Bee Sting Cake Read online

  Bee Sting Cake

  Greenwing & Dart

  Victoria Goddard

  Published by Underhill Books, 2017.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  BEE STING CAKE

  First edition. September 15, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Victoria Goddard.

  ISBN: 978-1988908007

  Written by Victoria Goddard.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One | The Honourable Rag has an Idea

  Chapter Two | Mrs. Henny has an Idea

  Chapter Three | Mr. Dart has an Idea

  Chapter Four | Theories on Dragons

  Chapter Five | Theories on Sneezing

  Chapter Six | Mrs. Etaris has an Idea

  Chapter Seven | The Dragon has an Idea

  Chapter Eight | Hal has an Idea

  Chapter Nine | I have No Idea

  Chapter Ten | Sir Vorel has No Idea

  Chapter Eleven | Night Ideas

  Chapter Twelve | Sir Vorel has an Idea

  Chapter Thirteen | The Dragon has Another Idea

  Chapter Fourteen | Mr. Dart has Another Idea

  Chapter Fifteen | The Way of the Woods

  Chapter Sixteen | The Doorkeeper has an Idea

  Chapter Seventeen | The Marchioness has an Idea

  Chapter Eighteen | In the Cellars

  Chapter Nineteen | The Bees of Melmúsion

  Chapter Twenty | The Villagers have an Idea

  Chapter Twenty-One | Hal has an Idea

  Chapter Twenty-Two | Mr. Inglesides has an Idea

  Chapter Twenty-Three | Furnishings

  Chapter | The First Magic Lesson

  Chapter Twenty-Four | I have an Idea

  Chapter Twenty-Five | Mr. White has an Idea

  Chapter Twenty-Six | The Bandits have an Idea

  Chapter Twenty-Seven | The Baking Competition (Round One)

  Chapter Twenty-Eight | Round Two

  Chapter Twenty-Nine | I have One More Idea

  Chapter Thirty | The Honourable Rag has No Idea

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  Also By Victoria Goddard

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  The Honourable Rag has an Idea

  “NO,” I SAID, FIRMLY.

  “You haven’t heard what it is!” Mr. Dart replied, laughing, as he shut the door to Elderflower Books behind him.

  “Your mere presence in town on a Friday is sufficient. I’m not recovered from last weekend’s disasters.”

  “Adventures, surely, Mr. Greenwing.”

  “If you insist, Mr. Dart.”

  Mr. Dart paused in the act of taking off his greatcoat, an action somewhat hampered by the petrified arm that was a result of last week’s adventures (along with assorted cuts, scrapes, bruises, revelations, and ruined social reputations), and then nodded decisively. “Why, yes, I believe I do. Insist, that is, on the fact of adventures.”

  “Have a seat and a gingersnap,” I said, and returned to my tallying-up of the day’s transactions.

  Mr. Dart complied, petting Mrs. Etaris’ ginger cat (also named Gingersnap, which I presumed from the evidence was her favourite cookie), which seemed to consider him a particular friend. He stole the newspaper whose crossword I’d been solving earlier and stretched his legs out before the cheerfully burning stove.

  I wrote down, A Guide to the Beginning of a Collection, by J. Kinross, and wondered whether the J stood for Jullanar or Jakory or Jessamine or even, Emperor help anyone else saddled with it, Jemis. (As a result of a lost bet, I was named after my grandfather’s favourite racehorse. This was only the beginning of my life’s minor difficulties.) It was probably Jakory or Jessamine; Jullanar, on account of the doings of the infamous heroine of the Red Company, was no longer a common name even in my own duchy, where it originated.

  “Hey ho,” said Mr. Dart. “They’ve found the lost heir to the Ironwoods.”

  I finished writing down three bees, the cost of the book, and dipped my pen into the inkwell again. “Should we be interested?”

  “If you want to marry rich—the heir’s a ‘young gentlewoman of two-and-twenty’, according to the New Salon. I wonder how they came to lose her in the Fall? Unless she came from a branch line of the family.”

