She appreciated the honesty, but still said frankly, “I’m worried your martyrish tendencies will make you decide you need to leave for my or Stariel’s own good.” She didn’t try to hide what she thought of that.
He stilled, fingertips warm against her neck. “I…cannot promise you that I won’t.” He looked miserable. “Sometimes it would be nice to be able to lie.”
The words spilled out before she could snatch them back: “I won’t forgive you if you leave.” Her heart hammered; it felt too much like an ultimatum. She shouldn’t be issuing ultimatums when this thing between them had barely begun, should she? But if he had to tell the truth, then so should she. And she couldn’t pretend she’d accept that sort of betrayal. Not from him.
Oddly, his expression softened. “I know. And I’m glad of it.”
Plumpuff meowed plaintively before she could ask exactly why he was glad about her giving him ultimatums.
“Very true,” he said past Hetta’s shoulder to the cat. “I should transport you and your offspring somewhere better suited to your dignity.”
Hetta sighed, not as reassured as she’d like to be. “And I’d better go and make sure Caro isn’t intending to announce the lord’s scandalous affair with the steward to all and sundry.” She had mixed feelings about keeping their relationship under wraps. It was certainly nice to avoid the storm of judgement and scandal while everything was still so new and uncertain. But it couldn’t go on like this forever, and part of her already chafed at hiding what she felt.
“Thank you,” he said solemnly.
“Don’t thank me yet, because you get to talk to Jack.” Hetta had a fair idea of her own temper. Wyn was much less likely to burn her cousin’s hair off, and, more importantly, much more likely to talk him round than she was.
His mouth twitched. “Very well. I will talk to Jack.”
5
Minor Domestic Crises
When Wyn finally left Hetta, Jack had gone to bed. Wyn frowned at his door, annoyed more with himself than its occupant. The house was quietening, at least half of the Valstars having followed Jack’s suit. The other half consisted of mainly the teenage set, who were over-excited by the presence of so many of their relations and likely would not be done till the wee hours.
What, precisely, was he hoping to achieve here? ‘Here’ in the metaphorical rather than literal sense, for it was clear he wouldn’t be seeing Jack until morning. On the brighter side, that meant Jack had calmed down enough to sleep on it, and a calm Jack was unlikely to tell anyone what he’d seen without speaking to Wyn first. Indirect action wasn’t in Jack’s nature unless he was in a towering rage. It was one of the things Wyn liked about Jonathan Langley-Valstar, even if the fae would count that as a weakness.
On the less bright side…he set his shoulders against the wall, folded his arms, and brooded down at the hallway runner, trying to map out possibilities and consequences. He didn’t want to leave Stariel, or Hetta, but the fae didn’t forget debts, and now they knew Wyn’s location there was no chance they’d let the matter rest. King Aeros would be weaving some plan to make his errant son pay the price of his broken oath. Probably in blood. But exactly how would his father choose to strike, now that Hetta’s lordship had secured Stariel’s borders? And most importantly, when? The revocation of the Iron Law might have made Wyn somewhat lower on his father’s list of priorities—or the reverse. Wyn swallowed. He hoped it wasn’t the reverse.
Surely he would have until after Wintersol, at least? That would give him time to tie off the worst loose ends: employing the new housekeeper, securing the bank loan. And he was sure between them he and Hetta could cajole her cousins into keeping what they’d seen to themselves until then. When—if—he had to leave, he didn’t want Hetta to have to face a storm of scandal alone. The cold in him deepened, as if his heart were keeping time with the night.
A tiny, insubstantial sound at the other end of the hallway drew him from his strategising. Wyn stiffened but didn’t otherwise give any sign he’d heard it, his senses telling him it was another brownie without the need to turn and look. Was it watching him specifically, or just exploring its new territory? He made a mental note both to make sure the pantry was secure—the little creatures loved to steal food—and to remember to put out milk for them now that they had the run of the house.
He waited. After a few seconds, he felt the tiny flicker of the lowfae’s presence move on, beyond the reach of his senses. Just exploring, then. Wyn let out the breath he’d been holding, shook his head at his paranoia, and went to seek his own bed.
