Betraying Season (7 page)

“Of course there isn’t. What do you think I’m here for? Be careful with that bottle, missy. It’s one o’
Draiodoir
Carrighar’s finest. He’s saving it for when his granddaughter is born, come the seventh of October,” said a creaky, slightly slurred voice from somewhere near her knees.

Pen managed not to scream and drop the bottle, though it was a near thing. She did let out a squeak.

The voice chuckled. “There, I nearly made you drop it anyway. ’Twould have been a shame, for ’tis a grand one. I’ve drunk its counterpart in
An Saol Eile
often enough, haven’t I?”

Pen took a deep breath and turned toward the voice. There was nothing there.

“And why should I be showing meself to ye, if you’re not showing yerself to me?” the voice asked reasonably.

What? Pen remembered the protective circle she’d cast around her. It must make her invisible to fairy folk. “Then how do you know I’m here?” she asked, not moving.

“Well, it’s not every day lamps come floating into me cellar on their own. Even if I can’t see you, I know you’re there,
bean draoi.
You would have noticed me too, if ye were after knowing how to look.”

“How do you know I’m a witch?”

“Oh, for Dagda’s sake, who else would be casting circles o’ guard round themselves? Are ye daft,
cailin?
Now that the formalities are over, maybe you’d like to be telling me what I might do for ye?”

Pen decided to take a chance. She gripped the fork in her pocket and said, “It’s disconcerting to talk to a disembodied voice. If I put off my circle, will you show yourself to me?”

“Hmmm,” said the voice. “How do I know you’re not a hideous hag, come to frighten me to death in me own cellar, the only home I’ve got in me declining years?”

But Pen caught the note of jesting. “You don’t sound like you’re in any danger of imminent demise,” she replied. Imminent hangover was another issue. “Nor do you know if I’m the queen of witches, fair as the dawn, come to ask you to grace my court with your wit and wisdom.”

“Ho ho!” the voice chortled. “Is that how it is? Very well, Your Majesty. I’m ready an’ waiting.”

“No,” Pen replied firmly. “We both have to reveal ourselves at the same time.”

The voice was silent for a moment. “All right, then,” it finally said. “On the count of three. Then you’ll have to tell me what you want.”

“Done.” Pen gathered the circle around her like a cloak and prepared to toss it aside.

“
A haon, a do, a tri,”
counted the voice, “now!”

Pen threw off her protective spell and looked down to where she had heard the voice. There was nothing there.

“That’s not fair—” she protested, when suddenly there was a loud
pop!

Standing next to her, his head about level with her kneecaps, was a tiny figure. Bright eyes twinkled in a swarthy face that was seamed and wrinkled like a very old man’s. When he saw her indignant expression, he chortled again and leapt into the air, twirling and giggling, though his landing was a little precarious.

“Hee hee! You should see your face! Well, I had to make sure you weren’t something you oughtn’t to be, come to persecute a poor old clurichaun.” He swept the red hat off his head and executed a courtly bow, holding his hand over his heart—or where his heart would have been, were he human—and nearly brushing the ground with his long red nose. As he rose again, he staggered and grabbed hold of Pen’s skirt to steady himself.

“Whoops!” he cried. “That wasn’t a good idea, me mannikin. Best keep yer head up where it ought to be.” He jammed his hat tightly back on his head, as if to keep it from rolling off, and then dusted off the sleeve of his old-fashioned long coat, which fastened with shiny brass buttons barely half an inch across. Maybe Dr. Carrighar liked him because they had a similar fashion sense.

“I was just after sampling the clarets over there, to make sure
they hadn’t gone,” he explained, swaying slightly. “It’s hard an’ thirsty work, being a clurichaun is. When ye’ve got rebonspilisity—rebonsipility—re
spon
sibility for a cellar as fine as this one, it keeps a body busy. Dusting an’ sweeping and turning the bottles so the corks don’t perish o’ the dry rot—ye’ve no idea. And that clod-footed, snaggletoothed maid up there’s no help at all to a poor, hardworking elf.” He fetched a deep sigh.

