7. Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Kat
The last night before Lord Boreham comes to propose, I’m quiet when I come down to dinner, claiming well from my illness .
Just play the submissive, dutiful stepdaughter, I tell myself. This is the last time you have to see them.
“Reuse the lace?” Bridget is saying, aghast, to Edith. “Maybe you are fine looking like a pauper, but if there is one thing to spend money on, it is always fresh lace. That design screams last year. I could never—”
The conversation between my stepfamily dies when I enter the dining room. I don’t want to look at any of them, but I want them to believe all is forgiven and that it is highly likely I intend to accept Lord Boreham’s proposal. So I glance at each and muster what I can of a smile.
“You look gaunt and pale,” says Edith.
“Is that any way to greet someone who has been ill?” says Bridget.
“Ladies.” Agatha massages the space between her eyes. Then she smiles up at me. “Katherine. I’m glad to see that you are feeling better. Come, eat with us.”
Since Mary sewed me that chest binding, I haven’t been starving myself as much, but I still force myself to eat little tonight. And because I don’t trust my tongue, I occupy it with food instead of conversation.
“I’ve news to share of your horse,” says Agatha.
I sit up straighter. “Have you found Bartholomew? Are we buying her back?”
She doesn’t look up as she cuts into her meat with a sharp knife. “No.”
My composure fractures. I sink lower into my chair.
“I truly thought you’d want one that was more reliable. But have no fear. I’ve spoken to Lord Boreham, and he’s promised to locate the horse for you and buy it back once you are wed. The two of you made such a handsome pair at the ball. You were exquisite in that gown.”
Once you are wed. It’s another part of her deal .
I force a smile and a bland, “Thank you,” out of my mouth.
Bridget leans forward, a bright grin overtaking her features like I haven’t seen in days. “Kat, you should have seen Malcolm’s face when Mother asked him about the horse!” She bursts into a fit of laughter. “He was so confused!”
“Malcolm?” I repeat, brows lifting with my curiosity. “You and Lord Boreham are on intimate terms, I see.”
Agatha shoots such a look of venom at her oldest daughter, I startle and instinctively brace for her wrath. But it’s not directed at me.
“Bridget Duxbury, what have I said about calling young men by their first names? It wouldn’t matter if Katherine gave you half her dowry—you’d be scandalizing yourself out of husbands!”
Bridget’s face turns scarlet. She’s shockingly penitent. She bows her head, her golden curls shaking from the movement. “Forgive me, Mother. I am far too presumptuous. It shall never happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.”
I move a small bite very slowly to my mouth, glancing between the two of them. Edith catches my eye, and when I expect her to make a silly face mocking the exchange, she immediately looks away.
The three of them know something. Something I don’t know.
“Did Lord Boreham call earlier today, while I was indisposed?” I ask, concerned the answer might be yes even though I didn’t hear a peep of it from Mary.
Bridget shakes her head. “Oh no, we ran into him when we were calling on the Cromptons.” She looks at me and offers a wiggly-eyebrowed smile. “He looked so handsome today.”
Do Bridget and Lord Boreham have a secret understanding between them? Why would Agatha have me marry the man if her daughter loved him? Unless she has some objection to the man and is using my fortune to lure him away from Bridget.
“If you think he’s so handsome, why don’t you just marry him?” I say, before I can think better of it.
All three of them blurt a stunned, “What?”
Edith covers her mouth with a napkin, trying to smother a burst of laughter. “ Bridget ? And Lord Boreham ?” She fails, and her chortle rings out against the paneled walls and their intricate trim.
“Oh, please, Kat! I could never try to steal your intended!” Bridget rushes to insist. “Lord Boreham and I are not suited at all .”
She’s still talking as Agatha says, “Bridget is not going to marry Lord Boreham.”
“Why are you all acting like this is a preposterous idea?” I demand. And why, if he is so vastly unsuited to Bridget and Edith, am I the one required to marry him? “There are three of us. He could have married any of us. Why is this so strange a concept?”
Agatha’s face freezes for a split second, so fast I almost think I imagined it, but then she smiles. “My dear, it is because you are the one he is interested in.”
“He’s never seemed all that interested in me,” I retort.
Edith and Bridget are sitting uncomfortably across from me, but Agatha continues placidly, having successfully pulled her composure back under her tight rein. “Lord Boreham is not an expressive man, but he has always spoken very highly of you in our conversations. He may not show it to you, but he is quite smitten. He would never have proposed otherwise.”
Why does it still feel like there is some crucial piece of information being withheld from me?
“Speaking of his proposal”—Agatha lifts her napkin and daintily wipes her mouth—“have you thought of your answer?”