The morning brought with it a hundred small tasks requiring his attention, and Jack slipped out of the house before Wyn could catch him. Jack’s land-sense was stronger than that of most of the Valstars, and he frequently sought refuge in the estate when his emotions were unsettled. Probably not a good sign, but Wyn was busy enough to be glad of an excuse to delay the conversation.
Stariel House was chronically short-staffed, and there was more work than usual just now with so many Valstars home in the lead-up to Wintersol. Once Stariel acquired a new house manager, the burden of everyday domestic organisation would fall to them, but currently there was only Wyn, land steward, butler, and housekeeper rolled into one. Wyn liked being useful, but even he was beginning to feel stretched somewhat thin. Fortunately, his steward duties were not as taxing in this season as they would be come spring, but they still added to his workload, particularly as he was still deciphering the full extent of the previous steward’s dishonesty and preparing to plead Stariel’s case to the bank.
He spent a few precious minutes checking his domestic spells that filled the gaps between staffing and maintenance funds, recharging them where necessary. The surfeit of seasonal power eddied around him, oddly energising, leaving a cool, scentless taste on the back of his tongue like ice chips melting. His work drew Stariel’s interest, and he again had to resist the urge to hunch under the weight of the faeland’s prickling hostility.
Had Hetta’s irritation with him manifested in the faeland, or was Stariel’s attitude all its own? ThousandSpire hadn’t always shared his father’s moods. It had been fond of Wyn, despite King Aeros’s contempt. This could be the same—Stariel acting independently of Hetta’s feelings on the subject. Stormcrows, I hope so.
He blew out a breath and went downstairs to the servants’ hall to begin to address the day’s usual assortment of small mishaps, each one unique and yet somehow cumulatively as predictable as clockwork. Today’s specific ones involved the senior housemaid being called away on a family emergency and the hall boy managing to sprain an ankle on his way downstairs to the morning staff meeting. Wyn rearranged schedules and workloads and managed to prevent the hall boy injuring himself further—an achievement in and of itself, since the boy had no sense of self-preservation. He sent him off to see Lady Philomena; Hetta’s grandmother dealt with minor medical complaints among the staff and family both.
Current crises averted and meeting adjourned, Wyn found himself alone in the servants’ hall. A long wooden table ran down the room’s centre, and Wyn smoothed a pattern on it, trying to settle the unease that had scratched at him since last night. These days, his place was at the table’s head—or at least it would be until they found a new house manager; the steward was set apart from the rest of the hierarchy—but his gaze lingered on the seat the hall boy had recently vacated. That’s where he’d begun, years ago when he’d first come to the estate, terrified someone would see through his mask, see he didn’t belong here. But no one had, and now the memory of the decadent gold-and-gem-crusted dining rooms of ThousandSpire, filled with the jostling, varied shapes of greater and lesser fae, seemed far stranger than the plain, empty one before him. I belong here now, he reassured himself. He might not be human, but he was closer to it than King Aeros would ever be, and Father could not change that now, could not erase ten years of history.
The back of his neck itched, and he caught a flash of movement from the co
rner of his eye. Hmmm. Another brownie. Wyn didn’t believe in coincidence, but before he could investigate, the door burst open and the senior housemaid entered in a rush.
“Sorry, sir, but one of the pipes in the lavender bathroom has burst.”
Wyn rose with a wry smile. Imminent flooding took priority over curious brownies.
The burst pipe was just the start of a procession of minor domestic crises, and both Jack and brownies remained unaddressed as the day drew on. Late afternoon found Wyn opening the back door into the stableyard for the weekly grocery delivery, reflecting that after this, at least, he ought to have a moment spare.
“Mr Jones, precisely on time, as always,” he said in greeting.
The grocer had his hands in his pockets, and he rolled his lips around warily. His taller son stood behind him, eyes bright.
“Wasn’t sure I’d be dealing with you this week, Mr Tempest. Heard you’d gone up in the world.” The tone was friendly; the subtext, barbed.