Pen smiled. “What’s your name?” she asked him.

A crafty expression crept across the little man’s face. “Oh, no ye don’t, missy. Ye won’t have my name out o’ me anytime in a month of Sundays. Next thing you’ll be telling it to that turnip-faced harridan up there, an’ she’ll be after me poor hide to make her bootlaces with.”

Pen remembered that to have a fairy’s true name could give power over that creature. “I mean, what shall I call you?” she amended.

“Now, that’s more like. Let’s see . . . hmmm. Corkwobble would do, to be going on.” He peered sideways at her from narrowed eyes.

To her surprise, Pen kept a straight face. “Corkwobble would do very well, I should think. And Norah’s not turnip-faced, nor a harridan. You just frightened her badly, that’s all.”

“Well, she was after moithering me something awful, too. It works both ways, ye know,” the clurichaun said with an air of wounded dignity that didn’t seem completely feigned.

“Do you think it would be possible to call a truce between you? I’m sure she appreciates how nice you keep it down here,” Pen wheedled.

Corkwobble snorted. “Hmmph. Be nice if she’d show her appreciation in some other way than frightening a body half senseless,
lurching about and praying at the top of her voice just to find a bottle o’ heather wine. A dish o’ new milk or a bit o’ toasted bread with honey mightn’t go down too badly now and again,” he said, then looked down at the large buckles on his shoes as he scuffed his toes on the ground. “’Specially if you was to bring it. You’re some easier on the eyes than she is. And I misdoubt you’d be hail-Marying all over the place, neither.”

Pen laughed, but she couldn’t help feeling touched. “I’d be happy to, Corkwobble, so long as you behave yourself.”

“Oh, I will all of that, ma’am,” he said, his creased face sober. “It doesn’t do for the likes o’ me to be trifling with a
bean draoi.
I could get away with it on Mistress Lard-bucket up there, but not with you.”

“Miss Leland? Are ye all right?” called Norah’s voice from the top of the stairs.

“A anail bo!”
cried Corkwobble, and vanished.

Pen blinked and waited a few seconds, but he didn’t reappear. “That didn’t sound very complimentary to poor Norah,” she said to the air.

“It weren’t meant to be,” Corkwobble’s creaky voice said, from somewhere behind an ale cask, “’less ye consider ‘cow breath’ a dainty bit o’ flattery.”

“Miss Leland!”

“I’m fine, Norah!” Pen called back. “I’ll bring you some milk this evening,” she said softly into the room. “And I’ll come back for a visit in a day or two and bring you your bread and honey.”

She picked up her lamp and left the wine chamber. As she was about to set foot on the first step, a small voice wafted from the door behind her.

“
Lots
o’ honey on the bread, if ye please.”

Pen stood in the front hall of the Carrighar house, buttoning her gloves and peering out one of the narrow windows that flanked the front door. Lady Keating had said she would come at three, and it was only twenty minutes till. But Pen had an idea that Lady Keating would not cheerfully tolerate lateness, unless it were her own.

Behind her the drawing room door opened. Pen turned and saw Dr. Carrighar peering out at her.

“Ah, good. You’ve not gone yet. Might we have a quick word?” he asked.

Pen glanced again at the door and hesitated. But surely she’d hear if Lady Keating’s carriage pulled up to the house. “Certainly,” she said.

Ally lay on her couch. She looked up at Pen and motioned her to a nearby chair.

“Is everything all right?” Pen asked. Ally’s face was haggard, and her fine brows were drawn in an expression of concern. “Is there something I can get you while I’m out?”

“Aside from a new stomach?” Ally smiled for a moment, but her troubled expression returned, and she sighed. Pen caught the sharp,
sour note on her breath that the doctor said was due to her not being able to keep down enough fluids, as were her sunken eyes and papery skin. A pang of guilt lanced through her; here she was, off to shop and socialize, while poor Ally lay here feeling wretched.

“I am not entirely comfortable with this sudden friendship of Lady Keating’s,” Ally said, without preamble.