I push back my chair, leaving my unfinished meal. “I have.”
Then I make my escape, having successfully survived the last dinner I ever plan to have with these women.
I didn’t tell Mary when I was leaving. She needs to give an honest answer in the morning when Agatha demands to know where I have gone, and why I am refusing to give an answer to Lord Boreham’s proposals.
By the light of a gibbous moon, I pull on my trousers and belt them. The chest binding goes on next, covered by the collared white shirt that buttons down the front. I yank on the boots with worn soles and lace them up. Mary cut my hair last night, saying that if someone was going to, it had better be her and not me—else her reputation as a servant would be tarnished. I tie the short strands in a little queue at the nape of my neck.
I stand in front of my mirror, regarding my disguise. It’s good. I look unfamiliar and wide-eyed to even my own gaze. Mary has always bemoaned my freckles, but they add to the disguise very nicely, lending me youth. I sling my satchel with an extra change of clothes and a few necessities over my shoulder.
My excitement propels me to the window, which I open silently with years of practice. The night air has a bite to it. It’ll go away after a few minutes of brisk walking.
The latticework is familiar beneath my hands and feet. I climb down it quickly, taking care as always when I get near the window to Agatha’s study. She usually isn’t awake at this early hour, but soft candle glow reflects out the window. I peer inside and find her in a robe, her hair pinned up in curlers, as she reads a letter.
My foot slips on the lattice. I catch myself, but not before I see Agatha’s head whip toward me. I plaster myself against the wall and hold my breath.
Nothing happens.
I don’t dare glance through the window to see if she’s watching. I shimmy gingerly the rest of the way down the lattice until the ground is solid beneath my feet. Then I break into a run, making for the hedge. There’s one spot I always squeeze out of, and it’s worn through with use. I get on my belly and pull myself through.
It feels wrong not to head toward the stables now and get Bartholomew.
“You’re doing this to get her back,” I remind myself firmly. I’ll stay unwed until my birthday, claim my fortune, and then I will go reclaim my horse.
For now, I’m free of Agatha.
“Now to get to this fae ambassador’s house,” I murmur under my breath. I take out the scrawled map from my pocket, and hurry down the street.
The night is quiet and full. I dodge the shadiest parts of the city and stay out of the way of city guards— mostly . Half an hour into my trek, I come upon two quite suddenly. They stride down the street where the moon doesn’t shine and it’s only just before they step into the light that I catch the glint of a sheathed sword.
I try not to flinch like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. I put my head down and make to walk past him.
“What are you doing out so early, lad?”
Curse it all. “I don’t want to be late for my new job, sir!” I call, pitching my voice just slightly deeper.
“Is your job all the way in Aursailles?” the second one teases, and they both break into laughter.
“No, sir,” I say, and hurry past their laughter. Be meek. Be small and inconspicuous.
I allow myself to eat the small snack I packed just before sunrise, to ease the shaking of my limbs. “You hate this,” I tell myself, “but not nearly as much as marrying Lord Boreham and watching him spend all your money.”
That is what keeps me going.
And the certainty that I cannot get married before my raid in two months. I need— need —to pull this off. I’m not sure how I’ll manage it while being a servant, but I’ll find a way. It’ll be easier than if I was married, for sure! If I must give up sleeping as well as eating, I’ll do it.
The sky turns gray before dawn when I arrive.
It’s a large manor, positioned on the edge of town, with what seems to be acres of green forest behind it. A row of neat hedges line the path to the entrance. There is a grand circle after the hedges, perfect for receiving carriages for a ball. Tall evergreens rise on the edges of the circle, giving the manor a sense of secluded grandeur.
My own home, the Vandermore Manor, is larger than this, but there is an elegance to its structure, to the scrollwork above the windows and along the edges of the roof.
I keep away from the grand entrance and skirt around the back, reading Mary’s directions again to ensure I’ve got it right.
I land on one particular doorstep, my knuckles raised to knock.
There’s no going back once you knock, I tell myself.
I hesitate, running over my plan in my head. I’ve just got to keep a low profile, stay out of the way of the fae that I will be serving, and hide here until my birthday. Being a servant here is ideal, because this fae won’t know me—unlike all of the other well-situated families in the city—and because I might be able to glean information that will help me run my raids more effectively.
There’s no point in second-guessing myself. Mary already got me this job, and if I fail to show up now, I cannot get hired anywhere else.
I knock.
The door opens to reveal a sharp nosed, tall woman in a dark blue dress and starched white apron. She wears a cap over her tightly pulled-back hair. Every line of her face is severe. She studies me for several minutes, standing in the doorway, refusing to speak or open the door to me.
