Feast of Stephen

by K. J. Charles

  Feast of Stephen

  KJ Charles

  A Charm of Magpies 3.5

  Copyright KJ Charles 2014

  Cover by Susan Lee 2014

  For all the lovely people in the KJ Charles Chat group,

  because I’d dedicate a book to each of you but I can’t write fast enough

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Feast of Stephen

  Other books by KJ Charles

  Author’s Note

  This story comes after Flight of Magpies. Not only does it contain spoilers for that book, it will make no sense at all if you haven’t read the Charm of Magpies series. In that case, I recommend checking out my less seasonal but still free story Butterflies instead.

  Feast of Stephen

  26th December – St Stephen’s Day

  They arrived at Rothwell after dark.

  It had been a very long journey, made worse by their late departure. That was thanks to Stephen’s job, of course. Mrs Baron Shaw had taken advantage of the catastrophic events of the last few weeks to manoeuvre Stephen’s old enemy John Slee off the Council for good. He couldn’t regret that, but the resulting chaos had kept him working eighteen-hour days for a week, despite his best intentions.

  He could, frankly, still be working: there was enough to be done, God knew. But Esther had become vocal on the subject, Merrick had begun giving him meaningful looks, and Stephen had finally put his foot down before Crane did it for him.

  A little too late. The long-threatened snow began to fall while they were still travelling, and the roads were soon rutted and icy. They had been forced to spend Christmas Day in an inn some miles from Crane’s hunting box—not a great hardship, since Crane’s lavish hand could purchase luxury under almost any circumstances, but not what any of them had wanted—and it had taken another day of laborious travelling to reach their destination.

  The carriage was as well sprung as any Stephen had ridden in, but it still jolted uncomfortably over the hard, uneven ground. Jenny Saint had spent most of the journey outside. Stephen knew from experience that although Dan Gold could knit a broken bone in a matter of days, the pain lasted far longer, a dull, nagging ache that made a carriage ride torture. She at least had the option of windwalking when the roads were empty, running through the air alongside the carriage, landing next to Merrick on the driver’s seat if other vehicles approached.

  It was slightly easier that way, too. She was still very much on edge around Crane, and her nerves were contagious. Christmas Day had helped a little, but her usually ebullient nature had still been subdued at the table, and Stephen suspected it would be a long time before she was entirely comfortable in Crane’s company, or with their relationship.

  The house was unlit and empty when they arrived, crunching through snow that was now several inches deep. It was warm inside, though, as though fires had been going all day, and smelled of something delicious.

  “We had people in to make ready,” Crane told him as they entered. “Enlighten us, my sweet.”

  Stephen reached out with his mind and ignited the lamp wicks one after another, bringing leaping golden light to the hall. Beside him, Saint gave a little gasp. He’d told her they were going to a hunting box, and hadn’t elaborated on what that actually meant, since he didn’t want report getting back to the Golds, but in truth it was a sizeable and extremely comfortable house.

  “You said box,” she muttered. “Thought we’d be roughing it.”

  “Well, it ain’t bad, but not what you’d call precisely convenient,” Merrick said. “Price you pay for a bit of peace and quiet.”

  “Why don’t you show Miss Saint around?” Crane suggested. “We can clean up and meet for dinner…?”

  “Call it half seven,” Merrick said. “You want me to do the fires, Mr. Day?” That was purely a courtesy question; Stephen held up a hand in answer. “Come on, Jen.”

  He took the girl upstairs, Crane following. Stephen headed for the parlour, setting oil lamps and candles ablaze as he went. The fires had been laid and it took only a moment to get them going, which was all he had before he heard Crane shouting for hot water.

  “If I weren’t here, you’d have to wash in cold,” Stephen told him once he had one hand in the pitcher, the water warming around his tingling fingers.

  “If you weren’t here, nor would I be,” Crane pointed out. “I wouldn’t come to the arse end of nowhere for anything less than—”

  “The arse end of a short shaman?” Stephen supplied.

  “I wasn’t going to say short,” Crane objected. “Well, I hardly need to.”

