Love-in-a-Mist Page 7

  “Go away with you, now!” he cried, his cheeks pinker than their wont. “The Master must be a scrawny sort of man, that you fit into his old clothes.”

  I ignored this sally, which was probably true; my borrowed clothes fit remarkably well, being only a little tight about the shoulders. “Would you like my assistance with the cravat?”

  “If you would,” he said, blush subsiding. “Walter, the manservant, has just gone to assist the Master’s nephew. I understand it is nearly time for tea.”

  “How civilized of them.”

  “Indeed.”

  I had assisted any number of friends at Morrowlea with their cravats, this being the one area of fashion in which I was indisputably in the forefront, so it took little time to tie Mr. Dart’s into a simple but elegant Torian Knot, which did not counteract the effect of the waistcoat nearly so much as I had hoped.

  “Well, it will have to do,” he said resignedly, picking at a piece of fluff on his sling. “I look the fool, Mr. Greenwing.”

  “We all know you not to be,” I murmured soothingly. “Perhaps this is a costume borrowed from one of the other guests—imagine what he might be wearing to impress the Master tonight!”

  “Harumph,” said Mr. Dart. “I wonder who else is here.”

  “Two women Hal and I know from Morrowlea,” I said. “Hope Stornaway and her friend Anna, who is one of the eager relations. I don’t know the rest.” I reflected a moment. “Nor did I ask the Master’s name.”

  “It’s boring,” Mr. Dart said.

  I looked askance at him. He busied himself with adjusting the sling again. “Come again? That’s what the folk at Finoury’s Inn called him.”

  “Boring is the name of the Master—Master Boring, to be exact. I asked Walter. The relations are his sister’s, so their surname isn’t that—it’s Garsom, I believe, Walter said.”

  Garsom was the surname of our village simpleton, who with his friend Mr. Pinker was hired by the town council to pick up the litter and generally keep the place relatively tidy. “Indeed,” I said, trying not to smile.

  “Best to get it out of your system now,” Mr. Dart advised sagely.

  This was good advice, though I was interrupted in my chortling by a sharp knock on the door. Mr. Dart called out an invitation, and Hal opened the door to come in, a half-amused, half-outraged expression on his face.

  “You will never guess whom I have just encountered—Jemis! How did you warrant that outfit?”

  Hal, taller and broader than both Mr. Dart and me, wore the garb of a courtier whose heyday had been a generation again before mine. His coat, breeches, and waistcoat were cut from the same mustard-yellow cloth, figured all over with a scalloped or scale pattern of embroidered red thread, each scale centred with a red sequin to catch the light. His jabot was not quite so full as mine, nor was the lace at his cuffs as deep, and below his stockings (a dull red silk) he had court slippers of plain yellow.

  “I look like a fool next to the two of you,” Mr. Dart complained.

  “I look like some flunky of my grandmother’s,” Hal retorted.

  “Not many could suit that yellow,” I said soothingly.

  “Not many would try!”

  I grinned at this sally. “Well, we can but do our best with what we are allotted. Hal, you said you encountered someone? Was it Hope?”

  “Enough of your allegories, sir! I grant that you have ample reason to be spiritually moved, but this is a matter of concern.”

  I looked at him in disappointed confusion. “I meant that quite literally. You recall Hope, do you not, from our year at Morrowlea?”

  His face flickered with a sudden pang of quickly-hidden emotion. “Oh—Hope! I mistook your meaning.”

  Perhaps I would not need to do much at all to foster this connection. I smiled at him. “Miss Stornaway, I gather, is here with her friend Anna—whose surname I neglected to determine, but may be Garsom.”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “No matter that. No, I encountered—” He took a deep breath and turned to face Mr. Dart squarely, to my greater confusion. “You recall a conversation we had, Mr. Dart, regarding an unpleasant experience of yours at Stoneybridge? I am distressed to say I was just now introduced to a servile excuse of a fribble by the name of Henry Coates.”

  Mr. Dart, never a poltroon, paled. “Hell.”

  Chapter Seven

  “And who,” I asked, carefully, “is Henry Coates?”

