everyone should clap on the same beat. I heard a little dissonance a moment ago when a few of you forgot the timing. Try it again, please. This is one of the easiest dances. Your performance should be perfect. Remember it starts on nine.” She started to clap her hands to mimic the rhythm.
Mrs. Ajax dismissed the class after the second attempt, and Cettie waited anxiously for Sera to join her. Her friend was talking to one of the younger girls—dancing was a class that mixed older and younger students—and Cettie tapped her foot as she watched them, her worry growing.
“Did you not dance today, Cettie?” Miss Fullbright asked with an air of false innocence as she walked by.
“Who would want to dance with her?” said Miss Fullbright’s companion.
The snubs did not happen every day. But they happened with enough regularity that they made Cettie wary around people she did not already know. Miss Fullbright had a sizable dowry and at least three young men who were actively courting her. She never lacked for partners. Most students were eighteen at the end of their schooling, which meant they were of age to marry and enter society as adults. No doubt, Miss Fullbright planned to do exactly that.
But the young woman’s future was as much a game of chance as that card game Dominion. Were the young men interested in her or in her money? Did this one gamble? Did that one overspend? Any one of the three might squander his wife’s inheritance on some scheme that would trap the family in the Fells. Any sky manor could come tumbling down to earth.
Such was the fate of a woman whose only ambition was to marry well. There were so many risks at stake. So many games of chance at play. In the present climate, no one’s future was secure.
Sera came up breathlessly, a glowing smile on her face. She locked arms with Cettie and guided her toward the door.
“Didn’t you dance today?” she asked.
Cettie shook her head no, but still managed a smile. “Mr. Skrelling came by just now.”
“I thought I saw him nearly get trampled. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help laughing.”
“It was rather funny,” Cettie said, “but the news he brought to me is not. He came to tell me that a stranger has been watching us at Vicar’s Close.”
“Watching what?” Sera asked with unconcern. She was already dismissing it.
“Mr. Skrelling thought the man he noticed was watching us. Remember how I noticed someone looking in our window the other day? Let’s pay more attention on our way home this evening.”
“If anyone is watching us too much, I think it’s Mr. Skrelling. Admit it: he’s fixated on you. I thought for sure it was h
im the other day.”
“Be serious, Sera. He wasn’t the person I saw from the window, but I did get a good look at the man. I’d like to see if I can spot him again.”
The outside air was welcoming and warm, and it smelled of grass and flowers. Soon it would be Whitsunday, the end of the school year, when the entire village came to the grounds to dance and make merry. Cettie knew she would dance then because Adam was sure to ask her. He did every year. Mr. Skrelling probably would as well.
“Has he had any luck finding your mother?” Sera asked.
“Mr. Skrelling has been trying to discover her for years. He hasn’t quit. Do you think his persistence will be rewarded?”
“What if he’s persistent about pursuing you?” Sera asked inquisitively.
“I don’t think you can make someone fall in love with you,” Cettie said. “No matter how persistent you are. There are two hearts involved.”
They changed the conversation to a lighter topic as they crossed the grounds before separating to their next classes. This was one of Cettie’s favorites—a Mysteries of Wind class involving calculations. Sera did not have a strong head for numbers, but Cettie found it fascinating to learn about the patterns and ratios that were repeated throughout nature. It showed that an intelligent force had organized the worlds and left clues behind to be noticed. Sometimes Cettie felt that the world was like an empty classroom at Muirwood. All the tomes and books had been left behind for them to discover truths and principles, but the master of the classroom was not in the room.
They met up again after their respective classes and proceeded to walk arm in arm back to Vicar’s Close. Some boys had doffed their coats and were playing catch with apples from the orchard. Most of the fruit ended up smashed by the end, but there was a jolly feel to the proceedings. As they walked down the street, Cettie kept looking at the various faces they passed, searching for the stranger.
Sera seemed to have completely forgotten, and she was talking about Will Russell’s letter again when Cettie picked the man out of the crowd.
He did have a brooding face, a dark look. Was there a scar on the side of his cheek? His arms were folded, and he was leaning against the wall near the main square. Their eyes met briefly. There was no doubt he was staring at her. She looked away.
“Oh, it’s Mr. Durrant!” Sera said excitedly.
Cettie, caught off guard, noticed there was another man standing in their yard, the balding Mr. Durrant. Judging from his agitated pacing, he had been there quite a while.
When she looked back to the man at the corner, he was gone.
Cettie felt a strange chill go through her. Something told her he would be back.
SERA
A person is but the product of their thoughts. What I think, I become. The challenge is in the taming of the maelstrom. How easily we fall prey to the thoughts of others. They can spread like a poisoned touch. Too often we unwittingly let the people around us tamper with our minds.
I am morose today. A heaviness is on me that I cannot dispel. Are my thoughts warning me? Is something dreadful about to happen? I sense a menace lurking in Muirwood. I do not know whence this feeling comes. Is it a foreboding of the future? The change in government is a harbinger of ill tidings. No matter which side wins, there will be those who resent the outcome. There will be trouble. I must be vigilant. I sense danger is coming to Muirwood, if it has not already arrived.
