Ms Whitlow, the most senior housemaid, pursed her lips and then said, “I’ve heard Lord Valstar said there would be talismans available for the family. What about us?”
There was a general murmur of agreement.
“You will get them also, if you want them,” Wyn promised. Curse the Maelstrom. Lady Philomena’s anti-fae talismans wouldn’t do much more than inconvenience greater fae, and he thought it unlikely that the staff would be targeted anyway, but he couldn’t begrudge them even a small bit of added protection. But this was going to make his job more difficult. His spells would begin to fray the longer they were exposed to anti-fae talismans unless he poured more power into them. “But I do not think you will be at risk. My understanding is that the Valstars’ connection to the estate may make them the more attractive targets.”
“You were attacked,” Ms Whitlow pointed out.
“As was the bank manager,” Wyn agreed. “A one-off occurrence, I hope. In any case, it was fortunate that Lord Valstar was there. She is a powerful mage in her own right and saved us both. In any case, you should all be safe so long as you remain within the boundaries of Stariel.”
“But what do the fairies want?” Lottie piped up. One of the gardeners scowled at her. As one of the youngest staff members, she should not have spoken out. “Why have they appeared now?”
Wyn considered her for a long moment before addressing the wider table. “A reasonable question. As to why the fae have reappeared now…” He shrugged. “It is clear the world is changing. But mortals and fae lived alongside each other before, if you believe the tales, so perhaps they can do so again.” The staff didn’t seem entirely reassured, and he berated himself for getting too philosophical. “In any case, I have complete faith in our Star. Please do come to me if you have any further questions, or if you see anything that concerns you,” he said. “Now, I will run over today’s schedule…”
Clarissa lingered after he’d sent everyone on to their various tasks.
“Should you be up and about?” she asked, frowning at him.
He still had Ivy’s spare cane, though he was leaning on it less than the night before. “I am recovering rapidly.”
Clarissa, unfortunately, knew him. “You shouldn’t be standing so much though.”
“I intend to spend some time with paperwork,” he assured her. She harrumphed but left.
He made his way through the house and up to the floor that contained most of the family’s bedrooms with trepidation. He would’ve liked to have come bearing gifts, but he couldn’t hold a tea tray on his injured arm whilst leaning on a cane with the other, so the small bribery would have to be dispensed with. It probably wouldn’t have made much difference anyway.
After repeated knocks and a minute and a half of waiting, Marius’s door opened. He was wrapped in a thick green dressing gown embroidered with peacocks, and his black hair was a tufty, lopsided landscape. He blinked rapidly behind his spectacles, adjusting to the sudden light. When he saw who it was, his bemused expression changed to a scowl.
“Wyn,” he said flatly.
It stung, this distance between them.
“I have a favour to ask.” Wyn let his gaze fall on the embroidered peacocks. “It will require you to be awake and dressed, however.”
“What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock,” Wyn apologised.
Marius ran a hand through his hair, making it stick on end. “What is it? The favour.”
“I need someone to pick up the car from Alverness. I thought you might catch the nine o’clock train down from Stariel Station.”
Marius stared at him.
“I know it seems trivial,” Wyn said. “But someone needs to pick it up, and my driving abilities are impaired at present.” He waved the cane for emphasis.
“Are you trying to ship me off and out of your hair for the day?” His eyes narrowed. “I know about you and Hetta.”
“I know.” Hetta had told him last night. Even if she hadn’t, the anger in Marius’s expression would have clued him in. “But no, I’m not trying to get you out of my hair.”
“That’s it?” Marius’s mouth formed a grim line. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”
“You’re quite welcome to rail at me, but would it be too much to ask that you get dressed first and that we refrain from arguing in the hallway?” Wyn said mildly.
Marius glared. “Damn you,” he said, and shut the door.
“I’ll be in my office,” Wyn told the solid oak between them.
A quarter of an hour later, just as Wyn had decided which field to suggest to Hetta for a drainage experiment, Marius appeared. His hair now lay mostly flat, though one curl had escaped his ministrations and bounced untidily next to his right ear. He wore a dark grey morning suit with a salmon pink tie and carried a hat, which told Wyn that he’d at least half-committed to carrying out Wyn’s errand.
Their eyes met. Marius came in and shut the door with a snap.
“I’m angry with you,” he said without preamble.
“Good,” Wyn said. This brought Marius up short, and he halted a few feet from the desk where Wyn was seated.
“What do you mean ‘good’?” he demanded. Like Hetta, the grey of his irises tended to lighten when he was agitated. Right now they were as pale as frost.
Wyn stood with a slight wince. “It means you care.”
“Of course I care! She’s my sister!”
“I meant that you still care about me,” Wyn clarified. “I comfort myself that our friendship cannot be irreparably broken, if I still have the power to hurt you so.”
Marius glared at him, fists clenched. “Don’t try to make me feel guilty.”
Wyn allowed the point with a nod. “You shouldn’t feel guilty in your treatment of me. I have deserved it wholly. You trusted me with your own secrets while I hoarded mine. You welcomed me into your family and I have repaid you by endangering them. And now I court your sister in secret, as if I am ashamed of her. I have caused a great deal of trouble.”
