by Toby Bishop
Lark heard a step behind her, and turned to see Pamella, with Brandon at her knee, clutching the banister and trying to choke out something.
“Sit down,” Lark urged, coming to her, helping her to sit on the stair. “Breathe, Pamella. Here, Brandon, come with me.”
The little boy toddled toward her, a wooden lamb Edmar had carved for him clutched tightly in his hands. Lark swept the child up in her arms, and then stood before Pamella, blocking her view of the yard. “What is it, Pamella? Mistress Winter tells us he’s your brother. Why does he frighten you so?”
“Take . . . take . . .” Pamella’s mouth worked, her lips stopped on the next word, pressing together, trembling with effort.
Lark tried to guess. She pressed her own lips together. P, m, b—B, of course. “Brandon,” she breathed. “He threatened to take Brandon.”
Pamella, ashen and shaking, nodded, over and over. Lark hugged the little boy tighter.
“Never mind,” she said fiercely. “Never you mind! Yon Duke can try all he wants, but we Uplanders don’t give away children!”
Despite her brave words, she was shocked when she heard the sounds of three horses clipping away up the lane. She whirled, and found Mistress Winter standing alone in the open kitchen doorway, her still, narrow face framed by the branches of the rue-tree.
“Is he gone?” Lark blurted, hardly daring to hope.
Mistress Winter nodded. She said bitterly, “He knew where she was all along. When she was pregnant, he took her to Clellum and left her there. Worse, he let his father die believing his daughter already dead.”
Pamella burst into silent, painful sobs. Brandon, seeing her, began to wail, too, and Lark set him down to run to his mother. Slowly, she straightened, and crossed the kitchen to stand before Mistress Winter.
“He threatened to take Brandon from her,” she said quietly.
“So I surmised.”
“And our farm?” Lark asked. “Will we lose Deeping Farm?”
Philippa Winter’s lips twisted, and she shook her head. “No, Larkyn. He won’t dare, not with Pamella here. He’s afraid of what Pamella can tell the Council of Lords.”
“But she doesn’t speak!”
“William doesn’t know that. And I chose not to tell him.”
LADY Beeth and Hester arrived together in the carriage to transport Irina Strong for her burial. Hester and Lark went out to the barn to see to Tup and Sunny and help the carriage driver water and rub down the draught horses. Strong Lady was growing more and more distraught, and none of them dared go near her flashing hooves. Lark managed to fill her water bucket, and then for a time, she and Hester merely stood and stared at the poor mare, their hearts aching.
Philippa and Lady Beeth vanished into the farmhouse, and spent an hour closeted with Brye. When they emerged, grim-faced, the girls went in to join them at the table.
Peony, wide-eyed and silent, for once, in the presence of the lady of a Council Lord, served them all with cups of strong tea and laid out a fresh platter of crooks. Pamella stayed near the hearth, with Brandon asleep on her lap, his fingers wrapped around the wooden lamb.
“Mamá,” Hester said bluntly, before even tasting the crooks. “Papá will settle this, won’t he? You’ll see to it.”
Lark watched the mother and daughter, marveling at their likeness. It was not only that they resembled each other, but their forthrightness, their directness, were the same. She remembered round little Lord Beeth, with his doubtful manner, and she felt a momentary stab of sympathy for him. He was overmatched in his household. Lark had no doubt that Lady Beeth had a firm voice in the Council of Lords, though it wasn’t her own.
Lady Beeth straightened her girdled tabard, and then sat back in the old, comfortable chair. “There will be little he can do,” she said slowly. “The Dukes own the winged horses, but their management is a matter of tradition, rather than of law. Except, of course, for the bloodlines. Duke Frederick’s great-great-grandfather Francis was a man of foresight, and he codified the bloodlines so that violating them would be treason.”
“Then Duke William . . .” Lark began, and then fell silent. It was confusing to her that William had stolen Tup from the Academy stables, set Irina Strong chasing after them, threatened his own sister, and yet might escape unscathed.
Hester, however, nodded as though she understood perfectly. “And so,” she said. “As long as the Lady Pamella cannot stand in the Council to accuse him, and as long as we have no proof that he’s been crossbreeding the winged horses, we are at an impasse.”
