Airs of Night and Sea

PHILIPPA rose, dry-eyed and weary, after sleeping no more than three or four hours. A glance in the glass above the bureau made her groan. She poured water from the ewer into the basin resting on the marble-topped side table and splashed her face with it. She took a long time drying her face, breathing ragged sighs into the soft, thick towel. She treasured the moment of peace, of oblivion, before she put the towel down and went to the window.

Amanda Beeth had given her a room facing east. Only pastures and farmhouses lay between Beeth House and the sea. The early sun brightened the fields, emptied now of their harvests of alfalfa and timothy. The green water glittered, empty as the fields. The light from the North Tower was dimmed by the sunshine, and Philippa could just see, if she leaned very close to the glass, the tips of the masts of the Klee ship above the muddle of city buildings. There was nothing in the scene to hint at the forces set to explode into action.

Amanda’s housekeeper had left an assortment of brushes and creams and lotions on the bureau for Philippa’s use. Philippa looked these over, but she had no idea what most of them were for. She picked up a jar of cream scented faintly with almond, which seemed safe. She smoothed some of it into her cheeks and throat. She brushed her hair and tied it in its rider’s knot. It was nearly as much gray as red now. An old woman’s hair, she supposed regretfully. She clicked her tongue with impatience at her vanity and turned resolutely away from the mirror. What did it matter? There was no one who cared about her appearance.

Someone had brushed her tabard and skirt and muddied boots, and laid out a set of clean smallclothes. With an inward nod of thanks to Amanda’s excellent staff, Philippa put everything on, buckled her belt, and tucked her cap and gloves into it.

The main floor of the house was busy, though quietly so. Lord Beeth was going from ballroom to parlor, from dining room to morning room, giving instructions to the men in each. Maids hurried here and there with trays of coffee and sausages and baskets of fresh bread. Amanda Beeth, who Philippa doubted could have slept even half as long as she herself had, was in the foyer conferring with her housekeeper and caught sight of Philippa descending the stairs.

“Ah, Philippa,” she said, as if it were any ordinary morning, and all of these people were ordinary houseguests. “Everything is in such a bustle. Won’t you come to the kitchen with me for your breakfast? I swear, it will be quieter there than in any of the parlors.”

“Thank you, Amanda. Good morning.” She followed her hostess beneath the broad staircase and through double baize doors into an airy, high-ceilinged kitchen where three cooks were at work at a broad stone sink. Flames roared in an enormous close stove, and freshly made loaves were rising near the heat.

Amanda led Philippa to a worktable snugged under a slanting section of ceiling that was probably the underside of the main stairwell. There Philippa found Larkyn tucking into a plate of sliced bloodbeets and boiled eggs. Larkyn jumped up when she saw her.

“Well enough,” Philippa said, her tone tart to disguise her own pleasure at seeing the girl. Larkyn, at least, looked as fresh as a spring rose, the sunrise color blooming in her cheeks, her violet eyes sparkling. Her short hair sprang in vigorous curls around her face, and her tabard and skirt, like Philippa’s, had been thoroughly brushed. “You certainly look well, Larkyn.”

“Indeed,” Philippa said in a dry tone. She pulled out a chair and sat down, nodding thanks for the cup of coffee Amanda handed to her. “Indeed he is, Larkyn. As you would say in the Uplands, ’tis lovely fine to see him again.”

Philippa laughed. Larkyn twinkled at her. “Take a blink at you!” she said impertinently. “You should smile a bit more often.”

Larkyn sat down again, still smiling. Philippa, soothed by the exchange and the company, accepted a plate with a boiled egg and a few slices of dark red bloodbeets. One of the cooks brought a platter of rolls fresh from the oven, and Philippa took one. “Have you seen the horses yet this morning, Larkyn?”

“Oh, aye, Mistress Winter,” the girl said. “Of course. I went straight there when I woke up. Both their stalls are cleaned and their water buckets full.”

“They say that Caroline Rambler—well, I don’t know what you call her now—survived. The patrol boat pulled her out of the water, half-drowned, but breathing.”

