The Lady of the Storm - 2 (26 page)

Cecily sighed and tucked that hurt alongside the others and buried it deep within her heart.

“Mortimer, dear,” said Lady Pennington to her little brat, a boy about one-and-ten years of age. “Fetch my box from beneath the seat, will you?”

Mortimer screwed up his face at Cecily. “You heard her. Fetch it.”

Cecily glared at him but he responded only by sticking out his tongue. She sighed and levered herself up to reach beneath the seat, withdrawing a pasteboard box filled with pastries and sweetmeats. She’d found it more peaceful to comply with their requests, rather than dispute her employment to them.

Lady Pennington took the box with a sniff, offering everyone a treat but Cecily. Her stomach grumbled, and she hoped Lord and Lady Longhurst would be more kind to her. After all, Lord Longhurst knew her part as servant was nothing but a ruse. And yet…

Cecily sighed and poked her nose out the window again. It appeared the gentry preferred to bathe in perfume rather than wash the smells from their body, and the strong scent made her head swim. She took a deep breath and realized she would have to get accustomed to these new people and her role among them. She could not afford a slip, and she should be grateful to the Penningtons for allowing her to adjust to it before she reached Dewhame Palace.

If only she could manage to stop missing Giles. Not his protection—despite what he would have her believe. She could take care of herself quite handily, thank you. But his company. The sheer presence of the man. Cecily had felt dead inside the moment she’d left him behind in London.

She sighed again. Best to get accustomed to that feeling as well.

Cecily’s nose suddenly twitched. Water. A wealth of water. She did not know so much could exist on top of dry land. But as the city came into view, she realized that Bath wasn’t truly dry.

Fountains decorated the front stoop of every single dwelling. Spilled to overflowing inside every square. Burst into a cloudy mist atop the very roofs, to trickle slowly down the walls of the buildings. And the buildings themselves…

Cecily stuck her entire head out the window, ignoring Lady Pennington’s outcry at the sheer impropriety of it.

The buildings had all been painted in soft tones of blue and green, and not a one of them had been constructed with a straight line. Corners had been softened with a slight curve, even the windows sporting rounded panes instead of square. Water flowed down the gutters of the street, carrying refuse out of the city. They passed a large building with a statue of Zeus in the front and a sign that read,
The Royal Bath
. And then another, with a smaller statue of Poseidon, and a sign that read,
The Queen’s Bath
.

But the city itself could not compare to Dewhame Palace.

Their carriage passed through the walls surrounding it, walls that had been constructed to look like the swell of multiple ocean waves. Cecily blinked. The waves actually appeared to flow with movement.

And then a flood of water doused her head and she ducked back inside, sputtering, Lady Pennington shouting at the droplets of water that Cecily pelted her with.

But when the carriage finally rolled to a halt and they emerged from it to stand in an inch of swirling water, the lady quit complaining, for her rich clothing was soon dampened along with the rest of theirs.

Cecily craned her neck up at the palace walls. Water streamed down the sides of the blue-tinted stones, picked up the meager sunlight and transformed the curtain of water into glimmering translucence. Within the courtyard itself, stone carvings spouted waterfalls that sprayed white mist into the air, speckling Cecily’s cheeks and arms.

She wanted to hold out her hands and twirl in the abundance that surrounded her.

“Girl,” snapped Lady Pennington, who had managed to find an umbrella and stood within the slight shelter of it. “Don’t stand there gawking. Help with the baggage.”

Cecily replied without thinking. “But I’m supposed to find my employers—”

The lady slapped Cecily’s face as offhandedly as she’d slapped her son’s more than once on their journey. “I’ll hear no guff from you, girl, while I stand here and ruin my best set of shoes.”

Cecily blamed the wealth of water surrounding her. She had never felt her magic so strongly on land before. It had built within her like the swelling of the tide, energizing and powerful and yes, even deadly. She feared the strength it had given her, and cursed herself when her fingers lifted of their own accord and called just a bit of it to her.

So easily.

It swirled around Lady Pennington’s shoes and lifted her slightly off the flagstone, the lady tumbling over in a heap of sodden skirts and hoops. She shrieked and Cecily winced, ashamed of herself.

Then fear skittered through her. She had vowed not to use her magic until she needed it to accomplish her task. Lady Cassandra had told her that she risked exposure if she used too much of her powers too soon. That her fath—the elven lord, Breden of Dewhame, might question such a strong gift.

Cecily reached up to take her small bag from the coachman, and guiltily accepted a small trunk of Lady Pennington’s to carry as well.

When she turned, the lord had helped his wife to her feet, Mortimer still stifling his laughter behind his hand. Lady Pennington had gone from soggy to utterly drenched, her hoops askew and the feathers decorating her cap and bodice hanging sadly down and plastered to her skin.

