Governed by Whimsy (Songs of the Amaranthine Book 4)

by Forthright

  “Ah! Hearth slippers.” Canary nodded approvingly. “How do they fit?”

  Ambrose pulled one on and quickly added its mate. They molded to his feet, a perfect fit. What bliss.

  “Gifts truly are the way to an avian’s heart. She’ll win you over, yet.”

  “What?”

  “Those are hearth slippers. We wear them at home.” Canary stole an orange slice from the nearest tray. “Cats do. Surely you’ve realized those are from Greta.”

  Ambrose could only weakly repeat, “What?”

  “Speaking of Greta … after you finish all this, I’d appreciate your help.” He patted the back of Ambrose’s chair. “Sit. Eat.”

  “Why do you need my help?”

  “Where to start?” Pacing slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, Canary said, “As it happens, Greta is a Dimityblest apprentice.”

  “I thought she was a pinion.”

  Canary brushed that aside with a lazy wave. “Complexities are part of her charm. When it came out that she has a way with a needle, Clemmorn immediately recruited her. I shared some of my plans for the next production, and Greta’s sketches were perfect. So when she offered to find sufficient fabrics, we didn’t hesitate.”

  Ambrose looked up from his meal. “However …?”

  With a wry smile, Canary said, “She’s spent the last two days and our entire annual costume budget in the Dimityblest warehouses.”

  He blinked. That was a considerable sum.

  “I’d planned to put a stop to further excesses, but with this and that.” Canary shrugged. “She somehow managed to get an early start.”

  Ambrose stretched his legs in order to steal a peek at his new slippers. “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Sate yourself, first. Then we’ll end her spree.” Pushing forward a selection of pastries, he murmured, “Do what I can’t, birdie mine. Refuse her.”

  There She Goes Again

  Ambrose was passingly familiar with the bayside city and the Amaranthine market that counted as one of America’s best-established urban enclaves. The Leclerc Company had occasionally performed in their public sector’s theaters, but Ambrose wasn’t one to wander about and explore. And social obligations left him moody.

  “No performances?”

  “Not unless we revive something for the Song Circle.” Canary wandered past a tanner’s stall, nose twitching. “Do you want to?”

  “They’d welcome us?”

  Canary frowned. “We’re not outcasts. More like … novelties.”

  It was Ambrose’s opinion that mingling with ordinary humans was simpler, despite the risks. Their audiences admired them for their dedication to their craft, and their efforts met with both acceptance and applause. But any return to the Kindred meant being called into question for their unusual choices.

  “We’ll be back on this coast in autumn. Bookings for the new play.”

  “Which you’re still writing.”

  Canary’s eyes sparkled. “Not to worry. Your grand romance is coming together nicely.”

  Ambrose rebuked him with a low trill.

  “Lord Beckonthrall’s then,” amended his friend, though his smirk remained.

  Time to change the subject. “Are you tracking her?”

  “Trying.” Canary tapped his nose. “It would be easier if she hadn’t visited every single shop on the square. Some more than once.”

  Ambrose considered the assortment of fancywork on display. It was easy to imagine such dainties appealing to Ms. Pinion. Dimityblest clothiers were superior to all others. “Didn’t you mention a warehouse?”

  Canary hummed. “These shops offer ready-mades. The warehouses sell raw materials.”

  A niggling knowledge took Ambrose by surprise. Catching his friend’s arm, he pointed. “She’s there.”

  Immediately changing course, Canary asked, “Did you spot her?”

  “A different sense.” Ambrose quietly admitted, “Echoes, I think.”

  “From tending?” Canary’s eyebrows jumped. “I get nothing. Then again, she wards herself.”

  Ambrose didn’t want to try to explain, so he simply walked on. But the tug at his soul reminded him of the evening when a then-faceless reaver had reached for him. Tumbled impressions hinted at her mood, which was good. Happiness. Anticipation. Longing. It was almost as if she were pining for him, which left Ambrose uncomfortably aware of his lapse.

