I forced myself to make a show of lowering my eyes, while keeping an eye on them. One, an older man, looked frankly disinterested; the other, a woman who looked around ten to fifteen years older than me, looked as if she’d smelt something disgusting. She was tall and blonde, her hair bound up in a style that suggested she was married; she wore a brown dress that looked as though it was handmade. She would have been pretty, I thought, if she’d worn something more suitable and, perhaps, put a nicer expression on her lips. There was something oddly familiar about her patrician face, something that nagged at my mind until I placed it. She looked a lot like me.
She’s family, I thought. Almost everyone in my family has the same blonde hair. And she might be quite closely related to me.
“Ira Rubén and Morag Rubén,” the armsman said. He was enjoying himself a bit too much, I thought. “Please meet your new companion.”
Ira leaned forward. He was taller than I’d thought - there was something about him that made him look short - and he was old. His movements were slow and deliberate, his blond hair slowly turning grey ... I’d automatically assumed that he and Morag were married, but it was starting to look as though there was a large age gap between them. The suit he wore was years out of date. And yet, his eyes were sharp, if disinterested. His face was dignified, with a neat little goatee; his hands were scarred, suggesting a series of accidents in a potions lab or a forge. He held a letter in one hand. I guessed it was the official orders from Shallot.
“Thank you,” Ira said. He took the wad of papers the armsman offered him without comment. “You may go now.”
The armsman blinked. “Senior, I ...”
“You are not welcome here,” Ira told him, shortly. “Drive down to the town. They’ll have a place for you in the inn.”
I felt a flicker of amusement at the armsman’s agitation. No doubt he’d expected to be put up for the night. But Ira was chasing him out. It was a breach of etiquette, but not one the armsman could openly protest. I wondered if the townspeople really would have a place for him or if he’d have to sleep in the carriage. It was what he’d made me do. The bench had been bad enough for sitting, but worse for sleeping. I suspected I had bruises all over my body.
“Morag, take Isabella’s trunks to ... I think the Blue Room,” Ira ordered, once the armsman had departed. “Put them in there, then come back to my office.”
“Yes, Senior,” Morag said. Her voice was hard, tinged with an accent I didn’t quite recognize. I didn’t think she was pleased to see me. But it was also clear that Ira was in charge. “I’ll make the bed up for her too.”
Ira nodded, then looked at me. “Welcome to Kirkhaven Hall,” he said. He turned away, heading to the nearest door. “Come with me.”
“Yes, Senior,” I said.
Chapter Two
KIRKHAVEN HALL SMELT ... MUSTY.
It reminded me, in so many ways, of Rubén Hall. The walls were lined with wood panelling and illuminated by glowing crystals, a handful of portraits hung from the walls ... I felt a pang of homesickness as I followed Ira down the long corridor. And yet, there were plenty of signs that I was a long way from home. The corridor was in disrepair, patches on the walls showed where paintings and portraits had once hung before being removed, the crystals were dimming and half the rooms we passed were empty. There should have been a small army of servants tending to the building, but I saw no one. It felt as though the hall was deserted. I found it more than a little creepy.
Ira led me into a small office and motioned for me to sit in a chair while he lit a fire in the grate. I sat, silently glad to be out of the damp. My skin felt patchy and dry; I wanted - needed - a hot bath. Ira sat at his desk and started to go through the papers, reading them one by one. I forced myself to wait, despite increasingly loud grumbles from my stomach. I wasn’t sure how long it had been since I’d last been allowed to eat, but it felt like hours. The armsman hadn’t wanted to stop for food.
It was hard, so hard, to wait. I concentrated on looking around the office, noting the bookshelves - groaning under the weight of hundreds of books - and the handful of drawings someone had stuck to the walls. It looked as if someone had been drawing detailed sketches of human anatomy, ranging from an outline of a human skeleton to the innermost workings of the brain. I was a pretty fair sketcher myself - it was a skill we were encouraged to learn - but whoever had drawn the sketches was a real artist. I’d never seen anything like them outside a handful of textbooks and even they hadn’t been quite so detailed.
