by Forthright
He barged into Colt’s and Hallow’s compartment. After much flailing of arms and flinging of insults, he got both males moving in the right direction. Colt with considerably more speed than Hallow exerted, but that wasn’t so unusual. The reclusive backstage crewman preferred to lurk well outside the limelight.
Back in Ms. Pinion’s compartment, Colt hurried forward and dropped to one knee. Hands already probing, he alternated between asking Greta questions and looking to Lulu for confirmation.
“Are you in pain?”
“Have you been resting?”
“How far along?”
“What small complaints have begun?”
He had a soothing voice, an open expression, and a calming effect. Ambrose had never before wondered why someone of Colt’s abilities would choose to live herdless. Then again, everyone in the Leclerc Company had their reasons.
Colt went right on checking Greta’s hands, her ankles, her pulse, her personal wards. “Now, then,” he murmured. “Tell me what I need to know, Miss Greta.”
Her teary gaze pleaded with Ambrose.
Did she really expect him to speak for her?
Sweet skies, she did.
So he slipped the jaunty capelet from around his shoulders and draped it around hers, taking his place—or at least the role into which he was being cast—behind Greta’s chair.
Colt’s eyes widened.
Ambrose wished he wasn’t blushing. At least he had the healer’s full attention as he laid the matter succinctly before him.
“So that’s how it is.” Rather than being scandalized, Colt’s smile turned achingly sweet. Patting Greta’s hands, he murmured, “You’re one of the lucky ones.”
She burst into tears.
Probably from relief.
Under Ambrose’s watchful eye, Colt offered his arms and calmed her with low hums and soft reassurances. That she was safe. That they were here. That there was hope.
Ambrose sacrificed a second handkerchief and fought back the sudden urge to touch her hair.
“You need to meet my friend. Hallow and I share a compartment. We’ve been friends since he was just a little guy.” Turning expectantly toward the door, Colt said, “Come along, Hallow. She’s warded.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Hallow stepped into the open. He was slim and pale, a youth with sharp features and a stiff manner. Straight black hair hung loose around his shoulders, and he glanced around the room with deep red eyes.
“Come along, Hallow,” Colt repeated. “Don’t be such a grump.”
Flashing a look of injury, Hallow flowed across the room with a swooping gait that caused the leathery folds that webbed under his arms to billow slightly. He presented himself to Greta with a silent bow.
“Use your words,” teased Colt.
Sinking to one knee at his bunkmate’s side, Hallow offered clawed hands in a standard greeting. His regional accent was a match for Colt’s, lending credence to their long association. “How do you do? My name is Hallow Brunwinger. I apologize for withholding myself from association. Especially if my presence can bring some comfort.”
“You’re … half?”
“Yes.” He lifted an arm, giving her a clearer look at a misfit wing. “Bat clan.”
Greta asked, “Your mother?”
“She is well enough. My father was human.” Hallow’s gaze turned apologetic. “I’m not sure what any of you expect from me. It’s not as if I was much use during my own birthing.”
Colt slung his arm around Hallow’s shoulders. “You’re here. Isn’t that enough?”
“I’m not the one she needs,” grumbled the youth. “Leave her to Ambrose.”
A valid suggestion, given the bold declaration he’d made by wrapping her in his cape. But he’d been playing a part.
Mostly.
Only If You Insist
Greta gave up on the swirl of words surrounding her. Conscious of Ambrose’s nearness, she automatically lifted her hand above shoulder, signaling for his attendance. But, wait. He hadn’t liked being treated like a consort.
However, before she could withdraw her hand, his palm met hers. “Will you go to Canary now?” he asked.
“Come with me?”
Ambrose inclined his head, helped her to rise, and firmly tucked her arm through his. Signaling his intention to take the lead, which still struck her as different and daring.
Colt and Lulu and maybe even Hallow looked ready to follow, to add their voices to her story. But she shook her head. It reminded her too keenly of the crowding of consorts who’d begged for Lady Evernhold’s understanding, for secrecy, for mercy.
Himeko’s brother had calmed that storm of dismay. If not for him, Greta wouldn’t be here now, relying on another compelling voice to carry the day.
“Mister Merriman?”
He paused in the passage. “Ms. Pinion?”
“Will you tell him?”