Sudden tears glimmered in the girl’s eyes. “They never found him,” she said. “The poor horse . . . he couldn’t have . . .” Her lips trembled, and she pressed a finger to them.

Philippa touched the girl’s shoulder. “Try not to think about it now, Larkyn,” she said, striving for a gentle tone. “There will be time later.”

“Wise,” Philippa said. “Like so many other things they say in your Uplands.” She sighed, and started on her breakfast, though she would have liked to simply sit here in this bright, warm kitchen and drink cup after cup of the good black coffee. It was likely to be a long and difficult day, unless something good had happened she hadn’t yet learned about.

They stood side by side on the front steps of Beeth House. The air had a bite to it that stung Philippa’s nose and fingertips. She pulled her gloves from her belt, and shrugged into her coat. It was a good day for flying, at least.

Francis pointed to the men gathered in the oval courtyard. “We sent a patrol of our own out into the city last night, hoping for some sign of her. They found nothing. They stayed until the sun came up, to ask shopkeepers and warehousemen—those who have the fortitude to actually go to their businesses—but no one has seen her.”

Francis nodded. Philippa glanced at him and saw that his eyes were as heavy-lidded as her own, his face drawn. “Francis, you look as old as I do,” she said abruptly.

The men stood in squads of ten or twelve. There were a few smallswords, and not a few long pistols and muskets in evidence, but the lack of uniforms made them look ragtag and disorganized. Still, they were men who had come together out of conviction, Philippa thought. The lack of uniform should not matter, and they had proved themselves last night.

“They are so close, the Hamleys. You and I, unfortunately, have had no occasion to understand that sort of family. But they and families like them are what’s at stake here.”

“I do know that, Philippa,” he said. His voice was weighted with emotion. “I wish there were a wiser man to protect them.”

“They’re lucky to have you, Francis,” she said. She put her gloved hand on his arm. “You will know what to do, when the moment comes.”

“I believe,” Philippa said, with as much conviction as she could muster, “that I would rather have a leader who questions himself than one who thinks everything he does is right simply because he is the one to do it.”

“I remember that very well,” she said. “And now, Francis, I am off to the stables at the Rotunda. I hope to talk some sense into Catherine Cloud and Elspeth Summer and the other horsemistresses who have apparently taken up residence there.”

“I am, too, but perhaps we can at least heal our own differences. That would surely be of more help to you, to have a united flight to support you.”

LARK watched Mistress Winter take her leave of Lord Francis and stride across the courtyard toward the stables. She was so slender, Lark thought, her back so straight and her movements so quick, that she might have been a girl were her hair not going gray and her face weathered from flying.

Her own face would look the same before long, tanned and lined by the wind and sun aloft. She wouldn’t mind it. Such a face was a badge of office for a horsemistress.

She put a hand to the plain black fabric of her collar, where she hoped one day to pin the silver wings. If Duke William prevailed, her dream of becoming a horsemistress could vanish as swiftly as yesterday’s snow had disappeared before the rising sun.

The stable-girl met Mistress Winter, and they went into the stables together. A moment later Mistress Winter came out again, and beckoned to Lark.

“I know.” Lark sighed. It was all so complicated. She saw no way out of this impasse, and no good resolution. She hugged her brother and crossed to the stables.

She paused at the door, looking east to where the sea glimmered green beneath the pale blue sky. Here and there thin streams of smoke rose from the plowed fields where farmers were burning the stalks of corn, the stubble of straw, the empty vines of peas and beans. Char was what they called that smoke, in the Uplands. They had called Tup’s dam Char, because she had been the color of that smoke.

Lark touched her chest, where the icon of Kalla had hung until she gave it to Amelia. Thinking of Char always gave her a twinge of guilt, the feeling that she had failed her. And now she was Amelia’s sponsor, and she had failed her, too. “Oh, Kalla,” she breathed, “if only I knew where my icon is, there would be Amelia!”

She imagined she felt the faintest heat at her breastbone, where the icon had hung, the residue of its power. She had made a gift of it to Amelia when her foal was on its way. Amelia had been so frightened that the foal might not survive, or might be wingless, or might not like her, but all had gone well under Kalla’s protection that day. Perhaps, even against these odds, Kalla could protect her creatures and the women who flew them.