Cecily looked around beneath lowered lids. But blue-uniformed soldiers did not pour forth from the palace door to arrest her and she trembled with relief. She had used only a bit of magic. Surely Breden of Dewhame’s nobles commanded that every day and it would be lost amongst the other powers.

Still, she vowed to learn from this lesson. She must not let her control slip. She must accustom herself to being treated as less than an equal.

When Lord Pennington ushered his wife into the palace, Cecily meekly followed, accepting another trunk from the coachman to lug along.

The inside walls of the palace had been painted with murals of flowing waves, and although they moved as magically as the ones outside, they lacked real water. Even the floors were finally dry, although they sported rugs of soft hues that appeared to ripple beneath their feet.

Lady Pennington staggered. “La! I always forget how dreadful this place is,” she muttered.

“Hush,” commanded her husband, his small eyes searching the rounded corners of the hall. “We love it here, don’t we, Mortimer?”

“Yes, Father,” the boy dutifully answered. Then turned and stuck out his tongue out at Cecily just for the pleasure of it.

The palace steward met them at the end of the long hall, directing two footmen to relieve Cecily of the lady’s trunks. She flexed her fingers, which had gone rigid from the weight of the handles.

When she did not follow the lord and lady when they started down the main hall, the steward turned to her with a raised brow.

“I… um.” She should not allow the man to rattle her. “I am here in service to the Lord and Lady Longhurst. Can you direct me to their chambers?”

The steward consulted a damp set of papers within his hand. “Ah, yes. I have instructions for your arrival. It is quite kind of you to assist the Lord and Lady Pennington on their journey here.”

This time Cecily raised a brow. As if she’d had any choice.

And the man gave her a knowing smile, and she suddenly didn’t feel quite so lost. Apparently a camaraderie of sorts existed among servants. Not enough to cross the boundaries of their proper place, but enough to make her realize that Sir Robert had been right to send her here in the role of a servant. She could learn much in very little time.

Cecily smiled back at him, forgetting to keep her lids half-lowered over her large eyes.

The man started, and the two other lackeys who stood at his side awaiting his instructions both gasped in unison.

Oh, dear. What had she done?

“You there,” said a voice from across the hall.

Cecily cringed and dropped her gaze to the steward’s pointed shoes, refusing to look at the speaker. For the voice had the richness of an elven lord, velvety and musical like Lord Mor’ded of Firehame’s.

She heard the sound of heavy boots approaching and told herself to run, but her feet stayed firmly planted to the floor. She had been in the palace only for a few minutes, and already she had betrayed herself to Imperial Lord Breden.

A fine spy she turned out to be.

Twelve

“Look at me, girl,” demanded the stranger.

Cecily swallowed and slowly raised her head, then felt her legs turn to jelly in relief. The man who stood before her could not be a pureblooded elf. Although he sported faceted blue eyes and pointed ears, his white-blond hair lacked the silver sparkle that Breden of Dewhame would surely have in his hair.

The man reached out a graceful hand and tilted her face to the light. “You carry a good deal of elven blood within your veins for a servant. Who are you?”

Cecily opened her mouth, but could not find words. This man wore the clothing of a soldier, although his coat had been crafted of blue velvet and not wool, and the gold buttons at hem and sleeve had been inset with small diamonds. The hat he carried under his arm had some type of insignia upon it, but designation of rank had not been something Lady Cassandra had deemed Cecily had time to study.

The steward consulted his papers again and cleared his throat. “Her name is Lucy Stratton, my lord general. She is servant to Lord and Lady Longhurst.”

Cecily started. Ah,
that
military designation required no study. General Owen Fletcher, champion to the elven lord, with enough magical power to call upon a wave from the Bristol Channel to win a battle. Rumors also had it that the man used his magic in perverted ways that even the elven lord had not devised. And that he enjoyed the doing of it.

With the way the general now stared at her, she could well believe the rumors.

General Fletcher stroked her cheek. “Egads, those eyes.” Then he ran a callused thumb over her lower lip. “So, you received all the beauty of the elven but none of the magic, eh? Pity. You’re far too lovely to be a servant of naught but a man’s desire.”

Cecily stepped away from the general’s touch. She could feel his lust as a palpable thing and it made her stomach roil. She could not imagine anyone’s hands upon her but Giles’s. The thought that her role as servant would not protect her from the general’s advances…

“I am not a slave, sir.”

The steward raised his rather bushy brows. “Indeed, she is not.”

The general turned on the smaller man. “But I have taken a fancy to her, Hastings.” He called the water from a nearby fountain; Cecily could feel the tingle of his magic. Fletcher crafted the liquid into thin translucent strands, wrapped them warningly around Hastings’s throat, somehow managing to strengthen the water without creating swirls of force.