My stomach rumbled, loudly. Too loudly. I found myself flushing with embarrassment as Ira looked up from one of the documents and lifted his eyebrows.
“I’m hungry,” I said. It sounded more like a whine than I wanted. “I ... it’s been hours.”
Ira looked annoyed, as if I’d asked for something unreasonable, but plucked a bell off his belt and waved it in the air. There was no sound, as far as I could tell, yet the door opened two minutes later and Morag stepped into the room. Her eyes flickered over me, then came to rest on Ira. I had the feeling she definitely didn’t like me, even though I hadn’t seen her before. I hadn’t seen either of them before, let alone heard of them. Ira was old enough to be my grandfather, if not my great-grandfather. He might have stayed at Kirkhaven longer than I’d been alive.
“Fetch Isabella something to eat and drink,” Ira ordered. “And bring me a mug of tea.”
“Yes, Senior,” Morag said.
She shot me another look, then turned and hurried away. I watched her go, wondering what bee had got into her bonnet, then sat back and forced myself to wait. It felt like hours crawled past before Morag returned, carrying a tray of sandwiches, a glass of milk and a steaming mug of tea. Ira took his tea, dismissed Morag with a wave of his hand and motioned for me to eat. Normally, I would have turned my nose up at plain ham and cheese sandwiches, but right now I was ravenous. I ate so quickly that Mother would probably have reprimanded me for forgetting my table manners. And when I was done, I looked up to see Ira watching me with open amusement.
I felt myself flush, again. “Senior?”
“No matter,” Ira said. His voice sobered as he held up the first letter. “Do you know what this says?”
“No, Senior,” I said. A couple of the documents looked like school reports, although I hadn’t been at Jude’s long enough for an official report. They were normally handed out the week before the end of term, giving the parents a couple of months to hire tutors to bring the children up to spec. “I wasn’t told.”
“I suppose not,” Ira said. “You appear to be an exile. Like me.”
I blinked. “Like you?”
“Indeed,” Ira said.
I could have kicked myself. Of course Ira was an exile too. No one would stay here, hundreds of miles from civilization, if they had any choice. Ira was an exile and Morag was his sole servant. I hadn’t seen anything to suggest that there were any other servants in the hall - or anyone else at all. My mother would have thrown a fit if there was a speck of dust on the windowsill, let alone the layers of dust and grime I’d seen as we’d walked to the office. Ira had been sent away from Shallot to keep him out of sight and mind. I couldn’t help feeling a flicker of kinship for the older man.
“Basically, you are to stay here until your banishment is rescinded,” Ira said. He sounded annoyed, although it didn’t seem to be directed at me. “That may be quite some time.”
“I know, Senior,” I said.
Ira snorted. “Morag will be preparing a room for you now. We’ll have a proper discussion about your ... role ... here tomorrow, when we are both refreshed and you’ve had a chance to change your clothes.”
I glanced down at my damp dress. Mother would have been horrified if she’d seen me walking through the hall in such a state. She’d have banished me to my rooms and told me not to come out until I was washed, scrubbed, dressed and my hair carefully styled to match the latest fashion. Ira didn’t seem to be too concerned about my appe
arance. I supposed it didn’t matter much to him. He wasn’t in that good a state either.
He returned his attention to the letter. I took advantage of the silence to study him more closely. He was older than I thought, I guessed. There was something about his slow, deliberate movements that suggested his rejuvenation spells were finally starting to wear down, even though his eyes were sharp and it was clear he was a powerful magician. I wondered, suddenly, if he knew my parents - or even my grandparents. I’d never heard of Ira Rubén. He must have been exiled years before I was born or the Grande Dames would still be wittering about him.
They’ll be wittering about me now, I thought, with a flash of bitterness. I wonder if Mother will ever be able to hold her head up in polite society again.
I coughed. “Do you know my parents?
“I haven’t met them, Ira said, tonelessly. “I’ve been away for quite some time.”
