Blackcurrant Fool
Blackcurrant Fool
Greenwing & Dart, Volume 4
Victoria Goddard
Published by Victoria Goddard, 2019.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
BLACKCURRANT FOOL
First edition. September 30, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Victoria Goddard.
ISBN: 978-1988908182
Written by Victoria Goddard.
Also by Victoria Goddard
Greenwing & Dart
Stargazy Pie
Stone Speaks to Stone
Bee Sting Cake
Whiskeyjack
Blackcurrant Fool
Love-in-a-Mist
Plum Duff
The Sisters Avramapul
The Bride of the Blue Wind
The Warrior of the Third Veil
Standalone
In the Company of Gentlemen
The Hands of the Emperor
Not Far From the Tree
Till Human Voices Wake Us
The Connoisseur
In the Realms of Gold: Five Tales of Ysthar
The Return of Fitzroy Angursell
Petty Treasons
The Tower at the Edge of the World
Watch for more at Victoria Goddard’s site.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Victoria Goddard
Chapter One | Various Invitations
Chapter Two | In Which Various Requests are Made
Chapter Three | We Borrow the Falarode
Chapter Four | Adventures in the Forest
Chapter Five | Yrchester and Surrounds
Chapter Six | On the Great Eastern Road
Chapter Seven | First Glimpses of Orio City
Chapter Eight | Crimson Lake’s Membership
Chapter Nine | The Tragedy of Jemis Greenwing
Chapter Ten | Monday morning
Chapter Eleven | At Tara
Chapter Twelve | The Faculty of Magic
Chapter Thirteen | In Orio City
Chapter Fourteen | The Banker
Chapter Fifteen | The Book Fair
Chapter Sixteen | The Bear Baited
Chapter Seventeen | Meeting Miss Dart
Chapter Eighteen | “Cousins”
Chapter Nineteen | The Rear Quad
Chapter Twenty | The Palace
Chapter Twenty-One | And the Prison
Chapter Twenty-Two | I Formulate a Plan
Chapter Twenty-Three | A Coat of Claret Velvet
Chapter Twenty-Four | The Hearth
Chapter Twenty-Five | The Labyrinth
Chapter Twenty-Six | The Riddle of Ariadne nev Lingarel
Chapter Twenty-Seven | The Well of Despair
Chapter Twenty-Eight | The Island
Chapter Twenty-Nine | The Oubliette
Chapter Thirty | The Wood of Spiritual Refreshment
Chapter Thirty-One | Those Who Wait
Chapter Thirty-Two | The Lady’s Table
Chapter Thirty-Three | The Grim Cross
Chapter Thirty-Four | Not a Dream
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Further Reading: The Hands of the Emperor
Also By Victoria Goddard
About the Author
Chapter One
Various Invitations
IT WAS PRECISELY TWELVE and a half days since I had learned my father had returned from the dead for the second time.
I had spent many evenings with my friend Mr. Dart since my return to Ragnor Bella at the end of September, engaging in activities ranging from conversation with an Imperial Duke to illicit attendance at dinner parties, and this particular Wednesday was no different. Until the past weekend my university friend Hal (said Imperial Duke) had been staying with me, while his great-uncle Ben, my father’s friend and former commanding officer, stayed with the Darts, but now that Hal and Ben had reluctantly left to return home to Fillering Pool, Mr. Dart seemed to feel more interest in spending time with his brother than he had previously.
I suspected part of the lure of indoor activities was that Mr. Dart didn’t want me to thoroughly trounce him at Poacher or other card games; he certainly did not want to discuss philosophy of magic or our respective futures. As I in turn did not have his relish for real-life poaching, especially in sleety late-November weather, did not really want to have heart-to-hearts regarding my own emotional state, and was bored of housekeeping, I had accepted the invitation to play at being proper young gentlemen.
I regretted it now. Master Torquin Dart, the Squire and Mr. Dart’s much older brother, and his lover Sir Hamish were soundly respectable men whose idea of a good evening was a good dinner with good wine followed by excellent port, more-or-less legal whiskey, and cards. The dinner I had no problem with, as the conversation had kept to the logistics of my father’s return, but the after-dinner pursuits led us—or perhaps it was just me—into dangerous territory. I had placed myself firmly next to the fire, but that merely delayed the temptation.
“Jemis.”
I started and stared at my father, who had called my name. He rubbed his eyes lightly, whether in exasperation or pain or pleasure that he had finally been able to remove the eye-patch I wasn’t sure. I said, “What can I do for you, sir?”
The ‘sir’ slipped out. He frowned, but did not call me on the formal address. I had called him ‘Papa’ as a boy, and ‘my father’ in my head, and ‘Jack’ when I first met him again as an adult. ‘Sir’ was about all I could manage with any hint of naturalness in conversation. It was what I had called my stepfather.
“We were thinking of a round of cards,” the Squire said, fanning out a deck with a satisfying soft thwacking noise. “Will you join us?”
“No, thank you,” I replied, trying to smile pleasantly at them. I indicated the envelopes on the couch beside me. “I’ve some letters to answer.”