“What am I supposed to do with that? Punch you in the face?”
“You may, if it will make you feel better,” Wyn said with a slight smile.
Marius’s eyes flashed. “What will you do if I tell you to stay away from her?”
“Probably not stay away from her,” Wyn admitted. “Are you sure you don’t wish to punch me?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Marius said darkly.
“I love her,” Wyn said, a soft relief coming from finally being able to say the words aloud, even if they were not to the person he most wanted to say them to. “I know you have good reason to doubt that sentiment, but please trust me when I say that there is nothing you can do or say that would make me more determined to do right by her. I am already determined to the utter limit of my capacity.”
Marius’s lip had curled at the word ‘love’. “Love is for fools, Wyn.” His shoulders slumped.
The hairs on the back of Wyn’s neck rose—it was eerily close to the old fae saying: Love is for fools and mortals.
But this was not about him. Wyn dared to reach out and rest a hand briefly on Marius’s shoulder. “Don’t let John’s shadow leave a permanent mark,” he murmured. John Tidwell had been Marius’s recent lover. It had ended badly.
Marius shook him off. “That has nothing to do with this!”
“And you are fortunate you aren’t bound to speak no falsehood.” But he turned away from Marius’s glare and went to the key rack. From a large square board hung keys for every door in the house, each neatly labelled. They glinted in the soft lamp glow, and Wyn selected the large triangular key that belonged to the kineticar.
He held it out to Marius. “Will you run my errand for me?”
Marius didn’t move. “Why didn’t you ask Jack?” The question revealed more than Marius probably intended. It had been hard for him, growing up with a father who preferred his nephew over his oldest son. Mostly Marius managed to keep that resentment from sp
illing onto his cousin, but several events recently would have exacerbated that already tender spot. Jack had known Wyn’s secret for years—years in which Marius had considered Wyn more his friend than Jack’s. In truth, that was a symptom of the same issue: Lord Henry had told Jack about Wyn because he expected him to inherit. And, most unfortunately, Jack had found out about Hetta and Wyn’s relationship before Marius. On top of that, it wouldn’t have escaped Marius’s notice that Hetta had summoned her cousin and not her brother for aid yesterday.
Wyn owed Lord Henry much, but he didn’t know if he would ever forgive him for his role in Marius’s insecurities. “I would rather send you than Jack. You’ve a better hold on your temper than he does and you’re more intuitive. I’d like you to talk to the staff at the bank, see if you can ascertain both Mr Thompson’s health and exactly what story is being spread about. I fear Jack may simply get people’s backs up if he doesn’t like what he hears.”
Marius blinked. Wyn wondered how long it had been since someone had compared him favourably to his cousin.
“And,” Wyn added, waving the key for emphasis, “you’ve more native resistance to enchantment than most of the other Valstars.”
Marius appeared as nothing so much as a startled owl. “I do?” Marius had only a weak land-sense, and he’d foolishly equated this to his own worth. Oh, Marius, there is no lack in you, nothing that should be changed.
“You do,” Wyn said. “It makes you resistant to compulsion.”
Marius’s eyes narrowed. “And exactly how do you know that, Mr Tempest?”
Too quick by half. Wyn spread his arms placatingly. “I was young, in fear of my life, and had no idea how the mortal world worked. In my first weeks here, I set a low-level compulsion so that people would be inclined to view my rapid insertion into the household in a positive rather than negative light. Low-level compulsion is very mild—it cannot force someone to act against their nature. It is merely…a kind of charm.”
Marius folded his arms. “And now?”
“With one exception, I haven’t compelled any mortals for years now.”
Marius abruptly deflated. “John.”
“Yes.” He’d done it at Marius’s request, though in fairness Marius had not known exactly what he’d asked for. Wyn thought a change of subject in order. “In any case, I wouldn’t ask you to go if I truly thought you were in danger. I think it’s very unlikely the fae will attack anyone associated with the Valstars just now, when they’re trying to figure out how to negotiate with Stariel.”
“It’s not your leg stopping you from going, is it?” Marius said, with characteristic insight. “They’ll try to kill you again if they catch you outside the bounds, won’t they?”
“Maybe,” Wyn admitted. “Probably.”
Marius’s expression softened. “That rather neatly puts my problems into perspective, doesn’t it?” He took the key from Wyn. “At least my family isn’t trying to kill me.”
“A consoling thought to hold on to during particularly dull monologues from certain of your relatives.”
Marius didn’t smile. “Don’t think this means I’m all right with any of this. I’m not. Not Hetta, and not the compulsion. But I’ll get the dashed car.” And he turned to leave, shoulders stiff again.
“Thank you,” Wyn said. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry that I did not trust you sooner.”
Marius paused. When he spoke, his voice was so low Wyn had to strain to catch it.
“I’m sorry too.”