Ouch, I thought. Father was in his late forties. If Ira had never met him, even as a little boy, he had to have been in exile for fifty years or more. How long has he been here?
Ira cleared his throat. “We’ll discuss basic rules tomorrow,” he added, “but there is one rule you need to know now. You are not, whatever happens, to go onto the sixth floor.”
“The sixth floor?” I couldn’t help asking the obvious question. “What’s on the sixth floor?”
“My private rooms,” Ira said, curtly. His voice hardened. It was suddenly very easy to believe he was related to Grandfather. “You are not to go onto the sixth floor. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Senior,” I said. I didn’t want to know, but I had to ask. “What will happen if I do?”
Ira gave me a humourless smile. “I’ll let the wards have you,” he said. “You won’t enjoy it.”
I swallowed. Father had told me that there were rooms and suites in Rubén Hall that I was never to enter for any reason whatsoever. Some were workshops, where my father’s apprentices studied potions; some were private rooms for secret conferences. I’d disobeyed him a few times when I was younger, only to discover that the wards were quite effective at keeping me out. Father had made it clear, more than once, that I’d only brushed against the outer layers. The inner layers were far nastier.
“Yes, Senior,” I said. This was Ira’s territory. He was entitled to guard his privacy however he wished. I didn’t think that even Father, if he was still the Patriarch, could demand an inspection without consequence. “I won’t go up there.”
“See that you don’t,” Ira told me. His eyes bored into mine for a long moment. “Have you eaten enough?”
I looked at the empty tray and nodded. It would do, for the moment. I wasn’t quite sure what time it was, but it felt late. I simply hadn’t slept very well. My body was reminding me that I’d spent most of five days in an uncomfortable carriage, having an uncomfortable ride to Kirkhaven. I needed a bath and a sleep, perhaps not in that order.
At least I can sleep in a proper bed, I told myself. That will be something.
Ira rang his bell again. Morag reappeared, almost at once. She must have been waiting outside the door. Mother’s maids did that, standing outside until they were summoned to attend their mistress. They’d always been willing to play games with a little girl, but the moment Mother called them they had to drop everything and run to her side. I felt a pang of homesickness that hurt, more than I cared to admit. I might be allowed to go home one day, if I was lucky, but I’d never be that carefree girl again.
Morag nodded to Ira. “Yes, Senior?”
“Take Bella to bed,” Ira said. “And ...”
“Isabella,” I corrected, hastily. “Bella is ... Bella is someone else.”
Morag’s expression became more pinched. “As you wish, young mistress,” she said, sardonically. “Isabella, come with me.”
I glanced at Ira, surprised. Mother would not have tolerated such churlishness from her servants, not even for a second. The maids had to be on their best behavior at all times or they’d get the sack. Or worse, they’d be sent to tend to my elderly relatives instead. Mother was strict, with firm ideas of how things should be, but she wasn’t obnoxious. The elders, on the other hand, could be thoroughly unpleasant at times. I didn’t know the details, but one particular great-uncle had driven away a dozen maids until Father had a long ... discussion ... with him.
“Go,” Ira said. He waved a hand at the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I rose, dropped a curtsey and followed Morag to the door. The air outside felt colder, somehow, as we made our way up a flight of stairs. They were meant to be carpeted, I thought, but someone had removed half the carpet to reveal the wood beneath. I kept a wary eye on the floor, just in case I stepped on a nail. I’d had the sense to wear my outdoor shoes, but I didn’t know if they’d protect me from something sharp. It grew harder to see as we reached the fifth floor and started down the corridor. The light crystals were brightening and dimming, seemingly at random.
“My room is at the end of the corridor,” Morag said. I jumped. She’d been so quiet that I’d believed she wasn’t going to say anything. Her voice was sharp, as sharp as Mother had sounded when she’d caught me digging up her roses. I wanted to snap back at her, but I was too tired. “You are not to go inside without my permission.”
I nodded, wordlessly. Mother had made it clear that neither I nor Akin was to enter the servant quarters. I didn’t understand the reasoning, but she’d been blunt enough to convince me that some lines were best not crossed. Morag deserved what little privacy she could get, I assumed. She’d probably have more privacy at Kirkhaven Hall than I’d had at Rubén Hall, back in Shallot. There were far fewer prying eyes.
