Airs Beneath the Moon

by Toby Bishop

  Philippa looked away from her, down the long aisle to the stall where her own Sunny stood with her head over the door, waiting for her to come and greet her. Bramble leaned against her thigh, and she absently stroked the silky fur. How would Rosellen feel about Larkyn Hamley, then? Larkyn’s beginnings were as humble as Rosellen’s, and yet she had achieved, without intending it, Rosellen’s goal. Softly, she said, “It’s going to be hard on her, Rosellen.”

  “That it is, Mistress Winter. I’ll keep an eye out.”

  Philippa said quietly, “Thank you. She might need a friend.”

  The stable-girl grinned, ducked her head, and turned back to the tack room.

  NINE

  “NATURALLY I expected better than Dickering Park,” Horsemistress Cloud was saying, sniffing over her teacup and tucking a brackish strand of hair into its rider’s knot. “I come from a very good family, in Isamar. Why, from our city house in Arlton we could see the Prince’s Palace. My sister and I often had tea with the young Princesses, and the Princess Consort herself recommended me for the Academy!”

  Lark shifted in her uncomfortable chair, crossing her ankles and then uncrossing them. She tried to comfort herself by remembering this was the last of her tutorial visits with Amberly Cloud. Not that there had been much tutoring going on—Mistress Cloud was apparently exceedingly lonely, and wished mostly to talk about herself and her family and her failed aspirations. Lark looked longingly at the door that led from Mistress Cloud’s crowded parlor to the airy stable where her gelding waited.

  “It will be different for you, of course, my dear.” She put down her cup and chose a crook from the tiered plate before her. “As you have no breeding. I think you must expect to be assigned to some such place as this, but I—Kalla’s tail, I never thought to work out my days in an Uplands village! Although I must say, I love these little biscuits they make here.”

  Kalla’s tail was the only thing of interest the horsemistress had said all afternoon. Lark liked the epithet. Perhaps if you were a horsemistress, you could swear by Kalla, and it would be all right. It was surely more refined than swearing by Zito’s ears all the time.

  She sighed, yearning toward the stables. Silver Cloud was a lovely creature, with a brown coat. He was tall for an Ocmarin, according to Mistress Cloud. The sum total of her learning from Mistress Cloud amounted to knowing that Ocmarins were the smallest of the bloodlines, prized for their speed and agility.

  Lark glanced sideways at the bit of frumpery that was Mistress Cloud’s clock. Everything in the horsemistress’s residence seemed fussy to Lark. Miniature figurines crowded the shelves, and every surface was covered with some bit of lacy material. The tea set was delicate, with gold paint and vivid floral patterns. The clock was so heavily scrolled and crimped Lark could barely see its face, but she managed to deduce that the hour was coming four. Nick would be returning, and she had done nothing but listen to Amberly Cloud natter on about how little there was to do in Dickering Park.

  Lark set down her cup with a sharp clink, hoping to move things along.

  Mistress Cloud glanced up at her. “Don’t fidget, Larkyn,” she said. “One thing you must learn, and that is to comport yourself as one of the gentry, even if you aren’t one. And remember, horsemistresses never, ever curtsy, not even to the Duke himself. We incline our heads, so.” She demonstrated, her neck stiff, her lips pursed. “Now. Sit up straight, don’t spill your tea, and try to improve that Uplands accent. You don’t want everyone sniggering at you behind their hands!”

  Lark was already sitting straight, and she hadn’t spilled a drop of Mistress Cloud’s tea, though the liquid was so weak and pale, no one would have noticed if she had. The tea needed a pass with a fetish, but then, Lark thought, perhaps horsemistresses disdained smallmagics. They ruled, after all, the one great magic.

  “You’re worried about my accent?” Lark said, impatience getting the better of her. “Aren’t they more likely to laugh at me if I fall off my horse?”

