Gretchen paused a moment, but Lucinda absolutely could not think of a word to say. Gretchen’s voice dropped a few notes lower, and her next words came more slowly. “It was a miserable winter that year. Colder than I have ever seen it, anywhere, at any time. You know the story—a few weeks after you were born, Rinalda escaped from her locked room into the icy winter night, carrying your sister in her arms. And was found two days later, frozen to death. And everyone at Cedar Hills thought it was sad, but probably for the best.”
Gretchen raised her eyes suddenly, and they were fierce with an old torment. “But I know Bael helped her escape, because I saw him lead her down the corridor. I saw that baby in her arms. And I know, as surely as I am sitting here today, that he chose that night, that winter night, to set her free—with no coat, with no boots, with no haven anywhere for miles. Because he wanted her to die on the side of the road, and he wanted that baby to die with her. And I have known from that day on that Bael is a murderer, no matter that he is the most revered angel in Samaria.”
“But—did you tell anyone? Michael? My father? Anyone?”
Gretchen shook her head. She had dropped her eyes again, and when she spoke, she addressed the floor. “There was no one to tell. There was nothing to say. Rinalda was dead, and a day later, so was your father. But three years later the god announced that Bael would become Archangel when Michael’s tenure was ended. I knew then that you were no longer safe in Samaria. And I brought you to Angel Rock, and raised you as best I could, and kept you from Bael as long as I was able. And I was a fool to allow you to return to Samaria, for he has remembered you, and sent his son to court you, and you are no longer safe if he knows where you are.”
Melodrama; nonsense; and yet … She could not deny that Omar had been courting her, in a peculiar, unsettling way, and he had been very attentive to her at the Gloria. Lucinda remembered suddenly that Omar had come to visit her at Cedar Hills, and that the very next day, Gretchen had abruptly insisted they return to Angel Rock. Gretchen had been so eager to leave Samaria that she had agreed to travel on an Edori ship. Had she feared Omar even then? Feared Bael?
Lucinda leaned forward and put her hand on the older woman’s arm. “Aunt Gretchen, I do not want to run away, from Angel Rock and from you,” she said softly. “I am not afraid of Bael—”
“Well, you should be!” Gretchen exclaimed, suddenly frenzied. “For he has killed Jacobites other than your poor mother, and he is willing to stop at nothing to erase them all! He is dangerous, he is ruthless, and his son is power mad. And if you do not realize that, you are in even more danger than I thought. You must be gone from here as soon as possible.”
“But I don’t want to go to Ysral! I don’t know anyone there, I don’t—”
“I have a friend there. He’ll take care of you. He can be trusted.”
“Who is this friend you have never mentioned?”
“His name is Conran. He knew your mother.”
“He knew my mother! I didn’t realize the two of you had any friends in common.”
“A few, but Conran the best of them. I have not seen him in nearly thirty years.”
This was more and more like an unsettling dream, full of disconnected words and images. Lucinda ran a hand through the snarls in her hair, wishing she could untangle her thoughts as easily. “Then—how do you know where he is? How do you know he can still be trusted? How do you know anything?”
“I hear from him now and then. For Rinalda’s sake, he has always had a great deal of interest in you. So I have sent him letters from time to time. He’ll be happy to see you.”
“And he’s in Ysral? Is he Edori?”
“No,” Gretchen said sharply, for of course she did not like Edori. “He’s a Jacobite.”
And Lucinda stared at her aunt, and her whole world disintegrated around her, foundation, form, and essence. For if her aunt was a secret Jacobite, and had been for twenty-five years, then nothing Lucinda had believed in was solid or could be relied on. And nothing made sense or conformed to any rules. And there Was no safety in Ysral, or anywhere.
Five days later The Wayward pulled into Angel Rock, bound for Ysral. And Lucinda boarded, half her belongings in her hands, and sailed away from the island toward the cautious, unpredictable welcome of strangers.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Life at Cartabella was not nearly as enjoyable as life in Semorrah, but it wasn’t bad, either. Gene was a strict boss when it came to treating the horses properly and keeping the stables clean, but other than that he left his workers to their own devices and had little commentary to offer on their lives or personal habits. The other grooms were an odd assortment of misfits, mostly taciturn older men who dealt with animals much better than with people and were just as happy to be left in solitude. Gregor, the young boy who had first greeted Tamar upon her arrival, was the most tiresome of the lot, always looking for entertainment, conversation, or distraction; but most of the other grooms ignored him, so Tamar found it safe to do so, too.
She ate in the common mess hall, where all the ostlers, gardeners, and field-workers took their meals, and there was a constant stream of visitors into the stables, but it was possible to pass an entire day without having more than a brief exchange of words with anyone. At night, Tamar retired to her tiny room, spent five minutes reveling in the blessed privacy, then read for an hour before falling into a deep, exhausted sleep. Working in the stables was hard, demanding labor, but she welcomed the physical challenge. The more strength required of her body, the less energy she had left to funnel to her mind. She was glad to have a couple weeks of simply not thinking.
