The Family Shame Read online

  The carriage rattled, reminding me that we were a long way from the King’s Roads - and Shallot. I hadn’t seen much of the countryside - the armsman had kept the shutters down for most of the trip - but it was clear that we were travelling well into the hinterlands. The family estate, a mere fifty miles from Shallot, could be reached in a day on horseback, if one was prepared to ride hard. I didn’t think the carriage could move as fast as a horse, but still … we’d been travelling for a very long time.

  I looked down at the cuff, feeling a bitter surge of helplessness. My life was over. My life was over, and it was never going to end. The Arbiters had made it clear that I was going into exile, that I would not be allowed to return to Shallot for years, if at all. I was an exile, at twelve years old, and it was all my own stupid fault. There was no one else to blame for my fall from grace. They’d made that clear to me too.

  I should never have listened to that witch, I thought. I’d been told, more than once, that I should inform my father if an adult from a rival Great House tried to make contact with me. I hadn’t listened. I’d been hurting and depressed and Stregheria Aguirre had told me what I wanted to hear. If I hadn’t listened to her …

  But I had listened to her, I had allowed her to talk me into treason against my family - against the entire city - and I was lucky to be alive. The Arbiters had told me that too, as if I didn’t know that already. If I’d been an adult, I would have been beheaded. But I couldn’t help thinking, as I stared at the carriage’s wooden walls - it was little more than a box on wheels - that I hadn’t really been lucky at all. I would have died quickly, then it would have been over. Now, my life would be turned into an object lesson for young children, a grim reminder of what not to do. I’d laughed at some of the stories of older family who’d transgressed and faced punishment. It wasn’t so funny now that the boot was on the other foot.

  I leaned back against the wooden wall and closed my eyes, trying to sleep. There was little else to do. The Arbiters had let me pack a few books - and a handful of possessions - but the armsman had put my trunks under the carriage, rather than letting me have anything in the passenger compartment itself. He wanted to make me miserable, I thought. Two weeks ago, I’d been one of the highest-ranking children in the family. Servants had jumped at my commands. Now, I was just an exile. My name had probably been struck from the family rolls. Mother was probably going around telling everyone that she had only ever had one child. My mother and I had never been particularly close, but the thought still hurt.

  Not that anyone will believe her, I thought. And no one will ever let Mother and Father forget what I did either.

  I scowled at the thought as I tried to concentrate on a meditation routine. People had been sent into exile before, but none of them - as far as I knew - had betrayed the family quite as spectacularly as I. The young men and women who had committed some indiscretion that was only spoken about in whispers would be welcomed back, after a decent interval. They might never regain their former prominence, but at least they would be part of the family again. I, on the other hand …

  They’ll never forget what you did, a little voice whispered at the back of my mind. And they’ll never let you go home.

  A surge of anger ran through me. My magic shuddered to life, pressing against the bracelet … then faded back into nothingness. I slumped, cursing the bracelet and its designer in words I’d never dared use in front of my parents. My magic was useless as long as I wore the wretched cuff. Had Caitlyn designed it? Or Akin? My brother had been quick to side with the Aguirre spawn, even though she was powerless. He’d liked her, I thought, long before her true nature became clear. He certainly hadn’t spoken out for me at the hearing. He’d been too busy with something else.

  And now his sister is powerless, I thought, numbly. I might have been young, but I’d had power. I could walk the streets in perfect safety, trusting in my magic to protect me. But now I was defenceless, as helpless as a newborn babe. An unbidden thought forced itself into my mind: Is this how Cat feels all the time?

  My thoughts mocked me. I didn’t want to think about Caitlyn right now. It’s not fair. It’s not fair …

  I must have fallen asleep, or slipped into a meditative trance, because I thought I saw and heard people surrounding me. Cat, speaking to me as though I was a friend; Akin, his face pinched and wan; a young boy with chocolate skin smiling at me … and a Hangchowese girl with almond eyes and an enchanting smile. I had to be dreaming, I thought. My family didn’t know any Hangchowese girls, not socially. House Griffin was the only family with any Hangchowese blood and they were a minor house, barely able to pay their debts. People had been predicting their demise for years.