  Mistress Cloud scowled at her, making her round face look like a fractured moon. “Yet another problem for you! I can’t imagine the Academy thought I alone should teach you to ride!” she exclaimed. “What an imposition! A nuisance! And a bore for poor Silver, rambling around the yard without using his wings!” She chewed the last of her pastry, crumbs falling down her chin and onto her tabard. When she leaned forward, her tabard folded in generous swaths around her middle. “Listen to me, my girl. I think this is a bad idea, from beginning to end. I wish you well, of course, it would speak ill of my breeding if I did not. But there has never been an Uplands farm girl at the Academy, nor do I think there should be one now! I’m doing my best by you, but I must say . . .” She leaned back into her chair again, and brushed at the crumbs that had fallen from her round bosom to her lap. “I must say, I find you a bit slow. I don’t say it to offend you . . .”

  Lark saw the oxcart round the corner of the street and trundle toward Mistress Cloud’s door. She jumped to her feet. “Slow?” she said. “How would you know if I’m slow? You know nothing about me! Mistress Winter wanted me to learn a few things about horses, and tack, and . . . and things I’ll need to know.”

  “My dear!” Mistress Cloud exclaimed. Her eyes were round, her full lips parted. She rose from her chair with a little grunt. “You must never address your betters in such a way!”

  Lark could guess why there had been no riding involved in these tutorial afternoons. She eyed the older woman’s plump silhouette in her voluminous divided skirt, but she swallowed the retort that sprang to her lips. She mumbled an apology instead. Irritating though the horsemistress was, she was right. The Academy would no doubt deal harshly with insolence in its students. And it would do no good to part with Mistress Cloud on bad terms.

  Nick’s little bell, the same he used to alert his customers to his arrival, sounded clearly through the hot afternoon. Amberly Cloud folded her hands. “Well, child,” she said. “This concludes our sessions, I suppose. I will follow your progress at the Academy with interest.”

  In a pig’s eye, Lark thought, but she dropped her gaze in a way that she hoped was ladylike, and said, “Thank you, Horsemistress.”

  “You’re quite welcome.” Mistress Cloud’s lips made a prim little bow, and she turned to the door in a sweep of fabric. Her rear view looked more like one of the draught horses that pulled the mail coach than like that of her own Silver Cloud.

  Too fat to fly, Lark thought. Living on memories. But she hid her rebellious thought, and only begged, “Could I just see Silver once again, before I leave?”

  Amberly Cloud gave her a weary look over her shoulder. “Oh, Larkyn. It’s so hot.”

  “You don’t have to come outside. I’ll just run to the stables, and then join my brother.”

  “Very well.” Mistress Cloud fanned herself with one hand, and nodded to the door. “Be certain Master Hamley goes nowhere near the stables. I don’t want Silver upset.”

  “He knows.” Lark hurried to the door.

  Nick looked up as she emerged, and smiled. “Climb you up, Lark! Let’s be off.”

  “Just one moment, Nick, please.” Lark grinned at him, and pointed to the stables. “I’m just going to say goodbye to Silver.”

  Behind her, Amberly Cloud stood in the shade of her little portico. Nick lifted his hat, bowing to Mistress Cloud and flashing his white grin. Even she, it seemed, could be affected by Nick’s charm. She gave him a real smile, not the little pinchy one she saved for Lark, and waved a greeting. Lark seized the moment to dash around the corner.

  The moment she reached the stables, Lark forgot about Mistress Cloud and even her brother. Silver Cloud’s ears flicked forward at the sight of her, and he rustled his silken wings against their wingclips. He stretched out his nose for her caress.

  The gelding’s hide was faintly dappled, sleek and shining. Lark ran her hand over his smooth cheek and down his neck. “Poor thing,” she whispered to him. “When was your last flight? If this c
ontinues, you’ll be as fat as your mistress.”

  He lowered his head for her to scratch between his ears, and to run her fingers through the fine strands of his mane. “You’re lovely fine, aren’t you?” she said softly. “All slender bones and sweet temper.” Silver bumped her with his nose, and blew through his nostrils. “Yes, yes, you are, lovely boy. Though you look nothing like my Tup! I wish I could have brought him along to give you a blink, but Mistress Cloud said not.”

  She patted the horse a last time, and stood back. Beyond his spacious stall, one of the flying saddles, with its high cantle and knee rolls, waited on its rack. Lark cast a glance over her shoulder to see if either Nick or Mistress Cloud had come around the corner to watch her, but they hadn’t. She scooted around Silver’s stall, and stepped up into the tack room.

