by Jeff Wheeler
She was surprised, an hour or so later, when the post arrived with Mr. Patchett as a passenger. A concerned frown pulled down her mouth as she observed the arrivals through a Leering, and she hurried to the front doors to meet the pilot and the soldier when they arrived. Mr. Kinross had beaten her to it and looked equally confused by the situation.
“Is Joses all right?” Cettie asked with concern. The last time she’d seen Mr. Patchett, he’d been in a terrible state. While he wasn’t dressed formally today, his complexion looked quite a bit better. His waistcoat and jacket were varying shades of browns and greens, his boots battered and scuffed. He held his wide-brimmed hat in his hands, and both it and his cloak were damp with the rain.
“The young gentleman is fine,” he said with a grunt. “Actually, he’s quite impressive. And he makes me laugh, which isn’t easy to do. No, ma’am, he’s doing well with us. Even Batewinch likes him, and that’s saying something.” Just one side of his mouth twisted into a smile.
“Why are you here, then, Mr. Patchett?”
“Mr. Patchett? Please, call me Rand. I hate the formalities. Truly, I detest them.” He was fidgeting with his hat with his bare fingers. She noticed the scarred knuckles again. “I’m here to offer my help. You were so kind, Cettie, to come to Gimmerton Sough. Whatever you did, it’s worked magic. The air is much easier to breathe now. The place is starting to get cleaned up. And I haven’t struck anyone in days.” He gave her a knowing look. “I’m given to understand, from Joses, that there is a problem at the family mines. It took some wheedling to get it out of him, but my sister is an accomplished conversationalist. My sister and I wish to help.”
Cettie felt a pulse of anger at Joses. “I thank you for your pains—” she started, but he forestalled her.
“Please,” he said, shaking his head. “That won’t do. The formality is . . . insufferable to me. I’ll be quick, and if you still wish for me to leave after I’ve said my piece, I’ll go back with the pilot. He agreed to wait for me, since I’m not permitted to fly alone. My family is from Pry-Ree, Cettie. There are things in the mountains there, beasts of terror called the Fear Liath. From the rumors Joses has heard—and he’s decently well informed, I should say!—that is the trouble you’re having at the mines. I know something about these creatures.”
He glanced once at Kinross and then back at her. He looked into her eyes with great solemnity, his voice pitching lower. “You came and aided us when we needed you. We’d like to be decent neighbors. I don’t know if I can ever truly be good,” he added with a self-deprecating smile. “Those creatures prey on the fearful. They are powerful and dangerous, but they have a weakness. I’m still a dragoon. I’ve led men into battle. And I brought my arquebus in the zephyr. There, I’ve said my piece. I could have written a proper letter and sent it by post, but I can’t abide inaction. I thought I’d come myself and try to convince you.”
He paused, then his eyes wandered over her shoulder. Cettie turned and saw Lady Maren walking toward them.
“Good afternoon,” he greeted her, but he did not bow as was the custom.
Cettie waited until Lady Maren reached them.
“What brings you back to Fog Willows so soon?”
Cettie answered for him. “He’s offered to help hunt the creature in the grotto. He says it’s called a Fear Liath.”
“So it is,” Lady Maren said, giving him an assessing look. “I’ve heard my husband speak of it by that name.”
“They torment us in Pry-Ree as well,” Rand said. “Up in the mountains, they lure the unwary to their deaths. I can only imagine what will happen now that this thing has gotten loose so near the Fells.” He shrugged. “I was offering your family my assistance. To return the good service you did us.”
“Do you not need to report back to your regiment soon?” Lady Maren asked.
He shook his head, the scar on his face twitching. “I’m still recovering from . . . a wound. A wound of the mind. I would rather be with Lord Fitzroy. I would rather face a thousand spears and shove them back through the mirror gate in flames. But thanks to Cettie, my thoughts are quieter of late. Well, I’ve taken enough of your time. I’m ready to leave in a moment if you need me.” He turned and started to go.
