Gwillfifeshire is small, just a way station for the surrounding agricultural land’s bounty, really. There is only one town square, at the center of which is a crumbling old well inhabited by a ghost. I know this because Bevel tells me as much as we approach. Pip is alarmed, but Kintyre launches into the story of the night they stayed in Gwillfifeshire, their last small adventure before the one that sent Pip and I into the Writer’s realm, and how the ghost is actually quite sweet and loves minding the local children when their parents are kept late in the fields.
The buildings are close, and cramped, made of a gray stone that looks slightly dreary, even in the bright afternoon sunshine. The roads between them are just wide enough for our cart-and-cat to pass, and we are forced to skirt the edge of the square to reach our destination. A market is in full and fine fluster, with women selling pickling supplies and men bartering livestock before the breeding season begins. There are butcher’s stalls, and baked goods, fabric and spell-workings, and baubles. Spring begins a month earlier in Miliway than it does in Lysse, so there are already strawberries and leeks on display, alongside wagons of the first-crop hay.
Suffice it to say, we make quite a display of our own for the market-goers: two men on horseback, one of which is splashed up to the animal’s fetlocks with blood, two women and a babe in a cart pulled by a massive cat-creature, a grim-faced cart driver clutching a bow, and a lad splattered with yet more blood atop the cat. Murmuring follows us where the crowds part, and just before we reach the edge of the square, a large man with an even larger moustache pushes his way forward and exclaims, “Why, Master Turn! Master Dom!”
“Lord Gallvig,” Bevel says cordially, with a bow from his place on the driver’s bench. I cannot recall if Bevel had an excellent memory before becoming Shadow Hand, or if it is the Mask who remembers the man’s name. I had the Mask so long that I honestly could not tell you if my head for faces came from it or from me. Or just from the way Reed wrote me.
“Well now, what’s all this?” He gestures at the blood.
“Red Caps,” Kintyre grunts. “Or there used to be. In the wheat field just north of town?”
Gallvig nods. “They’ve been getting bolder,” he says. “The Prepars lost three cattle to the little monsters. Thank the Writer that no human has been hurt yet.”
Bevel sighs. “They have, actually. This is Lanaea,” he says, gesturing to the maiden in the cart, and raises his voice a little to add: “Lanaea of Sherwilde? She says she has family here.”
“Ain’t you Jakko’s daughter?” someone calls from near the well, and Lanaea raises herself up as best she can on shaking legs, Pip helping her stay upright.
“I am!” she says. “Do you know where his sister may be found?”
“She’s Anne Farthing, now,” the man calls. “Down at the Pern.”
“I know it,” Bevel says, after Lanaea calls her thanks.
Bevel bows to the lord again, then urges Capplederry back into motion.
Capplederry’s movement makes Wyndam grimace, grit his teeth, and hunch lower on the creature’s back. I seem to be the only one who’s noticed. Bevel has his eyes on the path, and Pip and Lanaea are occupied with keeping the wounded maiden comfortable. Wyndam puts a hand to his side, curling his arm across his ribs. The lad wears black, but for a moment, sunlight glints off a patch of slick red on the back of his fingers.
Foolish, proud boy. I wonder if, in attempting to look macho for Lanaea, he has done himself harm. How much blood has he lost? How long has infection been given to take root?
Why hasn’t he said anything? I think back to all the times Wyndam has been the center of my brother’s attention, and another piece of the puzzle that is my nephew slots into place. He idolizes Kintyre. He would be shamed if Kintyre knew he had been harmed in his first battle alongside his father.
Little does Wyndam realize that Kintyre will be all the more proud of him if he knew that Wyndam was harmed and yet fought on. And he would care greatly that Wyndam was being foolish enough to hide it. The one thing Kintyre Turn has never done is hide his injuries from Bevel. As foolish as Kintyre could be about some things, playing with his own life was not one of them. Perhaps because he loves himself so well, but his narcissism has saved his life more than once.
But Wyndam’s reluctance also offers me an opportunity. Here is my chance for that heart-to-heart I’ve been wanting with my nephew.
Kintyre pulls Karl back when the horse attempts to follow us, and dallies a moment longer with the lord.
