Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1) (8 page)

“I can’t
lend you the Bestiary,” she told him. “It isn’t mine. But if you would like,
I’ll research it myself and let you know if I find anything.” 

“Would
you?” His face lit up. He looked like a child receiving a present.

“Of
course,” Melisande acquiesced. “Now, if you’ll only tell me where I can find
you, I’ll visit you sometime soon with whatever I’ve learned.”

Melisande
had just finished recording the name of his boarding house when footsteps in
the hall alerted her to the unexpected return of her mistress. She quickly slid
the book back into the bookshelf and bid Rathbone a hasty farewell. He left at
the same moment Felunhala arrived, so that they almost brushed shoulders over the
threshold. Rathbone hardly seemed to notice the arrival of the witch; he walked
right past her and wandered out into the hall, muttering to himself. Felunhala
froze in the doorway to stare over her shoulder at the young man’s swiftly
retreating back. “Who was that?” Melisande could tell from the unexpectedly
livid twist of the witch’s lip that something was bothering her mistress a
great deal.

“Just a
young man. He hadn’t enough money so I sent him away.” Melisande lied quickly
and easily. She knew better than to tell Felunhala the truth when the woman’s
eyes were lit with rage. “Is everything well? Is there anything I can do?” It
was a risk, asking questions; sometimes Felunhala punished her for it, but
other times Melisande was reprimanded for failing to show interest.

“Oh,
everything’s fine.” Felunhala mimicked her tone in an ugly sing-song.
“Everything is perfectly all right. Save for that fool. Things are about to be
perfectly dreadful for him.”

“What
fool? Oh.” Melisande realized when her mistress shot an ugly glare at her. “The
Fool. What happened?” But Felunhala had already vanished into her private
chambers in a whirl of black robes. Melisande winced at the slam of the door
and then stared pensively after her mistress. With any luck the woman would
remain in her chambers to lick her wounds all evening, and Melisande could get
on with her work.

***

After
Spencer’s introduction to the intimidating world of royalty, it was something
of a relief to go down to the moat and find Rolf calmly and contemplatively
sliding his net through the still water. Night had fallen, and the minute
reflections of a thousand stars glimmered on the face of the moat. “Find
anything today?” Spencer asked as he walked up behind Rolf.

The
moatkeeper’s son nearly jumped out of his skin. “Spencer! Announce yerself next
time for crying out loud.”

“Sorry.”
Spencer crossed in front of Rolf and smiled apologetically, though it was
unlikely that Rolf could make out much more of his expression than the flash of
teeth in the darkness.

“So,
have you made new friends then?”

“What?”

“I
haven’t seen much of you the past few days. You were stopping by every day.” It
was hard to say whether Rolf was cross or merely observing a fact. Spencer had
the feeling that Rolf didn’t have many friends himself.

“Eh, not
exactly. My mother’s been keeping me busy.” Spencer was not prepared to share
with Rolf the details of his excursions with Daphne and Lorna.

“Ah.
Well, I haven’t found anything today. Not in the water anyway.”

“What do
you mean?”

Rolf
shrugged. “Something’s been eating the local rats whole and then spitting up
their bones. I’ve been finding little bundles of fur and bones all over the
drawbridge.”

“Don’t
some birds do that? Could it be an owl?”

“I
thought so. But then I found a bigger bundle… Cat bones and tabby fur.” Rolf
shook his head. “Very unusual. Even Dad’s never seen anything like it.”

Spencer
felt gooseflesh breaking out up and down his arms. “That’s... that’s very
interesting. I should probably be getting back now.” His gaze darted from the
dark water to the shadow of the keep.

“Shame.
See you tomorrow?”

“Sure.”
Spencer said uneasily, trying to rub the chill out of his arms. “Goodnight.” He
turned to go, and then paused. “About that witch you were telling me about, the
one down in the Bottoms—” Spencer paused. He had promised himself that he would
have nothing to do with Rolf’s practitioner, but things had been so strange
lately, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that sometime soon he might need all
the help he could get.

“Yes?”

“If I
needed her… How would I find her?”

