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Illustration of a candle, magical seal and letter [https://i.imgur.com/uFfcQkj.png]

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M:

WHY HAVEN’T YOU WRITTEN?

It’s a few minutes to midnight and I’m pacing in my room in Yoren Hall. We never discussed it, I always assumed you would send me a letter first, but—what if you can’t? What if some sort of man-eating slug from the Nethersea mud is stuck to the bottom of your boat, slowly sinking it through sheer stickiness? ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN, CURSE MY IMAGINATION.

Regardless, I have to send this now before it's too late (I've written to you some as we journeyed). I’m tired in my soul of silence from you. Four days more and I’ll be wringing my skirts like Mrs. Tarai.

T

19 May

Somewhere on the Dewy Plains

Solan

Maree,

I don’t know who I am anymore. The hissing, the crackle, the pop of the fire in the stable yard feels like voices tearing me to pieces. They’re burning weeds and rubbish out there, belching black inky smoke against the dusky sky and dusty, treeless hills.

Offways Inn doesn’t have a sign. It doesn’t know who it is either. When I asked a barmaid why the slouching building is called that, she shrugged and said, “We’re off a ways from the main road, but we still get the odd customer.”

Then she winked at me and I focused on the thin soup, too tired to fathom whether she meant it as an insult, a statement of fact, or flirtation.

It’s been six days since Arran and a version of me left Rosetree under a peevish gray sky (we’re running a day behind). On horseback, Arran and I followed along the curving lane away from the estate, cutting through fields black with mud and green with spring sprouts. Feeling odd as a donkey in a lace bonnet, I moved my neck cloth this way and that at my throat. Thighs and calves hugged by the gray wool, riding astride was about as comfortable as getting stuck trying to climb a fence.

The mysterious men in black, usually so omnipresent and threatening in the distance when I was out riding, were nowhere to be seen. They seemed to materialize almost from thin air whenever I went out to ride but there was no sight of the spies now.

With Arran on Bruiser and I on Nag, we melded into the scrubby, determined forest between here and Werinton, the horses picking their way sleepily through the rocks. I wanted to ride Portia but Arran convinced me to take old swayback. Nag seemed a little pleased at the change of pace—the white spots on his shoulders bear testament to his usually plowing duties—but only a little pleased. You can’t ruffle Nag.

I looked back at the treeline and burned this image of Rosetree into my mind: four sprawling floors of sea-gray stone, the walls skirted with Mama’s ancestral roses just getting buds, the dusk-darkened hills outlining the right wing, and the cliffs and watercolor sky on the left. I couldn’t see the ocean but I could taste it in the dampness of the cool air before the trees swallowed us up.

It was about a half hour ride from Rosetree to town when taking the cross-country route, so the sun was above the horizon by the time we clopped down Center Street. Obviously, we abandoned the notion of taking Rosetree’s carriage to pick up Mrs. Tarai. There was no way to follow the road with a carriage and not run into Erring. However, it wasn’t feasible to leave Tarai behind completely, since arriving at Yoren Hall with only a man for company would have ruined my reputation forever. So as the steward went to go hire a hackney with some of our dwindling funds, I rode Nag to Mrs. Tarai’s corpulent little townhouse to warn her of the change of plans.

I will never forget until me dying day the feeling of knocking on Mrs. Tarai’s doors in trousers and Grundlin’s old tricorner hat. Mrs. Tarai herself answered my knock, traveling clothes very black and weedy (as usual) and oval face very solemn, her little coin purse in hand.

“May I help you?” she said drably.

“Er, Auntie,” I said, flushing. “I’ve come to take you to town. Don’t you remember your nephew?”

Mrs. Tarai astonished me. She blinked once, slowly, clutching her purse a little closer, then said, “Naturally, Benny, you’ve grown so. I’ll get my effects.”

Just before shutting the door in my red face, she added, “Expected your voice would have deepened a bit by now, but your papa was a squeaker too.”

Maree, I suspect there are hidden depths to Mrs. Tarai.

The dawn was peeking above the roofs of Werinton, glinting off chimney pots and storefront windows. As we rode out of town, beyond the hills you could just see a glint of the sea before the Fahr Hills swallowed us.

This is where I should let you know, Maree, how dressing as a man changed this escape for me. First, Arran thought it was a bad idea for me to ride in the carriage much, since young men apparently see it as a matter of pride to ride alongside and protect the occupants. Second, I was wearing Grundlin’s dead son’s clothes (Grundlin's hands shook giving them to me, the old dear). The man died in the war two week’s before the ceasefire, and therefore my clothes are two decades out of fashion and suitable for a servant’s son.

