The Duke of Snow and Apples (13 page)

Charlotte provoked just such an arbitrary match for the pride of kill over a sizably large mound of dirt. She and Viscount Elban counted to three and threw their fists into the symbols for Wood, Water, or Fire. Charlotte’s clenched fist (symbolizing Wood) beat Elban’s flat palm (symbolizing Water), giving her the victory, although Elban insisted with good-natured rancor that her aim had gone nowhere near the gnome in question. Some superb marksman must have picked Charlotte’s reserve right off her shoulder, and she crowed her triumph shamelessly.

Turning her head, she saw a flicker of movement: a solitary gnome heading for the shelter of a stand of trees, unaware it wouldn’t be able to pass the magical boundaries created by the wooden stakes.

“A gnome!” she cried.

“Very likely the last one,” said Elban.

Charlotte kicked her tiring mount into one last gallop. The last gnome of the hunt—surely the greatest triumph went to one who caught the prey that had eluded all others. She heard the gallop of others behind her only distantly. She heard, saw, and felt little other than the final gnome in front of her. The glory of the hunt filled her with a flame of clarity that scorched away all doubt or sense of failure. She could ride as she wanted, say what she wanted, do as she wanted, and if a gentleman liked it he could try and catch her, but if he didn’t, he could eat the dust of her wake.

Chapter Thirteen

Frederick had learned, perhaps harder than anyone, just how arduous service could be. Years of hefting and pulling and lifting and carrying had woven a hard lattice of muscle and sinew onto his frame. His finely turned calves were as much a product of his position as they were an advantage to it. Running messages, following carriages, racing up and down Charmant Park’s maze of staircases had rendered his legs as long and sleek as a jackrabbit’s.

Two hours into the mud hunt—hours spent distributing handkerchiefs embroidered with wind-wards, serving warm punch, absorbing orders and requests with complaints in equal measure and distilling them into action—he was exhausted. His shirt clung to his back underneath his coat, sweat prickled along his scalp under his wig, and air hissed loudly through his nose.

He wasn’t the only one struggling. Ben was nearly kicked in the head by a horse when Lady Crewe sent him into the hunting field to ask her husband, Sir Lawrence Crewe, whether he wanted to eat the fish or the lamb during the luncheon afterward. Elderly Miss Lucy Pall sent Tall John dashing back to the kitchens four times, one time for each course, to ensure there would be food provided that wouldn’t rile the delicate and complicated digestion of the even more elderly Lady Greene, to whom Miss Lucy was companion.

Of all the servants on the field, however, no one appeared to work as hard as Lord Noxley’s valet, the one Frederick hadn’t had a chance to meet at the dinner with the Upper Ten. His master had purchased a pair of fine wyrmskin gloves at tremendous expense only to discover they hindered his grip on his rifle. He stuffed them loosely into the pocket of his greatcoat, and every time one fell out onto the ground, he expected his valet to pick it up and chase after him to return them. Noxley’s reckless, rough riding meant his gloves were nearly constantly slipping out of his pocket, and woe betide his valet if he left them on the muddied ground for too long.

Frederick took pity on the poor fellow on one such occasion and ran to fetch the glove for him. He might not have expected anything as frank as a thank-you from a servant more exalted in station than he, but he certainly didn’t expect the openmouthed, gaping fish expression he received in return.

The young valet turned as white as a bleached handkerchief. Limp white-blond hair fell over his brow, above a pronounced nose and narrow blue eyes, but other than a small scar on the side of his jaw he was unremarkable. Yet, for one moment, Frederick thought he looked almost familiar.

“Easy now,” said Frederick, noticing one of the women under the awnings was waving with increasingly violent jerks when her gesture was not responded to immediately. With a bow, he left the flabbergasted upper servant and returned to his own duties.

Something kept his legs moving as he dodged Lady Tamsin’s mare to rescue a young woman’s runaway bonnet from being trampled into the mud. Something helped the air flow into his laboring lungs as he bowed and scraped without appearing too winded. Something stirred heat within him, some central focus that knotted all of the fragments demanding his attention together and kept him from unraveling.