Cecily frowned. She could feel the slight brush of a chill. Ah, Fletcher had half-frozen the water to make it more solid. Something she had never thought to try.

The steward answered in a strangled breath. “Then you will have to take up the matter with Lord Longhurst. Assuming Lucy will accept you as her employer.”

Which she had no intention of doing. Fletcher glanced at her and she glared. Perhaps the general was used to women falling all over him—he certainly was handsome enough. And perhaps some women were foolish enough to think bedding the man would give them some type of power beyond their current positions. Or perhaps they just feared him.

But Cecily did not. He might have thought of ways to use his powers beyond her scope of knowledge, but her magic surpassed his by leaps and bounds.

She wondered if he had sensed that in her. If that’s what had caught his attention enough to interest him in a mere servant.

Hastings’s face had turned an alarming shade of red. But the smaller man stood firm, staring down the general in what appeared to be a long-standing battle of wills. Cecily imagined the steward answered only to the elven lord, and none other. And that the man must be exceptionally good at his post to have value enough to thwart Breden of Dewhame’s champion.

The noose of water about the steward’s throat suddenly froze to solid crystals, then shattered upon the floor like so many diamonds.

“Devil take you, Hastings,” growled the general. “You’re always trying to spoil my fun.”

The steward rubbed his red throat. “But who else will curb your appetites, General?”

And Fletcher threw back his head and laughed, his white hair reaching past his waist. “That’s famous! Who indeed?” He lowered his head, brought his face close to Cecily’s, and softened his voice to an intimate whisper. “Life is sweetened by a challenge, is it not? Fie, the bravery in those blue eyes. Whence does it come, I wonder? And can it be broken?”

Cecily stuck her nose in the air and the general laughed again.

He slapped Hastings on the back. “My thanks, as usual, lord steward. What an excellent game you have begun.” And then strode away.

Cecily released a breath of relief.

Hastings nodded at her in sympathy. “General Fletcher loves a game as much as the elven lord himself. It is bad luck that you have caught his eye, my dear. Stay out of his way, and mayhap he will forget you.”

“Thank you.”

He shrugged. “Follow me.”

Cecily complied, wondering if the steward could be a member of the Rebellion. She felt sure Sir Robert would not reveal all of his players to her. But she did not ask, for Hastings likely wouldn’t tell her anyway. She decided that he might just be a good man among many evil ones, and accepted his attempts to rescue her with silent gratitude.

Water flowed down the walls of the main hall just as it did on the outside of the palace, but fell into a marble trough running below and flowed to a large pond at the end of the walkway. Swans and ducks floated on the glassy surface, shaded by the weeping fronds of some trees that Cecily could not identify.

They passed a staircase that resembled the interior rings of a needle shell, curving round to the upper levels of the palace, with the speckled brown spots on the ivory surface. But her guide continued on to the servants’ stairs, stone treads worn to shiny smoothness, dark and dank all the way to the basement floor.

“You will come here to take your meals if you are not bidden to take them with your employers,” said Hastings. “You will also fetch dinner from here if they wish to dine in their rooms.”

Cecily stared around the enormous stone chamber. The cook and several other servants stared back. Only the slaves kept their eyes averted, intent on their tasks, their ragged clothing and bare feet making their status obvious. Several servants sat at a massive table of driftwood, frozen in the act of talking and chewing at the same time, studying Cecily with avid curiosity.

No fountains flowed here to relieve the heat of the massive fireplace and many ovens, but the humidity coiled about the very floors, swirled along the walls. Cecily sucked in a deep breath, but the upper lip of the steward began to sweat, and with a grimace, he quickly led her back up the stairs.

Cecily went over the map she’d memorized in her head, coordinating it with the actual layout of the palace, trying to match the secret passages with the public rooms.

It would take her days of exploring to gain her bearings.

Hastings took her up another flight of servants’ stairs. “I caution you to avoid the ground floor where the court assembles, and the second floor, where the elven lord and the permanent members of the court reside.”

“General Fletcher’s rooms are there as well?”

“Just so.” The steward stopped and opened the door at the top of the stairs. “Stay here on the first floor if at all possible. These are the guest chambers, where Lord and Lady Longhurst reside for the nonce.”

Cecily hurried her steps to keep up with the spry man, passing door after door—and fountain after fountain—until they came upon a set that looked identical to the others. “Thirteenth door on the right,” she panted.

Hastings gave her a smile of approval, then knocked.

A lad opened the door, his freckled face scrunched up with authority, his small uniform smartly tailored to resemble an adult’s. “Whom may I say is calling?”

Only the slight crack in his voice belied his formality.

“Hastings. And Miss Lucy Stratton, reporting for service.”

