by Toby Bishop
Larkyn jumped to her feet and came to stand beside her. She pointed north. “The river forms the border of our farm.”
“And that’s where you found her?”
“Yes. I was grazing the goats.”
“When?”
The girl tilted her head to one side, considering. “In the late summer,” she said. “The bloodbeets were in, I remember, and the broomstraw just coming on. Seven months, perhaps.”
Philippa pursed her lips, thinking of what had happened at the end of the last summer, presaging the long, dark winter, and the breaking of Duke Frederick’s heart. She put her hands on the edge of the stone sink. It felt old under her fingers, old in the way the Academy itself was old, every stone and brick and tile cleaned and repaired many times, cared for by generations past remembering. She glanced up into the darkness of the rafters, and wondered how long the Hamleys had been on Deeping Farm.
She returned to the table, and the girl followed. Someone had produced a plate of bread and cheese, a saucer of jam, a little dish of some elongated biscuit. The men were helping themselves, but the girl seemed to have no appetite.
Philippa picked up her cup. “Larkyn,” she said. “Can you read?”
“Read?” The girl’s eyes sparked with indignation. “Of course I can read!”
Philippa suppressed a smile. But the prefect, naturally, could not let it pass. “Larkyn Hamley, mind your tongue!” he said. And to Philippa, “I taught her myself, of course, Horsemistress. In the school in the village.”
“We are not an illiterate mountain village.” This was Brye. He leaned back in his chair, but his eyes never left Philippa’s.
“You can understand the question,” Philippa said. “Many are.” She thought she had better tread carefully with this man, or have to use the Duke’s authority to bend him. She wouldn’t want to do that, not with Brye Hamley.
Larkyn said, “I read, and write, and do my numbers. Though most of it I learned at home!” This was directed at Micklewhite, and Philippa enjoyed the reddening of his plump cheeks.
“Well,” Philippa said, setting her cup down with a decisive click. “That’s settled, then.”
“What is?” Nick Hamley asked.
Philippa set her jaw, almost overcome with impatience. She would have to find a way to explain all this to the Duke, to the Headmistress, and to the Master Breeder. Hardest of all was trying to explain it to the Hamleys. “When a young woman bonds with one of the winged horses, it is permanent,” she said, her eyes on Larkyn’s pale face. “It is irreversible. And it means you must come to the Academy of the Air to train.”
The hope that dawned in the girl’s eyes caused Philippa a twinge of pain in her breast. Larkyn half rose, her mouth a little open, her eyes violet with emotion. She breathed, “Academy?” She turned to Brye as if in a dream, and then, slowly, she sank down again. The light in her dimmed as surely as if someone had blown out a wick. “Oh,” she said softly, and then again, “Oh. No, no, I can’t.” She turned back to Philippa. “My brothers need me here.”
Philippa snorted. These people really understood nothing, and it was setting her nerves ablaze. She turned to Brye, spreading her hands. “I do see the problem, Master Hamley, but the Duke will not, and he answers to the Council. Every horse and rider of the bloodlines trains at the Academy. We can’t have a winged horse raised on an Uplands farm. The waste—to say nothing of the precedent—would be disastrous.”
Nick said, “Send the colt to the Academy, then. Leave Lark here, where she belongs.”
The fiery look Lark cast at her brother was not wasted on Philippa. She raised an eyebrow, and said, “You know nothing of the winged horses, evidently.”
Brye said gruffly, “No need. None such in the Uplands.”
“Indeed.” She nodded. “I am trying to explain. Winged horses are very different creatures from wingless ones, even when they are born of the same sire and dam. They mature at a faster rate, and they are more intelligent, more sensitive, than their wingless brethren. And without exception, a winged horse bonds for life.” She let her eyes drift to Larkyn. “The foal can’t stay here, and he can’t leave the girl. He would die. Such things have happened.”
A long silence greeted her flat statement. Nick dusted crumbs from his fingers, and Brye fingered his chin. Lark stared at her untouched teacup, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
More quietly, Philippa went on, “And though it is unpleasant to say so, I must remind you of the penalty for interfering with the bloodlines.”