Arran argued that I couldn’t wear his clothes, not only because they were too long for me but because I would attract less attention in servant’s garb. However, I soon assumed Arran took my demotion to be for his personal amusement.

I couldn’t see him from the head of the coach as we headed north, but when we pulled into the Lion’s Claw Inn at midday he moved up, looking disgustingly energetic and intimidating on Bruiser, the bay prancing as if we were on parade and not trudging down a dusty road.

Before I could really wonder how our first stop would go, Arran stepped to the door of the coach and waved at me. “Ben, I’ll need your help back here. Mrs. Tarai, if you please.”

“Wha…”

Arran opened the door, and with charm fairly glittering from his fingertips, he helped Mrs. Tarai out of the coach. I noticed distractedly that his hair was shimmering bronze in its queue. I forget the Trifayan blood in him, Maree. Until moments like this, when his hair glints like metal and I remember the Touch isn’t the only kind of magic in the world.

I dismounted and started to lead Mrs. Tarai inside, but Arran thrust out his arm. I ran into it like a stork snagging on a clothesline, looking up at him open-mouthed.

“I said I needed help, Ben.” All but tugging me to follow him, Arran went to the back of the coach where the coachman of the hired hack—someone new whom I’d never met, we checked—was already examining the straps on the luggage for wear.

A smallish blue box was tucked at the top, and Arran handed it to me expressionlessly. “Well, go on then. Mrs. Tarai doesn’t like being kept waiting.”

I leaned in, blinking as if confused, and whispered, “Think this little box will fit in your big mouth?”

“Why, I don’t think we’ll have dusty roads all the way to Eimouth, but clever of you to ask.” With a patient smile, Arran shooed me—actually shooing—towards the inn, a badly drawn lion laughing at me from the sign over the stoop.

Stupidly, I allowed myself to be shooed. I couldn’t very well correct him in front of everyone, not as Ben. I brought the box to Mrs. Tarai at the corner table, who blinked at it owlishly. “Why did you bring me my lotions?”

I forced a ghastly smile. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

Arran made sleeping arrangements at the second-ghastliest inn on the road that night. Mrs. Tarai, being Mrs. Tarai, didn’t comment. I think the woman is so economical she picks fifty words a day to say and refuses to go over budget. She did lift her skirt a bit going over the stoop though, so it wouldn't brush the dried mud.

I crossed to Arran once Tarai and I had finished what could loosely be called dinner. Mrs. Tarai went up to a little attic cubby with a glass of milk Arran made me fetch for her. Scraping at the bar’s scum morosely with one fingernail, I asked, “Which is my room?”

“It’s a dangerous road through Fahr Hills and the plains, many thieves,” Arran said, not looking at me. “The horses need protection. You’ll sleep in the stable.”

I didn’t believe I’d heard him correctly. “Stable.”

“Good practicing your s’s, I’m happy to see that stammer’s pretty well cured.”

Jaw slack, I followed him back out into the dark yard, then grabbed Mr. Quinn Arran by the sleeve and jerked. “What are you playing at?”

Speaking over the noise coming from the open inn windows, he said,“I'm playing no games tonight, I’m not fond of cards.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

You often said Arran could weasel information out of anyone he liked, the opposite is also true. Between the inn and the stable he completely flummoxed every attempt I made at getting an explanation or a change in circumstances, the stablemaster snoring on some feed sacks outside. Somehow, I found myself fifteen minutes later in the stable loft, bits of straw down my trousers where they itched like fleas (if they weren’t actual fleas) with not even a candle for light since the innkeeper was not unwisely afraid of fire. It maybe the first time in my life I was so thoroughly routed in an argument. I fell asleep to the scuffling sounds of hooves against dirt and the slow grinding of satisfied horses chewing hay.

It was like that at every stop Maree! I never slept inside, and whenever we stopped for the night there was no rest. Always a package, or an instruction, like, “Go tell the innkeeper Mrs. Tarai would like an extra scone” or when we stop for the night, “Fetch Mrs. Tarai a glass of warm milk—warm mind you!”

He even made me look like a drunkard, frowning when I was about to refuse the sour ale they were serving. “No drink for you, Ben, you can’t be trusted with the weakest drop of liquor.” I nearly cried at that, furious, embarrassed tears. He only ever belittled me in public, where it was impossible to dump said ale over his head with a curse for good measure.

It didn’t help that I was exhausted and felt like someone was beating my behind and thighs and shoulders with a stick for their own sick satisfaction. Nag was never meant to be a saddle horse. His back is so swayed and his gait so lopsided and rough that I feel like my teeth will rattle out of their sockets. Though I rode for short periods inside the carriage, not used to spending eight hours a day in the saddle let alone on a carthorse, my body could not and would not adjust. I soon was so saddle sore I could scarcely walk, while Arran strolled about easily.