“There’s precious few of the Red Caps left, I’d wager,” Kintyre says. “They’ll scavenge their own dead for a few days, so you shouldn’t be hassled. After that, they sleep, so tomorrow afternoon would be the ideal time for you to mount a party to drive out the remainder of the infestation.”
“They burrow,” Gallvig points out.
“Black powder,” Kintyre suggests back. “Just don’t be standing on the tunnels when they collapse. You’ll lose part of the field’s yield, but that’s better than letting them carry off a child.”
Gallvig nods, shakes Kintyre’s hand, and thanks him. Then he turns and heads straight to what appears to be the black smith’s shop. By the time I’ve turned my attention back to Wyndam, he is sitting up straight, but with the forced stillness of those who are trying their best not to be jolted. His dark face has gone yellow-gray.
We arrive at the Pern tavern shortly afterward, and Wyndam is all awkwardness as he slides down from Capplederry. He puts his hand out to help Lanaea descend from the cart, but then switches it at the last moment when he realizes the one he’d originally offered is covered with blood. This fumble makes Lanaea lurch against his shoulder, and she frowns at him, obviously not impressed.
She leans instead on Bevel, and I dismount and hand Dauntless off to a boy whom Bevel greets warmly as Thoma.
Wyndam clenches his fists, annoyed at himself, and turns on his heel, scuffing away to slouch against the wall. Pip sighs and runs a hand through her hair, clearly debating whether or not to say something to him about it. As I begin the process of unbuckling Capplederry’s rig, Pip approaches Wyndam and thrusts Alis into his arms.
“Watch her,” she says, “and I’ll help them unpack.”
Wyndam moves to protest, but Pip holds up her hand, firm.
“Also,” she says softly, leaning forward to put her body between Wyndam and Lanaea, laying a motherly hand on Wyndam’s arm. “Stop staring at her like she’s a piece of meat or a hydra. No girl likes to be gawked at and objectified. Go over and just be kind; don’t try any cheesy lines or anything. There’s no need for any weird chivalric gestures. Just be . . . normal. Just go be you. She’s just a girl. You know lots of girls. You grew up surrounded by them. Nothing scary about that.”
Wyndam shoots her a look over Alis’s head that would be comical in its disbelief if it weren’t for the genuine surprise and fear it conveyed.
“Look, I know,” Pip says. “Liking someone, and wanting them to like you back, that’s some scary shit right there. I get it. My advice? Stop thinking about her as a girl, and think of her as a person. I know you want to get your dick wet, but be her friend first.” Pip makes a face at her own advice. “But also let her know that you’re interested? None of that friend-zone crap.”
Wyndam gapes at her helplessly, and Pip shrugs. “Actually, I don’t know why I’m giving you advice. I’ve always been utter shit at this flirting thing. Maybe talk to Bevel? I don’t even know.”
With one last arm-pat, she turns to unlatch the tailgate of the cart. Wyndam, Alis held limply in his arms, looks even more poleaxed than before. My daughter, annoyed with being passed around and held like unwelcome furniture, wriggles to be let down. I am pleased to see that Wyndam has enough sense to keep a grip on her, even as her movement jostles his injury. There are too many wheels and legs for me to be comfortable with her trying out her newfound skills in walking in this forecourt.
The front door of the tavern is opened by someone who can only be the Goodwoman. She is fertile looking in a way that I am certain Reed would dismiss, but beautiful in her bounty. Her cheeks are roses, her hair autumn wheat, her figure round with a well-fed and well-loved life. In short, she reminds me very strongly of my own mother, the lost Alis Sheil Turn.
She takes stock of our party, wipes her hands on her apron, and says, “Thoma, when you’re done stabling these . . . interesting beasts . . . and taking a care with the cart, run to the Prentice and fetch him back; the horse has need of his healer’s skills, if not this knucklehead.” She swats Kintyre affectionately on the shoulder, and then plucks at the Turn-russet jerkin he is wearing. She reaches out to repeat the gesture with Bevel’s. “Good to see you two great ninnies have got yourselves sorted at last. Now, inside, inside, and we’ll set you up the tub.”
“And those meat pies, Goodwoman Farthing?” Kintyre asks hopefully.
“Aye,” she says, and shoos him along. She then turns to Pip. “Three rooms, Madam?”
