Chapter 4
Maeve found an empty hallway on the second floor of Galbraith Hall and hid there for several long minutes, scanning through what she could of Eilidh’s paperwork, but there was more than a novella’s worth of information, and her eyes couldn’t tear themselves from the window—the officers below. As soon as they left, Maeve rushed outside, where she stood in the swirling fog beside the wet hedges, her eyes locked on the row of the Post’s carriages. The young men and women with black folios soon joined in a slow trickle. Then a whistle blew, and liveried drivers, alongside otherwhere couriers in sweeping black cloaks, filed outside.
A deep voice shouted, “Line up with your paperwork out!”
Clutching her things in one hand and Eilidh’s folio in the other, Maeve stepped to the very end of the line, hoping to give herself time to gather her wits. But when she got to the front, there was only one carriage left.
She tried to hand Eilidh’s folio to the otherwhere courier driving the carriage, but he held up a hand. “You won’t be going.”
A cold knot formed in her stomach. “Excuse me?”
“This last one is my carriage, and eight’s my limit.” He motioned to the cab, where two figures were pressed against the fogged windowpane, the center piled high with suitcases.
It was merely full.
Maeve’s breath returned to her lungs in a rush.
The courier checked a wristwatch and peered into the thick fog, but you couldn’t see more than ten paces ahead. “There’s one more carriage due, and they should be here any moment. Are you all right to wait by yourself, miss? The Post is a two-hour ride north this time of day, and I want to get moving before the rain sets in.”
With little choice in the matter, Maeve nodded. As the carriage rolled away, she kicked at stray rocks, anxiously listening for any sound of horse hooves or wheels coming down the drive but hearing nothing. Minutes passed. Worried the final carriage had missed her, Maeve started down the drive. Fog snaked around her ankles. Holding her hand in the air, she wiggled her fingers, watching as they wavered in and out of the haze.
She stilled at a pop of gravel.
“Hello?” she called out. A moment later, the hollow clattering of horse hooves beat the ground from somewhere nearby. Maeve turned in a circle, searching the fog.
“Watch out!” someone shouted.
A massive black horse reared above her, strapped to a carriage. Maeve twisted, stumbling. She lost her balance and fell, her head hitting the gravel with a sharp thump. Pain split across her temple.
In one fluid motion, the carriage’s driver leapt off. A dark cloak flooded her vision as he knelt over her. The billowing fog made the man appear wraithlike. For a long moment, Maeve wasn’t sure if this was real life or a dream, or perhaps she had taken a step into the afterlife. Her eyelids fluttered, and she parted her lips in an attempt to say something, but her head felt plugged with sealing wax.
A warm, wet sensation filled her right ear.
The stranger looked to the sky and muttered something that might have been a curse. When he brought his attention down to face her, he seemed…vexed. As if she were causing him a great inconvenience after nearly being run over by his hell horse.
“Leaping in front of oncoming carriages is a disastrous habit that you should break immediately,” he said.
Leaping? “But I didn’t leap.”
“I don’t believe you’re in any state to debate the definition of a verb.”
Squinting, she could make out a bespectacled face, ghostly in the gloom, head topped with nut-brown hair that hung in damp clumps around pale ears. The contrast reminded her of lampblack ink on fresh parchment.
She pushed herself to sitting, and the world tilted, wavering. Her head smarted.
He took her in, and his eyes narrowed. “I believe we’ve met before.”
Indeed they had.
It was the otherwhere courier she had spoken with. Bespectacled, messy young man with a penchant for hideously expensive footwear. She’d recorded the description in her journal the night after her encounter.
Today, the ink smears on his face were relegated to the cleft of his chin.
“You’re that girl from Alewick, who caused me to get caught in a storm and ruin a perfectly good pair of shoes.”
Maeve swallowed down a wave of panic. “I was visiting Alewick,” she corrected, in case he discovered that Eilidh Hill was from the south.
She quickly thought through their previous conversation. She didn’t remember telling him anything specific about the letter that might give herself away. She had been wearing worker’s clothing, but she could make up some excuse for that.
His clothing, however, was as ink splattered as she remembered it. His gloves were covered with metallic silver and copper splotches, and more was speckled on his cloak. It was a wonder he had the audacity to accuse her of ruining his shoes.
He flung off his saddlebag, spilling sodden books and papers on the drive, but he ignored the mess and came toward her. “Are you able to stand?”
She wasn’t entirely sure. Gulping her breaths, she managed to push herself up on wobbling legs.
The courier peeled off his gloves.
“What are you doing?” Maeve shrank away as he lifted his bare fingers toward her head.