  He’d somehow failed to broach the subject of gifts. He blamed her tending.

  The hummingbird egg pin was still in his possession. Though not on his person.

  And he couldn’t imagine giving up those beaded slippers. Had he been wooed?

  Ambrose quailed inwardly. What if these echoes were symptomatic of a nascent bond?

  “I see Fairlee and Lulu.” Canary’s stride checked. “Ah. She’s done it again.”

  Fairlee stood beside a heaped handcart and greeted them with a hesitant wave. The first words out of his mouth were, “Sorry, sir.”

  Canary cuffed his shoulder. “Is all of this yours?”

  “No, sir. Not me.” He cast a pleading look at Lulu.

  She had no apologies to offer. With crisp dignity, she said, “No one can deny the quality of Dimityblest cloth.”

  “Truer words were never spoken.” Canary cleared his throat. “I’m sure we can find room … somewhere. Shall we, Fairlee?”

  Canary began gathering up loose parcels, while Fairlee gripped the cart handles.

  Lulu rushed to steady the tippy load. “I will need to show you which things go where.”

  “By all means,” Canary murmured. “We’ll leave the rest to you, Ambrose.”

  “Me?” he protested.

  “Please.”

  Which was hardly fair. Because while it was true that Canary couldn’t refuse a lady, it was equally true that Ambrose couldn’t refuse him.

  Keeping to a Budget

  Ambrose’s steps slowed as he wound his way through the Dimityblest warehouse, where cloth spilled from bins in decadent waves. What splendor. While he would back up Canary, Ambrose wouldn’t mind if the costumers brought in such choice cloth.

  Winding through the labyrinth of shelves, he spied jewel-toned thread, neat packets of needles, and all sorts of closures. More interesting were the trimmings, which would undoubtedly inspire eye-catching fashion. Feigning indifference, he sailed on.

  She wasn’t even surprised to see him.

  “Which of these?” she asked, holding up two cards of buttons.

  Refusing to be distracted, he said, “It’s time to return to your berth.”

  Greta’s gaze turned speculative. “If you were a dragon, what color would you be?”

  “I’m not a dragon.”

  “Neither am I, but that’s never stopped me from imagining it.” She stepped closer and fussed with his tie. “My lady mistress fostered ties with a nearby harem. Lord Yonkeep was generosity itself both to us and to his ladies.”

  What that had to do with anything was a mystery.

  She went right on. “Red would be striking, but gold is more traditional for the dragon lord in Bethiel’s story.”

  “These are for me?” Ambrose reconsidered both the buttons and his wording. “For my costume?”

  Holding first one card, then the other up to his chest, she studied the effect. “Blue would be a departure, but you’d be stunning in the right shade. And your eyes! Well!”

  Ambrose rather wished she’d go on.

  Instead, she reached up to touch his dark brown braid. “Have I ever seen your true colors?”

  “That is a very personal question.”

  Greta’s brows arched. “Is it?”

  “Intensely.” He looked away but answered, “Glimpses, perhaps. Since my soul has been laid bare before you.”

  She actually pouted. “That’s not the same as running my fingers through your hair and matching a hatband to its hue.”

  He could feel color creeping into his cheeks. Returning to her earli
er question, he stiffly said, “Silver, gold, or white are traditional, perhaps because the winds are differentiated by the colors of the seasons they represent.”

  Her eyes widened, and she dove toward one of the displays.

  Glass buttons that rivaled the wares of Murano glittered temptingly. Nothing he owned would have made sense with such vibrant colors. Yet they appealed.

  Greta rushed back to him, triumph putting a shine in her eyes. “You will shine like a star!”

  She’d gathered buttons and beads, sequins and stones, all intended to catch and scatter light. “So many?”

  “And more,” she assured. “You’ll catch every eye and command every scene, win every heart and woo the very winds to your side.”

  “Not me,” he whispered. “That isn’t me.”

  “But it is.” Greta spoke with such conviction. “These become you, and you’ll become him, and it will be … rapturous!”

