by Forthright
With a courtesy tap, Ambrose eased the door open.
Colt’s quarters were larger than most, since they did double duty. He and Hallow bunked here, but two additional beds and a large central table crowded the space. Sickness and injuries weren’t common, but Colt presided over naps and kept them dosed with an assortment of teas and tonics.
“Pardon the intrusion,” Ambrose managed. His voice barely quavered.
Colt looked up from the communique he was reading, gaze clear, smile easy. “This is a pleasant surprise. Join us, Ambrose.”
His bunkmate lay with his back to the room, blankets pulled up over his shoulders, but Fairlee was there, too, and greeted him with a shy smile.
Ambrose hesitated on the threshold. These three served Leclerc Company as part of the stage crew, not as actors, so he rarely interacted with them. He couldn’t think how to begin, but where else could he turn for answers? “May I have a word?”
Colt immediately rose and crossed to him. A big, warm hand cupped Ambrose’s cheek as the horse clansman searched his eyes. “You’re too pale,” he said gently. “But not ill, I think?”
“No.”
“Ill at ease?”
Ambrose closed his eyes and muttered, “Somewhat.”
Pulling him into his shoulder, Colt turned slightly. “Fairlee, will you give us some time.”
The younger male set aside the rope he was braiding. As he passed by, he touched Ambrose’s elbow in a silent offer of support.
When the door clicked shut, Colt asked, “What can I do for you?”
“Do you know anything about … young?”
“Children? Our lifestyle here doesn’t allow for much interaction.” He rubbed circles into Ambrose’s back. “But yes, I know many things. Most things, I should think.”
“So you’d know if something was perfectly normal?”
“Yes.”
Ambrose plunged straight in. “Why can I sense the pinion’s child?”
“Greta’s baby?”
“Yes. Why would her young be responding to me?”
Colt hummed. “Have you been in close contact with Greta?”
“Tending. Once.”
He hummed again. “When you say sense …?”
“I suspect the child is responsible for the echoes I’ve been experiencing since that one session.” Ambrose guessed he may as well have it all out. “I know where she is. Catch impressions of her emotional state. And … I would swear the child knows my voice.”
“Well. I may know many and most, but I clearly don’t know everything.” Colt admitted, “I’ve never heard of a human baby forging a prenatal bond. However, Greta is a reaver, and it’s possible that her child has an unusually strong presence.”
From the bed in the corner, Hallow’s voice came. “Or that her child isn’t entirely human.”
A Weakness for Finery
Await. Await. Await. But waiting for the person standing outside her door to get around to knocking was becoming increasingly distracting. So Greta called, “Could you give me your opinion on these sketches? And I want you to approve the trimmings for your cape.”
Ambrose Merriman made his entrance.
He was back to a silvery blond, though he hadn’t bothered with the glasses this time. Those intriguingly pale eyes of his flew wide, and he teetered on the threshold. Greta glanced around, uncertain what had rendered him speechless.
“Good evening, Mister Merriman,” she said. “Please, be welcome.”
“What …?” His arms swept dramatically wide. “What is this?”
“My room.” She supposed it was a little messy. “Or did you mean those?”
She and Lulu had anchored five dressmaking forms at intervals along one wall, and four of them were swathed in lengths of fabric that evoked the unique qualities of the four winds from Amaranthine lore. The fifth held a glory of silver and gold, the ingredients for his costume.
Remaining so close to the door Greta suspected he was clinging to its handle, Ambrose asked, “Where is your chaperone?”
She pointed up. “Out.”
“On the roof?” he asked, sounding shocked.
Greta smiled. “She sometimes gets the urge to soar. Especially on moonlit nights.”
His gaze jumped from trunk to tabletop to shelf. “How many cartloads did Fairlee have to pull for you?”
“Most of this is mine.” Greta set aside her embroidery and folded her hands in her lap. “I brought everything with me, since … I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back.”
Ambrose studied her for a moment but sidestepped the invitation to ask more. “Why would a pinion have all this?”
She gestured to the armchair across from hers, but he turned away to study the sketches littering the table. Not exactly a rebuff, but not exactly friendly.
“Most of my work involves nothing but existing. I needed more occupation.” Tracing an embroidered sigil, she added, “I like to sew.”
“Understatement,” he blandly accused.
Greta smiled.
Ambrose loitered about, poking his nose into anything she’d left in the open, but never touching closed books or drawers. While he had nothing to say, she had the distinct impression he was working his way up to speaking. Await. Await. Await.
“Is … is this for me?” His fingertips grazed the standing collar of a short cape she’d draped over the back of a chair.
“Put it on, Mister Merriman.” And when he shot her a questioning glance, she nodded. “We’ll check the fit, then consider the trim.”
He swung it around his shoulders in front of a full-length mirror borrowed from the costume room. Its tiers flared just the way they were meant to. Ambrose pivoted, paced before his reflection, then slowly flushed pink.
“You’re pleased?” she guessed.
“I will accept it.” Rounding on her, he gravely asked, “Why would you do this for me?”