“We could play Lotto or Fish,” the Squire said coaxingly. “It doesn’t need to be—”
“Really, I’m fine,” I interrupted, more sharply than I meant. A flash of something crossed my father’s face, gone too quickly for me to decipher it.
Sir Hamish put his hand on my father’s arm. The Squire glanced at them before fixing me with an intent look. “Very well. Do let us know if you change your mind.”
“Thank you. I will,” I promised, and met Mr. Dart’s amused eyes. I relaxed slightly when I saw that he betrayed no unnecessary concern for my lack of enthusiasm for proper gentlemanly pursuits.
I work in a bookstore, I wanted to say. Until a bare few months ago I thought I’d failed university, failed at romance, failed at being everything my father might have wanted me to be. I’d been trying as gracefully as possible to accept I was sliding out of the class to which I’d been born into one somewhere well below it.
Having a title and a fortune and a family thrust upon me in short succession had not helped as much as one might think. One’s life could change in an instant. One’s heart and mind and entire character did not necessarily transform so easily.
I sighed and returned to my letters as the four of them settled at the table. After a muted discussion they started playing Bridge, with my father and Mr. Dart partnered; Sir Hamish and the Squire were together, of course. I relaxed a little more when I realized what game they were playing, glad (if also stupidly chagrinned) they weren’t playing one open to a fifth player.
The bidding washed over me. The fire crackled, sending a burst of applewood-scented smoke into my face. I sneezed once, and only once, as anyone might, and then inhaled the scent with appreciation. Two weeks ago I wouldn’t have stopped sneezing for five minutes after a face-full of smoke.
I sipped my wine and shook my head at Sir Hamish—evidently dummy this round—when he offered me the decanter. Not wanting to talk, I unfolded my first letter and pretended to peruse it intently.
Not though I didn’t have all three of them practically memorized by this point.
An invitation to the very newly instated Viscount St-Noire to the wedding of the Governor of Orio City, which suggested someone in the Governor’s office was paying close attention to the Kingsford chancery records, as that was the only place it had been announced outside of Ragnor Bella. According to the New Salon, this wedding was to be the social event of the early Winterturn Season and, by extension, the year. Only the even-more-exclusive New Year’s Ball to be held by the Imperial Duke of Fillering Pool would be more glittering and magnificent.
I had a verbal invitation to the latter from Hal, with the promise of a formal letter to come once he was home. My own status as Viscount St-Noire was of too recent a date for his mother to have put me on the list of attendees. Jemis Greene, Hal’s friend from Morrowlea, was not in the first tier (no matter how much Hal proclaimed his mother had liked me in the spring); Jemis Greenwing, Viscount St-Noire and son of Mad Jack Greenwing, however, was.
Second was a letter from the Faculty of Laws at Inveragory enquiring whether I had had the chance to make a decision regarding their offer of a place for my second degree.
And the third was a note from the Chancellor of Morrowlea, thanking me for my portion of her entertainment during the ‘most interesting week’ she had spent in Ragnor Bella at the beginning of November. She informed me that the dragon carcass I had donated to my alma mater was in the process of being cleaned before it could be wired for
display. Finally, as if an afterthought, she wrote that a student interested in a second degree might write to the scholars he most admired and ask about their current projects. My tutor, Dominus Nidry, she wrote, had mentioned that there was a professor at the University of Tara who worked on the puzzle poetry I had found so fascinating. To that end, in case I should be interested, she had enclosed a letter of introduction to the Chair of Classical Languages and Literature.
I took another careful sip of my port, holding the liquor in my mouth to savour its complexities. It was a game I played with myself, trying to name all the nuances of flavour. This vintage was a tawny port from West Noon, smooth, hazelnutty, almost buttery.
A flurry of laughter distracted me. A round finished, I deduced, smiling when my father caught my eye but shaking my head again at the clear invitation in his face.
If he was hurt by my repeated refusals he didn’t show it, instead taking up the deck to shuffle with dramatic flourishes. Everyone laughed and teased as he dealt the next round. I felt awash in their pleasure and apart from it at the same time, deeply embedded in their careful if unspoken efforts to draw my father into the life he’d lost so long ago.
It really didn’t seem fair that seven years as a pirate slave was easier to slough off than half a year of unsettling revelations and overcome curses.
I returned to staring blindly at my letters, three invitations to lives I ought to want.
My name caught my attention. I looked up, startled, to find them all laughing at my distraction. Mr. Dart was standing beside me, holding out his hand of cards.
“Here,” he said, thrusting them at me, “play for me. There’s a special messenger pelting up the drive and it’s the staff’s night off.”
There was no polite way out of it, as he well knew, so I set my letters aside and took his place as he exited the room.
I fanned out my hand. Twelve cards—but no, there were none yet on the table—ah. An Ace stuck slightly behind the Three of Hearts. I peeled them apart, careful not to show their faces, and looked at the three men watching me. “Any bids so far?”
“One Heart,” Sir Hamish said, pointing at my father, who was playing North. “Tor passed, Perry said Two Hearts, and I Two Spades.”
I contemplated my hand again, wondering why on earth Mr. Dart had bid Two Hearts. Even if he’d missed seeing the Ace, he still had two Kings and three Hearts. With the bid he’d chosen my father had to have a strong hand.