“But we do have proof!” Lark burst out. “I saw and heard him myself!”
Hester put out her long arm and covered Lark’s hand with hers. “We know, Black,” she said. “But the Council won’t hear a commoner.”
“You mean an Uplander,” Brye said with a sour edge to his voice.
“No, Master Hamley,” Lady Beeth said crisply. “Hester is right. The Council takes testimony only from peers or their direct representatives.”
“What will we do, then?” Lark cried. She thought of Tup, of William’s whip cracking against his silky skin, of the feel of that whip against her own body.
Mistress Winter set down her mug of tea with a decisive click of pottery on wood. “We will carry on, Larkyn, as if you merely had an accident. You will return to the Academy after Estian, and we will put it about you are healing, and your colt, of course, stays with you.”
“And His Grace,” Lady Beeth said in a wry tone, “will keep his distance from Lady Pamella. One hopes he will lie awake at night, wondering when she will turn on him.”
Involuntarily, Lark glanced at the fireplace where Pamella sat with her arms protectively circling her son. Pamella laid her cheek against Brandon’s pale hair, and closed her eyes. Lark asked, “Will Pamella—I mean, will the Lady Pamella—return to Osham, then?”
At this, Pamella lifted her head, and shook it sharply, her eyes pleading with Lark and with Mistress Winter.
Mistress Winter said, “No. I think not, Larkyn. Your brother has agreed with your suggestion that she stay here, at Deeping Farm.”
Lark watched Pamella’s eyelids close with relief. “But . . .” Lark began. “But—when her mother—won’t her family want her back?”
Mistress Winter said, “Come now, Larkyn. You’re old enough to understand. She’s been shamed.”
“Her son has no name,” Hester said bluntly. “He will be shunned in the White City. And in the Palace.”
“Oh.” Lark bit her lip, trying to take this in.
Lady Beeth said quietly, “I will pay a call on Duchess Sophia. I doubt she will disagree with her daughter’s decision.” Her lips pursed, and she glanced sidelong at her daughter, who nodded. “Yes. She hardly dares add further scandal to the Fleckham name.”
Such a cool assessment still mystified Lark, but Hester, apparently satisfied, started in on the crooks. Lady Beeth, too, nibbled at one, making Peony blush with pride. Mistress Winter turned her level gaze to Lark.
“You’re worried about Black Seraph.”
“Aye,” Lark said. “If Duke William wants him . . . will he try again?”
“We will be on guard, Larkyn,” Mistress Winter said. Her lips thinned, and a look passed between her and Brye. “You must concentrate on getting well, and rejoining your class. And we will be on guard.”
FORTY-TWO
THE Estian holiday passed in a blaze of sunshine and birdsong, it seemed, for everyone except Philippa. The death of Irina haunted her. She saw Irina’s fall in her nightmares, the outflung arms, the distant, silent impact, the crushed body. Even waking, the memory darkened the bright summer days, and she went about her duties with a heavy heart. There was no word from Duke William, and Margareth and Lady Beeth and Philippa decided that the fear of exposure was too great for him to make good his threat to report Philippa to the Council. Lady Beeth assured them her husband understood the truth of the matter. If a Council session were called, the Academy would have a champ
ion. It seemed best to all of them, though, to keep William’s incursion into the bloodlines a matter of confidence, at least for the moment. Irina’s betrayal of her colleagues would not help the Academy’s reputation, and dragging out the arguments before the Council would not bring her back.
Nor would it bring back Strong Lady. The death of the winged horse affected Philippa at least as much as the death of her rider. She had summoned the indolent Amberly Cloud from Dickering Park to assist her, and they had put the Foundation mare down as quickly and kindly as possible. Brye Hamley and his brothers had buried her next to the little mare they called Char. They could only guess that Char had been Pamella’s mare. The saddle in the Mossyrock market had been hers, sold to pay the midwife when Brandon was born. They still did not know how it had all come about.