Cettie and Lady Maren turned and gazed at each other.
“You are very kind to come and offer this in person,” Maren said, her voice tinged with doubt. She looked at Cettie, clearly seeking her suggestion.
Mr. Kinross coughed into his hand. “I could send Maxfield Strong as an . . . ahem . . . escort?”
There was a little look of relief in Lady Maren’s eyes at the suggestion. To Cettie, the path forward was clear. “I think the Medium has brought you here,” she said. “We could use your help, if you give us some time to prepare.”
Mr. Patchett paused in his retreat. “Fair enough,” he said, hardly glancing back. “I’ll wait outside.” He returned his hat to his head and walked back into the rain.
The assault is ready. I’ve mustered the force necessary to crush Fitzroy’s legions. Is he the harbinger that stands between me and victory? Our spies at court believe so. How else can he always know where we will strike next?
I have sent false messages throughout my ranks to mislead the enemy in case there are traitors on our side. Only the Fountain itself can divine where I will choose to attack.
We will strike hard and furious and leave nothing up to chance. Death means nothing to me. I would rather face a thousand deaths on the battlefield than spend an hour on a committee haggling for peace. To live defeated and inglorious is to die daily.
I must end this rivalry with Fitzroy. Only one of us can prevail over the other. If we keep fighting each other, he will learn all my arts of war.
—Leon Montpensier, Duke of La Marche
SERA
CHAPTER TWELVE
BECKA
The Lawtons’ house in Lockhaven was of the same fashion as Pavenham Sky. It was supplied with an ample ballroom, a well-stocked library, and enough guest suites to house fifty families. Sera was given one of these suites, and Master Sewell advised her to stay out of sight while Lady Corinne entertained her guests. That suited her perfectly well.
Sera’s baggage was stacked downstairs, but a single chest had been carried up to her room, and two maids were unpacking it and putting the clothes in a large, ceiling-high wardrobe. One of the girls was the young lass Sera had taken notice of on the sky ship. The other girl, who was perhaps two years older, continually scolded her. From the muttered words, Sera made out that her name was Becka.
“Hurry along, Becka, Lady Corinne needs us to prepare four other rooms after this one.”
It was the fifth such complaint, and the frequent chiding gave Sera a headache, but she noticed the younger girl didn’t respond—she just bowed her head meekly and hurried about her work. Young Becka kept glancing Sera’s way, but she did her duties and finished hanging up the gowns.
“It’s about time. Come on, Becka. To the next room.”
Becka shut the chest and pushed it against the wall and then rose again. She looked at Sera once more, bobbed a little curtsy, and scurried out the door.
“Enough of your nonsense!” the older girl railed in exasperation as she shut the door behind her.
The younger maid’s behavior seemed somewhat peculiar, but it wouldn’t do to question her. The older girl would only make her more miserable.
Sera went to the desk where her books had been unloaded. Her favorite was a translation of a tome she’d brought with her from Muirwood. She read it often, remembering Lord Fitzroy’s advice to her. Most students who failed the Test never retook it, he’d said. Sera hadn’t yet had the opportunity to try. And now she was being used in a ploy to establish a peace with Kingfountain that might require her to renounce her religion. She didn’t think that she could do that easily, even if the people of Kingfountain did believe in a variation of the same Knowing. But refusing outright would certainly harm her prospects. If she w
anted her situation to change, she would have to do something to make it change. She was playing along for now, seeing what fate had in store for her. Lady Corinne hadn’t won her power in a single day or a year. Sera had learned something of her methods during her long confinement.
Standing by the desk, she grazed her fingers across the book cover and picked it up—only to notice a folded piece of paper protruding from it. She hadn’t left a marker herself. Squinting with curiosity, Sera opened the book and revealed a small folded rectangle covered in script. After removing the paper, she set the book down and quickly unfolded it.
He didn’t fall. He was pushed.