“Four,” Pip says, taking Alis back from Wyndam and cutting a look between Lanaea and the lad. “Thanks.”
“Aye, well come, then,” the Goodwoman says, and reaches out to help take some of Lanaea’s hobbling weight onto her own shoulders. “And you are, lass?”
“I . . . I do believe I am your niece, Madam,” Lanaea says quietly. The Goodwoman startles, and leans back a little to stare at her face. “Well, I’ll be. You look just like Jakko.”
The lass beams at her.
“Come, inside with you, my dear. And you too, boys,” she says to Wyndam and I, standing , slightly useless, on the cobbled forecourt.
I am startled into motion, and reach into the cart to retrieve our sacks. Wyndam moves to do the same, and then jerks when he lifts his arm, grimacing and hissing and curling back around his injured side.
“I’ll get the bags,” I tell him in a whisper as the others disappear into the tavern’s taproom. “You just get upstairs. I’ll follow and tend to your wound when everyone else is settled.”
Wyndam shoots me a startled glance, eyes cutting between me and where Kintyre is visible through the taproom window.
“Oh, Wyndam, tut tut,” I say with a sly, teasing grin. “You did not honestly think that your brains came from Kintyre, did you?”
A tentative smile curls against the side of his mouth, almost reluctantly. He shakes his head once.
“Smart lad. Inside you go,” I say softly. “And we shall keep this between us.”
Thank you, he mouths at me.
I remove all the bags we need and pile them at the door for a servant to take up to our rooms, taking care to tuck the traveling healer’s kit into my belt. Wyndam grabs his own bag and slings it over his shoulder with deliberate care before he goes inside.
Thoma is enraptured with Capplederry, and the cat is very pleased to have the boy scratching its muzzle. I suppose all that dried blood must be dreadfully itchy.
“Help me with the yoke, please, my young fellow,” I bid him. “When your healer is fetched, you may play with the kitty as long as you like. Capplederry likes to be brushed.”
The boy’s brown eyes widen with glee, and he is quick about his business, though he rushes nothing. He is well versed in the duties of a groom. When he is off, I bypass the taproom, where I can see that our party is tucked into a large booth in a sunny corner. The rest of the tavern patrons are pretending to ignore them while peering around their own noses. Though it has been years since Kintyre was last in Gwillfifeshire, it is clear he has not been forgotten.
Mounting the stairs to the tavern’s rooms, I slide on my Shadow Hand persona. I will need my wits about me, for, as I insinuated to Wyndam, I suspect that my nephew is very, very clever.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I see that the inn portion of this tavern is comprised of six rooms. It does not appear as if the Goodwoman and her son live in one of them, so I guess that there must be a separate set of apartments off the back of the taproom. Perhaps they even share the kitchen.
Wyndam has obviously chosen one of the rooms at the very end of the hall. It is the only closed door.
I enter without knocking, and my nephew doesn’t look startled when he turns to face me. He was rummaging in his bag, which he’d propped up on the foot of the rope cot, one hand leaning hard on the foot-bar as he tries to stay upright, so he must have heard my approach. I wonder if his time aboard ships attuned him to the creak and groan of floorboards, or if my skills at walking stealthily have simply atrophied.
“How bad is the bleeding?” I ask softly, closing the door behind me. It is better to start with sympathy, I decide, and see if a gentle conversation with his caring uncle will shift the boy toward truth. If it doesn’t, then perhaps I will have to resort of Words of Persuasion. They are Words known only among those of us who dig out secrets for a living, and I do not like to use them against sentient creatures, but I am beginning to feel a sort of slow dread creep upon me, and I need to know if my fear that Wyndam’s lack of voice and trust has ought to do with the rest of our troubles.
I hope very much that it does not, that there is a simpler explanation, but I also know how it is that my Writer chooses to structure his narratives. Very little in the way of bad news is coincidental.
The lad remains silent and only shrugs. The motion causes him to wince, and I cannot help the paternal eye roll, nor the way that I tut at him and push him back toward his bed, simultaneously tugging at his buttons so I can relieve him of his shirt and get a better sense of the severity of the wound. Wyndam bats me off, not wanting to be coddled, and pulls his shirt off over his head, which stretches his wound terribly and makes him gasp in pain. Foolish, stubborn boy. Better to have let me at his buttons.