  The fire, burning nicely in its grate, flared with a purple tinge to its flames. I tried not to let my eyes rest on it too obviously. Mr. Dart’s magic was growing ever more noticeable, and while in Ragnor Bella that was a bit of a social faux pas, in Lind I feared it would be a more dangerous revelation than that.

  Still, Hal was a trained wizard, and I felt more secure with him standing beside us. I did not think Mr. Dart would ever intentionally hurt anyone, but there were far too many stories about uncontrolled wild magic for comfort.

  Angry untrained mages had been known to destroy large swathes of real estate, very often unintentionally.

  Avoiding that was the whole point of the development of Astandalan Schooled magic.

  Mr. Dart was clearly not afraid of Mr. Coates. He was, I feared, angry.

  The fire spat a handful of silver sparks into the room. “He is a crook,” Mr. Dart said in disgust. “A hanger-on and toad-eater of the filthiest kind. The sort of man you warn your daughters or sisters about, and take care never to leave alone in a room together. The sort of man you warn your friends about, and take care never to leave any valuables in a room he will be in. I know all I need to know about our host’s nephew’s character to know that he is here as his guest!”

  “Hope—Miss Stornaway, that is—did mention that Anna didn’t like her brother’s friend, and asked her here as company. She described him as a warm one.”

  “Hope did?” Hal asked in astonishment that she had used any slang at all, however mild. Then his face clouded. “The devil Anna did! Putting Hope in harm’s way, all to protect herself …”

  This was an intriguing line of thinking. I had very little opinion about Anna, one way or another—which was perhaps a little strange, as we’d been more or less part of the same group of friends for three years—Anna and Lark had had some sort of détente going on—but Hal, it appeared, was of a more negative opinion.

  “It seems sensible of her to bring a chaperone,” Mr. Dart said. “Even at her uncle’s house, with her brother here, if that creature is with him.”

  Another flare of silver sparks. These ones hung in the air, twinkling, like the magical Winterturn decorations of our childhoods. Hal wasn’t attending, but was still frowning over the idea of Hope being considered merely a chaperone. “Jemis, you understand,” he said in appeal to me. “It’s inconceivable that Hope should be so abused. Anna has her brother and uncle here as support—to bring Hope, with no one for her!”

  I thought the allegorical implications quite sound, but decided neither of my friends was of a mood to discuss the theological role of the graces. “We cannot avoid this Mr. Coates,” I pointed out. “And it behoves us to warn and watch over Miss Dart, who is already overset by the storm. We must not let her think we are entirely unable to provide her with appropriate assistance.”

  That made both of them stop their own thoughts to stare at me. Mr. Dart uttered an incredulous laugh. “Mr. Greenwing, we have already seen her captured, kidnapped, imprisoned, escaped, witness to a death, witness to a resurrection, and overturned in a cart! She can hardly be surprised when our refuge turns out to have mysteries and strange occurrences in it. She has made your acquaintance and knows your name.”

  “It’s not only the Greenwings who have adventures,” I protested.

  Hal had finally noticed the sparks. He made an imperious gesture at Mr. Dart. “Look to your temper, sir. I do not fault you, not with what you have told me about your dealings with that fribble in the past, but even so. Like calls to like, when it comes to magic.”

  I felt a brief pang of loss. What sort of magic had I had, that I called a dragon out of the Wide Dreaming?—but it was gone, stolen and corrupted by Lark, then abnegated by myself as sacrifice to permit us to escape the Oubliette of the palace-prison of Orio City. I could feel the faint thrum of magic in enchanted objects, and no more.

  That reminded me. “Hal,” I said, even as Mr. Dart stared at his sparks with a combination of trepidation and wonder.

  (And yet, in the dreamscape between this life and the next, when he had guarded my body through the night, he had been equally adept at wand and sword.)

  “Yes?”

  “Can you tell me if there’s anything to be worried about with these waistcoat buttons? They struck me as having some magic about them. I think it’s just to stay untarnished, but in case …”

  “In case indeed! I had not thought of such things—it used to be a matter of concern at the Astandalan court, I’ve been told. Enchantments, poisons, potions, seductions, all sorts of crimes and corruption.” He brushed his fingers down the buttons, whispering a few words in Old Shaian I didn’t quite catch. A faint white light gathered around his hands before fading again to a meaningful sparkle.