From the northeastern corner of the field, he heard
her
voice tolling in Benine. Her attention to the tonal aspects of the language made her spells sound like songs.

He turned to watch. He couldn’t help himself. Charlotte swept past, trailing wild breezes and music. A gnome, a rebellious twist of hard root and packed earth, fled before her outstretched hand and shouted spell. The wind sang in reply, a howl in counterpoint to her clear soprano, and the gnome exploded in a shower of earth.

The vibrancy of her music awoke something within him, set it to vibrating and humming in silent harmony. He watched her conquer the field, but it wasn’t enough. He was only seeing a dulled, blurred, imperfect image of her, as though through a pane of dirty, bubbled glass. He could see the truer shape of her, if he so chose. He had the ability to see
underneath
. All he had to do was try.

Years of being beaten and suppressed had turned his magic into a sneak-thief, slipping past his defenses when he wasn’t looking, padding into the mind on careful cat-feet to steal a few moments of clarity before fleeing back to its hole. For the last couple of days, Charlotte had kept him so distracted he’d left windows open and doors unbarred in the fortress of his mind without even realizing it.

Now, he wanted his magic.
Just this once. It can’t do any harm
. How many times would he have the chance to witness this?
Just this once
.

Now, he summoned his magic, broke the seal on his cold place, threw open every door and every window, leaving no mistake that,
just this once, just this one time
, his magic was welcome. Power roared into his head, filling it with heat, pooling behind his eyes.

The girl transformed into a whirlwind. Fiery ribbons of orange, yellow, white, and flame-blue rippled about her, twisting around a pulsing knot of red at her center. Searing colors streamed behind her, tangling, brightening, bleeding out into the air like the tail of a comet. How could Charlotte think fire was her weakness? She blazed with it. Not with elemental fire, true, but with a joy so bright it burned, pride so powerful it scorched.

One vivid streak of red broke away from her and floated away. It took a moment for Frederick to realize it was no magic of his, but her simple red scarf, carried away by the wind. He dashed toward the lost article of clothing, bounding with renewed vigor, the tiresome hours leading up to this one task all forgotten.

The scarf barely kissed the ground before he snatched it up. The madness of the hunt swirled all around him, stamping hooves, the flash of sun on harness, hunters circling and dodging each other in some unspoken yet understood dance. Throughout this chaos, Frederick instinctively honed toward Charlotte’s direction. Her victory shone through her, incandescent as a star.

Wrapping her scarf around his wrist, Frederick ran toward the flames.

…

From the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw a flicker of blue. A running figure, lithe as a gazelle, the capes of his greatcoat fluttering in the breeze. Her dropped scarf, wrapped around his hand, trailed behind him like a banner. He dashed toward her at an angle, having no hope of catching up to her, just glad to be part of the chase. His lips pulled back into an eager grin, the most open and buoyant expression Charlotte had ever glimpsed on Frederick’s face.

Smiling back, she gave him an arrogant tilt of the head and spurred Quicksilver faster.

She raised her hand, just as her tongue curved around the words of a spell. Without warning a dark shape veered into her line of sight—Noxley cut across her path, his mouth curled into a smirk.

“Too slow, Miss Charlotte,” he called.

Charlotte finished the spell on instinct, by accident, shooting a burst of air that caught Noxley square in the back. He pitched off his horse like a sack of potatoes.

Charlotte shouted an apology, raced to his side, and dismounted.

Noxley lay face down in the peaty remains of the last unfortunate gnome. A moment later, Frederick and another footman arrived, panting slightly from exertion. Now that all the gnomes had been extinguished, other hunters noticed the display and nudged their horses closer.

“Is he hurt?” one hunter asked. “What happened?”

Frederick and the other footman pulled Noxley to his feet. Coughing and spluttering, the viscount peeled layers of mud from his face with a groan. He was covered from head to foot in dank soil.

Aunt Hildy rode up belatedly. At the sight of the filthy Noxley, she clapped a hand to her mouth, although a suspiciously upturned corner peeked out from behind her fingers. “M-my goodness! What happened?”