  “How distressing that the New Salon believes only age and wealth are of importance. I suppose if one is considering mercenary marriage, that is what matters. If studying law at Inveragory doesn’t work out, perhaps I will be forced to.”

  “You could put an advertisement in the paper.”

  “‘Item: young man of excellent education and difficult family seeks wealthy bride. Tendency to social disaster mostly counterbalanced by skill at crossword puzzles and cross-country running.’”

  “I wonder if the Honourable Rag will take odds on your getting in,” Mr. Dart said, chuckling. “Here’s another gem that might concern you more nearly: ‘Whatever has happened to the fabled honey of the Woods Noirell? Once one of the notable delicacies of the kingdom, the supply has been dwindling at an alarming rate over the past three years and there are rumours there will be none at all for this coming Winterturn. Indeed, the last barrel to be had in Kingsford sold at auction last week for three gold emperors.’ Strewth. How big do you reckon the barrel was?”

  “I have no idea,” I replied shortly. My mother’s people were from the Woods, but apart from one visit to my grandmother when I was nine, and one vicious letter in response to mine on the occasion of my mother’s death, I had never had anything to do with them. I wiped my pen, re-inked the nib, and returned to my tally.

  B. Horpf’s Fauna of the Inner Seas (of which world? The cover did not indicate) cost a wheatear and had not been bought by anyone despite many protestations of interest. I set it to one side and picked up the receipt for A. Hickton’s The Arts and Artisans of the Wide Sea Islanders of Western Zunidh in Three Volumes, which was also illustrated, cost nine wheatears, and had been bought by Sir Hamish Lorkin’s valet, who must be very well paid indeed. I approved.

  That Mrs. Etaris trusted me to close up her store should not have made me so pleased. I ought to have been outraged and indignant at the mere thought that someone might not trust a gentleman such as myself. But I am, to my extended family’s voluble regret, a peculiar sort of gentleman, and my late stepfather, a Charese merchant named Mr. Buchance, had always impressed upon me the sacred responsibility of holding the keys of commerce, on which topic alone was he at all poetic.

  “Oh, there’s a new play coming to Yellton—perhaps we can go after the Fair—Three Years Gone, the Tragicomedy of the ...” Mr. Dart’s voice trailed off as he read the rest of the subtitle, which was ‘the Tragicomedy of the Traitor of Loe’—who was my father.

  “I’ve already seen it,” I said, even more shortly.

  “Really?”

  At his aghast tone I smiled involuntarily. “When I visiting Hal in Fillering Pool, his mother took us. They didn’t know the subtitle or the subject, and ... well, I hadn’t told them my surname. They thought it was just Greene.”

  “They must have wondered at your reaction.”

  “I was sick enough from everything else that they took it as a relapse.”

  Everything else was heartbreak, withdrawal from an unknown addiction to wireweed, and some sort of sensitivity or allergic reaction to magic exacerbated by the fact that my university amour, Lark, had not only been giving me the wireweed without my knowledge but also stealing the magic I hadn’t known I possessed. Finding out that that was what the spring’s illness had been had also been a feature of las
t week’s adventures, and I still had no idea what to do with the information, besides endure the lingering effects.

  I finished my written account and began to sort through the coins. “Lock the door, would you?” I asked Mr. Dart, but even as he heaved a theatrical sigh and arose to do so, the door opened and the Honourable Roald Ragnor fair blew in.

  He caught at his hat, but the draught gusting through the door scattered my papers and flipped it out of his grasp.

  I came round from the back of the counter to pick up the papers and, since I was there, the hat. Mr. Dart shut the door, causing a sharp diminishment in noise. I stood up slowly, hat in hand, to find the Honourable Rag staring down at me with an expression of the most vacuous bonhomie.

  I handed him his hat. He didn’t immediately take it, and for a moment I had a sudden vision of what the three of us might look like to an outside observer: three young gentlemen of the same age, dressed in three iterations of current fashion, still bearing the influences of our respective universities. Tara, Stoneybridge, and Morrowlea: the Three Rivals among the Circle Schools, each of them considered the greatest university in the world, perhaps in all nine worlds.

