Chapter 35

JUNE 25TH AT DINAS EMRYS

I t felt strange and wrong to be here, and entirely different from just four days ago. Everything had changed, and nothing had changed. Oh, Dinas Emrys felt different. The solstice decorations had come down, all the flowers and charmlights and illusions. Thessaly and her family had been given time alone in the Great Hall, with Aunt Metaia’s coffin. The hall had been hung with sombre black hangings, not even the usual heraldry.

Council Head Rowan had made sure they’d had time on their own, a full half hour. It wasn’t useful to Thessaly. She’d stood in front of the coffin on her own, holding Hermia’s hand, for a good five minutes, but nothing that mattered was in her head. That was not her aunt, that was not the living, breathing, laughing, teasing woman she’d loved. Who’d loved her, who’d cared about her, who had fiercely been determined that Thessaly should have the best life possible.

It wasn’t the woman who’d loved colour and delighted in tricks and pranks, clever and elegant ones. It wasn’t the woman who’d made her own way, despite what her family wanted, and chosen her own sort of power. And it wasn’t the woman who’d wielded that power thoughtfully, not to make herself look good, but to accomplish what she thought mattered.

None of that was in the coffin. Just a shell, and the shell wasn’t the same. So Thessaly had stood there silently, her arm through her sister’s. She’d waited an appropriate amount of time, and then they’d moved off to one side, to let Mama have longer. Father had stood behind her, not interfering, but also not touching. Mama and Father had not quarrelled this morning, Thessaly thought, but yesterday had been full of undercurrents of tension and difficulty. Now, at least for the moment, they seemed to be a unified front.

Then they’d all been escorted off to a side room to wait while others arrived. The keep was quite large, and over the years it had been designed for a range of events, as well as whatever magics the Council tended to. One whole side of the downstairs was fitted out with parlours and waiting rooms with sofas and chairs. Mama had claimed the central chair, of course, with Father standing behind her. Thessaly and Hermia perched on the sofa. All of them were in deep black, even Hermia, who might have had an excuse given her age. Mama’s veil entirely obscured her face, Thessaly’s was more transparent, and Hermia was unveiled.

Thessaly had expected to see some of the Lyttons, her uncles and aunts and cousins, but they hadn’t arrived yet, apparently. It might have to do with why Father was unhappy. This was a funeral, but along with everything else it was, it put the focus on the Powell family, not on Father’s line.

There was a knock on the door, and cousin Owain appeared at Mama’s quiet “Yes?”

He came all the way in. “The Fortiers wondered if they might speak privately, before the service. Everyone is arriving. We will begin on time, fifteen minutes.”

Mama didn’t glance at Thessaly, she just nodded. “Please. Thessaly, you might sit under the window, with space to talk to Childeric.”

Thessaly obediently got up. She would not argue. Of course, she wasn’t at all sure what Childeric might say, though it was something that he was here, and that his family wished to speak quietly. By the time she was settled on the seat under the high window, there was another knock, and the Fortiers were shown in. They were in proper black, of course, though Lady Maylis was not veiled, and Lady Chrodechildis wasn’t either. They weren’t family, of course, so it was black dresses but not the other trappings. Childeric and Sigbert were behind their parents, and Childeric immediately came toward Thessaly. She didn’t see either Dagobert or Laudine Fortier, though.

She extended her hand, without rising, not entirely sure what else to do. He bent over it, taking her gloved fingers in his, kissing the air over the silk, then he met her eyes. “May I join you, Thessaly?”

Thessaly nodded once, before glancing over to see the Fortiers sitting near Mama and Papa. Sigbert joined Hermia on the sofa. The room was large enough she couldn’t hear what they were saying, and she expected Mama couldn’t hear whatever Childeric might share. Thessaly took a breath. She ought to say something, but she had no idea what words would make sense. She wanted to ask him why he hadn’t even written again, why they hadn’t called. Instead, he took her hand gently between his.