Noxley pointed at Charlotte like a tattling child. “She
shot
me!”

“By accident!” Charlotte amended. “I was aiming for the gnome.”

Noxley combed a handful of mud from his hair and threw it down in disgust. “Congratulations! You
got
the gnome!”

Behind him, Frederick’s face scrunched, and his lips folded into a desperate line.

“Seems like I hit two birds with one stone,” Charlotte said.

“Yes, yes, nearly breaking my bloody neck is so terribly amusing.” He winced. “I’m going to have bruises for weeks.”

“To your back, or your pride?” countered Charlotte.

A loud, rollicking laugh split the air. The crowd stilled, and Frederick clapped a gloved hand over his mouth, his face draining of color as he only now realized the sound came from him.

Noxley turned around, surprise and outrage warring across his features. “I—
beg
—your—pardon?”

Frederick lowered his hand. His mouth opened and closed several times without saying anything, not even an apology.

“Don’t be a bad sport,” said Elban, trying to break the tension. He made a perfunctory effort to brush some of the dirt from Noxley’s clothes until Noxley pushed him away. Noxley pulled one of his sodden gloves out of his pocket, turned around, and slapped Frederick full in the face with it.

A silence as muffling and heavy as a theater curtain descended upon the spectators.

“That’s to teach you not to mock your betters!” said Noxley. All signs of humor, cheerfulness, and insubordination vanished from Frederick’s face, leaving it blank and smooth as marble.

“Yes, milord.” Mud dripped off his right cheek where the glove had struck him.

Noxley turned and stalked off the field with his horse, leaving a void of awkwardness behind him that palled the good cheer of the event.

“Bloody poor sport,” Mr. Colton muttered.

Aunt Hildy nudged her horse forward, the flamboyant pink of her riding habit fending off all attempts at melancholy. “Who’s ready for refreshments?”

“Here, here!”

“Excellent notion!”

“I’m absolutely famished!”

Happily distracted from the unpleasant scene by the anticipation of food, the hunters deserted the field and, after handing their mounts over to a troop of waiting grooms, joined their relatives under the awnings, where the sweets and tea services had already been hastily cleared away, replaced by long tables set for luncheon. Charlotte paused and looked back at the field. Frederick hadn’t moved from his spot, even as mud dripped off his face. His hands quivered in tightly contained fists, and his eyes looked in any direction but hers.

She risked a glance at the retreating revelers, deeply engaged in some laughing argument or other. None of them turned back or displayed the smallest concern for the unimportant pride of a footman. She reached into the pocket of her riding habit and drew out a handkerchief. She stole up to Frederick and raised the handkerchief to wipe off the worst of the damage. His hand caught her wrist, leaving the piece of cloth fluttering in the wind like a lonely flag.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice a low burr. “Please.”

“I just want to help.”

“I know.” Keeping his face turned slightly away, he took the handkerchief from her hands and cleaned his cheek himself. He returned her scarf with his other hand. “Thank you.”

“Frederick.
Look
at me.”

“Yes, miss.” His gaze met hers, his features blankly benign. Where once there had been light and feeling, his eyes now encompassed an ocean of space between them, cold and fathomless, leaving Charlotte stranded on the shore.

Perhaps there had always been an ocean there, and as far as Charlotte could try to swim, sooner or later she’d have to return to land. Not out of spite. Not out of hatred. Just the reality of living, of being born low or high, that no one could control and no one could change.

She turned around then, and headed toward the warmth and song and gaiety of the hunting luncheon, toward the people she was supposed to notice and care about.

Thus, she didn’t notice when Frederick folded her handkerchief and stuffed it into his waistcoat, closest to his heart.

Chapter Fourteen

The next morning, Charlotte sat at her dressing-table, fiddling with a loose ribbon on her nightrail. By all rights yesterday’s mud hunt had been a rousing success for her social elevation. During the luncheon, Mr. Oswald, who had kept score, had declared Charlotte the champion of the event.

