‘Nevertheless –’ Lancelin begins to reply.
But I’m too angry to wait to hear what he says. I push the door open and hobble forward.
‘Nevertheless, you will do me the courtesy of accompanying me to court and remaining there until such time as I release you from my service. I do not imagine that will be far distant.’
The boy’s mouth has fallen open, and his black eyes are wide with disbelief. There is such shock and dismay on his face that the urge to laugh bubbles up through my fury.
My steward moves forward and bows. ‘Your Grace, may I present my son: Lucien, Lord Rookwood.’
I nod infinitesimally, drawing myself up as much as I can. ‘Lord Rookwood.’
Lucien shuts his mouth and bows. ‘Your Grace, I … Of course. I will endeavour to be of service.’
There’s not really much else he can say. But I want to make him suffer for a bit longer, so I limp around him slowly, as if inspecting him, thinking about whether I should tell his father how we met the other day, how he disbelieved me and then abandoned me on the beach. It’s very tempting. But better to have him in my debt, perhaps. I look him up and down one last time, enjoying my power. ‘Very well. You may leave us, Lord Rookwood.’
Lucien bows again, nods at his father and makes his escape. My shoulders sag.
‘Nicely done, Your Grace.’ Lancelin’s smile gives way to a sigh. ‘My son’s service abroad appears to have taught him many things, but perhaps not when to hold his tongue.’
‘He’s correct though, isn’t he?’ I look my steward in the eyes. ‘If the people could choose a Protector, they wouldn’t choose me. Despite all the books I’ve read, all the papers I’ve studied, I’m still … unprepared. To put it mildly.’
‘You’re young, my dear. But you are your mother’s daughter; the people would hold you in affection for her sake, if nothing more. Besides, you have plenty of time ahead of you to learn.’
I hope he is right.
Later that night, alone in my rooms, I take off my clothes and look at myself in the full-length mirror. With my petite frame and my black hair I favour my mother. Though she could transform into a black swan, whereas I transform – or I used to be able to transform – into a white one, like my father. I have his blue eyes too, and the same stubborn-set jaw. Twisting round, I examine the scars on my back, running my fingers across them as far as I am able. It’s been five years – no, closer to six – since the attack that left my skin so disfigured. And nearly four years since I last tried to shift my shape. Given the danger I put myself in at the beach, perhaps it is time for me to try again. I take a deep breath, ignoring the bubble of panic beneath my ribcage, and close my eyes, recalling what my mother taught me. I focus on the current running underneath my skin, the power to transform that only nobles possess, that sets us apart from the flightless majority. I envisage the contours of my body, the glowing outline that would be left if you stripped away flesh and bone, concentrating on its flexibility, thinking my way into that state of pure energy that sits between each physical configuration. And I can feel that it’s working, that my form is beginning to alter, to melt from one shape to another, the bones lightening, lengthening, the skin morphing into feather –
Pain flares from the ragged nerve endings in my scarred skin. Terror follows, as bitter and violent as I remember. As swift as the hawks – two transformed nobles – who dropped out of the clouds and fell upon my mother and me, killing her and ripping my back apart.
Two hawks. There in the sky, above us. I know what I saw.
I was talking to my nurse, because my father’s grief had rendered him speechless.
You’re mistaken, my lady. It can’t have been hawks, because there are no hawk families, not any more. You saw some other noble in flight, and you’re confused, my poor pet …
But I’m not confused. I know what I saw –
My chest seizes up and, as I struggle to breathe, the glowing outline in my head disappears. My human body reasserts itself and snaps back into existence, solid and undeniable, leaving me gasping naked on the floor.
Lord Lancelin’s words come back to haunt me: You are, for all practical purposes, flightless … As I lie there, the carpet rough beneath me, I wonder for the first time whether I’m making a mistake. For years I’ve chafed against my father’s restrictions, against the physical walls of the castle and against the wall of silence he retreated behind. I’ve fantasised about leaving Merl and seeking justice for my mother. But to risk my dominion, my life, for what may be no more than a dream …
Will I be able to survive in the world that I’m about to enter, if I can’t even prove that I am truly one of them?
It’s late, and I’m tired. My injured ankle is throbbing. I crawl into bed with the question still unanswered.
After another two weeks of frenetic activity, the day of my departure finally arrives. Lucien and I are standing in Merl’s great hall, ignoring each other; we’ve not been alone together since that afternoon on the beach.
A servant approaches. ‘We’re ready, Your Grace.’ He bows and returns down the stairs towards the landward side of the castle, where the coaches are waiting. Three for our baggage and a fourth for Lucien’s servant, Turik. Despite my arguments, Letya is insisting on travelling in this coach too. There are armed outriders to accompany us, though they will have to turn back at the border with the Crown Estates: Protectors are not allowed to bring their own guards within the monarch’s personal domain. Lucien and I are travelling together in a fifth coach so that he can start my ‘lessons’ in court etiquette and so on. The journey could take as little as two weeks or as much as three, depending on the weather and the state of the roads, so I’m torn. Now it comes to it, I don’t particularly want to get to court any sooner than I have to. But the thought of an extra seven days shut in a small space with Lucien leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It’s a relief when Lord Lancelin appears.
‘Your walking stick, Your Grace.’ He hands me a – totally unnecessary – cane. ‘It will not do to overtax your strength until you are fully recovered from the rock dragon’s attack.’ Lancelin’s idea: to exaggerate the severity of the injury I suffered at the beach in order to provide me with an excuse for travelling to the Citadel by coach rather than flying. Humour glints in his dark eyes. ‘Send me word if there is anything you need, and try not to worry: the court has its pleasures as well as dangers. I’m sure you’ll be well prepared by the time you get there.’ He raises an eyebrow at his son. ‘Lucien. I trust you will conduct yourself appropriately. Be wary, take care of Her Grace and remember you are representing our house.’
‘Of course.’ Lucien kneels for a moment and receives Lancelin’s blessing, before standing and embracing his father. ‘I’ll wait for you outside, Your Grace.’
Left alone with my steward, I look around the main hall of the castle, drawing out the moment of farewell, trying to ignore the voice in my head that is whispering to me that perhaps I will never return. In the bright morning sunlight, the stained-glass windows cast fractured rainbows across walls, carpets, furniture, every item almost as familiar as my own face. ‘Take care of everything while I’m gone.’