Although she would have to think again, someday. She could not spend the rest of her life in seclusion on Isabella Cartera’s well-run farm. She would go mad, that was one consideration; but it was a waste of her life, that was another. She must find her friends again, take up the search again, once more have the courage to tell Samaria the truth about Jovah and the Alleluia Files.
The more she thought about it, the more she thought Conran and the others must have gone to Ysral. It seemed the only safe choice for the long term. So she must join them there, but it was insanity to try to leave from Breven, Kiss or no Kiss. Perhaps there would be ships departing for Ysral from Port Clara or one of the other harbor cities. She would work here a month or two, save all her wages, then travel in careful stages to one of the other ports and see if she could book a passage out.
That much she eventually decided, over a fortnight’s attempts to avoid thinking at all; she could come up with no other solutions for her life. So for now she would just exist.
The only really disturbing part of her life these days was the music in her head. It was the oddest thing. She still had bouts of the strange vertigo that had troubled her since she had had the Kiss installed, but for whatever reason, these had ceased to worry her. Actually, at times, when the day was particularly dull, she welcomed those dizzy sensations of whirling above the earth in giddy, looping patterns. If she closed her eyes (and wrapped her hands around the railing of a corral or some other convenient hold), she truly felt as if she was flying, climbing straight into the cloudless blue sky, plummeting downward in a terrifying free fall, then spinning back upward in a whirling climb of cartwheels. She wondered where these fantasies came from (some head injury she had suffered in the past, perhaps, though she could not remember any this serious), but somehow the sessions did not seem as alarming as they had at first. She enjoyed them; she actually looked forward to them.
But the singing, at least at the beginning, did unnerve her. It had begun while she was in Semorrah, but in that bustling city, it was easy to believe the faint, indistinct music was coming from an outside source—someone in the next house practicing a melody, a street vendor trying out a song. But after she had spent a few days in the quiet confines of Cartabella, the music became clearer—and more internal—as if it originated inside her head, somewhere at the back of her skull, and vibrated in the space bet
ween her ears.
She could not shake away the sweet, liquid notes; she could not clap her hands over her ears and shut out the music. More than once she stared wrathfully down at the Kiss in her arm, convinced that it was some kind of receptor picking up the music on a frequency tuned only to her brain, and narrowly broadcasting on a band only she could hear. For she had never had this experience before she had been Kissed by the god. Surely that was not a coincidence.
Yet mistrusting the Kiss did not stop the music—nothing did—and she had no choice hut to listen to it. Eventually it was so clear that she could distinguish every note, every nuance, every catch of the singer’s breath. After a while she could sing along.
For her personal muse sang one piece over and over again, an eerie, complex melody that seemed neither sad nor exultant, though it had a peculiar power that made it a hard song to ignore. And then, for several days in a row, the singer performed what seemed like a different number, though within a few measures Tamar was convinced it was merely the harmony line to the first song. She experimented, humming the melody she knew beneath the descant in her head; yes, they fit exactly.
Thereafter, whatever part the singer took, Tamar took the other, whistling or humming along with the disembodied voice; and in this way, over time, she lost her distrust of the music as she had lost her fear of the vertigo. She knew she should hold on more tightly to her outrage and suspicion, but she could not. She did not have the strength. And for some reason, she was not afraid.
It was like having a secret companion, here on this friendless farm, a voice to listen to in the dark. She thought she might actually be sorry if the singer ever abandoned her abruptly and she was left once again in silence.
But it was not to be expected that her period of calm would last forever, and inside of three weeks it began to fray. Isabella Cartera was hosting a wedding, a grand event, and dozens of guests began to arrive at the compound.
“These are the rules,” Gene told his staff the morning after the carriages began pulling up at the house. “There’s always at least one ostler waiting at the front door. Most of Isabella’s guests will come in some kind of motorized car, but a few of them will arrive by carriage, and some will arrive on horseback. We must be ready to take the horses instantly and stable them.
“Some of the guests will want to ride in the mornings. More will want to ride in the afternoons. Any guest who wants to borrow a horse may do so. If any guest is riding alone, offer to accompany him. If he declines, note when he leaves and make sure he returns. If he has not returned by the time your shift ends, notify me. If he returns, but the horse looks abused or mistreated, notify me. Every time one of our horses is returned to the stable, check it thoroughly for burrs, soreness, lameness— any problem a novice rider might overlook.
“We will not let Isabella’s horses out before dawn or after dusk, unless it is a special ride authorized by Isabella. However, guests may take out their own horses at any time, and some of them may wish to ride at odd hours. One of you must sleep in the stables at all times so someone is available to serve the guests at a moment’s notice. You will take turns sleeping here— we’ll make up a schedule.
“Isabella’s guests are to be treated with unfailing politeness. Call them lord, lady, sir, madam, angelo, or angela as the case requires. Some of them may be a little arrogant, but I expect you to overlook that. If someone is actually rude to you, or unkind to the horses, I expect you to report that to me immediately.”
He continued talking for a few more minutes, but Tamar’s mind had disengaged. Angelo? Angela? Were angels coming to Isabella Cartera’s? That had not previously occurred to her, although she should not be surprised; Isabella’s wealth was such that she undoubtedly moved in the highest circles of Samarian society. Which was composed mostly of angels.