When Abigail Tattersall came downstairs the
next day, there was a strange woman standing in her kitchen. The intruder was
pregnant, middle aged and there was something familiar about her face, though
Abigail was positive that she had never met the woman before. What was most
striking about the stranger, however, was her gown, which was velvet and very
expensive. Her shoes were expensive too, Abigail noticed as she dropped into a
curtsy, as was the choker of pearls the woman wore about her neck.

“My Lady?”

“So you’re the new governess,” the woman
studied her intently. “I’ve been waiting nearly twenty minutes. Were you
upstairs?”

Abigail was tempted to ask the woman to
identify herself first, but given the woman’s obvious status, it was probably
safer to answer a few harmless questions first.

“Yes, I was upstairs with her ladyship.”

“Good.” The woman’s gaze softened a little.
“Do you know who I am?” Though she had a pretty good guess, Abigail shook her
head silently.

“I am Justine’s mother.”

So this was Princess Frederica then, wife to
Delwyn, mother to the seven granddaughters of the Queen. “My Lady,” Abigail
curtseyed again, more deeply this time. “May I offer you some refreshment?”
Inwardly, Abigail bit back a sigh. This would likely turn very nasty if the
woman was here to visit her daughter. Abigail had been instructed by the Queen
herself to keep all visitors away, but she didn’t relish the idea of trying to
keep a mother away from her young daughter. At least Spencer wasn’t home yet,
so if there was a scene he wouldn’t be involved.  Spencer had been due back
almost an hour ago but Abigail hadn’t seen any sign of him, and now she was
glad.

“No.” Frederica pulled out the chair that
Spencer usually sat in and paused as if she were about to sit, but seemed to
think better of it and remained standing. “How is she? My daughter?”

“Well, my lady.” Abigail answered, and did
not miss the flicker of emotion in the woman’s eyes.

“I should like to see for myself, but I know
you have been retained precisely for the purpose of keeping me away.” Now there
was more than just a flicker of emotion in Frederica’s eyes. She looked angry
and sorrowful, and Abigail suddenly felt lower and dirtier than she ever had
before.
My son has to eat
, she reminded herself.
I have to eat
.
This new job of hers was good for them, gave them stability and a roof that
didn’t leak. She couldn’t afford to have pangs of conscience.

“You know, I didn’t approve of her decision
to dismiss the last governess.” Frederica was speaking in a measured tone, but
the sadness in her eyes was both hard to look at and hard to look away from. “Justine
loved her so, and she’d been my daughter’s only companion for so many years. I
didn’t want her to hire you,” Frederica revealed, and then she hurried on, as
if in apology, “but then I heard that you were a mother, and I was glad. I knew
that, as a mother, you would see that my daughter needs… a mother. And since I
am forbidden to be that to her… Of course you couldn’t really be her mother… it
would be indecent, the difference in station…” Frederica couldn’t seem to
articulate exactly what she was thinking, so she kept stopping and starting,
trailing off and then starting again. “And Justine is a strong girl, she
doesn’t need much. But I had hoped that you would… remind her to put on her
warmer nightdress on nights when the Haligorn gets cold… or,” Frederica
struggled for words. “Read to her sometimes… She knows how to read of course,
but she used to love being read to when she was little. Not scholarly texts.
Stories. The more fanciful the better. Her favorite soup is tomato. No onions.”
As Frederica spoke she reached out, seemingly unconsciously, and gripped each
of Abigail’s hands in her own. She leaned in closer, until Abigail could see
the rings under her eyes, the blush of purple beneath the powder she’d caked
around each eye. “I’m sure she’s told you by now that she always likes to have
a little candle lit at night. But sometimes that blows out, so always make sure
that there’s a second candle lit, so that she isn’t afraid if she wakes up in
the middle of the night and the first one has gone out. I don’t want her to be
afraid. I—” Frederica drew in a shuddering breath.

“She’s very well.” Abigail said, “Very brave,
very smart. A wonderful girl.”

Frederica nodded as though she already knew
as much. “Yet the Queen can’t see it. It scares me the way my mother-in-law
looks at Justine sometimes. How could that woman’s mind be so poisoned against
her own granddaughter? What could my daughter have said to Tryphena?” She was
rambling now, musing to herself as if Abigail wasn’t there at all.