  Tara, the oldest, largest, and most famous, positioned both topographically and metaphysically on the horn of Orio Bay opposite the famous prison, the rich, corrupt, and historic capital of Orio City lying in the crescent between.

  Stoneybridge, caring more for excellence than reputation, one of a cluster of schools in and around the small Charese city of the same name, part of a network of scholarship and sports.

  And Morrowlea, by far the smallest, with the finest architecture, and from its isolated campus on a hill in the rich bucolic landscape of South Erlingale the heart of radical politics and social revolutions.

  Mr. Dart took the hat out of my hand. I returned to the commercial side of the counter. The Honourable Rag blinked amiably around the room. “Mrs. Etaris ain’t here?”

  “No, I’m closing tonight.”

  “Good boy,” he said, bestowing a knowing smirk on Mr. Dart, who was examining the hat with insincere interest.

  Neither of them said anything further, so—in something closer to the revolutionary spirit, the irony of which did not escape me—I tallied the coins as quickly as I could without running into error.

  Mr. Buchance had taught me the trick of doing so, measuring a stack of coins against my finger, stacking approximately even amounts before using a level (in this case, a handy copy of Wines of Northwestern Oriole excluding the Lesser Arcady) to check the quantities. I had been so dexterous at this that at Morrowlea I had almost always been in charge of money in the little shop the students ran in the summers.

  I went through pennies, bees, wheatears, and a few gold emperors in short order, double-checked my count against what I was pleased to determine was the same result in my paper tally, and separated out float from deposit stacks without re-counting individual coins. Closing the till and deposit box, I looked up to see Mr. Dart and the Honourable Rag staring at me in some amazement.

  “I wonder if there’s a way to bet on that,” the Honourable Rag murmured.

  “Is that all you think about?” I retorted, gathering together the paraphernalia on the desk. My pen slipped and rolled towards Roald, who took it and proceeded to tap his fingers with it.

  “Oh, sometimes it’s hunting—or fishing. This time of year, it’s all the question of the Fair wagers, o’course. Who’re your favourites? Mr. Dart?”

  Mr. Dart resettled his sling. “Rigby’s got a new chorister for the egg and spoon.”

  “Chicken stakes,” the Honourable Rag said dismissively, throwing himself into the other armchair and nearly squashing the cat. I picked her up and stroked her soothingly.

  “Well, then?” Mr. Dart asked challengingly. “Whom do you fancy for the bell-hammer?”

  “Roddy Kulfield, surely,” I put in.

  They both looked at me in surprise. Mr. Dart said, “He’s gone to sea.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “To be smith and assistant draughtsman on some botanical expedition or other going out West.”

  “I think I remember reading about it in the spring.” I frowned, trying to remember where. “No, not reading—someone was telling me—but I was so damnably ill—”

  “Ill?”

  If the Honourable Rag had been one of the town gossips, I’d have expanded in the hopes of ameliorating my reputation (which was suffering under the belief that I had missed my stepfather’s funeral on purpose), but since gossip was neither a vice nor a virtue of his, I shrugged. “All through the spring and early summer, when I was jauntering around the four duchies.”

  “Not paying much attention to anything, were you?”

  “Apparently not.” I decided it was time to change the subject. “Who’s sponsoring this expedition, then?”

  “The Duke of Fillering Pool. M’father says he’s mad about plants, but at least it’s not the magical properties of wool, like the last one.”

  “Poor Hal,” I said, laughing.

  “D’ye know him, then?”

  There was something about the Honourable Rag’s habit of slurring some of his words that invariably got my back up, even though I was fairly sure it was something he’d picked up at Tara. Possibly because it was something he’d picked up at Tara. “He was my roommate at Morrowlea.”

  “Room-mate?” replied the Honourable Rag, as if the concept was wholly unfamiliar.

  Or then again, perhaps he was simply drunk.