  Stephen removed his hand from the now-warm water to make an offensive gesture, feeling the burdens of care lift a little. He loved this room. It was dark, no matter how many candles were lit, with the heavy wood panelling that the Vaudrey family seemed to have preferred, but it had a four-poster bed long enough to accommodate Crane’s legs and sturdy enough to accommodate his desires, and it had become theirs, since they had had removed the family portraits on their first visit.

  Rothwell was somewhere he felt entirely comfortable. If only Saint could fit in here too.

  “You go first,” Stephen said, and sat on the bed watching his lover as he sponged away the travel grime. Crane’s bare skin still unnerved him, now pale where it should have been black and blue with ink, but the one remaining magpie tattoo that brooded on his back was as vibrant as ever. Crane stretched up, and the play of muscles and the flicker of candlelight made the bird seem to give a shudder, silently rustling its feathers.

  Definitely just Crane moving, Stephen assured himself. Not the magpie by itself. Obviously.

  Crane went down first, leaving Stephen with the instruction to dress like a civilised man. That was reinforced by the fact that only one suit hung in the wardrobe: his Hawkes and Cheney autumnal tweed.

  Which would make him look as good as was possible, and point up that Jenny Saint would be wearing her single company dress again, a plain and elderly muslin that had first belonged to the significantly taller Esther and been taken up to fit. He wondered why Crane hadn’t thought of that, and debated putting his scruffy travel-stained clothing back on to show support, but mentally threw up his hands. Perhaps Crane had something in mind; if not, he would just have to observe the girl’s discomfort and deal with it.

  Stephen checked his appearance to be sure it would meet Crane’s exacting standards, adjusted his amber cufflinks, stepped out into the corridor, and almost walked into a lovely young woman.

  “Who the devil— Saint?”

  She was clad in a light blue gown that flattered her slim build, modestly high-necked rather than attempting to pad her very limited bosom, and yet, somehow, not making her look modest at all. Her fair hair was twisted up on her head in a way Stephen vaguely recognised from Esther’s few forays into hair arrangement, there were silver droplets sparkling at her ears, and she looked taller than usual.

  “Are you wearing shoes with heels?” Stephen demanded. “I mean, that is to say, you look beautiful. Charming. Uh…” He scrabbled for compliments. “Ladylike.”

  “Yeah, alright, but look.” Saint hoicked up her rustling skirts and stuck out a foot, revealing very expensive silk slippers with a good inch of heel. “Is this bloody stupid or what? How d’you run in these?”

  “I don’t think you’re meant to. Where did this finery come from?” As if he didn’t know.

  “His majesty, innit. Compliments of Lord Crane, Frank says, and there’s frigging loads of it. I mean…” She spread out her skirts and did a little wobbly pirouette, unsteady on her feet for the first time in his experience. The gown swished and rippled. “I mean, it’s pretty, not saying it ain’t pretty, but… I don’t wear this.”


  “I don’t wear this,” Stephen said, indicating his own extremely expensive suit. “Except that now I do. Look, it’s all right. There are no strings attached. He’ll do something as, as invasive as telling you how to dress, provide you with all the finery you could want even if he knows damned well you don’t want it, and I will grant it is extremely annoying. But it isn’t about you owing him anything and he’s not trying to change you. I promise you that.”

  “Wardrobe full of lady clothes but he’s not trying to change me.” Saint folded her arms. “So what is he doing then?”

  Stephen felt a glow of pride in his wayward pupil. She would, he thought, have made an excellent justiciar one day. “I spent a long time wondering that, actually. And at last I realised, the truth is…” He held out his arm, crooked in gentlemanly style for her to take. “Lucien likes clothes.”

  “He likes clothes,” Saint repeated.

  “If he liked cake, he would ensure there were plates of cake in every room, so everyone could have all the cake they wanted, whether they actually liked cake or not. But he likes clothes.”

  “Right. Got you.” She gave a sudden, unladylike snort. “Good thing he don’t like monkeys, then.”