  It smelled marvelously of leather and saddle soap and polish. One entire wall seemed to be hung with straps and ropes and buckles, things for which she had no name. She put her hand on the cool surface of the saddle, admiring its finely tooled flaps, the pliable stirrup leathers, the steel-capped stirrups. She trailed her fingers across the wing-notch. She had never even sat in a saddle, not once.

  Silver watched her intently. She turned back to hug his neck. Into the sweetness of his skin, she breathed, “Goodbye, sweet fellow. Good hap to you—and wish me and Tup the same! I hope to see you again.” She stroked him one last time.

  She found Nick leaning against the portico, chatting with Mistress Cloud. “Well,” Nick said to Lark. “Are you ready at last? Said your farewells?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m ready.” She turned to Mistress Cloud. “Thank you again, Horsemistress, for your time.”

  Amberly Cloud nodded. Lark and Nick climbed up into the oxcart, and Lark pulled her hat from beneath the seat and put it on. As the wheels began to turn, Mistress Cloud called after Lark, “Don’t wear that awful hat to the Academy! You’ll never hear the end of it!”

  Lark sighed, and pulled off the hat to twirl it in her hands. It was the same as Nick’s, as Brye’s, as Edmar’s, woven of good fresh broomstraw, flexible and cool, its wide brim keeping the beat of the mountain sun from its wearer’s face. She supposed it did look bumptious next to the horsemistresses’ elegant caps, but at least it covered her hopeless mass of curls.

  Nick laughed. “Least of your worries, sweetheart. Anyway, you can take it off before you pull into yon Academy courtyard.”

  “I suppose.” Lark replaced the hat on her head, which was already growing warm in the late sun.

  “Any joy today?” Nick asked.

  “No,” Lark said. “More about Arlton, and the royals, and the importance of her family.”

  “Not much help to you, then.”

  “Not a bit.”

  They rode in silence for a few minutes. The air was so hot and heavy it seemed to Lark she could take a bite of it, chew it up, and swallow it. It was a relief to her when they escaped the steamy confines of the town and drove among the hedgerows where the clean scents of soil and shrub could cleanse her nostrils of the coaldust and sewer smell of Dickering Park. They turned into the lane that passed Willakeep, and drove between fields of ripening broomstraw and bloodbeets. Lark breathed in the essence of the Uplands, and found that her eyes stung with nostalgic tears. She turned her head to hide them, but Nick saw, and touched her arm.

  “Not unhappy, surely, Lark?”

  She swallowed hard, and blinked away the tears. “No, Nick. Not unhappy, but—” She turned abruptly to face him, making the bench seat creak on its springs. “I only wish I could have it both ways! Have Deeping Farm, and the Uplands, and have Tup, and the Academy! I wish—it’s just that I will—”

  Nick smiled at her, but his eyes were grave in the shade of his hatbrim. “Growing up, Lark,” he said softly. “You’re almost fifteen. Your friend Petal, now, same age as you—and already married, with a baby on the way.”

  “A baby is one thing I’ll never have.”

  Nick was silent for a long moment, idly flicking his long whip to and fro above the ox. “Not looking like I will, either,” he said.

  At that, Lark flashed him a look. “Or you have a dozen in other men’s homes!”

  Nick chuckled. “What does a lass like you know about men’s comings and goings?”

  “I’m an Uplands girl, Nick Hamley,” she said stoutly. “I know what causes babies!”

  He laughed again, richly, and then drove in silence. Not until they could see the sloping roof of the farmhouse did he speak again. He said, “You could have chosen to marry, Lark. You’ve always been the prettiest girl in Willakeep.”

  “You just say that because I’m a Hamley.”

  “Just the same. Choose any lad you fancy. I suppose you could still change your mind.”

  “No, Nick, I can’t. And I wouldn’t if I could.” She turned to stare blindly out over the field beyond the hedgerow. “I want to do this. I want to be a horsemistress, more than anything, to fly with Tup. But it’s hard to leave my home.”

  “I know,” he said. He circled her waist with his arm and squeezed her gently. “I know.”