  He wanted to see the vision she saw.

  He wanted to drape himself in starlight.

  But he didn’t want to disappoint Canary.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “Allow me to pay for these.”

  She seemed confused. “There’s an expense account or something …?”

  Which she’d no doubt decimated. Ambrose couldn’t allow her to add to the Leclerc Company’s deficit, but neither could he let go of the vision she’d cast. And by spending his own coin, he wouldn’t be accepting another gift from her. “I must insist.”

  “As you like, Mister Merriman.” She crooked a finger and whispered, “Have you any leggings? Or better yet, silk stockings?”

  Ambrose hesitated. “Why?”

  She patted at her hips and found a pocket, from which she withdrew a fold of paper and the stub of a pencil. In a free corner, she scribbled as she spoke. “Tucked here. Flowing from here. And with spangling, so whenever you lengthen your stride or pivot … glitter everywhere. You know?”

  Her drawing was no larger than a coin, yet it captured a mood that would undoubtedly shape his portrayal of Lord Beckonthrall. Touching the paper, he cautiously murmured, “Silk … stockings?”

  Moments later, his hands were filled with whisper-light fabric, while she draped this scarf and that scarf over his shoulder. Some even had fringes.

  One of the Dimityblest clerks came over, and after a quick conference, fresh bolts of fabric arrived in an endless procession. Ambrose feared he was enjoying himself.

  When they asked him to stand, he struck a pose.

  When they asked him to walk, he strutted.

  Greta was detailed with her compliments, although he tried not to let them get to him. But when she looked him in the eye and crooned, “You beauty,” he didn’t toss off his customary rebuff.

  He was too busy wondering if she was seeing him or seeing stars.

  Wonderful with a Needle

  Greta hummed as she anchored another crystal to the silken length of Ambrose’s new stockings. It had been ages since she needed to start a pair from scratch, but with legs as long as his, finding a ready fit had been impossible. Seams could be troublesome, but she knew a few tricks to minimize their presence.

  Under her needle, whimsical sigils fanned. The beads from her private stash sang back, learning the tune she was teaching, echoing her hopes as she strengthened their voices.

  Spring to his step.

  Safety to his footing.

  Flourish to his turnout.

  Finesse to his lines.

  A soft knock interrupted her contemplations, and Greta smiled. “Enter, Canarian.”

  He let himself in, eyes widening at the state of her compartment. “What’s all this?”

  “I had some ideas.” Greta supposed there was more clutter than usual, between the unpacking and her new purchases. “For the play.”

  Canarian stepped with care, moving to the center table, which was strewn with sheet after sheet of foolscap. He picked up one and another in quick succession, and his smiled widened as he went. “Inspired!”

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  He peered at her over his glasses. “These are all Ambrose.”

  “Such graceful lines. He’s an ideal model!”

  “I agree. He is magnificent, but he cannot play every part.” Canarian held up the designs she’d created for the four winds.

  Greta was crestfallen, but Canarian was right.

  “Ah, I’m sorry to disappoint you.” He came to crouch at her side. “I may not have finished the final scenes, but the cast is decided. Would you like a list, so you can modify your designs?”

  She sighed over her loss, laughed over her own foolishness, and kissed Canarian’s cheek. “You must think me silly.”

  “You amaze me,” he promised.

  Only then did she realize that Canarian had dressed with unusual flamboyance. “What are you wearing?”

  “My costume.” He smoothed a hand across cobalt velvet. “Our company is performing in the Song Circle tonight. You won’t want to miss it. Our Ambrose steals this show, despite playing the villain.”

  Greta asked, “How long do I have?”

  “The enclave will gather at twilight.”

  “Then I can finish this first. Wait a moment, please.”

  Canarian’s glance jumped between her and her handiwork. “Does Ambrose know you’re adding frippery to his underthings?”

  “He’ll like it.”

  “He will.” His tone took a serious turn. “He won’t be able to refuse something like this.”

  “Why would he?” Greta asked. “This is meant for him.”