Six words. They took up hardly any space at all, but Sera’s stomach clenched, and her heart began to race. Someone had left her a note in a place where she was sure to find it. It was written in an unsteady, nervous hand, and the blot of ink in the corner told her it had been done in haste. Sera studied it carefully, trying to use logic to interpret what she saw.
He didn’t fall. He was pushed. It could only be in reference to poor Mr. Skrelling, whose body she’d discovered on the beach at Pavenham Sky. Whoever had left her the note knew she had seen it. They also didn’t want to be found out. There was no signature, nothing to identify the writer. Yet . . . Sera’s mind immediately went to the young maid who had been paying her special attention. She felt a shiver of certainty go down her back, a feeling that could only come from the Mysteries. This was Becka’s handwriting. That utter conviction went down to the depths of Sera’s heart. The rightness of the insight struck her with the clarity of a bell.
Sera folded the note and slipped it into her pocket. The maid had witnessed something. And judging from the note, she had witnessed a murder. At Pavenham Sky. Though she’d long suspected Lady Corinne had played an integral role in her own downfall, this was much, much worse. No wonder the young maid had a frightened look in her eye. She had seen something horrible and now carried a burdensome secret. Who could she share it with? Her position at the manor was of the lowest kind. Who would believe her?
Sera would.
Sera the shunned. Sera the persecuted. Sera the patient.
Becka’s staring had been a mute entreaty for her to pay attention. But how could she arrange a private conversation with the girl without putting them both at risk? Sera would have to be subtle. Extremely subtle. And she would need to watch for opportunities.
After dinner that night, Sera decided to take matters into her own hands. She found Master Sewell, who was directing the servants to clean up after the meal.
“Master Sewell?” she asked at his shoulder, approaching him from behind.
He turned, his brow furrowed. “Yes?”
She sighed. “I made a little mess in the library. I was trying to reach a book, and all the ones on the shelf next to it came tumbling down. One knocked over a plant, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, but I wanted you to know.” She showed him the book in her hands. “I got the one I wanted.”
She smiled sweetly at him.
Master Sewell rolled his eyes. “The next time you need help reaching a shelf, Miss Fitzempress, just ask.”
“I will, I promise,” she said, then turned and went back to her room, her heart giddy with excitement. If she had asked Lady Corinne to borrow a maid, it would have seemed suspicious and out of character. But make a mess, especially one involving soil, and they’d put the lowest servant on it. Sera anticipated they’d send Becka.
She was right.
In her room, Sera read from the book. Actually, she just flipped a few pages and adopted a feckless air. She didn’t think she was being watched from a Leering in the room, but she couldn’t tell for certain. After a time, she pretended to be bored with the book and went back to the library to fetch another.
And there was Becka on the floor, scrubbing the mess from the rug. The books had already been reassembled on the shelf. Handfuls of soil had been scooped back inside the pot. The girl glanced up at Sera, who was watching her closely to judge for a reaction. Her patience was rewarded.
Becka started with surprise and then quickly looked down and scrubbed harder. Some of her hair was pushed back over her ear, and Sera could see the skin of her ear turn bright pink.
Sera walked past her, ignoring her completely, and went to the shelves near her. She set down the book she’d returned and began to peruse the other books on the shelf, listening carefully to Becka’s rapid breathing.
Sera moved a little closer to her, still focused on the books. Her own heart was pounding. She reached out and touched the spine of a book, tilting her head sideways.
“I found your note,” Sera whispered. “Thank you.”
She’d been thinking all day about what she might say. Would the girl deny it? It was impossible to predict.
“M-miss?” Becka stammered, still not looking up.
“The note you left in the book,” Sera said again, very softly. She watched as the maid stopped scrubbing. Her hands clenched the rag tightly. Her little shoulders quivered.
“We can’t talk here,” Sera whispered, pulling a book out and turning it over in her hands. “But we need to talk soon. I’ll leave a note for you in the same book and put it on the desk. Whatever you saw, I want to know about it.”