“Wyndam, my lad, whyever didn’t you say something?” I admonish gently, leaving him an opening to reply as I crouch to study the smear of blood on his stomach. There is a gash in his abdomen—deep enough to bleed, but not so deep that it has torn muscle. I do not think it needs stitches, though the edges are crusted with drying blood and whatever filth was on the iron pike wielded by the Red Cap that delivered the blow.
Wyndam grunts, looking away, and my temper rises, getting the better of me. I have been gracious and generous with his uncooperative nature until now, more so than perhaps I might have been before Pip chastised me for the shortness of my fuse since Alis’s birth, but that is at an end.
Time for the Shadow Hand to try to get through to the lad.
I stand and smack Wyndam on the ear. He reels back, affronted and gaping, holding the side of his head.
“Are you paying attention to me now, Wyndam Turn?” I snarl.
The lad nods.
“Good. Then, if you shall not speak, you must listen. I despise having to resort to abuse to gain your attention, so it will benefit us both if you mark my words now, so as to avoid having to do this again.”
He nods once more, his hand slipping downward and folding with its pair in his lap. He drops his eyes down as well, chastened.
“No, look at me,” I command, and he obeys, his jet eyes flashing wide. “That’s better. Wyndam Turn, I am your uncle and your blood, and I do not know what you think of me or why you will not speak to me, but I will have you know that I care about you.”
The lad’s mouth drops open, shock playing around his features.
“We have never had a conversation, true, and I had not known of your existence a fortnight ago, but that does not mean you are nothing to me. You are my brother’s son.”
Wyndam scoffs, and crosses his arms defiantly. Then he winces as the motion pulls on his gash. I step toward him, slowly, hands loose at my sides to prove my peaceful intent, and the lad does not flinch. I push his own arms down, gently, and out of the way so I can get a better look at his stomach.
“You misunderstand, Wyndam,” I say, going over to the room’s sideboard. The Goodwoman has left water and cloths in this room, probably accustomed to the demands of road-weary and dust-caked guests, and I retrieve a cloth and bring it back to the bedside table with a bowl and the pitcher. Alongside these, I lay out the pouch of poultices and salves that Bevel had acquired from Mother Mouth before we left Turnshire. “It is not simply because you are my brother’s heir.”
The lad’s posture relaxes a little, and I can see him watching me out the side of his eye. Slowly, he leans back, giving me full access to the wound. He is giving me his trust, tentative though it is, and I let some of the Shadow Hand slide away, let a little more of concerned Uncle Forsyth come to the fore.
“Wyndam, I know very well how it feels to live in the shadow of Kintyre Turn,” I say gently, soaking a cloth, wringing it out, and beginning to dab at the most filthy-looking part of the wound. The room smells of fresh straw, the ghosts of a thousand beeswax candles, and dried ale. I lean close to the wound, and above the ambient scents of the room detect only the scent of the sweat Wyndam worked up in the battle, and tang of fresh blood. Nothing smells festering or rotted yet. Good. “By the Writer’s calluses, I know that he talks over others, and I know that he has very set ideas of how one should be and what one should pursue. That I was not keen on the adventurous sort of pursuits he craved was a great disappointment to him, and he never ceased to attempt to bully me for failing to be as robust and inclined toward action as he.”
Wyndam jerks and hisses as I dig a shard of iron out of the lip of the gash, doing his best not to wriggle or jump away. He fists his hands so hard in the canvas covering of the straw mattress that his knuckles go white.
“To be fair,” I chuckle, doing my best to minimize Wyndam’s pain by distracting him as I clean more grit. “I angered him in return by calling him a fool, and a blockhead, and making it very clear that I thought he was a ridiculous buffoon with more muscles than brains.”
I risk a glance upward, and see that Wyndam is watching me carefully, clearly listening, even though his jaw is tight, the muscles leaping as he grinds his teeth. It occurs to me right then that I have done some of my most important bonding with others while I am tending to their wounds, and I wonder what that says about both me and Elgar Reed.
“The fact of it is, Wyndam, my regard for you has very little to do with who your father is, and everything to do with the sort of young man that you are,” I say, when the wound is as clean as I can make it, and I have wiped all the blood off his skin. “Lay back now, so I can flush the wound.”