He was on good behaviour, then, doing everything as he ought. “I am so sorry we have not called, Thessaly. It is a significant loss, to you and your family, and to Albion. I know how much time you spent with your aunt.” Those things were all accurate enough. Though he didn’t actually have a good idea how much time she’d spent with Aunt Metaia, Thessaly realised. She’d never spelled it out for him, all the hours here and there when they’d had a chance. “I do hope you’ll forgive my absence. There were matters on the estate that needed tending.”

She inclined her head once. “I am glad you’re here now. Are your mother and father explaining? I know they wrote.”

Childeric glanced at them, turning his head slightly. “Making our apologies, yes. But we are here now. Your mother invited us to join the procession at the Powell cemetery.” Mama had not mentioned it to Thessaly, never mind asked Thessaly’s opinion. “I do hope I may offer you a proper escort there.”

There wasn’t anything to do but nod again. “I’m glad to know you’ll be there. This is so awful, all of it, so overwhelming.” It was expected for women to be emotional, and this gave Thessaly a reason - not at all feigned - to dab at her eyes with her handkerchief. Childeric squeezed her hand slightly, and it wasn’t remotely soothing. Not like when Vitus had touched her two days ago.

“Have the Guard told you anything about what happened, or their investigation?” Childeric kept his voice quiet.

She shook her head. “Nothing. They asked a lot of questions, of course. I was the last visitor on the property. I’d got ready for the rites with her. Nothing beyond that.”

“Ah.” Childeric took her hands between hers. “You will let me know if anyone makes things difficult for you, I hope?”

It sounded like the sort of thing she wanted to hear, and yet there was an odd note to his voice. He seemed almost to be repeating some speech from a dramatic moment in a play, or something learned out of an etiquette book. On the other hand, they were betrothed, and it would, in due course, be his duty to protect her in the ways protection might be needed. Or at least the ones he could offer, which was perhaps a more limited sample. She hesitated, and of course he caught the hesitation. “Is anything - erm, beyond the obvious - wrong, Thessaly? You aren’t cross with me, I hope?”

Cross wasn’t the word. She heard the echoes of what Aunt Metaia had said last Thursday. Thessaly heard the echoes of what Aunt Metaia hadn’t said in words, but had been thinking. She heard all the silence of his absence, the days between them. She could play back that shambles of a note in her mind, word for word. Thessaly turned her head away, grateful her own veil would obscure things a bit, though it wasn’t fully opaque. “It’s all so upsetting. I don’t know what I think right now, it’s— I miss her so much.”

“Ah.” He did not have a pat answer for that, and she was grateful at least that he did not fumble toward one. Instead, he sat quietly, his hand still in hers. “I will call when I can, of course. When you wish to receive me. If your family is willing.”

“Mama would approve. She did ask if you’d written, though not to see your note.” There, she could give him that piece of information. He should know Thessaly had protected his choices in that small way. Before she had to think of anything else to say, there was another knock from the door, and it was time for them to be shown to their places.

Thessaly and her family were in the front row, on the right side, with the Council Members and their spouses arrayed on the left and in the rows behind them. She got only a glimpse of the hall, but the rows of seats were filled with people standing at the back. She glimpsed Aunt Metaia’s staff, too, in black dresses or with black armbands, off in one corner at the back. They were all solemn but insistently there, with Mistress Collins maintaining proper etiquette for them all.

The form of the funeral was what Thessaly had expected from her grandparents on the Powell side. This bit of public formality was, well, public, a chance for comments, a eulogy of Aunt Metaia’s virtues, a public ritual to chain together what needed doing. People remembered her, people kept her name alive. Whoever had made the final decisions had been sensible.