“Confiscate our farm,” Brye said.
“At the very least.”
Nick added, “Banishment.”
“Quite possibly.”
Philippa sat back, allowing the Hamleys a moment to consider. Micklewhite opened his mouth as if to speak, but she lifted a forefinger to stop him. It was not that the family had a choice in the matter. They had none. But she hoped to allow them to come to their decision without saying so.
Brye growled, “Will she be safe?”
“There are risks, Master Hamley, commensurate with the privileges. The Horsemistresses of Oc rank only below the Duke and the Lords of the Council. And of course, there are . . .” She let her eyes drift to the window again, to the silvery pregnant branches of the rue-tree. “There are sacrifices.”
When she looked back, the light had begun to glow in the girl’s eyes again. Larkyn looked down the table at her brothers. “Brye,” she said. “Nick. What will you do if I go? Who will cook for you, milk the goat and the cows, tend the hens?”
Micklewhite drew breath once again, and Philippa quelled him with narrowed eyes. Truly, if he didn’t keep quiet, she would give herself the satisfaction of striking him with her quirt!
Brye Hamley leaned toward his sister. “Lark,” he said. “Won’t be easy. But—” He paused, as if to gather enough words to express himself. “Mum worked herself to death on Deeping. You look so like her.”
The child bit her lip again.
“Be a good thing,” Brye finished, sitting back with an air of finality, “not to see you grow old before your time.”
Fresh tears reddened Larkyn’s eyes, and a jolt of emotion tightened Philippa’s throat as she watched brother and sister. She recognized the emotion for exactly what it was. It was envy. She gritted her teeth against it.
“You want me to do this, then?” Larkyn asked.
“You have to,” Micklewhite burst out. “It’s not as if you—”
Philippa hissed. “For the last time, hush, Micklewhite, you old fool!” The Hamleys stared at her, and Lark’s cheeks flushed. “Larkyn,” Philippa said curtly, “do you want to go to the Academy of the Air?”
The girl hesitated only a moment. “I do. And I want to stay with Tup.”
Philippa grimaced at the unseemly name, but she nodded. “We’ll have to talk about what’s involved. First of all, you must stop sleeping in the colt’s stall.”
“I can’t leave him alone! He’d cry all night.”
Philippa rose from the table, pulling her gloves from her belt and starting to draw them on. “At the Academy, the girls sleep in the dormitory, in proper beds, and the horses are in the stables, where they belong. The oc-hounds keep them company, until they outgrow the need. Do you have a dog?”
“No.” Lark considered. “We have goats, though.”
Philippa picked up her cap and unfolded it, deliberately hiding her expression. The situation might have been laughable, if it were not so full of doubt and danger. “Well,” she said, turning to the door, pulling on her cap. “A goat may do. And you need some riding lessons.”
“I can ride already. I rode Char.”
Philippa spun about in the doorway, out of patience. “My girl,” she drawled. “Clomping about the country bareback is not riding. You need to learn to use the proper tack, understand the discipline . . . You are signally unprepared for the Academy, yet you must not fail.”
Lark stood very straight. “Why is that, Mistress Winter
?”
Philippa hesitated. This was the worst part. It was usually made clear to the girls long before they came under her tutelage. She spat it out, not allowing the bitter words to rest in her mouth. “Flyers don’t bond a second time. If a winged horse loses its rider, it dies. If you fail, your colt will be put down. There’s nothing else to be done.”
THREE
“YOU’VE forgotten what it feels like, Philippa.” Margareth Morgan, formerly Margareth Highflyer, smiled wearily across her desk. A small fire burned in her fireplace, and oil lamps flickered on the polished wood and brass fittings of her office. An account book crowded with figures lay open before her, her pen laid neatly across it. At one elbow a stack of slender, marbled volumes awaited her attention. Philippa had just such a volume on her own desk in the Domicile, a half-finished term report requiring her assessment and expectations for the riders and horses of her flight.
