by Bell, Hilari
“’Twould be nice to know what this note said,” Kathy added. “Did Meg take it with her?”
“From what her maid told us, I assume she did,” Rupert said. “If she left it behind, Griswold would have given it to us.”
“Not necessarily.” Kathy abruptly changed course, away from the palace and stables, toward a small grove in a far corner of the palace grounds. “Griswold’s in the pay of half the court. Meg never lets her see anything if she can help it. She might have burned the letter, or taken it, but if it’s not completely ordinary she wouldn’t leave it out for Gris to find.”
Rupert’s expression proclaimed that his lover had confided none of this to him. We all followed my sister like a string of ducklings, down a neat, graveled path through the trees to a cottage so quaint, so ornately carved, that it looked like something out of a child’s fable.
’Twas clearly built to allow the liege to house some unwanted guest out of sight of the palace. Despite cheerful red shutters and artfully sculpted statues, ’twas too near the outer wall and too surrounded by trees for flowers to grow. Luxury, yes, but I started to wonder if the woman who lived here might not have chosen to flee after all.
Kathy didn’t bother to knock, but flung open the door calling, “Griswold? Where are you?”
There was a lengthy pause before a woman’s voice replied, “Here, Mistress Katherine.”
The sound came from a room to one side of the entry, and Kathy opened that door too, in time for us to see the maid folding a half-written sheet of paper that she then tucked into the bosom of her gown. ’Twas clearly not the note that had summoned Mistress Merkle out of the palace yesterday, for the ink was so wet it left a smudge on her skin as she slipped it out of sight. And there was a lot of skin to smudge.
The sound of Mistress Griswold’s name had conjured up visions of an elderly hag, or at least a middle-aged matron, but Mistress Griswold was a well-formed woman in her twenties. The face under her starched cap would have been attractive if her expression hadn’t been so sly. She rose from the desk politely, and there was no reason a lady’s maid should not use the desk in a deserted study to write her own missives ... but there was a subtle insolence in her stance that set my nerves aprickle.
“We’re going to search Meg’s room for clues to where she might have gone.” The Heir had noted her attitude as well, and there was a steely note in his voice I hadn’t heard before. “You may go back to the palace and take the rest of the day off, unless your mistress returns.”
Griswold could see something was afoot, and she didn’t want to miss it.
“I’d best stay, Highness. In case you need tea, or a message carried or summat.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.” Rupert’s voice was quiet, but I wasn’t at all surprised when Mistress Griswold dropped a curtsy and scurried from the room.
“I had no idea.” The Heir’s voice was still soft, but the sternness had vanished. “Why didn’t Meg tell me her maid was spying on her?”
Kathy cast him an enigmatic look. “Ask her that, when you see her. The bedroom’s upstairs.”
The study and front room had been furnished with subdued good taste, lots of polished wood and brocaded cushions, which had probably been there when Mistress Meg took up residence. I expected to see some feminine frippery in the bedroom, but if anything the décor there was more spare — the only feminine touch was a bowl of violets on the dressing table, now half-wilted. Shelves that had been designed for china figurines were crammed with books. Fisk was already drifting toward them. I wondered if this was Mistress Meg’s own taste, or if she’d created a room where her lover would be comfortable, but my impression of this house had changed from the first time I saw it — this was a home, not a cage for a pretty bird.
Rupert’s eyes, as he looked around this room, which his lover had made her own, were filled with such terror that I looked away.
“Where do we start?” he asked.
With a sigh, Fisk turned away from the bookshelves. “Anywhere she might have hidden a letter — more likely letters, because if someone’s going to hide one they don’t stop there. At least it’s probably in this room, because the maid said Margaret read it and rushed straight out.”
“Unless she took it with her,” I said. “She didn’t burn it. The hearth is clean.” And in high summer, the servants wouldn’t have come to clear it.
“Unless Griswold’s lying.” Rupert’s voice was tight with angry chagrin. He had hired this spying maid, probably without giving her a second thought. Most nobles think little about the people who serve them. I hadn’t myself, when I was young.
Kathy started opening drawers in the large bureau, and went to the bookshelves, opening books and riffling through the pages. ’Twould be a good place to hide papers from most servants. Fisk went to the hearth and began twisting and tapping things in search of a secret compartment — though if such a thing existed, surely Rupert would know of it.
’Twas I who found the note. And ‘twas not in any obvious place, nor some secret vault, but in a travel bag tucked into the cupboard beneath the window bench. My respect for Mistress Meg rose another notch, for ’twas a hiding place that worked simply by being an expected object in an expected place. She’d even left the flap unbuckled, a subtle signal that there was nothing within, but there were a number of papers in the satchel with the note we sought on top of the stack.
“I think I’ve figured out how to get Papa to accept your situation,” Kathy read aloud. “Meet me at the Pig at ten and we’ll have tea and talk. Agnes”
“Who’s—”
“Agnes is her older, married sister,” Kathy told Fisk.
“And the Pig is the Pig in a Basket Inn,” Rupert added. “Meg’s brothers and sisters meet people there when they don’t want to bring them home.”