  The girl was saying something to me. I turned my head, trying to hear, but her words just slipped away. They were words of wisdom, I thought, yet … they existed only at the corner of my mind. Maybe I was just imagining it. I was half-asleep …

  A crashing sound echoed through the carriage. I jerked awake, looking from side to side. The shutters had opened, revealing a desolate wasteland. I stood, trying to ignore the increasingly urgent sounds from my stomach, and peered through the window, looking out onto a different world. We appeared to be in a valley, following a river as it poured down from the distant snow-capped mountains. The land appeared to be nothing but scraggly grass and stones. I could see flecks of white on nearby hills, small copses of trees everywhere … I couldn’t see any sign of human life. The only sign that anyone had ever been in the valley was the road. A handful of birds flew through the air, some of them following us for a few moments before looping away into the sky. I felt a flicker of envy for their freedom. I wanted to fly too.

  Cat flew, a treacherous part of my mind whispered. You could have flown too, if you’d befriended her instead of tormenting her.

  The carriage shuddered, again. The shutters slammed closed. I sighed and sat back on the bench, closing my eyes. The armsman was tormenting me, I was sure, and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d managed to get under my skin. Maybe I’d been horrid to him, when I’d been a little girl. Or maybe he was just making my new position as the family’s latest exile clear.

  I must have fallen asleep again, for the next thing I knew was the carriage lurching to a halt and someone banging on the door. I jerked upright, hastily pulling my golden blonde hair into a rough braid. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Not, I supposed, that it mattered. A girl my age who went outside without braided hair would face the most astringent criticism from the Grande Dames of High Society, but in my case there was so much else to criticize. I smoothed my green dress with my hands, then stood and tapped on the door. It opened a moment later.

  The coldness hit me like a physical blow. I’d thought it was cold inside the carriage, but outside … it was practically freezing. Water droplets hung in the air as if they were suspended, splashing against my body as I peered out the door. Technically, the armsman should have provided steps - or helped me down to the ground - but he made no move to do either. I took a breath and jumped down, landing in a muddy puddle. Cold water started to seep into my boots. I glared at the armsman, daring him to laugh, then looked around. The estate - if indeed we were on an estate - was wreathed in mist. I stared, fascinated. I’d never seen mist - real mist - before. Visibility was down to a handful of metres. I thought I could see trees in the distance, but it was impossible to be sure. The world was silent, as if time itself had stopped. It felt, just for a moment, as though I were still dreaming.

  A hand touched my shoulder. I jumped, then remembered the armsman. He motioned for me to walk around the carriage. I sighed, staring at his glamoured face in the hopes he’d think I could see through the spell, then did as I was told. The horses whinnied unhappily as I passed. Horses normally liked me, but I suspected they knew I was in disgrace. Or maybe they were just bonded to the armsman. They could have picked up their master’s feelings about me.

  I sucked in my breath
as the mansion came into view. It was a boxy stone structure, built to last; the walls were covered with gargoyles and carved with protective runes. There were six floors, I thought, judging by the windows. And yet, there was something shabby about the building. The runes looked faded, the gargoyles looked as though they’d been in the wars and a number of windows had been boarded up. The grassy lawn outside the door, what little I could see in the mist, looked unkempt, the grass fighting for dominance with a handful of wilder strains. Mother would have fired everyone involved with maintaining the lawn, I thought. She had always insisted the Great Houses had to look good, whatever the cost. It didn’t look as if whoever was responsible for the mansion cared one jot about appearance.

  “Your new home,” the armsman said.