Viscount Elban had jumped in by regaling the crowd with Charlotte’s superb extermination of a particularly large earth elemental, claiming her aim was so good she only made it
look
as if Elban had shot it himself. Most surprising of all, Noxley (once his valet had replaced his soiled attire) had raised his glass, reciting his impromptu poem about what an honor it was to serve as Miss Charlotte’s weapon of choice. With a raucous laugh, all the guests had joined in.

Yes, a rousing success. And Charlotte couldn’t even thank the man responsible. He hadn’t appeared amongst the servants waiting on the luncheon guests. Charlotte hated to think that he might have been reprimanded for her sake. He hadn’t done anything wrong! He’d just—
laughed
. Mr. Colton had had no end of pleasure ribbing Noxley for the same thing all throughout the midday meal.

Mr. Colton, however, was Pure Blooded. Centuries ago, his human ancestors had wed and propagated with the powerful Fey to give their descendants the right to laugh. Frederick’s forefathers hadn’t possessed that foresight, which, apparently, gave toads like Noxley the right to whip him like a dog in full view of everyone.

Frederick had appeared at dinner a thoroughly chastened puppy, head down, face empty. No knowing looks this time. No secret smiles. Even as the star of the hour, surrounded by laughing people and possible future husbands, Charlotte had never felt so alone. Just because someone was underfolk didn’t mean they deserved to be treated badly. It didn’t mean their hearts bruised any less easily than…than…

Charlotte stood and used the bell-pull to summon Lamonte.

The lady’s maid appeared not a moment later. As always, she wore her impractical little apron over a gown of breathless beauty and taste with all the poorly hidden pride of a surrendering queen. “
Allo
, Miss Charlotte. Shall we go with the green printed muslin with the scalloped hem this morning?”

“Actually, I wanted to apologize first.”

Lamonte blinked. “
Faa
, you have done nothing.”

“I rather think I have.” Charlotte tried to remember all that she’d found infuriating about her maid—her prideful appearance, her refusal to spread gossip, her affected Selencian accent. None of which was a personal insult to Charlotte. Lamonte had done nothing to her, and yet Charlotte had felt it entirely within her right to condemn the woman for things that annoyed her. Just for dressing like she was Pure Blooded. For having emotions too strong to tuck away.

What a spiteful creature I am.
“I’ve been incredibly rude to you, Lamonte, and you know it. You’ve just been far too polite to say so. More polite than me. I’m—I’m sorry I insulted your accent. It’s none of my business.”

For a moment, all Lamonte could do was stare.

“You’re right. It is none of your business,” she said at last, in the soft, muted Allmarchian burr. All traces of the musical Selencian cadence vanished from her voice.

“You truly are very good at your work—”

“I
am
Selencian,” Lamonte interrupted. Without her accent, she sounded much younger, less worldly. “I’m not a total fraud. It’s where I was born. It’s where my family was born. My mother took me across the sea to Allmarch when I was only a few months old, before the Blight came and barred our way back. My mother is dead, and the rest of my family, if they’re even alive, are trapped in that Blight that no one can penetrate. So if I want to act like someone who knows and remembers her homeland, then that is my own damn affair.”

“It is,” said Charlotte, burning with shame. “I’m very sorry.”

“Truly,
veria
, there is nothing to apologize for,” said Lamonte, replacing her accent with all the ease of a long-worn mask. Charlotte couldn’t help but notice this time Lamonte did not pull the drawstrings on her corset
quite
as tightly as before.

…

Frederick leapt off the back of the carriage as it arrived in Charmant village. Extending a hand, he helped the occupants onto the street. Lady Balrumple first, in a cloud of white lace, ermine, and perfume. Lady Tamsin second—she seemed unaccustomed to the idea of being helped down from a carriage, only realizing the purpose of Frederick’s outstretched hand once she reached the pavement. After that came Mrs. Colton, with whom Frederick took especial care, given her delicate condition. Last, Miss Charlotte.