I should add that our fine steward is very popular with the barmaids and innkeepers along our route. He doesn’t eat with us, preferring to see to the horses’ comfort, whatever that means, or sit at the bar—I couldn’t imagine why he keeps his distance, unable to decide whether I was mad or glad for it—and I don’t think he’s had to pay for a drink since we set off for the north.

One barmaid dipped low to wipe away a non-existent spill, smiling up at him with painted lips while I made a face.

“Don’t like marmalade, dear?” said Mrs. Tarai, buttering her bread with a raised eyebrow.

The last straw was last night, our second-to-last stop before Yoren Hall. I found a hunk of charred pig fat in my soup and got up to nicely request a different dish, the acrid taste on my tongue making me grimace. Arran must have been watching because he jabbed a finger at me dismissively from three tables away and said, loud enough for the other eight patrons to hear, “Your duties aren’t over, Mr. Tarai, you can’t sneak off again tonight. Stars preserve me from a slothful servant.”

My cheeks burned like I’d been rubbing them in coals. I sat, feeling Mrs. Tarai’s eyes on me as well as the amused or disapproving glances from everyone present, many of which were still covered in dirt or muck from the day’s work.

After dark, I didn’t go to the stables where I’d already been told my bunk would be. I waited like a vengeful spider in the hall until Arran emerged as I knew he would, to check the horses (some have been known to ‘wander off’ during the night along this road you know, if they don’t have sharp owners) despite the fact that was why I was sleeping there in the first place. He saw me at once, carefully closed his door behind him, and raised one eyebrow.

With that quirk, what little self-control I had left evaporated. “I’d like to kick you in the rear, straight into a manure heap.”

He simply stared at me—when did Arran turn into such a sphinx, Maree—and gestured politely for me to proceed him down the stairs as if I had asked him the time.

I stepped closer. “Have you had your fun?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ben.”

I nearly reached out and shook him. “Quinn!”

At this, his entire demeanor changed. It was like watching a glacier melt, and his eyes flashed. “Tarisa, you dolt. I’ve been saving your oblivious hide every twenty minutes for the past five days. I am exhausted.”

Intelligent thought fled. I could only echo like a parrot. “Dolt?”

Mr. Arran stepped closer, voice low. “Servants don’t lead their mistress into the inn as if they own the place. Servants don’t attend to their own needs before their betters, or refuse sour ale, or laugh at the top of their lungs with their employer, or make requests for their own comfort, or make faces at the burnt soup and request trench pie instead—”

I blanched at how closely he’d been watching me, mind skittering to and fro as I remembered every instance of humiliation, seeing the moments in a drastically different light. As my world shifted, Mr. Arran stopped talking, visibly composing his features.

I tried to hold onto my slippery anger. “Sleeping in the stables—”

At this, for the first time in my entire life, I saw Mr. Quinn Arran’s face color. “Ben, you wouldn’t prefer sleeping in the men’s community rooms, would you?”

My mouth opened and shut wordlessly, but it took me a moment to understand. I leaned closer and whispered, “What, you mean there aren’t private rooms for men at all these inns?”

Arran looked to the ceiling as if helpful words were painted there. “Not at a few of them. Besides, it would seem very strange for two men traveling together to pay for separate rooms.”

“Oh.” It was my turn to color.

“Also, anyone who sleeps in the stables isn’t kept track of in a guestbook.”

Only one other thought came to mind, and I voiced it without thinking, “Why do you always eat at another table? You act like we’re strangers.”

“You’ve made it clear you want to see as little of me as possible. I’m simply obeying my employers’ wishes.”

In light of my recent blindness, I flinched.

Mr. Arran didn’t seem to notice. “Speaking of which, I have business to attend to.”

He turned and was halfway down the stairs before I hissed, “Mr. Arran!”

He turned, sphinx-like again.

“All these details—are you that worried Erring will follow us?”

Arran almost smiled; if I didn’t know him so well I wouldn’t have caught it. “He could. You can’t help being memorable, Benny, no matter how you’re dressed. I’m just trying to save you being unforgettable.”

He disappeared and I went to the stables, feeling much less like a vengeful spider and more like a squished one. I didn’t sleep for a long time that night. The moon was full, and lying on my side on a hard bench with a bit of blanket, a shadow fell across the stable floor. Heart pounding, I looked up without moving a muscle from my place in an empty paddock, watching as the shadow came closer. Then moonlight glinted off a bit of copper hair and I relaxed. Arran.

Had he been checking on me or the horses? I know you would say me, Maree, but really, I think I about frustrated the life out of him these past six days.