  Stephen yelped with startled laughter. Saint adopted a well-bred tone. “Good efternoon, Mr. Day, end may I present you with a monkey?”

  “Thank you, but I already have a very satisfactory orang-utan,” Stephen assured her with a deep bow. “Come on, let’s go down.”

  She winced. “Are we gonna eat with you and his majesty again?”

  “You’re going to have to get used to it, you know. Honestly, he’s not that bad. Hasn’t Mr Merrick told you about how they lived in China?”

  “Yeah, but he’s still really posh, and… I mean, I know Frank. I know you. But…” She scuffed her silken slipper against the floorboards. “Just don’t feel like I ought to be here, you know?”

  “Yes, I do. But if you’re going to marry Mr. Merrick, or at least—” He waved a hand to indicate a relationship without benefit of clergy. “—you’ll just have to get used to Lucien. There’s no separating them, and you shoudn’t want to. I’ve got Mr. Merrick in my life as much as you have Lord Crane.”

  “Yeah, but it’s easier for you. You’re a bloke.”

  “Uh,” Stephen said. “It really isn’t.”

  Saint’s cheeks pinked. “Yeah, well, maybe not that, but you know what I mean, right?”

  “Two questions,” Stephen said. “Are you afraid of Lord Crane? And are you going to run away, in front of me and Mr. Merrick?”

  Saint stuck her small chin out belligerently. “No, I’m not, and no, I’m fucking not.”

  “Then stop shilly-shallying and come downstairs. I’m hungry.” Stephen crooked his arm again, and this time she took it.

  ***

  On the whole, Crane felt, dinner could have gone worse. It had been a simple meal mostly prepared and left for them by the servants he paid to come at convenient times only. Saint had been nervy and self-conscious but that could hardly be helped. He intimidated her, and she was far too prickly to be put at her ease with courtesy or charm. She was an uneducated, illiterate, untravelled girl; he was a wealthy titled older man illegally screwing her superior officer. It was obvious she didn’t know quite where to look between them, and her discomfort made Stephen twitchy.

  Stephen had done his manful best to get her talking, which was to say determined yet inept. Merrick betrayed no sign of concern at her obvious anxiety. He’d learned patience in the same hard school as Crane; he would wait for her to relax.

  Well, that was, among other things, why they were here. It was Crane’s intention that by the time they left Rothwell, Saint would be part of his household, quite used to his and Stephen’s relationship, and wearing Merrick’s ring.

  Dressing her differently had had surprisingly little effect. Some people could be made free by changing their appearance, as if it released them from the shackles of an old identity. Not Stephen, though, and apparently not Saint. She had been a vision of fairness in pale blue and silver as she entered, and Merrick’s appreciative whistle had made her blush rather charmingly, but she made no effort to ape society manners, and sat with as much awkwardness as she’d shown in her scruffy old clothes. It seemed she would continue being herself, regardless of trappings.

  Which meant two things: that Merrick had made a damned good choice, and that Crane would need to try another tack.

  With that in mind, once dinner was concluded, he ushered them all into the parlour, where Stephen’s magically ignited fire still blazed brightly, and handed round brandy. That was not something Saint would have drunk before, too masculine for ladies and too expensive for the poor. She took the snifter tentatively by the stem, watching Stephen and Merrick to see how they held the full-bellied glasses before cupping hers in her hand.

  “Well, there were points I didn’t think we’d make it to the end of the year, but merry Christmas, one and all.” Crane headed the large chair near the fire, kicking over a footstool, and leaving the settle for Merrick and Saint. Stephen hesitated. He liked to curl up, and was most comfortable perched on a footstool leaning against Crane’s legs, but it was a position of far more intimacy than he would generally allow himself to be seen in by anyone but Crane and Merrick.

  Too bad. Crane reached out a long arm for his sleeve and dragged him down. “Hither, page, and sit by me.”

  “You’re in the Yuletide spirit,” Stephen muttered, seating himself. “Isn’t it ‘stand by me’?”

  “What is?” Saint asked.