There were four speakers. Cousin Owain, for the family, because some people would have thought Mama speaking improper. And honestly, Mama was in no state to speak clearly. She kept dabbing at her face with her handkerchief under her veil. Council Head Rowan spoke next, about Aunt Metaia’s time on the Council. She focused on the way Aunt Metaia had given unstintingly to their work and had lent her talents in expected and unexpected ways. Thirza Remmerton spoke about how good a friend she had been, how creative and how she’d always had a thought that improved a situation. Magistra Walder, Aunt Metaia’s apprentice mistress, decades ago, spoke about the sorrow of outliving her, sharing a story or two from her apprenticeship.

Thessaly wished she could have spoken, but it would have been an incoherent mess, and she knew it. There was singing, because the Welsh sang, and the Powells sang, and enough people knew the tunes here to carry the harmony. Then Thessaly and her family were guided into a long line, to receive well wishes. That would last as long as it needed to. Then there would be the quieter family rites at the burial. And there would be more, at All Hallows, in October, remembering the dead of the year.

When it came to the receiving line, the Council Members had gone through first. Each of them had in fact taken a moment to share some brief memory with Thessaly, even those she knew Aunt Metaia had often argued with. Some of those memories sang more in her heart than others, but she appreciated the gesture, even the awkward ones.

Then had come those close to the family, the Fortiers and various others. They had other comments, how sad the loss, how unfortunate she was still so young. Then it was the rest of them. Before very long, Thessaly’s feet ached, her back ached, and she no longer had any sense of time passing. There was always some new person to greet. One of the staff members from the Council stood behind Mama and Father, murmuring names, just loudly enough Thessaly could also hear them. She repeated enough of them to be proper.

She looked up, most of the way through, to find Mistress Collins. “Mistress. I am glad you and the staff could come. I hope you can come to the burial?”

Mistress Collins ducked her head. “Council Member Owain Powell made it clear we are welcome, Mistress, thank you.”

“I hope that...” Now Thessaly didn’t know how to ask. “There is no rush to change your circumstances?” It must be particularly hard for them to have their livelihood shaken, as well as their other losses.

“Council Head Rowan has made it clear we should remain until the new owner of the house can decide what to do. And she kindly made the necessary arrangements. Thank you for thinking of us, Mistress, few would.”

Thessaly inclined her head. “You all took such good care of my aunt and of the house. I will miss visiting very much, not just for my aunt’s sake.”

“Very kind indeed, ma’am.” Then the pressure of the people behind her meant she had to move along. Thessaly repeated the same comments to the other staff, more briefly, getting quiet responses back.

It wasn’t until nearly the end of the line that she looked up again to see Vitus. He offered a quiet smile. “I am still so sorry for your loss, but I hope hearing others remember your aunt is at least some comfort.” He’d already spoken to Mama and Father, of course.

“A little, thank you. And you saying so, also a comfort.” She considered, then nodded at Hermia next to her. “My sister, Hermia. Hermia, this is Vitus Deschamps, who was kind enough to share a specific memory of meeting Aunt Metaia when he wrote.”

Vitus moved along, but she was reassured, somehow, that he’d come. When everyone had filed out, they were escorted off to the portal. Once through and on the estate, they made a small procession with pallbearers and a formal carriage drawn by horses with deep, black ostrich plumes. It was all solemnity and a single repeated thump on a great bass drum.

There was little in the way of talking at the grave, which meant Thessaly didn’t need to say anything. Each person there tossed in a handful of dirt, then poured a cup of water as a libation. There were other parts of the rites that would come later. There would be a distribution of hair for all those who wanted a lock for a memento, besides whatever other rituals Aunt Metaia had wanted.

When that was done, the brown earth heaped over the grave, there was a funeral luncheon just for the family at the estate. Thessaly perched on a chair beside Hermia, letting the adults talk quietly. Certainly, the older generation weren’t much including either her or Hermia, so she might as well count as a child, never mind she was betrothed. She couldn’t quite hear anything, or what she heard didn’t seem to flow together. By the time they could leave, it was near enough four in the afternoon. She was glad to simply remove all her mourning clothing, unpin the veil and hat, and fall into bed.