It feels like she is climbing into my brain and reading all my secrets.
This is the true test of my disguise, I think while my body goes stiff. There’s no way this eagle-eyed woman is going to be fooled by my extra-large pants and chest binding. If she is, however, then I think I might be able to fool anyone.
I bow. “Ma’am. I’m here for my post.”
“How old are you?”
I clear my throat. “Twelve.”
“We don’t hire children here.”
“No, no, ma’am, I’ve already been given the job.” I pull the notice out of my pocket. Mary thought of everything—brilliant girl—and leveraged her connections hard to get me this position. “I was to report here this morning.”
The woman frowns at the note. “You’re Mary’s little brother?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“You look nothing like her.”
I wince. “I fear she got all the pretties, ma’am. She takes after our mother.”
“And you got all the freckles, I see. Well, come in. You’ll need a uniform if you’re going to be working under my watch. I am Mrs. Banks, and you answer to me.”
A potent mix of relief from my success and trepidation that the real trial is yet to come fills my blood. I follow Mrs. Banks inside. She gives me a new uniform: a pair of tighter fitting breeches that I almost am too afraid to wear for fear of them revealing my hips, a stiff, collared white shirt, and a pair of suspenders. I’ve never worn suspenders before. I do not like them.
She sits me down at a stool before a large bucket of potatoes and hands me a knife. “Peel these spuds.”
And so begins my first day as a servant boy. I put my head down and peel those potatoes, trying to find a sweet spot between speed and minimal waste. As my pile of peeled vegetables grows, so does my confidence. I find myself growing distracted, however, by the people bustling around the kitchen. All unfamiliar faces. There is the woman who moves expertly about the kitchen, reminding me of Viola. A little girl sits in the corner, about eleven years old, with a pile of mending on her lap.
And Mrs. Banks said they didn’t hire children!
There are several men. Two manservants in livery, and an older man in much dirtier clothes who must tend the grounds. When he walks through the kitchen, Mrs. Banks shouts from the other room, “I don’t want your nasty boots on my floor, Clifford!”
Mrs. Banks returns twenty minutes later to inspect my work. I restrain my proud smirk.
“How are you only half done with those potatoes? Are you slower than a crippled horse?”
I bristle and stick my head back down, vowing not to let my focus waver one second.
When I’m finished with the potatoes, there is no word of praise. I quickly realize just how silly of an expectation that is. Mrs. Banks orders me out to the well to draw water for the kitchen. The buckets she gives me are alarmingly large. These will be very heavy when full. I’m an athletic person, but carrying heavy things is not my particular strong suit. That was always Mary. She has the strongest arms of anyone I’ve witnessed.
I’ll just have to pretend I’m Mary to get these buckets of water back to the house.
Once they’re full—or mostly full, as my courage faltered while I was filling them up—I wrap one hand around each handle and give a hefty lift. They barely budge.
“Saints have mercy on me,” I mutter.
My limbs shake from hunger, even though I thought I’d eaten enough. Apparently not. No one has seen through my disguise yet, but with these breeches, I fear I might need to continue limiting my food. Whatever happens, I cannot risk being discovered.
An embarrassingly loud grunt slips between my teeth when I heft the water buckets up. Saints have mercy, I think again as I begin to worry about my elbows being pulled out of their sockets. The distance between the well and the kitchen door is far too long, and I perform an awkward shuffle-run in an effort to carry the water buckets for the least amount of time possible. I drag them inside, breathing hard, and pause as water sloshes over the edges. Where am I supposed to take these buckets?
“My five-year-old nephew is stronger than you!” exclaims Mrs. Banks from my left.
I whip my head to the side. She regards me from over the tip of her severe nose. I didn’t realize she was in the kitchen. Oops. “Sorry, ma’am,” I reply dutifully, instead of letting my instinctive snappy reply fly free.
I’m tasked with carrying wood to all the grates in the house. Mrs. Banks says that will be one of my everyday tasks, along with chopping the wood. When I dump the wood into the dining room hearth and soot shakes free and lands on the pristine red rug, Mrs. Banks threatens to box my ears. I scrub the soot out of the rug until my hand is shaking. When I am handed a dead chicken and told to pluck off its feathers, I swallow my instinctive need to vomit and pretend I’m Viola, unphased by a jiggly bird’s neck with no head. I don’t do that fast enough to please Mrs. Banks, who happens upon me mid task and announces: “Mary owes me one for asking me to hire you!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, just as Mary would have wanted me to.
