Page 76 of The Shadow Key

He is slow in his translations; her attempts at distraction quite failed. He taps his foot, twists the quill fast between forefinger and thumb, staining his fingernails black with ink. At length Henry pushes the paper from him with a deep and heavy sigh.

‘There,’ he says. ‘I’ve done my best.’

Linette takes the paper, reads over his work. In only two lessons, the doctor has already mastered the Welsh alphabet and makes good progress with its pronunciation, only stumbling a little at double letters which trip over his tongue like a cough. As Merlin snores beneath their feet Linette reaches for Henry’s dictionary, runs a determined finger down a page filled with C’s.

‘Here,’ she says, tapping a word halfway down the page. ‘You used this word where you could have used another.’

‘Cartref.’ Henry looks at her to see if he has pronounced it correctly. Linette nods.

‘It means “home”, so you are not incorrect, but there are actually two other words for it.’

‘Of course there are,’ he says drily. ‘Why?’

‘It’s to do with the context, and also whether the word is used as a noun or an adjective. But you will instinctively learn when to use the right one.’

‘I’ll never remember it all.’

‘You will. Did you not say you had a mind suited to learning? One day it will become second nature. I’d wager in a year you’ll be as fluent as I.’

As they have been speaking Henry has outlined the C of cartref again and again until the ink is blurred onto the paper, a nebulous crescent moon. Linette bites her lip.

She understands his frustration for it matches hers, though likely in different ways.

This new discovery, that Julian is a member of a Hellfire club, disturbs her, but not so much as the more unsavoury truth regarding her parents. She thinks once more of the portrait upstairs. When Linette was a girl she often looked up at it and admired her mother’s beauty, the confidence that shone through the canvas, wondering how that woman could be so different from the one she knew. Now, her mother’s expression – that playful smile – has taken on a new meaning.

What manner of woman had her mother been?

Linette rubs her aching temples, smothers a yawn. Her nights have been restless of late, and her fatigue has made her irritable, a state which she does not like. Indeed, it has been getting increasingly difficult to hide her emotions from Enaid, whose sharp eyes see far more than she lets on. The poor woman worries about her most dreadfully, but how can Linette tell her that her brother may have been murdered? It would break Enaid’s already sore heart.

A heavy tap at the window makes her turn her head. Outside, the rain continues to fall persistently, and she listens to the lull of its beating force against the gravel drive. Many times over the years she would stop whatever she was doing and simply sit, and listen. Rain, of course, can be heard anywhere in the world, but Linette fancies that Welsh rain has a particular cadence to it, a freeing quality so wholly its own. It is this thought that sparks in her another.

‘There is one more form of the word for “home”,’ she says, ‘but its meaning is complex. You won’t find it in the dictionary.’

‘Oh?’ Henry leans back, rests his quill on the table.

‘Hiraeth.’

‘Hiraeth,’ he echoes, teasing the words across his tongue. He nods. ‘I like the sound. But why is it complex?’

Linette smiles, wistful.

‘The word is more of a feeling. An emotion that ties you to the idea of home. It’s a place in your heart, a feeling of rightness, a sense of belonging. It is what Plas Helyg is to me, what I suppose London must be to you.’

He says nothing to this. In fact, he grows very still.

She wants to ask him about his childhood as a Foundling but dare not. He spoke of loneliness, once. Was it because he too feels that emotion? Linette wants to tell him she understands – understands so completely – but finds she cannot think of the words. Instead, she asks, ‘Do you miss London?’ and that haunted look returns, the one he has worn so often since arriving here, and Linette regrets saying anything at all.

‘Henry, what is it? Are you all right?’

He takes a little too long to answer.

‘Yes, I’m all right.’

‘I’m not sure you are.’ Linette finds herself hesitating. ‘I have to ask you again. Why here? It’s so strange that you should have left a grand city filled with opportunity, to have chosen Penhelyg of all places instead. When Julian received your letter—’

‘My letter?’

His interruption is sharp, dark eyes narrowed, and Linette looks at him in confusion.

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