—Thomas Abraham, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey
CHAPTER SEVEN
PRIVY COUNCIL
Mr. Durrant had become Sera’s advocate four years ago, and without his help and guidance, she wasn’t quite sure she would have escaped her father’s tyranny and found a place at Muirwood. Their visits had become more rare these last years, but she was grateful that he had tied his interests to her future success. He was quick-witted and sarcastic and had a wicked sense of humor. In short, he was exactly the sort of legal counsel one wanted on one’s side. And while he was much older than her, at least fifty, he always managed to engage her in interesting conversation. She had not expected to find him standing in the gated porch of her dormitory, pacing like a cat caught in a trap.
Sera knew immediately that some piece of bad business must have brought him there.
As she and Cettie approached the small wooden gate, he came forward to meet them. Cettie was hardly paying attention, looking toward the square as if trying to find someone.
“Mr. Durrant,” Sera said with an authoritative tone, “why are you intruding in our little garden? I hope you haven’t trampled any of the lavender bushes.”
“I thought they were weeds,” he quipped in return, his eyes narrowing in an almost accusing way. “I have been stranded here for far too long. You cannot afford me being this idle, Your Highness. You should have come sooner.”
“You should have sent word ahead,” she countered. “Why are you here?”
“The street is not the proper place to hold a conference.” He gestured toward the front door.
Cettie unlatched the gate to let them in, and Sera strode toward the door, feeling her stomach twisting with knots. Her father was coming for a visit, Will Russell had written her, and now Mr. Durrant had come. Didn’t crises usually come in threes? Could they not come one at a time rather than all together?
When they reached the interior of their humble dormitory, Cettie immediately invoked the Leerings to bring light and heat. It came so easily to her she was finished in hardly a moment. Pushing aside a twinge of jealousy, Sera turned to face her advocate.
“There. What news do you bring, Mr. Durrant?”
“What have you heard? I’d rather not bore you with redundant information.”
“My grandfather is dead, and my father wants to take his place. His strategy is to badger me into going to Kingfountain as the prince’s bride, trading me away like a Dominion card.”
“Ah, succinct, as always,” Durrant said with a morose smile. “Now to the thick of it. You must come with me to Lockhaven at once. Your interests cannot be defended here, at Muirwood, while those who make the decisions are so far away. Your mother is coming here with your father to help persuade you, but she acts on my advice.”
Sera put her hands on the table to steady herself. “There is only a short time before my studies end. Surely the privy council can grant me enough time to take the Test?”
Durrant shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Sera. You have spent four years studying at Muirwood. If you are not ready to pass the Test now, another few weeks will be insignificant. No, I advise you to return with me to see the privy council in the City. The sides are being drawn. The wagers are being placed as we speak. It is imperative that you return with me lest you be left behind.”
“Wagers, Mr. Durrant?”
“I do not mean to make it sound venal, but yes. Wagers are being struck. Vast fortunes will be won or lost depending on the outcome of who is chosen next to fill the throne. Some members of the privy council stand to personally lose or gain by this.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Durrant, but that is exactly the definition of venal!” Sera protested.
He shrugged. “It does not alter my recommendation. If you wish to become empress, you need to act as if you have sufficient ambition for it. The opportunity won’t be thrust at you. Lord Welles, I think, is a strong supporter of yours. That he came here himself shows this. An admiral’s strength in the military comes from the devotion of the soldiers. Most of them are common men who would benefit from your altruism. The Ministry of Law, on the other hand, would not want you interfering in wages.”
Sera folded her arms and started to pace. She was sick to her stomach now. “I do want this chance, Durrant. But not for prestige or the power. Not for jewels or ball gowns. I want to be in a position to help all of our people, not just the lucky few who were born to wealth or managed to gain it. The soldiers, the laborers, and the innocent children who suffer for no fault of their own. Lockhaven and the other cities and sky manors will only
be part of my empire.”
“If you truly wish to help your people, then come with me.”
“If I go, won’t I lose the protection I have at Muirwood? Could my father compel me to go to Kingfountain to try and . . . try and woo the princeling there?”
“He’s eighteen, hardly a princeling. Between the two of you, you are the one who would appear underage.”
Sera flashed him an angry look. It made her blood boil that she was so short, so small. That she had to face the struggle of her life as a girl of sixteen. “Mr. Durrant, how can this be a good idea? My only hope of becoming empress is if I pass the Test. In my current state of mind, I’m not even certain that I can manage it.”
He stepped closer. “All the more reason to come with me. Think of how your actions or inactions will be interpreted. You project confidence even if you do not feel it. There are some—including your father—who are saying that you can’t pass the Test because you aren’t a true Fitzempress. Prove that you are. Fly to Lockhaven in a tempest and demand to see the privy council. Show them your mettle, Your Highness. You’ll gain more converts with your actions than with any fair little speeches. The public’s confidence in you is beginning to totter because you have been gone for so long. The people need to see your strength. Your will. And,” he added, wagging his finger at her in a lecturing way, “you’ll have Fitzroy there to continue coaching you. No one can speak louder in favor of your interests than you yourself can. Your presence would speak volumes. I’m afraid that if you delay, it will spell disaster. For us both.”
Sera frowned as she paced. “This goes against the counsel of both Fitzroy and the Aldermaston. They both encouraged me to stay here.”
Mr. Durrant nodded his head sagely. “Yes, both are men of high principles. Unfortunately, neither is very sensitive to the demands of the world. Clearly you have Fitzroy’s support. But if only one of the ministers supports you, I’m afraid that will be insufficient.”