  “It’s an enhancement of the silver,” he announced, “to sparkle and stay polished. It should also warn you of any attempted ensorcellments, by growing warm. It all seems to be well in order. Well spotted, Jemis.”

  “I am told that a passive sensitivity is all the magic left to me,” I explained.

  “Lark?” Hal asked sympathetically.

  “And then I sacrificed the rest.” I turned to Mr. Dart, who had managed to shoo the sparks back into the fireplace, where they foamed around the flames without dissipating. “Are you done?”

  He stared at the grate.
“I’m not sure I know how to do any more than that. Do you think the servants will be too frightened?”

  “If you find the fire out when you return, you will know.”

  “I am not sure I can entirely countenance your newfound serenity, Mr. Greenwing.”

  “It will probably pass with time,” I replied a little wistfully.

  I knew better than to press him about this Mr. Coates, since he had yet to tell me about the man. I did wonder how he had come up in conversation with Hal, when the duke stayed with me in Ragnor Bella, but perhaps that would be revealed later as well.

  I said, “Shall we go down to see who else is here? So far we have two women known to us from Morrowlea, and a man known to you from Stoneybridge. We just need an acquaintance of Miss Dart’s from Tara to have the Three Sisters and the Three Rivals in one room together.”

  Those were two names given to our universities, rivals for the title of most prestigious university on Alinor and therefore the Nine Worlds. Tara was the oldest and usually took the claim on that point, but Morrowlea and Stoneybridge (second and third of foundation) were both arguably better in terms of academics. Certainly both were superior in terms of architecture.

  “Let us see if Miss Dart is inclined to go down,” said Hal, and accordingly we proceeded along to the door two of the three of us agreed was the one allotted to her. (I had not been paying much attention on the way up, having been distracted by the suits of armour, and did not gainsay them.) Mr. Dart knocked, and after a moment Jullanar Maebh answered.

  She was pale and drawn, and was wearing a brown velvet housecoat. The sight of our respective outfits did put a small smile onto her face.

  “I see you rejected your offering,” Mr. Dart said. “Do you have the headache, cousin? We are going down, but we can certainly make your apologies if you would prefer to stay up here.”

  Jullanar Maebh sagged a little with relief. “Thank you,” she said. “I do feel rather overcome.”

  “It has been a trying few days for everyone,” Hal said sympathetically. “Has the maid brought you refreshments?”

  “Yes, yes, I am well taken care of,” she replied vaguely. “Thank you, sir. Cousin.” She gave me a still-wary look. “Mr. Greenwing.”

  I bowed. “Miss Dart.”

  She shut the door, and we retraced our steps to the staircase descending into the gloomy maze filling the ground floor. “I had half-forgotten all this already,” Mr. Dart said, frowning at it as we paused a few steps above the floor, trying to make sense of the narrow paths weaving through the dusty stacks.

  “We came past the New Salons and that pile of candelabras,” I said, pointing towards one path.

  Hal nodded. “If that leads to the outside door, it would be logical from the architecture that the parlours would be to one side … Which, of course, is the question.”

  “We should perhaps have rung for a maid to show us our way,” I murmured.

  Mr. Dart had tilted his head, eyes half-closed. “That way,” he said, “to the left.” And without further explanation set off into the maze, threading his way with certainty.

  I was reminded of his ability to guide us through the streets of Tara. This made rather more sense to me, strange indeed as the idea was that the inanimate objects around us could speak to one who could hear them.

  It was hard to see our way, as the lightning seemed to have passed off and the skylights in the ceiling were now fully opaque with snow and more blue than white in colour. Mr. Dart seemed to be leading us indirectly to the centre. The dust rose thickly around us but did not settle or mar our clothes. I sneezed nevertheless.

  “That a clever enchantment,” Hal whispered to me as we edged our way past a complicated arrangement of mahogany furniture that looked rather like an upper-class revolutionary barricade. “It’s on your clothes primarily, to keep them clean. It must have been a frightfully expensive outfit.”