And no one bothered to say a word when she claimed a guest suite for herself, I thought, wryly. Servants normally stayed below stairs, on the ground floor. Ira probably didn’t care enough to object.
We stopped outside a blue door. Morag put her hand against the wood and muttered a charm, then pushed the door open. I followed her into the room, feeling cold. If I needed magic to open the door ... I would be trapped, as long as I wore the cuff. Normally, I could go in and out of my rooms whenever I wanted. I’d set the wards to ensure I didn’t need passwords or charms to step through the door. But here ... this wasn’t my room.
Yes, it is, my thoughts mocked. It is your room as long as you are living here.
The Blue Room was blue. Everything was blue, save for an oaken double-poster bed in the exact center of the room. The blue walls looked cracked and faded, the blue bookshelf was empty, the blue wardrobe door was hanging open, the blue window shutters were firmly closed and locked ... I rolled my eyes as I saw the blue door, leading into what I guessed was the bathroom. My trunks rested neatly against the far wall, waiting for me to open them. I realised, with a flicker of horror, that I couldn’t open them. The locking charms needed magic to open them.
Morag strode across the blue carpet and opened the far door. “There’s a bathtub in here,” she said, as I followed her. “You can use it in the morning, if you wish.”
I peered into the chamber. The bathroom was larger than I’d expected, but strikingly empty. A tub ... and not much else. No toilet, no shower ... not even soap and freshener. There weren’t even any taps on the bathtub. The sink looked as if it had been designed for a child of five, not a girl of twelve. It was tiny. The mirror was placed so low that I’d have to bend over to see my face. Someone Morag’s height would have to kneel down to use it.
Morag turned back into the bedroom. “You can put your clothes in the wardrobe, if you wish,” she said. She opened the broken door to reveal a handful of shelves and a clothing rail, tiny compared to the walk-in closet I’d had back home. “Or you can leave them in your trunk ...”
I caught her arm. “Morag ... where do I go to the toilet?”
Morag yanked her arm free. “There’s a chamberpot under the bed,” she said, briskly. “This place was built before indoor plumbing really became a thing. A f
ew pipes were run through the house, but not enough to support anything larger than a sink. Make sure you empty the chamberpot every morning or you’ll regret it.”
“... Oh,” I said. No showers? I shuddered at the thought. My skin felt thoroughly unclean after five days in the carriage. I probably smelt terrible. The armsman hadn’t allowed me to do more than wash my face and hands. “I ...”
Morag ignored me as she plucked the lantern off the wall and put it on the bedside table. “I assume you’ve used one of these before,” she said. “Tap once to turn off the light, tap twice to turn it back on again. Is there anything else you need before you go to bed?”
I glanced at the trunks. “Can you unlock the trunks?”
Morag lifted her eyebrows. I held up my arm to show her the cuff. Her lips smiled, just for a second, then she opened the first trunk. I dug through the clothes to find my nightgown - I tried to ignore her snort when she saw it - and put it on the bed. I’d have to unpack everything else tomorrow, if I wanted to wear something new. The trunk closed and locked again as Morag turned away, heading for the door. I was too tired to care.
“Sleep well,” Morag said. She didn’t bother to look back. “And good night.”
I undressed hastily, dropping my sodden dress and underclothes on the floor, then pulled the nightgown on and climbed into bed before it got too cold. The mattress felt hard, so hard that I had to roll over and over before I felt remotely comfortable. My duvet was thin, too thin. I had the feeling that whoever normally occupied the room, if anyone normally occupied the room, used magic to keep themselves warm. I knew a dozen spells that would turn the room into a furnace, none of which I could cast as long as I wore the cuff. Shaking my head, I reached for the lantern and tapped it once. The room plunged into darkness. No light filtered through the shutters. I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep ...
The Princess in the Tower (Schooled in Magic Book 15) Page 41