“My Lady, I’m sure nothing Justine said could
have offended the Queen, why, Justine was just a child when she was first
locked away.”

“Who?” Frederica asked.

“Justine…”

“No,” Frederica stared up at Abigail, her
face frozen somewhere between sadness and fury. “Not Justine. Cicely.”

Thoroughly confused, Abigail opened her mouth
and then closed it again. They had begun by speaking about Justine and her
imprisonment in the tower. When had their conversation turned to the other
daughter, the only one even more isolated than Justine?

The confusion on Abigail’s face seemed to
remind Frederica that she was not speaking to an insider, but rather a
stranger, and a common stranger at that. The princess pulled herself together.
She recoiled suddenly from Abigail and then looked her up and down, coolly,
appraisingly, as though they were just now meeting and hadn’t spoken before.
“Take care of her,” Frederica said, but now her tone was clipped.

“Of course,” Abigail curtsied deeply, and
before she had straightened up the princess was on her way.

***

Spencer should have known that the sisters
would not give up on their plan to take him calling on the castle witch and her
apprentice. They had caught him at the mouth of the footbridge, just as he was
about to return to the Haligorn. He would have put up more resistance, but he
had just spent an entire morning running errands for his mother and he was not
looking forward to being assigned a whole new slew of tasks upon his return. And
so he found himself following the sisters down the mazelike corridors of the
keep, listening to Daphne and Lorna bicker the entire way. As he chuckled softly
behind them, he realized that for the first time since he’d met Daphne and
Lorna, he’d almost forgotten they were royalty.

They turned the corner, and there was a
strange cloying smell. It was a blend of herbs, foreign and smoky. As they
followed the scent, the architecture of the corridor changed. The ceiling was lower,
the walls were carved of darker stone, and the doors along the hall were not engraved
with flowers or royal insignia like those in the other corridors. Instead they were
carved with darker, more dynamic images. Dragons twisted and flailed against
each other, embroiled in battle. Three magicians summoned a double-headed demon
in a magic circle. Instead of lion’s head door knockers there were gaping inhuman
faces. Perhaps they were supposed to be goblins, or maybe elves, it was hard to
say, but their wide, animalistic eyes, so realistically carved, made his skin
crawl.

As they drew closer to the end of the hall, Spencer
could hear someone making a soft noise. It sounded like singing but it was hard
to say for sure because the voice was low and quiet and the tone was subdued.
As they stopped in front of the final door on the corridor, which had the most grotesque
doorknocker of all, a second voice joined the first one. This one was higher,
clearer and colder, and then Spencer heard enough to know that they were
singing in some foreign tongue.

Daphne wasn’t the least bit shy about
interrupting them as she raised her hand and knocked firmly on the door. The
singing stopped immediately and Spencer heard rapid footsteps. The door was
flung open by a very tall, very slender woman with long brown hair. “I told you
that—” she paused and faltered when she saw that they weren’t whoever she was
expecting.

She was in her early to mid-thirties and had
a pretty face but slightly crooked teeth. She looked from one princess to the
other, dropped to an easy and elegant curtsy, and then opened the door wide to
let them in. Her curious gaze fell on Spencer for just a minute before she
turned, took a few quick steps, and called out, rather sharply, “Melisande!
Melisande you have guests!”

She must be Felunhala, then, Spencer thought,
staring up at her, searching for any sign that she could speak to black cats or
spent her evenings peering into crystal balls, divining secrets that no
ordinary person could even dream of. Her face and body were quite ordinary. He
saw no warts, no hunchback, and while her nails were rather long, they did not
resemble claws. Her outfit looked the part though. She wore long robes of red
velvet and there were many pendants around her neck and many bracelets on each
wrist. She wore only one ring, though, a gold one with a big jade stone, and it
was the most opulent piece of jewelry he’d ever seen.

