The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,27

family.”

“That’s terrible,” she said. “It sounds so unhappy.”

“Everything about Peveril is unhappy.” He hid his face momentarily, his lashes fluttering against the skin on his hand. “Perhaps that’s why Elisabeth is so hard on you. She is miserable, too.”

“But why? Is it your father? Aunt Mary?”

“I can’t say. I don’t know enough people to figure out if the whole world is unhappy, or if it is the English, or just this family. But I realize it is duty—our responsibilities—which weigh so heavy, which confine us. The only thing I’ve learned is that complaining changes nothing. It only begs for more trouble.”

“You make the future sound wretched.”

His lashes lowered, his mouth trembling imperceptibly. “I know,” he said quietly, feeling the weight of his thirteen years, “sometimes I think it is. But that is why books are good.” He gripped the tree trunk with his hands, wanting to hold on forever. “Books do not speak loudly and they do not interrupt. They can’t make fun of you and they wait patiently until you understand. Even difficult translations—” he said, half smiling, “—even they give you time.”

“Reading books?”

“Yes.”

“But reading is hard.”

“It only takes practice,” he answered warmly. “And after a while you forget you are reading. Instead you just live.”

“In books?”

“Yes, you live in them,” he said with a frown, “well, not in their covers, of course, but through the pages.”

“You must be a very good reader.” She sighed, wishing there were more days like this, more hours to be outside, unattended. “Would Mrs. Penny be furious if she knew we were here? Without a chaperone?”

“Yes.” He bit into his lip, adopting his father’s mannerism without knowing it. “And I hate being punished.”

“So do I. My papa never beat me.”

“No?”

She remembered the whipping from two weeks earlier and how painful it was to sleep. For over a week she had to lie on her stomach and it hurt just dressing, pulling the chemises over her head. “No,” she said, thinking of her father’s hard features, the shock of black hair falling in his eyes. “He said I learned well enough from a hard look or sharp word. Or making my own mistakes. Like the time I burned myself.” She smiled wistfully. “I never did go near the fire again.”

“Cordy?” He didn’t look up. “What happened to him?”

Her face flushed hot and heavy, the skin feeling stretched, swollen. “Cordy?” he whispered. “Do you mind me asking?”

She forced her voice to come out quiet and even, though it hurt her to speak. “They killed him.” She tried not to think about it, not to picture it. “There were three men and they murdered him with knives.”

He shuddered. “How do you know there were three men?”

“I heard them. I watched some.” Her voice was small, cold.

“But what did they want?”

“I don’t know.” She stared at the canopy of trees above them, the blue of the sky appearing through breaks in the leafy green. The sky seemed far away here, unlike the mountains where the sky had always seemed so close, even the sun and moon had hung just above her head. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she whispered, the fear chilling her heart, numbing her legs and arms. “I don’t like thinking about it. It makes me sad.”

“Yes.” He sat up and shivered, looking away from her. “I agree. It makes me sad just thinking about it, too.”

*

SIMON POLE LEFT the children momentarily on pretext of taking a walk. But they knew better. He was on the chamber pot, and would probably be away a good while. Philip, Elisabeth, and Cordaella looked at each other for a long moment, considering their unexpected reprieve. Eddie was in the nursery taking his afternoon nap.

“I am sick of learning,” Elisabeth grumbled, closing her book with a bang.

Cordaella glanced up and said nothing. She waited for Philip to speak. Inevitably, Philip intervened, carrying the conversation and easing tensions. “Just another hour,” he said to Elisabeth, “and then Eddie and I take our fencing lesson.”

Cordaella’s face crumpled. If the boys were fencing it meant that they—she and Elisabeth—would be stitching. “Ha!” Elisabeth said, with a triumphant little laugh. “There is something for you, Cordy. Embroidery. Tapestries.” She knew how much her cousin hated sewing. “Just wait until you have to stitch an entire one by yourself. It will take you a year, at least.”

“At least,” Cordaella agreed, returning to her book.

“You can’t read,” Elisabeth said interrupting, “so don’t try to pretend.” She stared at Cordaella, ignoring her brother.