“Oh.” Pen blinked. This was not what she had expected. “Why not? I thought Dr. Carrighar said she was respectable enough? She certainly seems to be well-off, too.”

“I thought I taught you better than to take wealth as a sign of virtue,” Ally chided, sounding a little more like her old self. “But I am not concerned about her respectability. Oh, why couldn’t this . . . this
process
be easier, so that I could take better care of you?” She gestured down at her body with a fretful, impatient wave.

“Um, then what bothers you about Lady Keating?” Pen asked. Ally couldn’t be jealous that she was becoming friendly with another woman, could she?

Ally and Dr. Carrighar exchanged uneasy looks, and Pen guessed they had been talking at length on this topic.

“I can’t say anything specific,” Dr. Carrighar said, removing his spectacles and polishing them on his scratchy tweed vest. No wonder they looked as if they were made of frosted glass. “But Nuala Keating is not known for her general sociability or friendliness, even with people she supposedly knows well. It seems somewhat strange to me that she should have taken such a liking to you for no particular reason. . . . Or rather, I worry that there
is
some particular reason that she is pursuing this acquaintance with you.”

A fleeting picture of Niall Keating flew through Pen’s mind. “What if there is?”

“All we ask is that you be on your guard with her,” Ally said earnestly. “You don’t have to go shopping with her today, you know. We could say you are indisposed when she arrives.”

Pen stood up and went to look out the window, to hide the irritation she knew must show on her face. What were they talking about? Yes, Lady Keating was an unusual woman, confident and strong-willed, perhaps a little quick-tempered. But did that make her dangerous to know? Did it make her son somehow unsuitable?

“Telling her I’m ill would not be honest,” she managed to say mildly enough, knowing that the comment would find its mark.

Behind her, Ally sighed. “You are being willfully scrupulous, Pen. Small fictions like that are frequently used in society, and you know it.”

Pen took a steadying breath. “All right. You’ve asked me to be careful of Lady Keating, and I will be. I would have anyway, because we are such new acquaintances, and if she does or says anything that is objectionable, I won’t accept any more invitations from her. But I’ve been in this city for two weeks now, and I would like to be able to get out and meet people. I can’t study magic every minute of the day.”

Ally opened her mouth to speak, but Dr. Carrighar raised one hand. “Indeed you can’t, Penelope. We understand your feelings. Go and have a good time with Lady Keating.”

Ally opened her mouth once more, but Dr. Carrighar shook his head at her once again. She leaned back into her pillow, and her worried expression deepened.

Pen looked from one to the other of them. There was something else they weren’t telling her. Ally was about to, but Dr. Carrighar stopped her. Why?

A clatter of wheels on the cobbled street below broke into her
thoughts. Pen flew to the window, then rushed back and kissed Ally’s forehead. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered, and hurried out to Lady Keating’s elegant carriage.

Later that evening, Pen wrapped herself in a quilt over her nightclothes, lit an extra candle, and settled at the desk in her bedchamber.

Dear Persy,

I am now (or will be in a few days) ready to brave the frequent and horripilatious (Where
did
Charles find that word? I can’t stop using it now!) Irish rains and tempests, courtesy of the new cloak I ordered today from my new friend Lady Keating’s modiste.

Yes, I have at last started to mix the littlest bit in society here. Lady Keating nearly ran me down with her coach while I was out walking (it was my fault) and then decided to befriend me. There’s some delicious gossip about her romantic entanglement years ago with none other than the Duke of Cumberland—I suppose I must call him the king of Hanover now, since he inherited the throne there—but Dr. Carrighar says she is quite respectable. Of course, if you saw her son, Niall, you might think it more than gossip. Remember those family portraits we saw in Princess Sophia’s rooms at Kensington? I shall let you draw your own conclusions. Just think, that would make him the queen’s cousin, wouldn’t it?

Both Lady Keating and her son are quite charming; I have had tea twice at their house, and they have visited here as well. Lady K. has told me that she intends to have a dinner party so that I might meet more of Cork’s polite society before they all go to London for the season. I can’t help being the smallest bit jealous of them heading off to London, but my studies are going well, I think.