Did he know that because Mistress Meg had met him there? But... “Why not meet at Mistress Agnes’ home?” I asked. “If they didn’t want Griswold eavesdropping.”
“Good question,” Fisk said. “And unless it was nearly ten when this note was delivered, why fling on a cloak and rush out?”
“It wasn’t long after breakfast when she went through the gates,” Rupert put in. “Around nine, as nearly as the guards could remember.”
“Griswold’s been known to exaggerate,” Kathy said. “She gets paid more for dramatic mysteries than for ordinary meetings with a sister. Meg might just have gone to meet Agnes.”
“Then why hasn’t she come back?” Rupert repeated for mayhap the dozenth time.
Fisk was sifting through the papers. He found another letter and compared the two.
“Is it forged?” Kathy asked.
“How should I know? It looks like the same hand, but that’s not that hard to do.”
Mayhap ’twas not hard for Fisk, who numbers forgery among his many unfortunate yet useful skills. But I had another idea, and I took the mysterious missive from him.
Alone in the world, as far as I know, I can see magic as a soft glow around things that possess it. Ironically, this ability of mine might also be said to be the result of a scholarly project, much like the ones they planned for Mistress Merkle and her child. Remembering the agony and nausea as those potions had burned through my body, I didn’t envy her if she chose to attempt them. Lady Ceciel’s experiments had been perpetrated upon me without my consent, but now, years after the fact, I was finding the results ... well, interesting, at least.
First I simply looked at the note with my magic sensing Gift open. In truth, this Gift is always open, and I had already noted a soft glow coming from the magica phosphor lamp at the head of the bed. Phosphor moss is the easiest magica plant to harvest and care for safely, but few can afford it for reading in bed.
The note had no magic, but once my Gift was centered on it I reached within and found the heavy lid that was how I envisioned the thing that kept my magic from welling forth. I could all but see it in my mind, a great stone slab covering a well of roiling light.
I imagined my hands closing on the stone and shoved ... and nothing whatsoever happened. I then imagined myself trying to tip the stone up, or even swinging my clenched fist down to break it.
However, the thing that blocked my magic was not a stone slab, but a rational thinking mind, and it seemed that Fisk’s latest notion, that visualization and imaginary symbols might allow me to sneak around that block, had worked as well as his last few ideas — which was to say, they’d all failed.
I opened my eyes to scowl at him, but he was speaking to Rupert and Kathy.
“If you really think this might be forged, there’s an easy way to find out. Just ask Mistress Agnes if she wrote it.”
“Her husband’s an apothecary,” Kathy said. “But I don’t know where his shop is.”
“I do.” Rupert cast another glance around the room and sighed. “’Tis near enough it would take more time to saddle horses than to walk.”
He seemed reluctant despite his concern, and for the first time I wondered what Mistress Margaret’s family thought of her becoming mistress to the Heir.
Had she been my sister, Father would be threatening the Liege and his son with everything from lawsuits to armed rebellion if he didn’t marry her. But my sister was Gifted, so such a marriage was possible, and my father was a baron who wielded more wealth and power than many lords.
It seemed we were about to learn how an ordinary merchant would feel about such a thing, for Rupert turned and led us out. I followed, and Fisk started after us, but Kathy seized his arm, dragged him back into the room and shut the door.
So much for pretending indifference. Living with the two them over these last weeks I’d become accustomed to these little interludes, so I distracted Rupert with a question about Mistress Meg’s usual routine. In a few moments the door would open again — and if the light in Kathy’s eyes and the deep contentment in Fisk’s expression gave away their secret, I found I couldn’t regret it too much.
When Kathy pulled me back into the room and closed the door, my first thought was that she planned to steal a few kisses. I wasn’t at all unhappy about that, though it seemed an odd time for it. But one look at her expression told me romance was the last thing on her mind.
“What if Meg ran off?” She spoke in the low voice that’s actually less audible than a hissing whisper. “What if pregnancy, the thought of what might happen to her child, just made her decide to cut and run.”
“Rupert doesn’t seem like someone who’d force her into risky treatments,” I said. “If she simply refuses, her child’s in no danger.”
“I’m not talking about treatments,” said Kathy. “At least, not entirely.”
“But ... oh.” I knew almost nothing about this court, but I’d read enough history to know that even an illegitimate child’s life could get dicey if a handful of powerful nobles decided he’d make a better liege than the one they had. Or if the Liege thought someone might think that.
“But wouldn’t the child being Giftless put a damper on that kind of thing? It could even be a girl.”
“It could be a girl,” said Kathy. “And being Giftless might keep people from thinking of it as a potential heir. But it also might not, and Meg may have decided not to take that risk. She was willing to put up with a lot to stay with Rupert, but a child could change that calculation.”
“That’s why you asked if the note was forged. You think she might have written it herself, as an excuse to leave the palace.”
“And to keep the search focused on the city, while she runs into hiding,” Kathy said. “If that’s what happened — and it makes more sense than thinking she met with an accident, and no one found her or reported it. But if that’s true, should we be trying to find her?”
Why had I thought I wanted a woman with a quick mind, who could pose hard questions?
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But the best way to find out is to track her down and ask her. Is Rupert the sort who’d keep her against her will? Or take the child from her?”