I’m sent outside to collect eggs from the chickens. The slight reprieve from the hot and full kitchen is everything I needed—and yet my shoulders drop when I see the angle of the sun. It’s only been a few hours. I count the rest of the hours in the day and nearly fall over.
“Mary must be a demigod,” I conclude as I take a few pecks from the speckled chicken while fishing for her eggs. How she can handle this level of labor every single day is beyond me!
If I thought those first few hours of the day were difficult, the rest of the day only proves worse. Sweat pours down my face and I become endlessly thankful for the layer between my chest binding and my shirt, otherwise my sweat might have revealed my secret long before the day is over.
I work harder than I have ever worked in my life, enduring Mrs. Banks’s endless displeasure, trembling from hunger, and there is no sign of this supposed fae master. I’m beginning to think I might not have a single opportunity to glean information that will be helpful on my raids. This might just be the worst arrangement I could have possibly ended up in.
Marrying Lord Boreham grows oddly more appealing by the moment.
Then I think of Bartholomew. I clench my jaw and force myself to work harder. I will not let Agatha’s schemes dictate my life. I will not let her win.
“Have you ever milked a cow before, lad?” Mrs. Banks asks mid-afternoon.
“No, ma’am.”
She sends her gaze heavenward. Then she gestures sharply for me to follow her outside to the barn. The chickens scatter at her angry strides as she approaches the grazing cow with a soft brown coat and whites rimming her black marble eyes. She takes a milk pail and a bucket of grain, opens the gate to the cow’s pen and motions for me to shut it behind me.
“Missy is a good cow,” Mrs. Banks says. I think that’s the only praise I’ve heard her offer all day. “She doesn’t need a milking stanchion. As long as she has some grain, she will usually hold still for you.”
Mrs. Banks gives Missy the cow her pail of grain and then squats beside her. I steal a glance at the woman, somehow surprised that someone so perfectly starched and pressed would demonstrate for me how to milk a cow. I watch carefully, and when it’s my turn, I mimic her movements. It proves to be a tricky task, but I pick it up quickly. My experience with Bartholomew seems to give me a slight edge. Mrs. Banks eventually stops giving me cues. It’s as close to recognition as I think I’ll ever get from her.
The milk is foamy and warm in the pail when I finish.
“Carry it back to the house. We must filter it. Finch will make butter from the cream for tonight’s supper,” Mrs. Bank says.
A grunt escapes me as I lift the heavy pail. It’s several gallons—an awkward weight for one hand. I’m already sore from today’s work and there was no midday meal provided for me. It’ll be a steep challenge, but if I can get this all the way back to the kitchen, I will also consider myself a demigod like Mary. A much lower and far more pathetic breed of demigod, but still one nonetheless.
Mrs. Banks’s eyes burn into me from ahead as I pretend this pail of milk isn’t too heavy for me. I keep shifting it from one side to the other, which earns me a sharp bark of, “Don’t you dare spill that!”
“Yes ma’am!”
Don’t fall on your face, Kat. Don’t fall on your face.
She disappears into the kitchen, too impatient for my slow pace. I hurry to stop lagging so much.
A new voice interrupts my focus.
“As you can see, Master, the grounds are well kept. There is a stream this way. I’ve found the water to be a refreshment after the way the human scent floods the city.”
I follow the voice until I find a mop of curly hair, from which protrude nubby horns. Energy flashes through my body. A fae. A low fae, specifically. He isn’t tall—a little shorter than the average human man. He wears a black uniform that is perfectly tailored to his form. If the horns were hidden, I might not have recognized him as a fae at all. Then he takes a few steps, and the movement is so unlike a human’s, I take back my opinion. He’s got hooves like a goat, complete with the strange backward-jointed knee . . . thing that goats have.
He walks toward the tree-shielded creek, talking to someone I cannot see because of a well-placed shrub. Whoever it is must be this very mysterious fae everyone is talking about. I keep walking, trying to get a clear look at him.
He comes into view between two shrubs. His back is to me, his hands resting lightly on his hips as he listens to the low fae speak.
It isn’t his height or his warrior’s build that makes my blood turn to ice. Nor is it the distinctly fae style of his clothes, with a long tunic, leather jerkin, and a belt designed to carry weapons.
It’s the long, silvery-white hair that falls down his back.
The low fae points to something, and the warrior turns his head to follow, giving me a clear view of his profile: a sharp nose, prominent brow, severe jaw. It isn’t necessary, however. I know who he is.
Prince Rahk.
I’m so shocked, so caught up in this sudden, horrible realization that my ankle rolls in a dip in the grass and, with my weakened strength, there’s nothing that keeps me from flying face first into the dirt. And spilling all the fresh milk into the grass.