The lad obeys, and I tuck a dry towel against his side to catch the runoff before tipping a tot of Drebbinshire Whiskey out of the flask I retrieve from my pocket. It seems a shame to waste dragon whiskey on a wound, but it is all I have, and it is in sacrifice to my nephew’s health. I also don’t want to alert Kintyre to Wyndam’s predicament by summoning up Thoma for a glass of alcohol from the Pern’s taproom. Wyndam had gone to great lengths to keep his injury a secret. I know I would be gaining no favors or trust from my nephew by advertising it.
Wyndam jerks and writhes, but does not shove me away. The muscles of his abdomen jump and crunch as he fights his own instinct to flee the source of pain. He breathes harshly between his teeth, chest jerking with his gasps, and still the lad makes no sound.
I pat the excess liquid away, and then daub Mother Mouth’s healing salve over the gash. The scent of lemon and menthol drift up, tickling my brain and summoning up memories of performing these same actions on Pip’s back while the wounds she suffered under Bootknife’s attention healed. They are interwoven with other memories of when Bevel saw to the cut that same villain left on my cheek. Both healed cleanly and scarred well—I have no doubt that Wyndam’s wound will do the same, and that the mark it will leave behind will be very handsome and rakish indeed.
“I think you are an admirable young man,” I repeat as I help Wyndam into a fresh shirt from his pack. He moves carefully, and winces every time his abdomen flexes. “Though you clearly dislike it, you have been invaluable to Pip and I in caring for Alis, and I appreciate your willingness to put aside your distaste and aid us. Capplederry adores you, and I know the creature is only loyal to those with great heart, and great integrity. Capplederry has the capacity for great love, but only toward those who are worthy of it. And your willingness to leap straight into a skirmish with Red Caps is commendable. Perhaps a little foolhardy,” I say, grinning at him so that he knows I am making light, “but commendable. In that way, you are very much like your father. He acts before thinking, true, but always with the greatest of intentions and in defense of those who cannot defend themselves.”
Set back to rights, the lad perches uncomfortably on the edge of the bed and squirms, clearly discomfited by my praise. And still he says nothing. I stand and lay my hands on his shoulders gently, in as paternal a manner as I can, trying to exude safety, and concern, and protection.
“Now, I am uncertain if you dislike me because of who I am, or something you’ve heard that I’ve done, or simply because your relationship with your father and his Trothed is strained. But I want you to know that I am not Kintyre Turn, nor am I Bevel Dom. I am Forsyth, and I am your uncle, and that means, no matter who you are, or what you do, I am obligated by both my admiration and my kinship to listen to you, and respect you, and aid you where I may. And to love you also, if you will allow me to do so.”
The lad looks embarrassed by my frank talk of affection. But this is exactly the sort of toxic masculinity that Reed upholds and which I abhor. Forcing oneself to be unemotional, to never speak of the softer feelings, is extremely damaging, and causes all sorts of issues with misplaced anger and entitlement. So instead of dismissing it, I move one of the chairs bracketing the room’s hearth directly before Wyndam and make a show of sitting. I lean forward, elbows perched on my knees, fingers woven in a nonthreatening, thoughtful pose under my chin.
“And all I wish in return, Wyndam Turn, is that you would come to me if you need me, and for you to speak with me. I shall not judge you for what you say.”
Shame floods the lad’s face, and he drops his head into his hands and moans. He makes a complicated shrugging, hand-wringing, toss-away gesture that I cannot interpret, and moans again. It ends with him tugging on his pinkie finger, a gesture I have not noticed him engage in before today. My first thought, that it was due to an injury he sustained in the field today, returns —but his finger is not swollen, or bruised.
The last time someone I cared about suddenly adopted a new and strange gesture, with no explanation, I nearly lost Pip to Bootknife. Thus, I will not assume that Wyndam’s finger-tugging is unconnected to whatever is happening until it is proven to be so. It is possible that I am merely being paranoid, but, as the saying goes in the Writer’s realm, it is not paranoia if they really are out to get you. And as the family of the main character of this realm, they usually are out to get us.
Wyndam catches me watching and drops his hands, and his head, defeated. He sighs, a long, weary thing filled with regret and exhaustion.