But now, Estian was over. Philippa tried, as she watched the girls return to the Academy, to put away her dark mood and look forward to Ribbon Day. The students could think of nothing else. They were as twittery as nesting birds as they dashed between the Dormitory and the Hall and the stables. Even the winged horses were restive, whinnying, turning in their stalls, flexing their wings. The very buildings seemed to vibrate with anticipation.
And at last, just when she had almost given her up, Larkyn Black returned.
Philippa was smoothing her hair into its rider’s knot when she heard the familiar creak of the oxcart. She returned to the window, drawn by a little, girlish spurt of hope.
She forced a laugh over her disappointment at seeing that it was not Brye Hamley, but Nick who drove the cart up to the steps of the Dormitory and leaped down to help his sister from the seat. Black Seraph whinnied across the courtyard to Sunny, and Larkyn was swept up, laughing, by Hester and Anabel. Even Grace and Beryl came to greet her, though not so effusively. Larkyn hugged her brother, and waved farewell to him before she parted from her classmates to lead Black Seraph across the courtyard. She was hardly limping at all.
Philippa finished dressing, and hurried downstairs and out to the stables. She stepped inside just as Larkyn turned Seraph into his stall. The brown goat bleated with joy, and nuzzled the little stallion’s chest. Bramble, the oc-hound, was already there, and now stood with her forepaws on the gate, watching Larkyn fill Seraph’s water and grain buckets and check his wingclips. Larkyn stroked the dog’s head, murmuring to her.
Philippa started down the aisle toward Larkyn, but she stopped when she saw Petra Sweet approaching from the other direction. The older girl stood with her arms folded, staring over the gate at Larkyn and Black Seraph. Philippa stepped aside, into an empty stall, where the girls couldn’t see her. She put her back to a wall, and listened.
“I can’t say I’m glad to see you, Goat-girl.” Petra’s forced accent carried easily down the aisle. “We all hoped you and the Crybaby had gone back where you belonged.”
“Aye,” Larkyn said. “And so we have.”
“I meant the Uplands,” Petra retorted. “That dirt farm you come from.”
“And did you spend Estian at the shoe factory, Petra?” Larkyn asked brightly. “Hammering hobnails, or whatever it is you do there?”
Philippa clapped a hand over her mouth to stop her snort of laughter.
“Don’t be vulgar,” Petra said.
“Then don’t be an ass,” Larkyn snapped. Philippa heard the stall gate open and close, and the rustle of boots in the sawdust of the aisle.
Petra sneered, “You simply must learn not to speak to your betters that way!”
“I promise you, Sweet,” Lark said tightly, “that when I am in the presence of one of my betters, I won’t!”
There was a hiss of indrawn breath, and then Petra said, “I don’t know why you bother, Black. You’ll never fly your Airs. You’re hopeless.”
Black Seraph, as if he understood this insult, kicked the wall of his stall, and gave a loud complaining cry.
“Oh, by Kalla’s teeth!” Petra snapped. “Is your little mongrel horse ever going to outgrow that habit?”
“What did you call him?” Larkyn’s voice dropped low, to a pitch Philippa had never heard before. Only Petra Sweet, her temper now in full spate, could have missed the danger in it.
“You heard me,” she said.
Larkyn said, her voice almost inaudible, “Take it back.”
“Take what back? You mean, calling your Crybaby a mongrel? But that’s what he is, isn’t he!”
“I’m warning you, Petra,” Larkyn breathed.
“Warning me? Who do you think you are, Black? And what do you think he is?”
Petra still didn’t understand. Philippa did. An explosion was coming. She opened the gate of her hiding place, and stepped out into the aisle.
Petra said, “You’ve caused nothing but trouble from the moment you arrived, Goat-girl! You should have let the little mongrel die at birth rather than—”
Philippa broke into a run at that. Too late. She heard the smack of a small fist connecting with something hard, and a yell of shock from Petra. By the time Philippa reached them, Petra Sweet lay flat on her back in the sawdust. Her eye was already blackening, and tears of outrage streamed down her cheeks. Larkyn stood over her, both fists clenched, her small body rigid with fury. “Take. It. Back,” she repeated. “Now. Or I’ll—”
“Larkyn! Never mind,” Philippa called belatedly. “I’ll deal with her. Go to dinner.”