  He snapped his fingers, casting a spell with casual ease. I looked away, not wanting to watch as the trunks were levitated out of the carriage and floated up towards the door. The Arbiters hadn’t said when the cuff would be removed, if indeed it would be removed at all. I shuddered at the thought of being powerless for the rest of my life, unless I managed to think of a way to remove the cuff for myself. It would probably be locked by magic, I guessed; anyone could unlock it, as long as they could use magic. I felt an uneasy moment of sympathy for Caitlyn, despite everything she’d done to me. She must have spent most of her life feeling as helpless as I did now. And I’d mocked her for it.

  “Stay here,” the armsman ordered.

  He strode off, the trunks following him like obedient puppies. I stared after him for a long moment, then wrapped my arms around my chest. My dress was the height of fashion, but it was growing damper and colder by the second. I was uneasily aware of water pooling in my socks, no matter how much I squelched about. The ground was soft enough that the carriage seemed to be sinking into the mud. I wondered, nastily, if the armsman would be able to get it and the horses out when the time came for him to leave.

  A gust of wind blew through the mist, bringing the promise of snow. I squeezed myself tighter, feeling water running down my back. Two weeks ago, I had been a little princess; my skin fair and unblemished, my dresses miniature versions of adult clothes, my hair perfectly coiffed by a small army of maids. Everyone had said I was a pretty girl, that I would grow up to be as stunning as my mother. Now, I was a straggly mess. My hair was threatening to come undone as it grew damp, but I was too cold to hold it in place. I wished, how I wished, that I’d thought to bring a coat! Even one of Great Aunt Gladys’s handmade jumpers would have been preferable. Ugly and lumpy they might have been, but at least they were warm.

  The armsman returned, his boots squelching through the mud. “Come.”

  I followed him, wondering just what was on the far side of the heavy wooden door. I’d been told I was going to a family estate, but which one? I hadn’t been told anything about it, save for the simple fact that it was a long way from Shallot. I’d researched a number of the family’s properties, back when I’d still had hopes of becoming the Heir Primus, but I didn’t recall any of them looking like this. I was mildly surprised the building hadn’t been sold off long ago. We have a reputation for keeping what is ours, but still … this mansion looked worthless.

  The wards brushed over me as I stepped through the door and into a dark lobby. A flight of stairs led upwards, into the darkness; two wooden doors led further into the building. The only light came from a single crystal, hanging from the ceiling. Whoever was in charge of maintaining it clearly hadn’t bothered to renew the spells. It should have been bright, but instead it cast a dim and flickering light over the lobby. A pair of hunting trophies had been mounted on the walls: a dragon and a basilisk. I was relieved to note that the taxidermist had had the sense to remove the basilisk’s eyes. My trunks had been placed beside the stairs.

  “Lady Isabella Rubén,” the armsman said, as if I was being announced at a ball. I don’t think I ever hated anyone so much as I hated him at that moment. He didn’t need to rub it in. “Disgraced.”

  “Indeed,” a voice said.

  Two people were standing by the stairs, watching me. I cringed inwardly, suddenly aware of just how terrible I looked. My clothes damp, my hair a mess … I felt my braid slowly start to come undone under their stares. I somehow managed to drop a curtsey, despite my wet dress, then put up my hands to fix the braid. I’d probably made a bad impression already.

  I forced myself to make a show of lowering my eyes, while keeping an eye on them. One, an older man, looked frankly disinterested; the other, a woman who looked around ten to fifteen years older than me, looked as if she’d smelt something disgusting. She was tall and blonde, her hair bound up in a style that suggested she was married; she wore a brown dress that looked as though it was handmade. She would have been pretty, I thought, if she’d worn something more suitable and, perhaps, put a nicer expression on her lips. There was something oddly familiar about her patrician face, something that nagged at my mind until I placed it. She looked a lot like me.

  She’s family, I thought. Almost everyone in my family has the same blonde hair. And she might be quite closely related to me.

  “Ira Rubén and Morag Rubén,” the armsman said. He was enjoying himself a bit too much, I thought. “Please meet your new companion.”