Wyn smiled warmly at the pair, unsure what to make of said subtext and feeling his spare moment beginning to evaporate. “Lord Valstar has indeed appointed me steward. Were you worried I’d be too full of myself to speak to you?” He shook his head. “I hope I’m never so top-lofty. I shall depend on you to tell me if you fear I’m becoming so. Besides, it would be madness to offend the man who makes the best sausage in the county.”
The grocer didn’t soften, the mention of Hetta tightening his mouth into a hard line. Did he disapprove of Hetta’s lordship? But the grocer wasn’t a particularly political man, and he hadn’t seemed bothered when she’d first ascended. Had something changed?
Wyn tilted his head. “You’ve known me for many years now, Mr Jones. Is there something amiss that I can help with?”
The reminder of Wyn’s length of service eased the line of the man’s shoulders. “Naught but unpacking the cart, same as usual.”
Ah. The man was worried by Wyn’s relationship with Hetta. Had he terribly misjudged both Caroline and Jack’s ability to hold their tongues? But no, neither of Hetta’s cousins would choose the local grocer as their confidante. Which meant…had news of his and Hetta’s indiscretions gotten out of the house in some other way? Or was the grocer’s wariness based on something else entirely? Idle speculation, perhaps? Hetta and Wyn’s old friendship was no secret, and Wyn had recently been promoted on her say-so.
Wyn was set to delve deeper into the matter, but as he stepped over the threshold into the stableyard, Stariel pounced, and the ground shifted abruptly under his feet.
He stumbled. A mortal would have written it down as clumsiness, but Wyn wasn’t clumsy. With some difficulty, he followed the grocer to the cart, and the disturbance moved with him, altering the position of stones, subtly raising or lowering the ground level as he stepped. My own personal earthquake.
He sent a stray thought at the faeland.
Maybe it would stop if he ignored it? He tucked his clipboard temporarily into the cart for safekeeping and picked up a crate in its stead, adjusting his feet on the unstable ground. The grocer gave him a strange look; he supposed he did look rather like a cat on a hot tin roof. He ignored the look and began the journey back to the house while attempting to keep up a façade of relaxed friendliness, peppering his conversation with as many sideways references as he could to his long history of service here, to Hetta’s commitment to duty. I am a person of competence that you know and trust; Lord Valstar is part of an ancient and respectable bloodline. There is nothing to worry you here, regardless of what you may have heard.
It seemed to be working, even though it was hard to keep hold of the thread of conversation with Stariel’s ground-shifting antics distracting him. He breathed a sigh of relief as he crossed the threshold again; at least Stariel kept its game restricted to the outside. Stormwinds knew what it would add to the house maintenance bills otherwise.
He stowed the crate securely in the cellar and hesitated as he went to step outside again. Maybe Stariel would be bored with its game now? But as soon as he crossed the threshold, the ground once more began to shift, subtly but surely, like walking on the back of a living, moving creature. Picking up a bag of potatoes, he leaned heavily on his leysight. Using that, he was able to predict Stariel’s small leyline warpings before they occurred, moving his feet one step ahead of the faeland, as if they were partners in the world’s oddest dance.
He was sorry for so many things, but it wasn’t in him to be sorry for that. Was this jealousy—if it was jealousy—normal when one courted a faeland’s chosen? Had his mother had to deal with this from ThousandSpire when she’d met his father? His thoughts shied from that thought like a raw wound; he didn’t wish to think of his mother.
Stariel’s presence intensified.
Wyn froze. Belatedly, it occurred to him that deliberately provoking an enormous and inhuman magical entity was perhaps not his most brilliant idea. He hugged the potatoes and compacted his magic as small as it would go, trying to appear harmless. In hindsight, perhaps he should have simply fallen over and let the faeland satisfy itself. A curl of suicidal rebelliousness stirred at the thought.
The minor leylines twitched ominously, and he held his breath. Would the faeland escalate? His magic coiled restlessly under his skin, and he pushed it down more firmly lest it be taken as a threat. Despite what his foolish Wintertide instincts insisted, he could not challenge the might of a faeland. I am harmless and familiar, no threat at all to you. You know me, he tried to channel towards Stariel.