20
Heather and Snapdragons
Marius watched Stariel Village disappear as the train rounded a bend, taking his land-sense with it between one breath and the next. He used to relish that loss because it meant he was outside his father’s power. Now he tried to pretend he wasn’t afraid without the land guardian watching silently over his shoulder. He dug his fingers into the seat and tried to reassure himself. Wyn had said he was resistant to compulsion. Resistant, though—that was hardly the same as immune, was it? Why hadn’t he asked for further clarification on that point? He shuddered. Was there anything worse than the idea of someone else controlling you? You asked Wyn to do that to John, though. Not asked—he hadn’t known Wyn had magic when he’d come to his friend, in heartbreak and panic. But you didn’t say no when he offered, did you? Not a lot of moral high ground to claim, is there? Hypocrite.
At least Marius now knew Wyn hadn’t ever compelled him, something that had been preoccupying him ever since he’d found out about his friend’s abilities. But you’re not entirely reassured by that, are you? a tiny, treacherous voice pointed out. An idea had been growing in him ever since John’s departure and the reveal of Wyn’s true nature—if Wyn could bind John not to speak of Marius, then maybe he could bind Marius not to be…what he was. But if Marius was immune to compulsion, then there went that idea.
He snorted. I should’ve known it would never be that simple. Outside, the train passed a stripe of heather with silvery-grey foliage, contrasting vividly against the darker browns of the more common varietals. Did the colour breed true or would the resulting hybrid be merely a paler brown? The snapdragons he’d grown last summer had turned out a disappointing pink, despite their parents blooming crimson and white.
Thinking of his experiments brought his other recent botanical research to mind. He’d applied to return to Knoxbridge in the New Year, but he carefully hadn’t mentioned this particular line of research to the department. An uneasy mixture of shame and excitement swam in his belly as he contemplated the passing countryside. Was it traitorous to investigate plants rumoured to have anti-fae properties? Surely it was simply good sense? After all, Grandmamma’s talismans were based on such things, and Wyn thought them a sensible precaution. Wyn wouldn’t be angry with him for pursuing this line of inquiry. Would he? Why did he even care if Wyn would be upset at him for it? Wyn deserved to be upset.
Marius shifted irritably in his seat. There was no one else in the carriage, which would ordinarily delight him because it meant he could stretch out his legs and read without feeling self-conscious, but today he found it unsettling. His book remained in his satchel, unopened.
Of course, it was quite hard to stay properly angry at Wyn when his family was trying to kill him. Oh, how rational of you to find his tragic backstory irritating because it makes him harder to villainise. But he didn’t want to feel any sympathy, didn’t want to let go of righteous anger. At least being angry at Wyn provided some kind of variety. If Marius let it go, he’d be right back at the bottom of his personal and entirely tedious well of sadness. He was so tired of being sad, of every other emotion feeling as thin as wallpaper on top of that base.
Fuck John, he thought with sudden venom, glaring at his own reflection in the window glass. Did John think about him at all? He probably didn’t. He’d probably shacked up with someone else already. Someone younger and better looking, with more social graces. Someone interesting and complicated.
“You’re boring, Marius. You just want to talk about the same bloody things all the time, and the only time you have anything new to say, it’s from some bloody book or other! You never DO anything!”
He got up and stretched, restless with the barbed memory of John’s words. It wasn’t helpful to think about them. He knew it wasn’t helpful, but they pricked at him nonetheless, round and round like a pebble lodged in his shoe. It didn’t matter if John had found someone else. He could be going at it with someone new every night and it still wouldn’t matter. Well, rather, it shouldn’t matter. Why couldn’t he just be over him already? He wanted to be over him.
“It will take time,” Wyn had said. “Sometimes the heart takes a while to catch up to what the mind knows.” But what would Wyn know about such things? When had he ever faced heartbreak?
Well, he did have to deal with his father plotting to kill him. He probably didn’t process that with perfect equanimity, despite that unruffled face he shows. Marius’s burst of anger faded, leaving only a tired
, foggy greyness behind.
The train slowed for the Deeplake station, and Marius nearly groaned aloud. Alverness was still an hour away, and he thought he might go mad, left alone here gnawing on his own thoughts. Desperate for distraction, he pulled out his notebook and began forcing himself to list all the plants he’d so far identified as potentially having anti-fae properties alongside ideas for preparations and concentrations. Grandmamma had been frustratingly vague about quantities when he’d tried to pin down exactly how she made her anti-fae talismans, but careful experimentation ought to be able to give him better data.
When the train arrived in Alverness and Marius had found his way to the solemn stone edifice of the bank, he wished he’d spent the last hour planning what to say rather than categorising herbs. He glumly examined the grand entrance with its decorative columns. What was he supposed to say? ‘So, how is everyone feeling about that fae attack yesterday? Anxious? Pleased? How interesting.’
Stop procrastinating, idiot, he mentally berated himself. He supposed he would do what he always did: muddle through on a wave of his own awkwardness. Stiffening his spine, he marched up the stairs into the bank.
He veered away from the tellers and found the receptionist, who was female, thank the nine heavens. He found women so much easier to talk to than men. And isn’t that the very definition of irony?
“Good morning,” he said to her.
“Good morning, sir,” she said with a polite smile. “How may I help you?”
The Prince of Secrets Page 18