  “Everyone was assigned rooms to share with another student in their year, as a way of fostering community and egalitarianism. Not though it wasn’t obvious that Hal came from a noble background from his speech and manner, but I never guessed it was so high until he told me.”

  If it had been just Mr. Dart, I would have told the story of how Hal had stood there that first evening, unsure of how to take off his boots without assistance. He’d been embarrassed by his helplessness, and I, who had never graduated to a valet (something Mr. Buchance decried as a ‘poncy northern custom’ and accordingly refused to pay for), was heartened by being able to teach such an obviously grand aristocrat something useful.

  “Anyway,” I said, realizing the silence had gone somewhat over-long, “he must have mentioned it while I was staying with him at Fillering Pool this summer. Very likely I paid no attention. I’m sure he’s unutterably proud of the whole thing and wishes he were the botanist instead of the patron.”

  The Honourable Rag chuckled. There was an infinitesimal warming in his attitude, to which I was about to respond when his next words demonstrated why.

  “That could be very useful indeed.”

  I turned to fuss with the pile of New Salons to avoid showing my disdain quite so obviously, cat squirming in my grasp. “That I know a duke?”

  “That you know an imperial duke, no less,” he replied with unimpaired vacuous bonhomie. “There aren’t so very many imperial titles floating around, and most of the Northwest Oriolese ones stand empty.”

  I smiled wryly. “They’ve just found the Ironwoods’—an heiress.”

  “A gentlewoman of twenty-two years of age,” Mr. Dart put in. “Just in case you need to remedy your fortune at some point, Master Roald. She sounds quite in your style.”

  “She must be quite the antidote if she’s not called a beauty, with all that fortune behind her.”

  The cat took exception to my involuntary squeeze, and jumped out of my hands with an affronted meow. The Honourable Rag nudged her out of his way with one of his shining black boots (which he undoubtedly required the assistance of his valet to don and doff), to which the cat responded with a purr and a beatific rub against the sole.

  I wished with a sudden fury that I was working at the bookstore out of pure political idealism and not brute practical necessity.

  “I hear you’ve been out, ah, running, Greenwing,” the Honourable Rag said, tapping my pen on his teeth with a deeply irritating noise. �
��Practicing for one of the Fair races, are you?”

  Mr. Dart raised his eyebrows at me in polite wonder—for the footraces were invariably the province of the lower classes of Ragnor society—and all my good intentions to be keep my head down, avoid giving the gossips any further ammunition, make it safely to the Winterturn Assizes, &cetera and &cetera, went out the window.

  “Why, yes, actually,” I said, firmly. “The three-mile circuit.”

  “Ah,” said the Honourable Rag, winking at Mr. Dart. “Good boy.”

  Chapter Two

  Mrs. Henny has an Idea

  “HAVE YOU WRITTEN TO your friend Hal since you came back?” Mr. Dart demanded.

  I turned back from latching the door behind the Honourable Rag, who had finally left after eating all the gingersnaps. “No, I haven’t written anyone.” I tried to think back through the summer, which felt enormously long ago, and half-fogged in my memory. My heart sank. “I don’t think I’ve written since I left Kingsbury. I saw a book and thought he’d like it. And then I went along the coast to Ghilousette and just felt so ... down ... I didn’t write.”

  “Kingsbury was when you last wrote to me, too. You went to a museum of naval architecture and sent me that funny booklet about ships’ figureheads. With no return address or hint of where you planned on going, except for a certain suggestion that you wanted to go away and not see anyone ever again.”

  “Did I say that?” I frowned, trying to remember. I’d been having recurring bouts of tremors, nausea, and vicious headaches combined with a devastating lassitude and total disinclination for company, all salted with occasional unnerving blanks of memory.

  Quite the opposite of how I’d been for the three years before, when I had delighted in company and activity and merriment and wit. Though there had been tremors and headaches before the winter illness, and feverish energy, and perhaps all of that was due to the wireweed and the ensorcellments, and the real Jemis Greenwing was disaster-prone and dull.

  “You were so poorly that you don’t remember your friend talking about an expedition across the Western Sea he was sponsoring—”