Over the last few hours, while performing duties that required menial, rather than intellectual, exertions, Frederick had gone over in his head how he should engage with Miss Charlotte when they found themselves thrown together yet again. He couldn’t even think about what had happened the day before without cringing. Comparing the two events, he couldn’t decide which was worse: the utter humiliation of being slapped in front of Charlotte by that slimy pond-dweller Noxley, or that one moment of heady, ebullient joy of chasing her across the field, so acute it might as well have been pain.

Charlotte took his hand, and as he lifted her down to the street, she attempted a small smile. Then Frederick knew. The joy was worse. It wasn’t as if he’d never been taken to task before. During his years of service, he had endured pushes, curses, pinches, and, during one truly opulent, wine-soaked soiree, vomit. Strangers blamed him for being too slow, for the poor quality of the wine, for the hideous taste of the wallpaper. At one time, Mr. Lutter had forced Frederick to apologize to Lady Marchester for delivering a publisher’s rejection of her latest novel.

None of that had cut nearly as deep as having to stand there in that freezing, muddy field and do
nothing
as that prancing rooster Noxley took out his childish rage. Such was the joy he had felt before, opening his power to see Charlotte in all of her glory, taking it all in until he felt he might burst with it—it had peeled him raw.

He was a servant. He was supposed to feel nothing. Yesterday, Charlotte had stripped him of that armor, and now he felt the constraints of his position as keenly as his first year in the Seven Dowagers’ employ. He’d forgotten how anger could grow and grow until it filled every available space within him, leaving him bloated and heavy and choking with restrained violence. Only the last vestiges of his serving instincts had restrained him from showing Noxley how fists were much more efficient when attacking a man.

Charlotte held Frederick’s hand a second longer than necessary, than followed Lady Tamsin and her great-aunt as they explored Charmant village’s shops for ribbons and other trifles for the upcoming Masquerade Ball.

He trailed two steps behind the ladies as they entered a draper’s. The draper’s wife, a plump, gentle woman by the name of Mrs. Leeds, rustled out from the backroom toward her customers like a delighted old hen and curtsied deeply.

The majority of fabrics on display in the tiny rustic shop were simpler wools, muslins, and linens. However, a small corner of the establishment served as a loyally tended shrine to Lady Balrumple’s worship of ornament and luxury: bolts of rough silk, fine cotton, skeins of magicked fabric embroidered by only the most talented of anonymous noblewomen.

Mrs. Leeds herded the women in that direction, taking her cue from Lady Balrumple and paying particular attention to Lady Tamsin, the most plainly dressed of the four. The ever-fruitful vine of backstairs gossip had it out that the young marchioness’s mother disdained the supposed frivolities of fashion and expected Lady Tamsin to do the same. However, as Lady Tamsin’s wide-eyed delight over a swath of peach-colored silk demonstrated, even the children of the most unconventional parents felt the need to rebel.

Toward Frederick, Mrs. Leeds paid the same amount of attention as she would toward Mrs. Colton’s fur tippet—he was a necessary ornament to Lady Balrumple’s party but otherwise unworthy of notice unless she tripped over him.

Frederick used to be able to tolerate being invisible—hell, he’d come to value it. To be able to serve and help while at the same time remaining anonymous from the world was exactly the sort of situation he needed. Nothing good came of a footman being noticed.

Mr. Gelvers had elucidated upon that universal truth at great length after the incident on the field. The butler, accustomed to remaining calm and silent during the most pressing and chaotic of situations, obviously held a great deal of strong language in storage, and he brought the full amount of his outrage to bear on Frederick. Of the words repeatable in polite company, Frederick was disgraceful, insolent, unspeakably rude, and ungrateful.

Even after ten years, the butler clung to his conviction that Frederick had no place on the Dowagers’ staff. While Mr. Gelvers’s ongoing enmity toward him remained a puzzle, Frederick had to admit he didn’t feel particularly suitable for service right now.

Mrs. Leeds laid out a swath of deep fir-green silk, and Charlotte draped some of it down her front, turning back to face him and the other women with a sly smile.

“What do you think of this, for an evening gown?”

The fabric was a far cry from the missish pastel colors she usually wore, for which Frederick was extremely grateful.