“Go on, lad,” I urge him. “I am listening.”
Wyndam raises his eyes to me and then, very carefully, very clearly, he mouths the words: I can’t.
“Can’t what?” I ask, and then pause.
Wyndam squirms, rubs his pinkie, flexes his fists, and stalls. He stares at me, begging me to understand with his eyes.
Ah.
Well, then. That is not what I expected.
Flustered by this soundless revelation, I need a moment to compile my thoughts and decide what to say next. After reassuring Wyndam that I would be back in very short order, I poke my head into the rooms down the hall until I find the one where my own bags have been stowed. I retrieve writing supplies, then head down to the taproom for wine for both Wyndam and I. I have a feeling that this is going to be a long and potentially frustrating evening, and a little social lubrication never harmed the process.
Our party is still in the corner booth, empty tureens and dirty forks pushed to one side. Bevel is playing with his pipe, flipping it bowl over stem across his fingers. He is alternately speaking or chewing on his bottom lip, clearly wishing he could smoke. But Pip has Alis on her lap, and Bevel is thoughtful enough to remember her request about smoking around the baby. Kintyre has a whittling knife in hand, turning what appears to be an illustration of the tumbled monument we saw on the knoll at the edge of town into a wood-stamp.
Pip and Bevel are engaged in a lively discussion about storytelling, and Kintyre nods along while Alis is making some sort of finger-painting on a spare piece of parchment with pie-gravy and bits of parsley. At one time, I might have felt a pang of hurt at realizing that everyone had eaten without me, but now I understand that they simply must have been too hungry to wait.
“Bao bei,” Pip greets me when I bend to gift each of my girls with a kiss. Pip’s on the lips, Alis’s on her nose.
“How was the famous pie?” I ask.
“Fantastic,” Pip says. “Another thing we need to get Bevel to write down for us.”
“If Mistress Pern condescends to give it to me,” Bevel snorts. “Where have you been, Forssy?”
“Upstairs with Wyndam.”
Kintyre looks up from his pile of shavings. “Talking?”
“More or less,” I hedge. “I have only come to fetch us some dinner.”
“I’ll send up a tray,” says the Goodwoman, who has wandered out from behind the bar. “And not the recipe, mind you, Master Dom.”
Bevel groans theatrically.
I give her a short nod. “Thank you. Wine as well, please. Ah, and how is Miss Lanaea?”
“Getting clean,” Goodwoman Farthing says. “The boys gave her first crack at the tub.”
“How gallant,” I say, arching a teasing eyebrow at Bevel. “And both of you here, and not there?”
“Bao bei!” Pip scolds, but she is grinning.
“Well, Wyndam was missing, and I thought he must be—ouch!” Kintyre yelps, jerking. “Bevel, don’t kick me!”
Pip muffles her laughter against Alis’s shoulder, peering out between the strands of her own hair at Kintyre, her brown eyes glittering with mirth. “God, I can’t believe I’m sitting right next to you, having this conversation. This is so crack fic.”
Kintyre raises an eyebrow, but Pip just muffles another chuckle against Alis. Our daughter seems to think this is completely unacceptable and reaches out to Bevel with a sharp, “Beh beh! No, mamma!”
Bevel sets aside his pipe and rescues his niece, pulling her across the table and brushing the wood curls off her feet before settling her in his lap.
“Well then,” I say. “If I’m to be so thoroughly overlooked by my own family, I will return upstairs.”
I say it with a smile, but in truth, the dart of Alis preferring her uncle’s company over her father’s does sting. I know it doesn’t actually mean anything, that Alis isn’t really choosing Bevel over me, but I am used to being the one my daughter reaches for. True, the only other adults in her life are wai po, Mei, and Martin, and Alis does, in her way, always prefer novelty . . . but still . . .
Ah, well. I shake myself, amused by my own lingering melancholy, and follow the Goodwoman up the stairs. She has a tray of dinner for Wyndam and I, and I have work to do.
Wyndam stands from the bed, and then falls with very little ceremony upon the meat pie as soon as the Goodwoman is out the door. A day spent on the road, and then in battle, has left me no less hungry, and we are silent for some long moments as we eat. When we have finished, when the tureens are set aside and the wine poured, I put my travel desk on Wyndam’s bed, along with parchment, a quill, and the bottle of ink.