  “Carol,” Merrick said. “Good King Wenceslas.”

  Saint shrugged awkwardly. Most of the practitioners Crane had met seemed to be thorough-going pagans; it was one of the few things he liked about them. Still one ought to have carols at Christmas.

  “I’m sure you know it,” he said, and launched into the first line:

  “Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the feast of Stephen—”

  Merrick added his deep and surprisingly tuneful baritone to Crane’s tenor.

  “When the snow lay round about

  Deep and crisp and even.”

  Unexpectedly, Stephen joined in. Crane had never heard him sing before. He had a somewhat thin countertenor that didn’t suggest much range, but Crane was charmed nevertheless.

  “Brightly shone the moon that night

  Though the frost was cruel

  When a poor man came in sight—”

  And then Saint, a sharp and slightly off key soprano on the dramatic end line as the tune rose and fell:

  “Gath’ring winter fu-u-el.”

  They all laughed, Saint among them, a little red. “I know that bit.”

  “Hard not to,” Crane said. “As for me, I am unlikely to forget that carol as long as I live. Do you remember—”

  “Fuck, yes.” Merrick stood. “And if you’re telling this story, I’m getting the bottle.”

  Stephen shifted, just a little, so his shoulder moved from resting against Crane’s chair to against his leg. “If this is one of your Shanghai stories, I imagine we’ll need it.”

  Crane tipped his glass to Saint, who looked intrigued. Good. “This was in our time in China, Miss Saint. China is not a Christian country and we are not religious men, but still, the expatriates there tended to celebrate.”

  “Any excuse for a party,” Merrick put in, slinging his arm over the back of the settle, behind Saint’s head.

  “On this occasion it was very much a party,” Crane said. “Leonora Hart, whom you met in summer, had eloped with Tom Hart that year. They’d had to flee Shanghai for a while because her father put a bounty on Tom’s head, so they hadn’t celebrated the wedding with friends yet. I was not very much older than you then, and in the throes of an affair with a mandarin, which is to say a very rich and powerful man.” He spoke without pause or particular emphasis. Saint fixed her eyes on her brandy.

  “Our party met the Harts at Moganshan, w
hich is a mountain of quite remarkable beauty a few days’ journey from Shanghai. December is damned cold and wet out there, but we had a most luxurious caravan thanks to my lover. Tom Hart was in funds too, and we camped there for Christmas in great style. We drank more or less continually, ate superbly. There were Tom and Leo, Lord Shen and I, Merrick, a Dutch trader named Hendricks, several Chinese merchants, and half a dozen dancing girls and boys to add to the cheer.” Merrick had monopolised two of the dancing girls, who worked as a team. Crane recalled him having a particularly festive time of it.

  “The weather was very much on our side, by which I mean it stopped raining for at least two days. We had Christmas day out there, eating quail roasted over the fire, drinking rice wine. Merrick taught the lute players to pluck out a couple of carols. Leo taught a dancing boy to waltz.” They had all waltzed, after a while, he in his mandarin lover’s confused arms, Merrick first alternating his girls then just whirling them round together, tripping over their own feet as they shrieked with merriment, slippers soaked by the damp grass.

  “That was a hell of a night,” Merrick agreed. “Next morning I woke up early, went out and sat on the hillside. You could see… I mean, I ain’t much for looking at views, but you seen nothing till you see China mountains. Not anything.” He tightened his arm around Saint.

  “It was stunning,” Crane agreed softly. “Mist dropping off the peaks and rising off the ground, eagles overhead. Air so fresh and clean, it took away the hangover, almost. I didn’t bother to dress, just crawled out of the tent huddled under this great fur robe of Lord Shen’s.” He remembered its weight, slippery on his bare skin, the warmth as his breath steamed in crisp air, cold mud on his feet. “Tom Hart was up, and Merrick and I. Everyone else was still sleeping it off. We stood in the stillness, and I asked Merrick what day it was, and you said, St Stephen’s Day. And we started singing, the three of us. Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the feast of Stephen…”