At Margareth’s other elbow lay a huge tome, bound in black leather and stamped in gold. She often, in an unconscious gesture, laid her palm upon it. It was a genealogy, a chronicle of the winged horses of one of the three bloodlines. No one but the Master Breeder and the Headmistress of the Academy of the Air could write in that book.
Philippa rubbed her eyes with her fingers. Her hands were still cold from the long flight. She held them out to the warmth of the fire. “I suppose you’re right, Margareth. I have forgotten what that first feeling is—that—obsession, I suppose.”
“Like falling in love,” Margareth said.
Philippa’s hands began to sting as they warmed, and she rubbed them together. “God forbid! I recall it being much easier than that. Can you remember?”
“It’s been a long time, Philippa, but I can remember something as intense as my bonding. And you should, too.”
Philippa sighed. “I know I seem harsh. But she’s completely unsuitable, Margareth. She’s too young, to start with, and she has an accent like a stable-girl. And the roughest manners I’ve ever seen in a girl! She was filthy, to boot. She’d been sleeping in the barn.”
“How did this happen? Why did no one get word to us?”
“The prefect of the village is a doddering fool. Kalla’s teeth, why do we employ such people? Are they fit for nothing else?” She beat an irritated rhythm on the floor with her heel, and looked up to see Margareth hiding a smile behind her hand. “Yes, you may laugh, Margareth. You weren’t there. I gather the Hamleys—that’s the family—contacted this Master Micklewhite immediately, but instead of fetching the horsemistress from Dickering Park, this incompetent sent a letter by mail coach. The mail coach stops at every hamlet between Osham and Willakeep, and the letter took four days to reach us! So here we are, and the foal’s imprinted, and there’s no going back.”
“Tell me about the foal.” The tips of Margareth’s fingers played across the stamped surface of the genealogy.
“Even worse.”
Margareth tilted her head to one side, waiting. She still wore her hair knotted in rider’s fashion, though it had been years since she and Duke’s Highflyer had patrolled the coast. Her wrinkled face was brown from years of flying.
Philippa sighed. “The foal’s pretty enough, but he’s not bred true. You’ll know it as soon as you see him. He’s black, which could mean a Noble, but he’s too small. His legs are like tooth-picks. You might think he’s an Ocmarin, with his short back, but his croup is too flat.”
“You can’t judge by that, Philippa. My own Highflyer had a croup like a tabletop. And this foal is what—a week old? His wings haven’t even opened.”
Philippa shrugged. “True, of course. Eduard will have to rule on it.”
“We can speak to him tomorrow.”
Philippa frowned. “Margareth—perhaps we should wait. Something’s happening here, and it makes me uneasy. How would such a foal be bred? And why would his dam be wandering loose and abandoned in the Uplands?”
“Winged foals have appeared spontaneously,” Margareth said. “But it’s been a very long time.”
“It’s been more than a century.”
The headmistress nodded. “Two, at least. And I’m trying to come up with an explanation that doesn’t mean trouble all around.”
“I don’t know if the Duke will rouse even for a breeding violation,” Philippa said tiredly. “But I must try. And immediately.”
“You had better go tomorrow, then.”
A spasm of pain shot up Philippa’s neck. She winced, and put her hand up to rub it. “Do you think Irina could cover my flight again?”
“I’ll speak to her.” Margareth stood up, bracing herself on her desk, and bent to blow out her lamp. Her eyes were shadowed, the lids drooping as if they were too heavy to lift.
Philippa leaned toward her. “Are you all right, Margareth?”
The headmistress nodded. “I’m just tired. Very tired.” She put a fist in the small of her back and stretched. “Old,” she added wryly.
“Nonsense. You’re not old,” Philippa protested.
Margareth gave her a look as she moved to the door. “Every horsemistress feels old the day she loses her mount, Philippa. And none of us escapes it.”
Philippa hurried to open the door for her, trying to ignore the anxiety that rippled up from her belly. Margareth was the closest thing she had to a friend at the Academy. In truth, she could only count two true friends in her life. “You go to bed, Margareth,” she said quietly. “Please. I’ll find Irina myself.”