He stares at all of the paraphernalia with trepidation. I have seen Kintyre look at dragons that way, and the utter fear and helplessness with which my nephew regards the quill unnerves me. Something is very, very wrong here.
“Wyndam,” I say gently, reaching out to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He startles so badly that some of the wine he’s holding sloshes out onto his cuff. He raises his hand to lick away the wine, and turns his face away, shrugging off my touch.
“Wyndam,” I try again, the question stopping up in my throat before I can fully articulate it. The sadness of needing to ask it almost makes it unbearable to ask at all. Knowing that there will be greater melancholy still if he answers in the affirmative is worse. But ask I must. “You can write, can’t you?”
Wyndam’s shoulders slump. Oh, no. My poor nephew.
How awful, to not only be missing out on such an essential skill—and all the pleasure it brings—but to also know that he is probably one of the few, one of the only people in Turnshire who is illiterate must have been horrifically grating to him. To know that the scullery maid could write and he could not . . .
“Can you read, at least?” I ask, voice shaking.
Wyndam shakes his head again. Oh, what a tragedy. I feel the pain of it as a hot pang in my breast, and a small anger in my gut. Had my nephew been raised on land, amid his father’s people, he would have lacked for nothing, least of all instruction in this. It is terrible, but worse, it is cruel. Everyone deserves the chance to improve themselves, to read about their rights and to communicate on their own behalf through writing. Everyone has the right to all the advantages that being literate provides. And more than that, no one should ever be deprived of books. Of stories. Of . . . magic. No one.
And yet, it does not surprise me that he had very little formal education on board his mother’s ship. I expect that his mother is also illiterate, keeping no log books. I recall now that Wyndam had Bevel’s scrolls in his rooms, and I wonder now if it was to look at the woodcut illustrations, or if it was because he was trying to practice reading out of view of Bevel and Kintyre.
“You are constantly surrounding yourself with books you cannot read,” I say softly. “It must be torturous, especially knowing your great admiration for your father.”
Wyndam scowls at me, but I think he is too disappointed in himself to protest my assumption.
Kintyre and I, of course, as the sons of Turnshire’s lord, had very fine educations— though I paid closer attention and retained more than my brother did. Bevel had been illiterate, as many of the working class were, when he met Kintyre, but my brother had taught him to read on the road. What had initially begun as an opportunity to practice his writing eventually combined with Bevel’s natural talent as a storyteller to create the story-scrolls that comprise The Tales of Kintyre Turn, and had earned him his fame. Neither man, I am certain, would have teased Wyndam for his lack skill in this.
With irritation pulling down his brows, crinkling the skin beside his eyes, Wyndam seizes up the quill and starts to block out a few shaky letters. He must know something of writing and reading, then, but his skills are extremely rudimentary. And even so, his handwriting is cramped, difficult to read, and he keeps stopping to shake out his hand, gripping his wrist as if his fingers were moving contrary to his desire. The pinkie finger of his left hand, his dominant hand, keeps jerking as if being tugged upon by an outside force.
Wyndam attempts to write for a few frustrating moments, and then he throws down the quill with a silent, resentful snarl. There is a blotch on the page that might have been an attempt at a drawing, but I cannot be sure.
“Whatever it is that has stolen your voice, you cannot write it down, either,” I say. “You cannot even sketch it.”
Wyndam nods, face crumpling in guilty misery.
“Did you do this to yourself?”
He nods, then shakes his head, then nods again. He rubs his left pinkie finger and scowls. And then, suddenly, Wyndam’s eyes go round. His right hand shoots out, grasps mine hard, and he pumps it once, twice, meaningfully. He looks me in the eye and keeps shaking my hand.
“Oh, Writer’s calluses,” I hiss, realization flooding over me, making my knees wobble. Wyndam, grim, just nods. He waits, and watches, as the puzzle pieces come together, slotting like Tetris bricks as each clue, each observation I’ve made over the past week come together to form a whole picture.
“Oh,” I say again, and grope for the nearest chair to flop down into.
Wyndam curls in on himself, ashamed.
“Oh, Wyndam Turn, you p-poor, fo-foolish boy,” I whisper, face in my hands. “What have you done?”