Tup, hearing Winter Sunset preparing for flight, was hanging his head over the half-gate of his stall, whickering impatiently. As Lark passed Winter Sunset’s stall, Mistress Winter said, “Saddle Seraph, will you, Larkyn? I want to get to the Rotunda right away.”

“Aye.” Lark hurried down the aisle to Tup, just as he banged on the wall with one hind foot. “Tup! Tup! Be still,” she whispered as she reached him. He tossed his head in answer and made his whimpering cry.

She let herself into the stall and made him back away so she could slip on his bridle. The stall needed mucking out again, but she would have to leave it to the Beeth staff.

She slipped the saddle blanket over Tup’s back, and he sidestepped and threw his head, impatient to be moving. “Tup!” Lark said. “Not now!” She shortened the reins and made him bend his neck, snugging his head against her side. “Now, be quiet. Let me put the saddle on, then we’ll be away.” He blew against her tabard, but he held still. She released him, and lifted the saddle from the dividing wall.

Lark, with her saddle already in her hands, saw that she had forgotten the saddle blanket. She set the saddle down in the straw, and spread the blanket over Tup. Winter Sunset, on her way out of the stables, whinnied.

Tup, hearing his monitor’s call, began to prance. The saddle blanket slipped from his back and fell to the floor of the stall. When Lark picked it up, she saw that it was fouled with wet straw. She brushed at it with her hands, but the straw stuck to the wool. She couldn’t put a wet, dirty blanket under the saddle.

“Wait here!” she commanded Tup. “And don’t kick!” She raced down the aisle to the tack room, hoping to find a clean saddle blanket.

Just as she opened the door, she caught sight of Mistress Winter riding across the courtyard toward the ride used as a flight-and-return paddock at Beeth House. At the same moment, Tup’s resounding kick against the wall of his stall made her exclaim, and whirl to see if he had broken something.

Lark said, between her teeth, “Kalla’s tail! I’m betwixt and between!” as she ran back down the aisle to Tup. She left the saddle where it was in the straw. She hastily unbuckled her old breast strap, the same she and Rosellen had made so long ago, and which she kept looped on one ring of her saddle skirt. It was the width of two fingers, and ran from one shoulder, around Tup’s chest, and buckled in at the opposite shoulder. She had passed her first Airs by using this breast strap, though she had been scolded soundly when Mistress Winter discovered her subterfuge.

She slipped it around Tup’s chest now, and buckled it. The leather was well used and pliable, and in a flash it was secure. She tested the handhold and leaped onto Tup’s back.

“It will have to do, my Tup,” she said, as she urged him out through the gate and down the aisle. “And after all, we’re only flying to the Rotunda.”

LARK hurried after Mistress Winter and Winter Sunset, taking Tup at a trot down through the courtyard, past the long cow byre, on toward the break in the hedgerow that opened into the ride. The men parted for her to pass and touched their caps as she rode by.

Behind Nick loomed Brye, a reassuring presence. “Be careful, Philippa,” he said, his low voice rumbling across the courtyard as they reached the byre.

Lark caught up with Mistress Winter in time to see her cheeks flush pink as she inclined her head to Brye and touched the tip of her quirt to her cap.

Lark was so startled by this exchange, and especially Mistress Winter’s blush, that she almost missed the turn into the ride. It was Tup who reminded her, tossing his head against the bridle, turning to the right without being bidden.

Lark recovered herself and set Tup to the canter a few paces behind Winter Sunset. Halfway down the ride, a gentle decline wide enough for two carriages to roll abreast, Tup sped to the hand gallop on the dry grass, and Lark gave him his head. At the far end, the land sloped upward again just a bit, with the bare branches of a hedgerow marking the lane beyond. Sunny ascended ahead of them, her broad wings shining like flame in the cold sunshine. Tup’s haunches collected beneath him, and well before the hedgerow, he launched.