Greta dared to ask, “You love nice things, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“That’s why.” She moved to the table and shifted several sketches. “For trim, we could go with simple piping, silver cord, glass beads. I may even have enough pearls, which would pick up the luster of your eyes.”
His lashes fluttered, and he sank to one of the stools beside the table.
She ventured, “Were you going to ask for tending this evening?”
Ambrose looked genuinely confused. “Isn’t it too soon?”
“Not at all.”
He lowered his gaze and murmured, “Thank you all the same, but … do you have these beads in this same blue?”
As she rummaged through her trunks, Greta tried to remember the last time an Amaranthine had come to her for anything besides cosseting.
This was shaping up to be a rare evening.
You Carry the Day
Traveling by train suited the Leclerc Company’s unique needs, but it did require patience on everyone’s part. In order to share the rails, they had to run at odd hours, and whole days could be spent on special sidings that were managed by members of the In-between. Their eventual goal was far to the east, but the journey was being accomplished in carefully timed fits and starts.
During a lazy afternoon on an especially picturesque siding, Ambrose allowed himself to be drawn in by Canary, only to discover that his proposed sun-basking session would have a cosset in attendance.
“Do us all some good,” Canary assured.
Ambrose needn’t have worried. More than half the company turned out to laze along the nearby riverbank. Long, sweet grasses proved temptation enough for Fairlee to revert to truest form. The big ox was soon joined by Colt and two goats with majestically curving horns, who all grazed contentedly.
Joining his friends on one of the many picnic blankets anchored by wardstones, Ambrose tried not to think too much about the idyllic atmosphere, knowing Ms. Pinion was at least partially responsible.
Their menagerie grew to include a goose and an otter, who were naturally
attracted to the water. Gallorin, a frog clansman, waded through the shallows, mumbling to himself as he studied a script.
“Give us your opening monologue,” called Canary.
Flashing a smile, Gallorin launched into Bethiel’s opening address. Of course, Canary had modified the original tale for his play, but the Amaranthine references were recognizable to any Betweener. Gallorin was both angel and narrator for the unfolding story, and when his Bethiel reached a dramatic pause, all eyes turned to Ambrose.
This was the dragon lord’s entrance. Although, in Canary’s adaptation, he’d present himself as a lonely sultan who longed to fill his palace with color and beauty and song, if only he could find a wife. Having already committed the part to memory, Ambrose took his cue, and their dialogue rang across the water.
The sultan’s plight and prayer drew smiles from all who knew how much trouble he’d invited.
While many stories and songs warned of a dragon’s wiles, this tale took the other side, reminding dragons to be careful with their words, for wishes came with consequences.
At the scene’s end, Canary laughed aloud and pulled Ambrose into a playful embrace. “You’re wonderful at everything, aren’t you?”
“If you say so.”
“Oh, I do!” His friend quirked a brow at Cat, and Ambrose was soon sandwiched between them.
Cat said, “Villain or noble, you carry the day.” Raising his voice, he asked, “Isn’t that right, Gallorin?”
The frog clansman offered a cheerful response, but Ambrose missed much of what they said. Because that soft certainty had returned the moment he’d pitched his voice to be heard.
“Are you even listening?” asked Cat.
Ambrose blinked. “Were you saying something?”
“Nothing of import.” After a considering look, he murmured, “What’s wrong?”
“Did you hear that?”
Cat quietly asked, “What should I be listening for?”
Was it a sound? Not really. Ambrose lamely asked, “Did you feel that?”
They’d captured Canary’s attention. “What are you talking about, birdie mine? Are you catching resonance?”
Ambrose shook his head, then nodded. He let the subject drop. Because asking Canary and Cat might amount to a breach of Ms. Pinion’s privacy.
He would need to go directly to her.
You Can Tell Me
Greta hadn’t expected company that evening, but Ambrose came grumbling to her door and insisted on watching her work. Which was so like him. He was as reluctant a friend as he was an ardent one. But not in the usual way. She was accustomed to attracting Amaranthine, yet Ambrose seemed more enamored of her collection of frills and furbelows.
“How are you with stitchery, Mister Merriman?” she asked.
“Not my expertise.” He fluttered his fingers. “Though I’m not unwilling to assist.”
She set him to work threading needles and sorting beads, a task he accepted readily enough, perhaps because he’d realized that her current project was intended for him. A second pair of beaded hearth slippers. She feared his first pair would soon wear out, he wore them so often.
“Are these for me?”
“They are yours.” Greta smiled at his obvious pleasure. “Will you wear them?”
He lowered his gaze. “I will wear them,” he promised.
Greta wondered at his tone. They were very nice slippers—ultramarine and violet upon velvety black—but not something worthy of vows.
Ambrose toyed with a spool of thread. “I love them.”
“I hoped you would.” Something was definitely on his mind. Again.
Await. Await. Await.
“I would not presume to understand the ways of feline mistresses or reaver women, but in the customs of my clan, gifts such as these are a form of courtship.” He was still struggling with eye contact. “Your gifts are exceedingly fine, and I want them all. Even though acceptance invites … more.”