“No,” said Kathy. “Even if he didn’t love her, he’s not an idiot.”
“Then find her and ask her,” I said.
“But Fisk, Meg knows Rupert’s not that kind of idiot.”
Which made the worse alternative more likely. I hated seeing fear in those clear gray eyes, but I couldn’t deny it.
“Then it’s even more important to find her. And if we keep this door shut much longer, Rupert’s going to guess about our ... arrangement.”
I had wanted to call it an engagement, but it seemed that in noble families you need your parents’ consent to be engaged. Kathy had already agreed to marry me without her family’s consent, and I was the one who said we ought to try to get it, so maybe it was unreasonable to feel—
My not-quite-fiancée broke though my spinning thoughts with a kiss that, after a moment, made me stop thinking about anything but how soft her skin was and the warm body in my arms.
I was quite sorry when her quick, logical mind took over, and she pulled away and opened the door to go out and join the others, but you can’t have everything. At least, not all at once.
Mistress Agnes wasn’t at her husband’s shop. The apothecary, with a cold glance at Rupert, said she’d gone to her parents’ house to wait for news of her sister.
Rupert and Katherine both knew the way to the wool merchant’s manor — they no longer lived in rooms above their warehouse, though the family had started there, and they were still near the warehouse district.
This was sufficiently far away that it would have been quicker to ride, but we were now so far from the palace and our horses that it would take even more time to return for them. Neither Kathy or Rupert were thinking about food, but Michael has been involved in — or created — enough calamities to know you need to eat. We stopped at a cart with a smoking brazier, and purchased paper cones filled with charred meat and roasted vegetables, well-seasoned with salt and fresh herbs. The meat might have been beef, as the seller claimed, though I doubted it.
The long walk also gave me time to watch Rupert, in his fancy coat, parading though the street completely oblivious to the attention he attracted. Many of the people we passed bowed or dropped a curtsey, and he’d nod absently if he noticed them. There were others he greeted by name, mostly asking them if they’d seen Meg in the last two days and asking them to watch for her, with so little self-awareness that he might have been speaking to people his own rank.
I’ve read silly ballads about noble heirs who assumed a disguise to travel among their people unnoticed. And there have been a handful of battlefield commanders who shed their badges of rank, and visited the troops’ campfires on the night before a battle. The stories claimed they were seeing to their troops well-being, but I rather thought they were making sure their men were ready to fight in the morning — which in turn made sure they wouldn’t find themselves and their officers alone on the field, with a bunch of people carrying sharp and pointy things marching toward them.
Rupert wasn’t in disguise — but while everyone noticed the value of his coat and clothing, a surprising number of ordinary citizens seemed to know him. Personally. His rank was clear — he just didn’t make an issue of it. I wondered if it was falling in love with a merchant’s daughter that had taught him to see people as people, or if he’d always been like that. It might be why she’d fallen for him.
Either way, the horrible accident theory was looking more likely, and more tragic, with every block we walked. Though someone had written that note. If it was Agnes, then why was she at her parents’ house waiting for news instead of telling everyone about their meeting?
The merchant’s manor, when we reached it, had windows of the new, thin glass diamonds instead of the old thick rounds, and its sculpted lintels and cornices were in a paler stone than the rest of the building. It had cost as much as most of wealthy nobles’ mansions, which meant that this merchant either wanted to join the ranks of the gentry, or to challenge them. The crest above his door
hinted at the latter, for the sheep, yarn and cloth it featured defiantly claimed the origin of the fortune that had built this house.
“What’s the difference between a weaver and a bandit?” I murmured into Kathy’s ear, as Rupert plied the knocker.
“Is this the right time for that?” my true love asked impatiently.
“So you don’t know. It’s that—”
A manservant opened the door, and we learned that Mistress Agnes was at home and he had orders to bring anyone “about this business of Mistress Meg” straight in.
We followed him down a hallway furnished with a mixture of new furniture and antiques that some unfortunate noble had been forced to sell, and I leaned over and whispered, “A weaver gives you his previous victim’s fleece, before he fleeces you.”
Kathy choked, and hastily straightened her face when the servant looked back at her.
Mistress Agnes was dressing for dinner, but moments after the man told her maid that “these people are here about Mistress Meg,” she came into the sitting room, hastily tying the sash of the dressing gown she’d thrown over her petticoats.
“Is she back? Have you heard...”
She saw that Rupert wasn’t alone, and hesitated.
“These are Meg’s friends,” Rupert said. “And we haven’t heard anything, but we’ve found something cursed strange. Did you ask Meg to meet you yesterday morning?”
“Last time I saw Meg was about two weeks ago.” Mistress Agnes exchanged nods with Kathy, who she evidently knew. “She’d just broken the news, and we were talking about how Pa had taken it.”
He evidently hadn’t taken it well, because she glared at Rupert. He looked a bit wilted, but pressed on.
“Then what do you make of this?”
She read the note, her eyes widening. “I didn’t write this. It looks like my hand. It looks exactly like my hand. Is this where she was going? But why would—”
The sitting room door opened, interrupting a spate of questions no one could answer.