  Ira leaned forward. He was taller than I’d thought - there was something about him that made him look short - and he was old. His movements were slow and deliberate, his blond hair slowly turning grey … I’d automatically assumed that he and Morag were married, but it was starting to look as though there was a large age gap between them. The suit he wore was years out of date. And yet, his eyes were sharp, if disinterested. His face was dignified, with a neat little goatee; his hands were scarred, suggesting a series of accidents in a potions lab or a forge. He held a letter in one hand. I guessed it was the official orders from Shallot.

  “Thank you,” Ira said. He took the wad of papers the armsman offered him without comment. “You may go now.”

  The armsman blinked. “Senior, I …”

  “You are not welcome here,” Ira told him, shortly. “Drive down to the town. They’ll have a place for you in the inn.”

  I felt a flicker of amusement at the armsman’s agitation. No doubt he’d expected to be put up for the night. But Ira was chasing him out. It was a breach of etiquette, but not one the armsman could openly protest. I wondered if the townspeople really would have a place for him or if he’d have to sleep in the carriage. It was what he’d made me do. The bench had been bad enough for sitting, but worse for sleeping. I suspected I had bruises all over my body.

  “Morag, take Isabella’s trunks to … I think the Blue Room,” Ira ordered, once the armsman had departed. “Put them in there, then come back to my office.”

  “Yes, Senior,” Morag said. Her voice was hard, tinged with an accent I didn’t quite recognise. I didn’t think she was pleased to see me. But it was also clear that Ira was in charge. “I’ll make the bed up for her too.”

  Ira nodded, then looked at me. “Welcome to Kirkhaven Hall,” he said. He turned away, heading to the nearest door. “Come with me.”

  “Yes, Senior,” I said.

  Chapter Two

  Kirkhaven Hall smelt … musty.

  And yet, it reminded me, in so many ways, of Rubén Hall. The walls were lined with wood panelling and illuminated by glowing crystals, a handful of portraits hung from the walls … I felt a pang of homesickness as I followed Ira down the long corridor. And yet, there were plenty of signs that I was a long way from home besides the smell. The corridor was in disrepair, patches on the walls showed where paintings and portraits had hung before being removed, the crystals were dimming and half the rooms we passed were empty. There should have been a small army of servants tending to the building, but I saw no one. The hall felt deserted. I found it more than a little creepy. But I was too numb to care.

  Ira led me into a small office and motioned for me to sit in a chair while he lit a fire in the grate. I sat, si
lently glad to be out of the damp. My skin felt patchy and dry; I wanted - needed - a hot bath. Ira sat at his desk and started to go through the papers, reading them one by one. I forced myself to wait, despite increasingly loud grumbles from my stomach. I wasn’t sure how long it had been since I’d last been allowed to eat, but it felt like hours. The armsman hadn’t stopped for food. He hadn’t even shoved food into my cage.

  It was hard, so hard, to wait. I concentrated on looking around the office, noting the bookshelves - groaning under the weight of hundreds of books - and the handful of drawings someone had stuck to the walls. It looked as if someone had been drawing detailed sketches of human anatomy, ranging from an outline of a human skeleton to the innermost workings of the brain. I was a pretty fair sketcher myself - it was a skill we were encouraged to learn - but whoever had drawn the sketches was a real artist. I’d never seen anything like them outside a handful of textbooks, and even they hadn’t been quite so detailed.

  My stomach rumbled, loudly. Too loudly. I found myself flushing with embarrassment as Ira looked up from one of the documents and lifted his eyebrows.

  “I’m hungry,” I said. It sounded more like a whine than I wanted. “I … it’s been hours.”

  Ira looked annoyed, as if I’d asked for something unreasonable, but plucked a bell off his belt and waved it in the air. There was no sound, as far as I could tell, yet the door opened two minutes later and Morag stepped into the room. Her eyes flickered over me, then came to rest on Ira. I had the feeling she definitely didn’t like me, even though I hadn’t seen her before. I hadn’t seen either of them before, let alone heard of them. Ira was old enough to be my grandfather, if not my great-grandfather. He might have stayed at Kirkhaven longer than I’d been alive.