Thankfully, Stariel appeared to decide that since Wyn did technically have permission to be here, more active opposition to his presence wasn’t allowed. The faeland grumbled, but its attention grudgingly shifted away, the ground settling sullenly under his shoes. Thank the high winds’ eddies. His muscles slowly unknotted themselves, his heart beating abnormally fast.
“All right, sir?” the grocer said behind him.
“Ah, yes, thank you. Woolgathering.” He shook himself and his burden back into motion. Together, they finished unpacking, and by the time the grocer and his son left, Wyn thought he’d managed to reassure them that Stariel House had not become a den of incompetence or alarming mortal morals. Though why precisely had they needed the reassurance?
Once the pair were safely out of sight, he let his mild expression fade and frowned thoughtfully in the direction they’d taken. The grey-brown of the long driveway curved around Starwater towards the village, and the wind ruffled small white waves in the great lake’s surface. He would like very much to know the details of what people were saying about Hetta—about Hetta and him—on the wider estate, particularly if news of their indiscretions had somehow gotten out of the house.
Which meant he needed Lottie, one of the housemaids. She had a penchant for anything that smacked of intrigue. And she might even be the source of the gossip, if she’d witnessed something. He and Hetta had been careful, apart from last night’s incident, but Wyn knew well how invisible servants could be. The main problem was that he couldn’t simply ask Lottie for an update on the current state of gossip on the estate. An indirect approach was called for.
He went in search, noting the flicker of movement in the corner of his gaze as he did so. Soon, he vowed. Too-interested brownies had not yet reached the top of his priority list, though they were rapidly advancing on it. First, gossip.
He located Lottie and the cook, Clarissa, down in the kitchens, cooing over the kittens.
“I trust all the bedrooms are made up, Lottie?” he asked as he came in. The last of the Valstar relatives arrived today, and it had been a scramble to get enough bedrooms liveable in the short timeframe. Old Lord Valstar hadn’t invested much in maintenance of the house. Hetta was determined to change that—had in fact scheduled a meeting with the bank for tomorrow—but in the meantime,
they managed as best they could.
Lottie started at his words and rose from her crouch with one last pat to Plumpuff’s head. “I was just about to start on the Lavender Room, sir. Did you want me to make up old Lord Valstar’s room?”
“Yes, thank you.” He’d cleaned it out after the old lord’s funeral, but no one had since slept in it. “It’s time enough. Put Lady Cecily and Mr Frederick in it. Don’t bother with the Lavender Room. The leak is stopped, but it’s best left unoccupied until the plumber arrives.”
“Yessir.” Lottie straightened her skirts and was halfway to the door when he spoke to the cook.
“I would ask for your opinion on something curious, Mrs White. I was speaking with the grocer just now and he made certain insinuations regarding my recent change in job title.” He let himself sound puzzled rather than alarmed.
Definitely the housemaid had contributed to the spread of something; Lottie froze like a rabbit caught out after dawn, eyes blowing wide.
The cook pulled herself up, bosom swelling with righteous fury. “He never suggested you weren’t fit for the job!” She whirled as if to move out in search of the grocer and forcibly change his mind. Clarissa had known him since he was a youth at Stariel and still considered Wyn in a faintly maternal fashion, despite his now elevated position. He could speak to her more freely than he could to the housemaid. Stariel was relatively informal, as great houses went, but the servants’ hierarchy was still nearly as intricate as that of ThousandSpire. Who knew growing up in a fae court would be such excellent training for managing a mortal household?
“He’s left already,” Wyn assured her hastily. “I hope I was able to give him some reassurances as to my commitment to this household.” He frowned, putting a trace of worry into his words, and picked up a dish cloth. He began drying some of the luncheon dishes. “I’m not sure where he came by his notions. I hope they’re not widely held.” He raised a quelling eyebrow at Lottie, who was still standing mid-kitchen, blatantly eavesdropping.
The Prince of Secrets Page 4