  THE road to Osham from the Uplands ran from the northwest to the southeast, along the Black River until it spilled into the Grand River. Brye said they must make an early start, to reach the city before dark, and so they sat together in the old kitchen, breakfasting before dawn. Even Edmar had not yet left for the quarry when Lark climbed up on the bench seat of the oxcart beside Brye. Her little satchel of belongings fit beneath her feet. The back of the cart was empty.

  A package had come by the mail coach from the Academy of the Air to Willakeep, and was carried personally to Deeping Farm by Master Micklewhite on the same day of its arrival. Micklewhite, Nick had snickered, was in trouble with the Council of Lords for delaying his report of the winged foal’s birth, and was expending more energy than usual in carrying out his duties. Brye had accepted the package somberly, and sent the prefect on his way, much to Master Micklewhite’s frustration. It was addressed, of course, to Lark. To Miss Larkyn Hamley, Deeping Farm, Willakeep, the Uplands, and it held a halter of fine leather, with tiny steel buckles and a braided lead rope, and a set of shining, intricate wingclips.

  Tup wore the halter now, and Lark held the lead in her hand as they set out. She had puzzled and puzzled over the wingclips, but couldn’t figure out how to attach them. In any case, Tup kept his wings tightly folded against his ribs. Molly pressed close to his flank as if afraid of being left behind.

  Edmar stood in the gate, looking up at Lark, his battered hat in his hands. “Remember your kith,” he said.

  “Yes, Edmar.” He nodded, as if everything had been said that needed saying, and started off down the lane toward the quarry.

  “Edmar’s talkative this morning!” Nick said. “But he’s right. Remember who you are.”

  “Thank you, Nick. I will.”

  “Well, then.” He cleared his throat.

  “Best be off,” Brye growled.

  “Right. Good hap, little sister!”

  Lark lifted her hand, unable now to speak. She took a last, long look at the farmhouse, the blackstone fence of the kitchen garden, the barn. Brye flicked the whip over the ox’s head, and the cart began to creak down the lane. Nick stood waving from the gate, as their odd assortment moved out toward the road, Tup on his lead, Molly trotting alongside. The ox paid no attention to colt or goat, but plodded forward at his usual pace, as if the unaccustomed lightness of the cart made no difference to him.

  Lark twisted on the seat to watch her home until a bend in the lane hid it from her sight. When she turned forward, she twisted her hands together in her lap. She wondered if girls going off to be married felt the same as she did at this moment, as if they were going through a door that would shut behind them forever. She could go home again, she supposed, but she feared she would be utterly changed.

  “Brye,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “You won’t change anythin
g, will you? Not Deeping Farm, the house, the barn . . .”

  “Hasn’t changed in three centuries, Lark.”

  Lark breathed a long, shuddering sigh. “No. And that’s the best thing about it.”

  TEN

  WILLIAM drove his horse hard on the road from the Palace, spurring her when she flagged, dashing past the sparse early morning traffic. Oxcart drivers, obviously not knowing who they cursed, shook their fists at him. A flock of pigs scattered before the gelding’s pounding feet, but William paid no attention. Slater had brought him the news this morning with his morning tray, and he had leapt out of bed, ignoring the coffee and toast, thrown on his clothes of the night before, and dashed down the stairs and out to the stables. He had to stop that fool Crisp. There was no time to pretend to confer with his father. He would simply infer it, and be damned to the consequences. Crisp was hard to manipulate, though. He would have to think of something.

  “Three days!” William muttered under his breath, jerking at the reins in his frustration. Someone would pay for failing to keep him informed. One more day’s delay, and the deed could have been done! But he would think of that later.

  Twenty minutes’ gallop brought him to the gates of the Academy, where he slowed his gelding to cool him, and to disguise the haste with which he had ridden. The summer heat had not yet risen, and the Academy grounds were green and peaceful under a slight morning mist. William rode past the yearlings’ pasture, where the winged colts and fillies dashed to the fence to watch him pass, and trotted along on their side, following his progress. When he reached the courtyard, he reined in before the stables and called, “Herbert! Herbert? Are you up there?”

  Curtains twitched at the upper window, where the stable-man had his apartment, and a moment later the little man came clattering down the stairs. An oc-hound paced at his heels, and one of the stable-girls, a thickset, freckled young woman, put her head out from the tack room.