  This from an Imperial Duke, largest single landowner in the continent? I brushed my hand across the embroidered waistcoat, Crimson Lake ring tapping softly across some of the sequins. “And yours?”

  “The enchantment is faltering a little on mine but I can strengthen it.”

  “It’s such a waste for magic to be out of fashion, when all that means is the unscrupulous are using it and none of the law-abiding. I don’t disregard what happened with the Fall and in the Interim, but it seems to have settled down properly now.”

  “Hush,” said Mr. Dart from ahead of us, stopping with his good hand on the lip of a crate.

  I looked at the tall pile of identical wooden crates stacked beside him. “This is all boxes of tea. There must be a serious fortune of it here, if it’s still good.”

  “I don’t think leaf tea goes off,” Hal said, “not of it’s been properly stored. It’s like spices … in a well-sealed container they can last for years.”

  There must have been twelve of the three-foot-cubed crates. If they all held tea, this was a fortune indeed. One or two crates, judiciously sold, would pay to rebuild Finoury’s Inn.

  I looked around the large entry hall, full with teetering stacks of things. “There must be several fortunes over in here. And none of it being used.”

  Hal glanced at me as if to say, And you think it a waste that magic is out of fashion? But he said nothing, as Mr. Dart took a tentative step sideways, angling towards the crates of tea but focusing on something beyond them. His voice was low and a bit abstracted. “Can you see what’s behind there, either of you?”

  I leaned around the side of the crates, peering at the dusty shadows, but had to admit defeat. “It’s too dim. I think it might be a chest? There’s something glinting—perhaps the hinges.”

  Hal very softly said a few words in Old Shaian, conjuring a soft golden werelight. With a murmur and a flick of his hand he sent it worming behind the wooden crates. The topmost button of my waistcoat grew warm—Hal’s spell, presumably.

  I stepped to the side, trying to line up the gaps between the crates, and crouched down. The werelight made gentle lavender-grey shadows that moved as Hal directed the light here and there.

  Behind the crates was another wooden box, this one with holes pierced around its brim. It was perhaps four feet square. The glints I had seen before were from the metal buckles on leather straps holding the lid in place. I stared at those air holes with a sinking feeling.

  “There’s something alive in there,” Mr. Dart said, with authority.

  “It’s as dusty as the rest,” I objected, if reluctantly. It was true: the dust was feathery and two inches thick on the box and all around it.

  “It needs us,” Mr. Dart said.

  I looked at him thoughtfully. His voice was strained, his eyes frantic, and the air was starting to shift around us, lifting the dust in spirals like the dust we’d disturbed, and which had fallen down undisturbed again, in the governor’s palace-prison. Hal said, “Jemis …”

  “Hold my coat,” I said, shrugging off the beautiful garment and handing it to him.

  “You don’t always have to listen to him,” he muttered.

  I gave him a bright smile and a quirk of my eyebrows, and he subsided with a reluctant smile. “Very well. I’ll hold the light for you.”

  “I do thank you, your—”

  “Sir!”

  “Mr. Leaveringham,” I corrected, fairly smoothly, and was grateful for how small I was compared to either of them. It was not so difficult to climb up the stack of tea crates and down their other side, but the space between them and the box was narrow and cramped. As I descended each crate one button after another on the waistcoat started to warm.

  I paused. The air was tingling. The ring on my finger was also warm, pleasantly so. I waited for a moment, closing my eyes in an attempt to feel the shape of the magic around me.

  If I had not known I was in the middle of a strange country house replete with a hoard of dusty treasure, I would have thought I stood in the midst of a cool woodland, spring in every scent and touch of air. I breathed deeply. It was not yet the Lady’s Wood, nor the faery magic of the islet between Orio City and Lind, but it was very certainly not Astandalan Schooled magic, nor that of the Dark Kings.

  “Jemis?” Hal called softly.

  “There is magic here,” I said, but stepped down into the tiny piece of unoccupied floor below me. It was reassuring that the way up was unblocked and open, that a skylight, however snow-muffled, was above me. I took another breath, tasting woodland and not dust. “I don’t think it is evil, though I’m not sure if it is safe.”