Margareth nodded. “Thank you. I believe I will.” She started toward the stairs, but on the first step she paused. She looked down, the light making hollows in her thin cheeks, shadowing her wrinkled throat. “Philippa . . . be sure to speak with Frederick alone.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Margareth shook her head sharply, and spoke with a little of her old fire. “Not good enough, Philippa. No one else must hear you speak of this foal. Especially not at the palace.”
“I know.”
Margareth nodded again. Philippa watched her progress up the stairs, chilled by the slowness of her steps. Margareth had flown her Foundation stallion, Duke’s Highflyer, for almost thirty years, and wore the scars that proved it. She had been Headmistress of the Academy of the Air for two decades. She had earned her retirement, a house in the White City, time to take her ease on her family’s estate. But Philippa dreaded the loss of her friend.
Her own steps, as she walked to the Domicile, were hardly less heavy than Margareth’s.
The small, white winter moon was just rising. She paused in the cobbled courtyard to look across at the whitewashed walls of the stables, the neat hedgerows that lined the flight and landing paddocks. How different it all was from the homely Uplands farm! She thought of the ferocity in Brye Hamley’s eye when they were speaking of his sister’s future, and a wave of emotion, even less honorable than the earlier one, twisted her heart.
“Idiot,” she cursed herself. She wheeled to her right, and stalked across the courtyard to the Domicile. She dashed up the stairs and threw open the double doors.
Matron had obviously been waiting for her in the hallway. She dipped a brief curtsy, and reached for Philippa’s things. “My, Mistress Winter, so late tonight! I was a bit worried.”
“Nonsense, Matron,” Philippa said distractedly. “Nothing to worry about. Do you know where Irina is?”
Matron pointed to the reading room, where a fire blazed in the hearth and all the lamps glowed yellow. Comfortable chairs were arranged so that the horsemistresses could read or converse alone or in company. Several were seated now before the fire, talking in low voices or doing paperwork. Irina Strong, a tall, broad-shouldered woman who flew a classic Foundation mare, had stretched her legs across the window seat, with ample cushions behind her, and a book open on her lap. Philippa started toward her. Matron said, “Food, Mistress Winter? Something to drink?”
Belatedly, Philippa recognized the hollowness of her belly. “Please. Anything you have,” she said. She walke
d into the reading room, nodding to one or two of the other women.
Irina looked up from the window seat. “Philippa, at last,” she said. “Where have you been so late? Off at the palace again?”
“No.” Philippa pulled a chair close to Irina. She felt the curious glances on her back as she sat down.
Irina frowned. “No? But Margareth said—well, I understood you were on the Duke’s business.”
“Irina, we’re all on the Duke’s business. Every day of our lives.”
Irina’s broad face flushed. “You know what I meant,” she said. “Extraordinary business.”
“Yes.” Philippa leaned back in her chair. “Well, it was.”
Matron returned with a tray, and pushed a tea table close to Philippa’s knee. She set the tray down, whisking the caddy off the teapot with a flourish. “There, now. A sandwich and a cup of tea. Don’t let it get cold.”
Philippa picked up the sandwich, paper-thin slices of bread layered with wafers of cheese and limp tomato slices. She demolished it in four bites, sure she could have eaten three more. She poured tea into the bone china cup, and cradled it in her fingers, gazing into the delicate tan liquid, remembering the thick pottery mug she had been given at Deeping Farm, and the biting black tea she had drunk from it. She looked around her again at the comforts of the reading room, the polished floor, the richly upholstered chairs, the perfectly groomed women in their crisp riding habits and clean boots. Despite the distinct smell of horse that permeated everything at the Academy, it was an elegant scene. How would the farm girl from Willakeep ever fit in?
“Are you going to tell me?” Irina persisted.
Philippa took another sip, and set down her cup. “I can’t, Irina.” Irina’s lips tightened, and Philippa felt a wave of impatience. “You’ll know soon enough, as everyone will, but until I’ve seen the Duke, I can’t discuss it. Margareth and I have agreed it’s the best way.”
Irina shrugged. “Have it your way, Philippa. Your flight did very well today, by the way. You want to watch Geraldine Prince, though. Her gray was a little skittish.”