Even in the darkest and most fearful moments, the power and magic of the launch never failed to exhilarate Lark. Tup’s wings caught the air with powerful downbeats, his hooves tucked tightly up against his body, reducing the drag of the air, and his neck stretched forward, as if he could swim upward from the land into his natural home, the sky. She remembered how overwhelming it had been, that first time, to feel the sheer strength of the launch, how improbable—how magical—it had been to shed the bonds of earthbound life.

The wind from the sea was sharp, buffeting Tup as he ascended. Mistress Winter led the younger flyers in a banking turn to the east, riding the wind’s energy. When they reached altitude, she banked again, turning to the west where the fat wedding cake of the Council Rotunda nestled among boulevards and parks.

Lark pulled the peak of her cap down over her eyes against the glitter of sunlight reflected from the sea. Now she could see the Klee ship in the mouth of the harbor. It was long and narrow, with five masts of various shapes jutting above it, sails furled. A longboat hung in ropes at its side.

A much smaller boat was crossing the bay toward it, tossing in the choppy water. Lark squinted, trying to make it out. It wasn’t one of the patrol boats, with their snapping black-and-silver pennants. This little boat bristled with poles, and she supposed it must be a fishing boat. But what was it doing there? She touched her fingers to her breastbone in the habitual gesture.

Her lips parted, and she narrowed her eyes. Was the spark on the Klee ship, or on the small boat? Was it possible the smaller craft was on its way to intercept the Klee ship? Why did that matter?

The sensation of a spark, like a small flame, intensified. She shaded her eyes with her hand, trying to see. Someone was on the deck of the little boat, standing among the poles. The someone was waving flags, black flags that tapered at the ends . . .

“Amelia!” Lark breathed. “It’s Amelia—and Mahogany!” She urged Tup to a faster speed, trying to catch up with Mistress Winter. She called out, but the wind caught her voice and swirled it away. Winter Sunset was already beginning her descent toward the park across from the Rotunda. Mistress Winter didn’t look back, and Lark couldn’t catch her attention.

Lark gasped, and frigid air shocked her throat. Tup faltered, just for a wingbeat, enough to make them fall behind Winter Sunset.

She twisted her neck to look back at the harbor. It wasn’t the Klee ship that had fired its cannon. A puff of gray smoke rose from the inner side of the harbor, and she saw that it came from a patrol boat just setting out across the water, angling toward the fishing boat. As it approached, it fired again. The ball splashed uselessly into the water, halfway between the patrol and the fishing boat, but the patrol boat was moving fast, its sails puffing in the wind.

The spark Lark sensed flared brighter, like an ember from a banked fire. She knew what it was, though Mistress Winter would have scoffed.

The Klee ship’s sails began to unfurl and open. They belled majestically, each great white canvas filling with wind as it rose above the decks. The ship heeled, coming about, but its size made it slow.

A second patrol appeared from inside the docks, its sails fluttering as it sped across the bay. A battle was building even as Lark watched, and those awful cannonballs would fly right into the path of the boat carrying Amelia and Mahogany. How was it that she could see that a winged horse was on its decks, and they couldn’t?

“Kalla help me!” Lark cried into the wind. She reined Tup up away from the Rotunda park, out toward the harbor. She had to help Amelia. She didn’t know what she could do, how she would stop the patrol boat before it engaged the Klee ship, catching Amelia and her colt in the middle of their battle. She didn’t have an idea yet, but she would have to do something.

Lark glanced over her shoulder and saw Winter Sunset was coming to ground in the Rotunda park. She could almost feel Mistress Winter’s fury when she looked up and saw that Tup was not behind her, that he and Lark were winging out toward the bay. Lark was sorry about that, regretting that once again she had caused Mistress Winter aggravation and concern.

But this was no time to think of the trouble she herself was in. She was the only one who saw what was happening. Amelia and Mahogany had no one else to help them.

“Hurry, Tup!” she cried, loosening his rein and shifting her weight a little forward so the angle of his wings could be sharper, could catch more of the clear, chill air, drive them faster toward the harbor. He responded, his wings beating harder, the flex of his muscles radiating through her thighs and her calves. As he tilted, she felt every movement, felt as if she and he were one body, one will. Praise Kalla she had no saddle to impede her!