“Melisande!” Felunhala sounded like she was
running out of patience. She tucked some of her very long brown hair behind her
ear and sounded remarkably like Spencer’s mother as she scolded her tardy apprentice.
“Don’t keep your guests waiting. Forgive me, your highnesses. Melisande can be
so
slow
sometimes. May I offer you anything at all?” She asked,
curtsying to the princesses once more.

She did not acknowledge Spencer, which was
fine by him, because it freed him to stare around at her apartments. They were
standing in a large antechamber which was quite richly furnished but sadly
lacking in witchy décor, save for a long cabinet against one wall. A small bowl
of incense smoked away on the top of the cabinet, surrounded by a ring of six
white candles. The cabinet doors were glass, and Spencer craned his neck to
catch a glimpse of whatever was stored inside, but the windows were outfitted
with heavy black curtains which hid everything from view, save for a knobby
white branch which poked out from the side of the curtain and looked
thrillingly like a wand.

There was a strange fluttering noise from
over Spencer’s head and then a dull creak. He started and when he glanced up
anxiously he saw that a large bird had come to perch on the enormous iron
lantern that hung from the ceiling. Spencer squinted to make out the species,
expecting it to be a raven or some other black bird. Instead, it was a small,
sharp-beaked falcon, a compact but powerful bird with lovely, dusky red
markings. It gave a low whistle and launched itself from the lantern to
Felunhala’s shoulder, where it perched only a moment before it dove silently
for the ground, legs and talons extended, reaching for something that huddled
behind a curtain. The bird hovered there for a moment, wings flapping violently
as it plucked at the foot of the curtain, and then wheeled away with something
dark clutched in its talons. The falcon dove through an open door and vanished
into some other room. Lorna gasped and Spencer flinched. Daphne leaned forward
curiously. “What was that?”

“A rat, highness,” Felunhala answered with a
curtsy. “We breed them ourselves for use in spells, and when we have extras we
release them for the bird. He likes to hunt like a wild animal.”

“I see,” Daphne answered. Spencer couldn’t
tell from her expression whether she was horrified, fascinated, or utterly
unfazed.

“Last year we were feeding him chicks, but
Melisande would cry something awful whenever he caught one. She’s too squeamish,
that girl.” Felunhala said, as though she expected most people to be perfectly
comfortable with feeding tiny chicks to ravenous birds.

Daphne didn’t seem to know how to respond as
something stirred in a dark doorway across the room. A young woman emerged from
the shadows; or perhaps she was a girl. It was difficult to say. She was in
that strange in-between age that melded childhood and adulthood so seamlessly.
For all Spencer knew, she could have been fourteen or eighteen. She was
slender, like Felunhala, but not as tall and not as strong looking either.
There was wanness to her, paleness in her cheek and hesitance in her step that
made Spencer wonder if she had what it took to be apprentice to the Royal
Witch. Her hair was very blonde, almost the same shade of gold as the bangles
on the wrist of her Mistress. It was very long, very straight, and a little
damp, as though recently washed. Glancing from her long hair to Felunhala’s
lengthy tresses, Spencer wondered if the rumors were true: that Witches never
cut their hair for fear of stunting their powers.

Melisande did not look particularly pleased
to see two Princesses of the Realm calling on her. She paused in the doorway,
glancing inexpressively between Felunhala, the two princesses and Spencer.

“Melisande,” Felunhala said, when her
apprentice did not appear very responsive. “The royal family does us a great
honor,” she curtsied once more in Daphne and Lorna’s direction, and Spencer
began to understand why Daphne had such a profound sense of self-importance. It
had to be easy to get big-headed if you had adults curtsying and bowing to you
all day. Melisande dipped into a silent curtsy as well, but made no move
otherwise. Her white lips twitched as though she were about to speak, but then
she seemed to think better of it, and Spencer stared into her eyes and tried to
identify the emotion that he found there. Was she frightened? Was she angry? 

Daphne didn’t seem to be particularly put-off
by her friend’s behavior though. “Thank you, that will be all,” she said
commandingly to Felunhala, and if the woman didn’t like being ordered about by
a fifteen year old, she hid it well.

“Of course, Highness,” Felunhala said
obediently. “Would you care to retire to our-”