The Otherwhere Post

Chapter 6

Tristan led her down a dark wood corridor of an adjacent building. The walls were lined with portraits, including one very large painting of Postmaster Byrne himself, a severe-looking man with a pointed beard and a shock of dark silver hair the same hue as a new-formed axe blade.

“You look rather green,” Tristan said.

“I’m fine,” Maeve lied. She had to somehow calm herself down, so she pictured her journal on her lap and a quill in her hand, a fresh bead of ink at the nib, then writing about the rosebushes her aunt had planted from seedlings against the side of the house in Inverly, that blossomed into pink roses the size of her head each spring.

It helped, until Tristan opened a door, and they entered a freezing office that smelled of mushed peas and stale coffee. A sideboard held a few half-eaten platters of food in shades of brown and muddy white.

Two men stood as she entered. Maeve recognized the deep scarlet minister’s uniform on the first man, decorated to the gills with medals, along with a large letter L denoting that he served the Leyland house. The man beside him wore a simpler version of the same uniform—a minister courier’s raiment, she realized. The third man was Postmaster Byrne.

He sat behind a large desk and barely spared a glance at her or Tristan. “Gentlemen, I believe we’re done for the day. We’ll pick up our talks tomorrow.”

The minister nodded, while his courier gathered together stacks of official-looking paperwork.

Tristan leaned close to her ear and whispered, “That’s Leyland’s Minister of Communication and his private courier. Both are far too codheaded for their own good.”

This particular minister had the difficult task of relaying everything the government was working on to help people after Inverly. He was a powerful public figure, but then so was the Postmaster.

After the two men gave formal goodbyes and left through a side door, the Postmaster pulled out a sheet of paper and a quill, dipping the nib into a well on his desk.

“You’re late,” he said without looking up.

Tristan’s mouth pulled flat. “I hope you’re ready for an unpleasant few minutes,” he murmured to Maeve under his breath, then stepped forward and cleared his throat. “There was an accident involving Butternut,” he said to the Postmaster. Tristan didn’t mention that she had been the other half of the accident. “We lost a bit of time.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You are your mother’s son.”

Fury flickered on Tristan’s face. “That’s very kind of you to say, Father.”

Maeve drew a palm to her throat, noticing the resemblance between the two men for the first time.

Tristan was his son . Heavens, she’d spent the entire day with the Postmaster’s own son without knowing it.

Tristan brushed a lock of hair from his glasses. “This is Miss Eilidh Hill,” he said. “She passed her arrival exam, then had the misfortune to wander directly into my carriage,” he said dryly, an attempt to poke fun.

He could have pressed a pie to his face, and Maeve wouldn’t have laughed. How could she when she was standing on the edge of a knife? But then the Postmaster turned his attention to her. It was the briefest look, but she nearly swayed with relief; there was nothing in his face that indicated he recognized her.

He held out a hand. “Her papers.”

Tristan fumbled though his saddlebag and pulled out Eilidh Hill’s black leather folio. He handed it to his father, who rifled through it.

“Eilidh P. Hill, from the far south,” the Postmaster said.

Maeve nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He flipped through pages and stopped at one at the end, scanning it slowly, then flipping to another. Thunder sounded in the distance, followed by the shriek of birds. This was taking too long. Eventually the Postmaster lifted a silver eyebrow in a gesture identical to his son’s. “It says here that you hail from a family of equestrian experts. That you were the head of the horse club at your upper school. Is that true?”

Every single muscle in Maeve’s body went taut.

“Well?”

What could she say? She forced herself to nod.

“Then you can teach the other apprentices what you know. We sometimes use coaches to cart back mail from Blackcaster Station. You could help with the horses in your spare time if you want.”

Maeve stole a glance at Tristan. Their eyes met, and his mouth twitched terribly.

He knew .

Tristan knew she was an impostor before she ever stepped foot inside his carriage—from the moment she professed to loathe all horses. It was why he had acted strangely when she refused to help him with Butternut. Probably why he made a point to ask after her inkwell at the fountain. Yet he didn’t say anything that whole time, when there were plenty of opportunities to turn back.

“Now.” Postmaster Byrne turned to his son. “I have decided that you will be Eilidh’s mentor this season. You can show your apprentice to her quarters. It’s late, and I’m sure you have early duties in the morning.”

She would be Tristan’s apprentice?

Tristan seemed even more startled than her. He shot forward. “But, Father—”

“Was I not clear?”

Tristan grew panicked. “But…I thought that I would be working as an otherwhere courier. Alone.”

“You will not,” the Postmaster snapped, and Tristan drew up. “Nearly all couriers volunteer as mentors in the two years after they apprentice. This is your second year post-apprenticeship.”

His jaw tightened, and something dark flashed in his eyes. “True, Father. But after what happened last year, I don’t think it would be wise for me to mentor anyone again.”

“You don’t get a choice in the matter,” the Postmaster shot back. “The House of Ministers would like for us to shorten scribing times by half, which means we need more capable couriers, and you need to spend more time in the Scriptorium.”

Tristan’s throat bobbed. “I’ve already told you that I won’t scribe anything above letters for delivery.”

The Postmaster lurched from his chair. “You don’t get to decide what you want. It’s been a year. It’s time to stop wasting your potential! You will sit with this girl and help to teach her scriptomancy by showing her how it’s done,” he said, then settled back behind his desk.

Tristan’s eyes grew glassy for the briefest moment, but then he blinked and schooled his features, seeming to bury whatever Maeve had just witnessed deep within himself, leaving nothing behind but a simmering anger beneath a blank stare. His gaze flickered to her, and she felt it beat against her like a branding iron.

“Now that that’s settled, you can show Apprentice Hill to her room at Hawthorne House.” The Postmaster gave his son a dismissive wave.

They were excused, and Maeve was forced to follow Tristan out a side door.

The silence between them rang sharp, slicing into her.

“If you’re considering running, don’t,” he said flatly, all hint of amusement from earlier gone. “The entrance gate is leagues away and you won’t be able to find it in the dark through the misting woods. It would be locked by now anyhow.”

He turned and headed in the direction of the ocean—away from all other buildings.

Gusting wind tore at Maeve’s sleeves. She hugged her arms around her body. “You’re not taking me to my room?”

“No.”

“Then where are we going?”

“Somewhere where we can speak privately, Eilidh P. Hill.”