  With a soft smile, Canarian asked, “Will you come to see him?”

  “Yes.” Tying off a final knot, she proffered the stockings. “If you’ll give him these.”

  Do Not Look Away

  Ambrose knew he was being foolish. Ms. Pinion had been assigned to him. If long, searching looks had been directed his way, they were inspired by her duties as a reaver. She was his escort, little more than an usher. In a pinch, she’d protect him, but not for personal reasons. True, tending was deeply personal, but she was cosseting every member of the company.

  Her compliments were situational, even incidental.

  Her gifts were offhand, incurring no obligation.

  Her designs would clothe the whole cast.

  He wasn’t being singled out.

  Canary sauntered in and shook a finger at him. “You haven’t told her.”

  “I have no idea what you’re …”

  “Greta,” he interrupted sharply. “Why doesn’t she know that her gifts carry significance for you?”

  Having just rehearsed all the reasons her attentions didn’t matter, Ambrose was ready to spin them out. But something in Canary’s hand sparkled enticingly, and he found himself reaching. “Is that … for me?”

  “She’s determined to spoil you.” Canary yielded the prize. “Usually by this time, you’ve tallied up nearly as many grievances against your pinion as they have against you. But she has no complaints. Only compliments.”

  Ambrose warbled softly as he unfolded her gift, which glittered with crystals he’d never seen, let alone purchased. What’s more, when he drew these on, her sigils would touch his skin. What intimacy.

  “Are you blushing?”

  “Did she say anything?”

  Canary touched his face. “Am I to be your go-between, now?”

  Ambrose fidgeted. “Did she say anything?”

  “Yes, birdie mine. She said she’ll be watching tonight.”

  Despite early concerns over the Amaranthine reception of a tale intended for a human audience, from the moment Ambrose took the stage, he ignored Kith and Kindred alike. Once again, he played to an audience of one. Pleasantly aware of his pinion’s watchful suspense, he strove to give her every reason to keep watching.

  In a peripheral way, he was aware that the play was going well. More intriguing was Ms. Pinion’s complex reactions to his nefarious deeds.

  She thrille
d at his threats.

  His charisma became her quandary.

  She shivered over her fascination for him.

  Only when his scheming imperiled Canary’s character did she retreat from him as if stung. As was only right. For in every story produced by the Leclerc Company, good did prevail.

  Applause greeted their finish, a familiar thunder.

  But in keeping with Amaranthine tradition, Catalan stepped to the fore in order to introduce the entire cast, since the learning of names was the first mark of respect.

  After this prolonged curtain call, Ambrose stood with Canary, foreheads touching as they let their on-stage conflict fall away. “You were frightening, birdie mine.”

  “Only because you asked me to be, playwright.”

  “Methinks your misdeeds unnerved your pinion.” With a nudge, Canary urged, “Gently.”

  They turned to see Catalan bringing Greta forward.

  Ambrose may have enjoyed quavering her soul from the stage, but her awed approach didn’t set well. She was still under the sway of a villain who’d returned to their script’s pages.

  Sweeping forward, he fluttered blackened claws, then presented his palms. “Ms. Pinion,” he chided. “The tale has ended.”

  Her fingertips were cool. Her eyes too wide.

  Ambrose sighed and firmly said, “There is only me. I am here.”

  At the sound of his usual, unaffected voice, a flicker of relief washed between them. Followed by gladness. Chased by a wordless whisper that tickled his consciousness, downy soft and different.

  But undeniably there.

  And somehow aware.

  Of him.

  Ambrose lived with a trainload of bachelors, so it wasn’t as if he knew much about the carrying of young. But it seemed clear that all this time, he’d actually been playing to an audience of two.

  They Know My Voice

  Ambrose closed himself up in his compartment until the Cat’s Canary left the station. Only when the night was deep enough to guarantee that the lone human aboard would be abed did he steal out. Moving swiftly along swaying passages, he was briefly disoriented because of the reorganization of cars. But Colt’s compartment was still centrally located. He was their healer, after all.