The girl spun about, and Philippa almost fell back on her heels. Her eyes were violet with anger, and her cheeks blazed. Bramble stood at her side, her tail rigid.
Philippa put out a calming hand, hardly knowing whether to scold or laugh.
“She said . . .” Larkyn began. Her voice shook with fury. “She called Tup—”
“Yes, Larkyn, I heard. But you can’t solve things with your fists, you know.”
Larkyn looked down at her hands, and slowly, slowly, opened them.
“Now. Go to the Hall. We’ll discuss an appropriate discipline later.”
It seemed for a long moment the child might refuse.
“It won’t be harsh, Larkyn. I think you were provoked.”
Larkyn nodded. She drew a deep, trembling breath, and wheeled about to march out of the stables, jaw set, small boots spurting puffs of sawdust. Bramble trotted at her heels, and Black Seraph and Molly both cried after her.
Philippa waited until she was well out into the courtyard, and then offered Petra a hand. “Get up, Sweet,” she said evenly.
Petra clambered to her feet, one hand covering her bruised eye, the other pointing after Larkyn. “Mistress Winter!” she said shrilly. “I demand something be done about that bumpkin!”
Philippa’s lips twitched. “I believe you stepped over the line, Petra.”
“She hit me!”
“You insulted her bondmate.”
“But—but . . .” Petra sputtered her way to silence.
“Come,” Philippa said. “Let’s go to the kitchen. Matron will get you some ice for your bruise, and you can explain to her how you ran into a door.”
And I, she thought bemusedly, can try to explain Larkyn’s latest escapade to Margareth.
RIBBON Day arrived with a rush of early autumn color, rust and gold and scarlet. The third-level girls approached it somberly, already feeling the mantle of adulthood settle over their shoulders. The second-level girls swaggered, experienced now, sure of their success. And the first-level girls, Hester and Anabel and their classmates, fluttered and fidgeted, anxious and hopeful and edgy. Their mounts, too, grew nervous, sensing the mood. Even the oc-hounds were snappish and restive.
When the day dawned at last, Lark’s stomach clenched so tightly that she could eat nothing at breakfast. She sipped a little tea, and then put that down, too, afraid it would come right back up. Hester leaned close to her.
“Black,” she whispered. “You should eat something. It’s going to be a long, long day.”
“I know,” Lark told her. “But I can’t. I’m just so—”
Ana
bel crumbled a piece of toast between her fingers. “I can’t eat, either,” she mourned. “I’m terrified.”
“You’ll be fine,” Hester said firmly. “You’re ready, and so is Take a Chance.”
Lark dropped her eyes, twisting her fingers in her lap. Hester was too honest to offer her such assurance. She and Tup weren’t ready, and everyone knew it.
Drills had been agony for both of them. Mistress Dancer insisted they use a flying saddle, a bridle, a chest strap, all the equipment the other flyers carried. As long as she wasn’t riding him, Tup could launch and land without faltering or stumbling, but the moment Lark sat in the saddle, all balance and grace fell away. They flew, but not beautifully. They wallowed through Reverses, wobbled in Points, spoiled the Graces. Mistress Dancer refused to let Lark show her what she could do bareback.
“My dear,” she had said quietly, when no one else was around. “I know you’re struggling. My preference would be that you stay back, train with the next class. But the worst would be another—that is, a fall.”
Everyone, it seemed, knew of the mishap in the Uplands. The other girls and instructors looked at Lark with a sort of bemused wonderment. A hundred times she hid in the stall with Tup and Molly, burying her face in Tup’s mane and remembering the freedom and exhilaration of that moment when they rose from the meadow behind Fleckham House into the cool night air, the moon on their faces, the wind like a hand lifting them up. And they had flown so far, without any trouble at all, and without the hindrance of a flying saddle. Everything had been perfect—well, until the end.
Lark understood now how to come to ground, how to sit, how to shift her weight, how to be part of Tup’s movement as his hooves reached forward and down. But she couldn’t feel it through the saddle!
For Ribbon Day, she formulated a plan, and she persuaded Rosellen to help her.
