Chantress Fury - Amy Butler Greenfield Page 0,33

and my men went looking for them, I stationed myself down by the river, paying especially close attention to the places where the strange sea creatures had appeared.

I had to concentrate quite hard to hear anything, however, for Nat’s plan to arm England with iron was proceeding at a dizzying pace. All along the riverfront, men were hammering in spikes by lantern light and calling out to each other as they mended iron rails and chains. Here and there, blacksmiths had set up temporary forges where their anvils rang out like bells in the night. Meanwhile Sir Christopher, Penebrygg, and their friend Robert Rooke labored over a new design of water pump in the shadow of Whitehall itself. The hoses made a ghastly sound as they sucked.

I kept as far from the sound and fury as I could, the better to listen to the river. Mischievous as ever, it was full of songs, but they told me nothing I didn’t already know. If the Thames was privy to any magic secrets, it didn’t share them with me. At last, a few hours after midnight, I gave up and went to bed.

The next morning came much too quickly, and it brought more rain. A gloomy prospect, but at least my ankle was feeling better. I dressed as quickly as possible and gulped down some porridge with Norrie while I went over the night’s reports. No sea monsters or mermaids had been sighted overnight, which was cheering.

From Captain Knollys, there was nothing but a brief note asking me to come see him. Done with breakfast, I rushed off to the guardrooms to find out what was happening.

Halfway there, my hastily pinned-up hair slipped loose. Clapping a hand to the unraveling coil, I went in search of a mirror and found one in a tiny jewel box of a room nearby. While I stood before the mirror, twisting my hair up again, voices filtered through to me from the next room.

“You think Lord Walbrook will marry the Chantress? My dear Clemence!”

I couldn’t see the speaker, but I knew her by her tone alone. It was Lady Clemence Grey’s older sister, Ardella, who was married to the Lord High Admiral.

“It’s not so ridiculous,” another woman said. It sounded like Lady Gillian. “Didn’t you see the way he looked when they came off the river?”

“I heard someone say he’s never stopped loving her,” Clemence said wistfully.

“Nonsense,” Ardella said. “She has some kind of hold over him, perhaps. But you needn’t worry. He won’t marry her. Who would? No man wants to wed a woman who has the power of magic, trust me. Walbrook, least of all.”

Under my frozen hands, my coil of hair sprang free and tumbled down my back. I wrenched it tight and started putting it in order again—but an angry curiosity kept me listening to what was said about me.

“I suppose you’re right,” Lady Gillian conceded. “She’s a strange creature. Really, when you come down to it, she’s not even human, not fully.”

“Yes,” Ardella said. “And anyone who marries her has to think of the children.”

“Children?” Clemence sounded confused. “What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you ever heard the story of Melusine?” Ardella’s voice sank low, as if she were relating a juicy bit of gossip. “She was a Chantress too, or so they say—daughter of the faerie Pressina. She tried to hide her true nature from her husband, but her blood betrayed her. Her children were monstrous. One son had a lion’s foot growing out of his face. Another had a tusk for a tooth. And when her husband finally confronted her, she turned into her true form, a sea serpent.”

That wasn’t the way Lady Helaine had told the tale. According to her, Melusine’s sons had been perfectly normal on all counts, and she’d had a Chantress daughter as well.

What was the true story? I didn’t know. But I did know I’d heard enough of Ardella’s sly scandal-mongering. The woman was poison. I jabbed the last pins in, eager to get away.

“Ugh,” said Lady Gillian. “Who would want to marry a creature like that?”

“No one,” Ardella said emphatically, still in that malicious voice. “Not even dear little Lucy’s father, from what I hear.”

A pin slipped in my fingers, piercing my scalp. My father? I knew he’d been a musician, and little more. What did Ardella have to say about him?

“I know someone who used to be friends with her mother, Viviane,” Ardella went on. “She loved the man desperately, even ran away from

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