I was the picture of meekness after that, as best as I can judge. I think Arran only had to redirect me once, this morning grasping my elbow to save me from leading the way out to the carriage. As Mrs. Tarai breezed past I didn’t know what to say, so I pretended nothing had happened at all.

I’ve been trying not to think about it, wished Mr. Arran had been honest with me long before but after my embarrassment and anger ebbed I knew in his position, he couldn’t. Not to mention we were so rarely alone, if he had been overheard explaining things to me no man or servant of my station should be ignorant of, it would attract unwise attention.

It’s been a wretched, lonely, tense trip and I’m about to lose my mind. We—

21 May

Minted Dunes Road

Solan

I was interrupted in my letter last night by a late carriage arrival to the inn, and I didn’t dare take out my supplies again after everything settled down. The morning didn’t work to write either, but I was able to take an icy bath in the stream nearby, so cold that no other guest wanted a dip. Lowland pines shielded me a bit, but I still only lasted a few minutes, scrubbing my hair and the stink of six different stable yards and corrals away. I dried off with a petticoat I stolen from my bags.

I’m currently sitting in the coach giving myself a headache writing, the ink shaking dangerously on a little plank I picked up on the side of the road at our last stop—a sort of writing desk. For the first time since my escape, I’m wearing my own clothes again and I’ve never been so happy to be back in violet.

We arrive at Yoren Hall this afternoon, which is good because I might have to murder Mrs. Tarai if not. Yes, she’s directly across from me, but no, you needn’t worry she’ll suspect my dark intentions. I’m afraid Tarai’s gaze has been glued to the window, grimly looking out at the passing, lumpish hills as if the masked Blackened Pair are to show up silhouetted on any rise. I do respect a woman who prefers to see trouble coming, but I never thought silence could exasperate me so. I started keeping a record of our conversation. So far today in response to all my jabber she has said, "Rather", "Goodness", and when I announced that I am going to chop off my hair to the earlobes, dress in striped trousers and join the floating circus in Trifafy, “Sounds like work, dear.”

Proving that Mrs. Tarai is in fact listening. She’s just such a wretched traveler, and so anxious about bandits, that she pumps tension into the air while utterly refusing to defuse it in any way. Sitting opposite in her weeds, a bit of iron grey peeking out of her fashionable bonnet (widow or not, Tarai has style, you must admit), every feature on her face appearing frightened of the rest—except that rebellious chin. I’d like to ask her if it’s a family chin, if she’s still that sad over Mr. Tarai, or if she would please just hit me over the head with her parasol handle and wake me up when we arrive. What do you do with a woman who just won’t talk?

Fireballs and soot, Maree, we’re at Yoren Hall I hadn’t even noticed. I’ll have to scribble something once I get inside—

This room smells of lavender and forgotten things. The Hall is covered in ivy, positively crumbling with it—leaves are hanging over the windowpanes, obscuring the view of the pines beyond but I can’t say I mind. I feel as if I’ve been swallowed by a tree in the best way—no wonder Viscount Warren doesn’t like to leave.

The stairway’s railing is carved to resemble a snake, which should be terrifying but is somehow only charming. The entryway, however, was like any other in Solan—grand, and marble and echoey.

I don’t have much time, Viscountess Warren enthusiastically suggested a tour in a way that indicates I’ll be crooning over pictures of long-dead babies in the painting gallery and complimenting her on the size of drawing rooms until after dark. Despite being a day late we’re only the second guests to arrive, but the first is some crusty professor with a headache whom I haven’t met yet. Obviously, all of the hostess’s enthusiasm is to be showered on Mrs. Tarai and I. Arran disappeared as soon as we arrived, barely giving me time to introduce him to Viscount and Viscountess Warren.

In fact, Arran hasn’t spoken to me since I changed into my own dress (changed while driving, it was rather scandalous but we drew the curtains) and I find the shift in his demeanor as terrifying as the snaky railing should have been. I wonder if he’s up to something.

Mr. Arran wasn’t always so silent, M. What happened? I feel foolish for wishing he had stuck around, especially after the week I just lived down, but I feel alone, I admit it now. Camden hasn’t arrived. Mr. Arran apparently has decided to treat me either like a stable boy or a stranger and nothing in between.

I have to go, lest I keep Viscountess Warren waiting; I’ve never felt so beholding to a hostess as I do now, having horned my way in on this party to begin with. Part of me’s glad you haven’t sent a letter yet, so I can reply to it in private tonight, but I’m starting to get wasps bumbling around in my stomach anticipating what new horrors you have to cheerfully share with me this time, too. As long as ‘safe’ is in your letter somewhere, I’ll be content.