The girl shuddered as if with cold. “Y-yes, m-miss.”
“Thank you, Becka.” Sera folded the book into her bosom and left the library, not looking directly at the girl once.
Sera knew the Leerings that controlled the light, heat, and sound in a manor could also be used to eavesdrop on any room in the manor at any time. And yet the household staff was kept busy, and it seemed unlikely the keeper would do such spying unless there was a direct concern.
Sera suspected that if she left her room at night, a Leering would notify the keeper, who would then watch where she went. Her actions were probably suspect, but she hoped that her complacency had lulled their vigilance. She couldn’t wait forever for answers. A full day had already passed since she’d confirmed the note had come from the girl. The privy council would summon her again, and then she might not get the chance to corner Becka.
Sera had spent a large part of the day covertly studying the manor, looking for the Leerings. She channeled her thoughts to sense their presence, and while Cettie would have found the exercise simple, it was a struggle for Sera. Finally, she’d found a solution. There was a linen closet on the floor with the guest rooms, which, to Sera’s best inspection, contained no Leerings at all. It was where the extra sheets for the beds were stored and shallow enough that light from the hall could reach it. It wasn’t used in the evenings, and Sera had made it a point to walk by it multiple times.
So Sera left a note in the book that said linen closet after supper. She was taking a risk. It was clear to her that Becka wanted to share what she knew, but the girl was undoubtedly terrified. Witnessing a murder would do that to anyone.
During dinner, Master Sewell told Sera that the privy council would ask to see her the next day. She nodded in acquiescence. Would Fitzroy be there? Would she have an opportunity to tell him what little she knew? She decided it might be best to slip him a note. She trusted him above anyone else on the council.
“Thank you, Master Sewell. I’ll be ready.”
Sera glanced at Lady Corinne across the table, envying her poise and calm, but hating her all the more for it.
When dinner was finished, Sera was dismissed back to her rooms while the guests gathered in the sitting room to start a game of dominion. The servants would be focused on cleaning the mess and preparing for more refreshments later. It wasn’t a ball, so there would be no dancing, but this was the moment Sera was waiting for. The commotion of the guests would keep everyone’s attention off her. The Lawton household ran like a military operation, with designated times and routines for even the smallest events. A small discrepancy could pass unnoticed. Sera was counting on it.
She walked slowly back to the stairs and went up to the third floor where her rooms were si
tuated. Most of the servants rushed to and fro below, but the upper floors were quiet and empty. Her heart tingled with excitement.
Sera dragged her fingers along the wall as she walked nonchalantly forward. The door to the closet was at the turn ahead. She paused when she got there, took a deep breath, and then twisted open the handle and pulled it open.
Disappointment struck a heavy blow.
Becka wasn’t there.
She stood there for a moment, stunned, then shut the door as if she’d made a mistake and continued down the hall.
Back in her room, Sera examined the book. The note was still wedged inside it. But another word had been added to it.
No.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SECRETS
Sera awoke in the middle of the night. A sound had disturbed her sleep, and her eyes shot open, her heartbeat thrumming at the knowledge that she’d heard something. Festering disappointment had kept her up late, but she must have fallen asleep at some point. It was dark still, dark as a crypt. The sound came again, and this time she recognized it—the soft groan of the door handle turning. She lifted herself up slightly to see the door better.
Sera’s mind became sharp and alert as she lay in the guest bed in her nightdress. There was a surfeit of pillows, and their quicksand softness made her feel especially vulnerable. A slit of black appeared at the front of the room—the door was being opened from without. She wanted to call out, but she hesitated. Was it better to feign sleep? A small figure in a white nightdress appeared in the black, dark hair falling over the crisp white fabric. Enough dim moonlight trickled in from the diaphanous curtains for her to make out that it was Becka. Sera slowly eased back down on the pillows to watch, the fear easing out of her.