That had been a lot of words, but Greta heard every one of them. “Have I imposed upon you?”
Ambrose heaved a shuddering sigh and melted from his chair, coming to kneel at her side. “No. I understand that you’re not pursuing me. And I cannot possibly establish a nest on such a transitory branch.”
Was he apologizing? She wasn’t entirely sure.
“Only reciprocation would bring about certain … instinctual obligations. However, I cannot deny that some form of bond exists. Perhaps you are unaware? It has taken days for me to understand what I am feeling.”
He’d lost her. Too many fiddly, roundabout words. But Greta was good at expressions, and his was filled with concern. She asked, “Is something wrong?”
Edging even closer, he whispered, “May I touch?”
“You may.”
He took her hand between his. “Why is your child different?”
“Oh.” Greta tried for a smile, but she wasn’t any kind of actress. “You can tell?”
“A little. During performances. And tending.”
His bewilderment didn’t seem put-on. Then again, he was a splendid actor.
“When you tend, this one receives and is glad. Their love for you resonates through the connection.” Ambrose tipped his head to one side. “And for me.”
That surprised her. “They love you?”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps it is merely my voice.” The gaze he lifted held apology. “I fear I may offend, yet I cannot deny my curiosity. Is your child not entirely … commonplace?”
“Y-you can tell?”
Ambrose nodded.
“Yes.” It was almost a relief for Greta to confess the truth. “This one’s father is Amaranthine.”
If Not for Them
“I knew it was possible.”
He did? Greta hadn’t known until it was too late for anything but apologies.
Ambrose quietly pried, “What of the father?”
“How much do you know about feline customs?”
“A little.” He frowned and added, “Not enough.”
Greta ran her finger over patterns of beads as she searched for words. “I have a son and two daughters—twins who were recently taken to academy. It was harder than expected to let my girls go, and my lady mistress decided I needed cheering up. She entrusted the matter to her consorts.”
“One of them is the father?”
She nodded.
Ambrose’s fidgeted and whispered, “You are not certain which one?”
Greta said, “Foreign delicacies were brought in to tempt my appetite. We tasted all sorts of exotic dishes, and I’m pretty sure the sweets were laced with pollen. Star wine may have contributed to a certain … vulnerability. Because he’s kind and gentle and feline. If I asked for anything, he wouldn’t have refused. In the end, I’m at fault.”
“Did none of them step forward?”
She felt the first tears slip from under her lashes.
“They all did.” She tried to blink away her tears. “Even Lady Himeko’s brother pleaded my case. He was the one who suggested sending me here. Before matters could worsen.”
Ambrose trilled softly and daubed at her cheeks with a frilled handkerchief. “They banished you?”
“They protected me!” She took hold of his lapel, giving it a small shake. “The cat clans don’t look kindly on misfits or halfbreeds. Rand and Petros and Mnemba and Rhaymus and Chiilu—they were frightened for me. Other women in my position have been … put down. This was their only alternative.”
“Sanctuary with Lady Evernhold’s rebel sons?”
Greta sniffled. “Canarian and Catalan will hide me and harbor my child, should they survive. I’m told my chances are slim.”
“How slim?”
“Nobody knew for sure.” With a small shrug, she reminded, “The cat clans don’t normally allow pregnancies like mine to progress.”
Ambrose shook his head, then shook it again. “Why are you not outraged?”
How could she be? “They’re my oldest frien
ds. I’ve known them my whole life.”
“Is that not worse?” He clearly didn’t understand. “To be mishandled by one’s own family.”
“This child’s father is … was my peer. A trusted friend. A cherished friend.” Greta knew it was different in other clans, especially avian ones. “We could mingle as equals because of the connections we shared with Lady Himeko.”
Ambrose’s eyebrows slowly lifted. “You do know. You are certain of the father.”
“Yes.” Greta’s actual memories were hazy, but she knew Himeko’s consorts with the intimacy that came from years of trust and tending. “I think my lady mistress knew, too. That’s why she agreed to send me to Canarian.”
“Does he know your child’s unique nature?”
“I don’t think so. No.” Fresh tears washed down her cheeks. “But when the time comes, I want my baby born into his hands. They will need their brother.”
She broke down, and Ambrose gathered her up, crooning and shushing by turns. And when Lulu bustled in, looking windblown and flustered and furious, he wouldn’t give way. Only cut the moth off with dramatic flair. “Do you want to know why I’m less shocked than I may have been?”
Lulu was in no mood for theatrics. “Your state of mind was the last thing on mine.”
“Tell us, Mister Merriman.” Greta didn’t think he was the sort to offer hope if it was false. “Why have I failed to shock you?”
He still held her, still held them. “Because, Ms. Pinion. Another member of our company also boasts a dual heritage.”
Half Amaranthine, Half Human
Ambrose stormed down the passage, determined to get the help his pinion needed. Their healer clearly didn’t have all the information he needed to make the weighty decisions that lay ahead. What negligence. What nonsense. What ninnies.