His mouth opened. “I…”

“Marvelous!” cried Lady Balrumple, clapping her hands. “Perhaps with an under dress of a lighter green?”

“You look absolutely ravishing in that color,” said Lady Tamsin.

“I have a stunning emerald brooch that would match that perfectly,” Mrs. Colton said. “Once your gown is finished, you
must
post a sylph and I’ll lend it to you straightaway.”

Frederick felt an unmanly flush spread across his face. Of course Charlotte would ask her confidantes, those of her own class. Who would think to ask a footman how one looked in a gown? He should have felt fortunate that the other women had spoken up as quickly and loudly as they did to mask his unforgivable breach in etiquette.

He should have, but he didn’t. Was a simple compliment to her gown such an unbearably expensive luxury? Charlotte’s eyes caught his above a melee of gesturing hands and skeins of muslin, and her mouth pinched in a small, sad frown. Violet rosettes of disappointment sat like a wreath upon her head.

Emotion surged up through the soles of his feet, filling his veins with molten purpose. Not anger, exactly. Not pride, either. Just
action
.

“It is indeed an excellent color on you—but not as excellent as scarlet.”

Silence answered Frederick’s proclamation, a hiccup of awkwardness in the conversation, then—

“I wouldn’t suggest emeralds—”

“I believe red is becoming my favorite color,” Charlotte interrupted her great-aunt, looking at Frederick. Her captivating lips eased out of their frown and inched upward.

“You already have a gown in red,” said Mrs. Colton. “And I know a modiste who could transform this green silk into something quite dashing.”

Even as centuries-old etiquette elbowed its way into the conversation again, Charlotte merely raised her eyebrows, pinning her lower lip beneath her teeth in an utterly false attempt to stifle her smile. Frederick felt a thrill of laughter rise through him like a geyser, and suddenly more than anything he wanted to shout it and kiss Charlotte and tease her like she was his, and the fact that he could do none of these things filled him with a sudden rage. His formerly stalwart cold place was a paltry shelter against the increasing need to kick, dirty, or ruin something, but he ducked behind it anyway.

“I need to go check on the horses, my lady,” he mumbled, backing out of the shop.

He stepped into the sunlight and leaned against the carriage, taking long soothing breaths. He needed his cold place. He needed the numbness. His magic flowed through him all the time now, and while nothing horrible had come of it yet, how long would it take for it to intoxicate him? Until he ruined everything?

“Something wrong, Freddy?” asked Shipley from his perch on the carriage.

“Nothing.”
Everything
. His cold place was safe. His cold place had protected him—protected everyone around him—for years. If only Frederick could control himself, he could be safe, if not happy.

What have I done to earn happiness
? A familiar question, grown smooth and polished with wear. However, this time the inquiry brought with it the harsh bite of winter wind, the slap of wyrmskin against his face.
I’ve done more than enough. I’ve coddled and carried and strained and suffered. What’s one word? What’s one kiss? What’s one woman to all that?

“Frederick?”

He whirled around. “Charlotte.” He intentionally left out the proper “Miss.”

“The others are still inside arguing over whether puce or lavender is a more fashionable color,” she said, unperturbed. “I thought we might take a walk.”

Anger was still a newly-recovered experience for Frederick. For an absurd reason, he wanted to hold onto it as something precious and contraband, like a forbidden cheroot tucked under a washbasin. “Must we?”

Charlotte quirked an eyebrow. “Then I’ll go for a walk alone.”

She turned and started down the street. Frederick bit back a curse. Launching into a run, he caught up to her, passing the two-step boundary to walk beside, instead of behind, her.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Wherever you like.”

He glared.

Charlotte only laughed. “You can put away your dragon’s face. I find your attempts to be cross and disagreeable rather amusing.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you can never quite manage it,” she said, turning to look at him. “Even now. You
want
to be angry. Nobody who’s truly, bitterly angry wants to be that way. Do yourself a favor and try to be cheerful instead.”

“As my lady wishes.” His stretched his face into the most painfully wide expression of glee he could muster, eyes wide, teeth bared, eyebrows up to his hairline.