She never let anyone touch her; it went against her rules.
“I’m fine, truly.”
“That might be the case, but I would rather inspect your head now than risk you expiring in my coach. If you want to be stubborn about it, I can take you to the infirmary once we arrive. Although our sadist of a head doctor might force spirits down your throat with a copper tube.” He made a face.
She swiped at her forehead. Her glove came away with a smear of blood. “Oh dear.”
“ Oh dear is right,” he said, then touched her temples with cool fingertips, tilting her head gently.
Maeve kept her eyes downcast during the examination, stealing close glances at him through her lashes. He had a sturdy albeit slightly crooked nose, and large gray-green eyes hidden behind his spectacles that appeared more tired than when she’d clocked him with soap.
His gaze flickered down, catching her staring.
Startled, she squeezed her eyes shut, and could have sworn she heard him laugh under his breath. She didn’t dare look at him after that. As it was, it would be a miracle if she wasn’t bright pink from blushing.
“I think you’ll live,” he finally said, releasing her and replacing his gloves. “I’ll need to see your folio with your transcripts and admittance letter.”
Maeve handed over Eilidh’s folio. She was far from devout, but she uttered a silent prayer that everything was in order.
The courier scanned through the first few papers quickly, then flipped to a section in the back—a part she hadn’t had the time to read.
“What section is that?” she asked.
“Just some things your former instructors had to say about you.”
“What does it say?”
“Don’t you already know?”
Her heart thumped. “It—it was packed away, and I never got an opportunity to read through it.”
“Maybe you should have,” he said, then flipped another page. “How fascinating.”
Panic struck. Maeve tried to peek, but he tilted the folio away—on purpose? Irritated, she pushed up on her toes, closer. Right when she could finally see a smattering of printed words, he shut the folio abruptly. “Everything seems to be in order.”
Maeve pressed her lips together before she might say something she’d sorely regret.
Next, he knelt and dug through his saddlebag, making a stack of items next to his foot: a soiled writing kit, crumpled papers, three broken quill feathers, and an apple with one bite out of it. Maeve wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled out a potted fern next. But he slipped the folio between some books and tossed everything back on top save for a large turkey quill that he tucked behind his ear.
“Now that’s all settled, I’ll need to check the horse.” He left her, busying himself with the front of the carriage. After a moment, he muttered something and waved at her. “I need some assistance. The horse cast a shoe.”
Maeve bristled. The horse snorted and stomped, and the sound alone made her short of breath. No matter how innocent they might appear, horses were dangerous.
“Apologies, but I don’t think I could go within five paces of that thing.”
He gave her a strange look, then patted the horse on the flank. “This thing is called Butternut, and she’s a dear.”
Maeve would beg to differ.
“Do you not like horses?” he asked.
That was putting it mildly.
“Horses, sir, do not like me.” And Butternut had already tried to kill her once. It was bad enough that she was forced to ride behind it in a carriage.
“It won’t take long.”
“Please don’t make me help,” she said, then winced at the desperate note in her voice.
The courier pushed up his spectacles, regarding Maeve with a strange expression that she couldn’t decipher.
“Very well, then. No re-shoeing for you today,” he finally said, and she let out a long breath.
He came around and pried open the cab door to a disastrous mess. Ribboned packages from various tailors and cobblers were piled high on the seats. Past them, crates were heaped with letters.
It was the most cluttered cab Maeve had ever laid eyes on, but she’d take a mess over a horse any day. She moved boxes then wriggled into a small spot by the door, yelping as something sharp poked her backside. She dug it free. It was a thick green book with glossy black type across the cover that read: The Scriptomancer’s Companion.
“That’s yours,” he said. “Steward Mordraig requested each apprentice get a copy before the coach ride. It’s required reading, written by an academic who loved a good run-on sentence. It takes about three hundred mammering pages to get across anything useful, but there are a few good points at the end.” He moved to shut the door. “If you need anything during the ride, my name’s Tristan.”
“Your given name?” She never liked to be on a first name basis with anyone. It made things too casual—too easy to slip up and say something she shouldn’t. “Isn’t it a bit soon to forgo formalities?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But we hardly know each other.”
“That’s not true.” He looked her over. “Already I know that you have a propensity for getting your way, a strange trepidation toward horses, and an impressive disregard for your own safety. Not to mention a wicked throwing arm.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Still bruised.”
Maeve’s eyebrows shot up in shock.
“If you’re still concerned about formalities, you’re perfectly free to call me Mr.Tristan,” he said with a wry twist to his mouth, then shut the door and locked it from the outside.