“Very well,” I said, voice deliberately unenthusiastic to counter the emergence of the faint, familiar, perilous thrill.
One hand was not fateful, surely.
I firmly suppressed the thought that the bidding was the part I liked best about Bridge.
My father considered me for a long moment. I kept my face as neutral as possible, as if I were bored, hoping I didn’t also look petulant. He had taught me how to play (Bridge, and Poacher, and half a dozen other games of skill and chance). He had also warned me ...
“Three Hearts,” he said.
Despite my resolve not to get drawn in my mind immediately began to calculate probabilities and possibilities.
“Pass,” said the Squire.
Three Hearts meant my father had at least six Hearts, suggesting his hand held at least eighteen points.
I didn’t need to glance at mine again. “Four Hearts.”
I felt, rather than saw, Sir Hamish’s surprise as he said, “Pass.”
He had Spades, but couldn’t have that many high face cards, I thought vaguely.
My father’s eyes were intent. “Four No Trump.”
“Pass,” the Squire said after a pause, as if puzzled by this, though I was sure he knew bidding conventions at least as well as I did.
Four No Trump was asking how many aces I had. “Five Diamonds,” I replied, since I had one.
“Pass,” said Sir Hamish. His voice was also a little odd.
I ignored him, watching my father, revelling in the buzz of excitement, the sense of purpose and clarity that came when risk entered my life. Bidding at cards was only a shadow of what could be, I knew too well, and I knew also that even so it was dangerous to let myself enjoy it too fully.
“Five No Trump,” my father said, his expression unfathomable.
“Pass.”
Mr. Dart came back in the room. He stood at my shoulder, and I could feel his astonishment when I replied, “Five Hearts.” This indicated—to my father, at least—that I had two Kings in my hand, that I knew that between us we had all the Aces, all the Kings, and nine Hearts.
Go for it, I thought, as Sir Hamish said, “Pass,” in the same odd voice, and my father, meeting my eyes thoughtfully, said, “Seven Hearts.” As the rest of us passed on further bids I smiled at him in delight that we had partnered so easily.
“You’re going for a Grand Slam?” Mr. Dart cried.
I laid out my cards for the dummy hand. “You need to work on your bidding, Mr. Dart.”
“If you ever played with us, perhaps I’d learn.”
“You have a master to learn from,” I replied, gesturing at my father. I kept my voice light, not wanting any of my emotions to spill out.
Why couldn’t I have had a boring hand?
Not that there was such a thing as a boring hand when one played with a master.
Said master took easy control of the play and, despite Sir Hamish and the Squire’s best efforts, quickly trounced them. I permitted myself to watch, admiring the way my father drew out each remaining high card and trump before winning the last hand with my Three of Hearts.
As the Squire took the deck to shuffle, he said idly, “Won’t you play this next round, Jemis? Now that Perry has a letter of his own to ponder—it is for you, I take it?”
“So the address indicates.”
“Well, then, Jemis?”
I felt my face stiffen involuntarily. “No, thank you, sir.”
There was a pause. I disdained the coward’s way out, though my heart was fluttering miserably, all thrill from the game extinguished. Why could they not let well enough alone?
—I met my father’s slight frown and exhaled.
Well, for exactly the same reason I badgered Mr. Dart about the wild magic he was still refusing to acknowledge possessing.
“I had thought,” Sir Hamish murmured, “that perhaps you had taken a dislike to playing, or that you did not feel your skills were, ah, adequate.”
I snorted softly at that, unable to prevent myself. The Green Lady had given me the gift of skill at cards—and the White Lady all the weaknesses that might come of it.
“So what is it, then?” the Squire said, still shuffling the cards. “Your words say you don’t like the games, but your face said otherwise.”
“I do like playing,” I blurted at the unexpected edge in his voice, and went on before I could quite make myself stop. “Too much.”
The Squire’s hands stopped in the middle of a movement. Cards scattered everywhere, across the table, fluttering to the floor, the Jack of Spades landing face-up on Mr. Dart’s letter, as if in mute instruction. With the way Mr. Dart was suppressing his magic it might well have been. I sighed again when my father leaned forward intently, far too much understanding in his face. “Jemis. Tell us, please. Did you have trouble at university?”
“Not with cards,” I admitted, knowing I was flushing, ashamed to the root of my soul that this conversation was happening, that it had to happen.
My father looked at where I’d been sitting before, at the half-full glass of port I’d been nursing all evening. My mouth twisted with wry amusement. “No, not liquor either.”
“If not gambling or drinking—how much of a habit are your death-defying stunts?”
“You’re one to talk,” Sir Hamish muttered, and even as my father gave a bark of laughter I felt my stomach fluttering again with the terrible aching emptiness that such thrills were never going to warm, and everywhere, like a sticky cloud engulfing me, there was the loathing that I had let it all happen to me.
“Drugs?” he said softly, face dismayed, eyes boring into me. “Oh, Jemis—”
Mr. Dart suddenly thwacked me on the side of the head with his letter, sending the card into my lap. I flinched belatedly, earning a glare from my friend.