Well, but angels never rode horses. They were notoriously inept in the saddle, their great wings creating all sorts of problems for themselves and their beasts. None of them would have any reason to come to the stables. She was safe.
Nonetheless, the days leading up to the wedding at Cartabella were filled with other disagreeable incidents. For instance, the visiting nobility were not always as noble as their lineage might suggest. And some of them found it quite curious—and intriguing—that a woman would be employed in the stables.
Tamar had her first taste of this only two days after the guests began arriving. Three young bloods—from southern Jordana, she guessed by their accents—found her alone in the stables and began pressing for her personal history.
“Say! Last time I went to fetch a horse, the groom was old, ugly, smelled of tobacco, and fondled himself with his free hand while he held my bridle in the other,” said the tallest one, dressed in clothes that were perfumed like money. “I much prefer a pretty girl like you.”
She schooled her features into neutral stiffness. “Which are your horses, sirs? I will bring them from the stalls for you.”
“And will you ride with us if we ask you nicely?” said one of the others, a small blond with a handsome face but close-set, narrow eyes. “We’re unfamiliar with the land around Isabella’s farm. We might get lost.”
“I have been instructed only to ride with the ladies,” she said woodenly. It was not true, of course, but she suspected Gene would back her up.
“Ah! And were you imported just to service the ladies?” the tall one said, unmistakably stressing the word “service.” “For I do not recall you being here the last time I visited Isabella.”
“No,” she said baldly.
“And how long have you been a groom?” he asked. He seemed to be the leader of the group; in any case, he was the one who kept edging closer to her no matter how she attempted to sidestep him.
“Long enough. Which are your horses, sirs? I will bring them out for you.”
“I’m afraid my mare may have pulled her right foreleg,” her tormentor continued in a soft, silky voice. “Will you put her through her paces for me so I can see how she handles? I’m sure you’ve got a gentle touch that she’ll respond to, though normally she only allows me to ride her.”
“Perhaps one of your friends can oblige you,” Tamar replied. “I have work of my own to attend to.”
He was beginning to get testy. “I assure you, I am asking what I would ask of any groom,” he said coldly. His other companion, the one who had not yet spoken, touched him gently on the arm.
“Oh, let it be, Devon,” he said in a calm voice. “Let the girl go to her work, and let’s get on with the ride.”
Devon jerked his arm away and stalked across the stable to where a restive, high-strung palomino pranced nervously in her stall. “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll take care of my mare myself.”
Tamar nodded gravely and turned to the other two noblemen, who appeared slightly embarrassed by their friend’s fit of temper. “Sirs?” she repeated.
“The black is mine,” said the third man, pointing. “And Alan’s is the bay with the white nose. We’ll await you outside.”
That was the most chilling of the incidents, but more than one of the other visitors expressed a great deal of interest in her presence, her appearance, and her ability to perform her job. She treated them all with a noncommittal courtesy, rarely made eye contact, and never allowed herself to come close enough to be touched.
She mentioned none of this to Gene until the skirmish with Devon, and then she felt it best to speak up before one of the noble lords complained to the head groom. “If I behaved wrong, tell me,” she finished. “I’ll do what you say.”
But she had gambled correctly. He frowned, and nodded thoughtfully. “Hadn’t thought about it before,” he said. “You hear stories about how lads like that treat the maids and the upper servants, but as I haven’t had too many women working for me in the stables, it didn’t occur to me….” His voice trailed off. He studied the pattern of halters hanging on nails in the far wall. “Well, we’ll take you off the night shift. There’s one worry done away
with. Could make you point person at the front door all day—you might get a few comments still, but there’d be too many people about for anyone to corner you and try a mischief.”
Yes, but at the front door she’d be highly visible to anyone who happened to drop by Cartabella—angels, noblemen, anyone. “You could put me in charge of exercising the estate horses,” she said. “That way, I’d mostly be out of the stables but I’d still be working.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s fine with me. Still might run into a few hotheads now and then who think any woman is fair prey.”
She gave him a quick, demure smile. “But if I’m exercising the horses,” she murmured, “I can just ride away.”
He grinned back. “Fine. Your call. Something else comes up, let me know, and we’ll work it out. But don’t be afraid to tell me about it. I know the gentlefolk. Not so gentle.”
So that comforted her, though she wondered if her coworkers might resent her for getting preferential treatment. If they did, they did not say so. Gregor did comment on her new duties (“Better you than me. I’d rather feed them than take them out for exercise”), hut didn’t seem to feel she’d received any privileges. All in all, she felt she was surviving Isabella Cartera’s influx of visitors relatively well.
Although, the next day, she was not so sanguine.
She had risen early to give special attention to Lunacy, a two-year-old filly that Gene had recently acquired. The horse had picked up some bad habits from her previous trainer and didn’t like to be handled by women, though she was small-boned and delicate and clearly destined to be a lady’s mount. Tamar wanted to accustom the filly to a woman’s voice and touch before she attempted to take her on a long ride—or turned her over to Isabella Cartera.