The lad nodded, shut the door, and then promptly reappeared. “His lordship is waiting for ye.”

Cecily smiled at the village accent in his voice, and the lad returned it hesitantly as she stepped past him into the apartments.

Lord Longhurst possessed a nose reminiscent of his name, and a set of intelligent hazel eyes that flashed with alarm and anger when Hastings recounted the scene in the hall with General Fletcher.

“Lucy is my cousin’s daughter,” replied Longhurst. “I promised to keep her safe while she was in my employ.”

“I understand, my lord,” replied Hastings. “It’s why I thought to bring her to you myself, and warn you of the general’s interest.”

Cecily glanced between the two men. Her suspicions that both of them played a part in the Rebellion solidified.

Lady Longhurst, on the other hand, appeared oblivious to all but her own self-interests. “Can you set hair, Lucy?”

The lady had a sweet voice, reminding Cecily of her own mother’s gentle tone. “Not very well, I’m afraid.”

“Never mind, then. I just hoped to have a bit of variety. Ellen knows only one or two styles.”

Cecily glanced at Ellen, a sweet-faced, rather vapid-looking girl. Better and better. She did not need clever people watching her. “I can, however, sew a fine stitch. And I have designed my moth—a fine lady’s clothing.”

Lady Longhurst clapped her hands. “Oh, how divine!” She leaned over and gave her husband a kiss on the cheek. “You dear man, to send me a girl who can redesign my wardrobe! It’s sadly in need of it—the damp and mold, don’t you know? And we just can’t afford the palace mantua-maker. My goodness, you’d think she spun gold instead of cloth to make her dresses.”

Lord Longhurst patted his wife’s hand, and exchanged a look with Hastings and Cecily. And then cleared his throat. “Well, I’m glad you are happy, dearest. And you see, Hastings, that Lucy will be kept busy enough to avoid the general’s interest, so we need worry about it no longer.”

Hastings bowed his way out of the room.

“Ellen,” said Lady Longhurst, “why don’t you show Lucy her room? She must settle in, and gain her rest tonight. For tomorrow we shall go shopping for new fabric!”

Lord Longhurst emitted a soft groan at his wife’s words as Cecily followed the other girl from the withdrawing room, which boasted a small pond surrounded by rose trees, through a plain door into her new quarters.

Ellen pointed at the bed that sat across from her own. “I suppose yer not used to such finery, coming from the country and all.”

Cecily eyed the small room with a raised brow. Perhaps the linens on her bed at home lacked the fineness of these, and her wardrobe lacked the intricate carving on the wood, but she would give much to be back in her humble cottage.

Ellen blinked. “Ach, don’t mind me. Trying to put on airs, I am. And ye so homesick and all. I’m Ellen.” And she thrust out her hand. Cecily clasped it gently. “The lad is my younger brother, Jimson. He has a bit of magic, ye know.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “He can hide in a mist. I’m warning ye, so yer careful when ye change yer clothing. He’s a bit of a scamp.”

Cecily smiled. “Thank you, Ellen.”

“Oh, my. Ye talk fine fer a country girl. Do ye have any magic?”

“Do you?”

“Ach, no. Not enough elven blood in my family line. Jimson and I have different fathers. But ye—ye have the elven eyes. And such perfect skin and teeth.”

Cecily shrugged, set down her bag, and tested the bed. Hard as a rock. “I inherited only the looks. I have no magic to speak of.” And apparently that mattered a great deal within the palace, for the girl gave her a pitying look.

“We shall get along splendidly, then. For we must make ourselves useful with nothing but our own two hands. Our kind must stick together, don’t ye know.”

***

Cecily spent the next several days shopping for clothing material during the day. And sneaking about the secret passages at night. And missing Giles so strongly that she muffled her cries in her pillow.

Ellen had decided to trust her, and mistook her misery for homesickness, and tried to be even kinder. She slept like a stone, so Cecily need not worry about the girl becoming suspicious of her activities. Jimson, however, liked to spy on her.

Late one evening, Cecily had decided to explore a new tunnel in the passages, discovering a peephole into General Fletcher’s private rooms, when she felt the shiver of mist upon her back. She spun and squinted against the darkness, her small candle illuminating the dank corridor only so far.

A spot of humidity looked a bit… thicker than normal.

“Jimson,” she whispered. “I know you’re there.”

The spot wavered, but did not dissipate.

Fie. She would have to make the lad show himself. She wiggled her fingers unobtrusively, and the mist evaporated to reveal the freckle-faced boy.

“Why are you spying on me?” she snapped.

“Why are ye sneaking about the palace? How did ye know about this passage? I thought I was the only one who knew about it—and how did ye uncover me anyway? Only one of the nobles can do that, and not too many of ’em, either.”