“Only if you insist.” Ambrose searched her face. “He’s the sort of person who will try to understand.”
She thought so, too. But she was more confident in Ambrose’s ability to command the room, to influence his friends. “I don’t know how to explain.”
“Tell him what you told me.”
“But …!” she protested.
He faced her, so close she could count every stitch in his seams. Standing between her and the way forward, as if protecting her from the future.
Greta whispered, “How will they ever trust me again if they think I entrapped his father?”
Ambrose answered just as softly. “You have their trust.”
“They’ll find out I don’t deserve it.”
He raised a finger along with a brow. “In Canary’s plays, there always comes a point when all seems lost. Not because it is, but because it seems so. Yet there will be a chance meeting, a small change, a difficult choice, something. And the way forward becomes miraculously clear.”
“This isn’t one of Canarian’s plays.” Greta could barely speak past the tightness in her throat. “This is real, Mister Merriman. All is lost. I am lost.”
“No,” Ambrose countered. So gently, so sure. “This is the part where you discover that you have been the hero all along.”
Greta gaped at him.
With a superior smile, he whirled her into a cramped variation on the waltz that carried her further along the passage. Toward her fears.
“I’m disgraced.” How could he pretend otherwise? “Sent away.”
“Sent here. To us.”
“To die.”
“To live.” Ambrose stopped short and scooped her up, quickly skimming across the lone gap that remained between them and the Evernhold carriage. “And to bring life.”
Back on her feet, Greta said, “If you’re so sure, you speak. Maybe we’ll all believe you.”
He shook his head. “Nothing I say or do will change what’s always been true.” Very carefully, almost reverently, he touched her hair. “Did you know that in all of Canary’s plays, the happy ending comes as a surprise, even though all the necessary elements have been there the entire time?”
Greta had only seen two of Canarian’s plays. Each had harrowed her heart, yet fulfilled every hope. And then some. “You put a lot of faith in his stories.”
“I do.”
He was acting like someone who already knows her story’s end, and Greta found his smugness oddly uplifting. “Why are you so happy?”
“Oh. You can tell?” So he could tease. “Perhaps because you have brought so much to my friends. May I touch?”
Which was the silliest question ever. His hands hadn’t left off holding her from the moment he’d returned with help. “You may.”
“Canary and Cat have abandoned their home hearth, and they have no wish to become consorts. Their choices have given them what they wanted most. But this freedom has excluded them from one of our people’s greatest joys.” His fingertips settled over her midriff. “They have no mistress who will entrust them with a child. Yet here you are, ca
rrying a precious secret that will bring a kitten to their hearth.”
Suddenly, the compartment door opened, and Canarian leaned out, face full of questions. “What’s this about kittens?”
All Will Be Well
Ambrose was spared answering, for Canary immediately leapt to a second, more urgent question. “Greta love, have you been crying?”
He touched her cheek and moved to gather her up, but stopped with a startled huff. He’d noticed the cloak.
“Do you have time for us?” Ambrose asked.
Canary touched his cheek as well. “All you ever need.”
And he stepped back with arms widespread, leaving Ambrose to usher in Greta.
The compartment showed evidence of the felines’ occupation. Ledgers and receipts cluttered the table. They’d probably been sorting out the damage done by Ms. Pinion’s spending spree. More interesting to Ambrose were the playbills from past productions that Cat had arranged. Would they be drumming up something extra?
Curious as he was, Ambrose’s current role took precedence.
But Canary was more interested in defining that role. “Why is Greta wearing your cape, birdie mine?”
“Don’t leap to conclusions,” he sighed.
“How can I not?” His friend quietly pointed out, “You would never do such a thing without good reason.”
“Ms. Pinion asked me to speak for her.” Ambrose tilted his chin challengingly. “She is under my protection.”
“Is that the shape your favor takes?” Canary smirked. “She’s winning you over—body, soul, and wardrobe.”
Cat spoke up then, brows knit. “Why does our reaver have need of a spokesman?”
Ambrose guided Greta to a chair, then drew himself up beside it. “She is carrying your child.”
Canary’s froze, then shot a look at Cat, who raised his hands and shook his head. The former cleared his throat and said, “Not so, friend. Ms. Demerara came to us in this condition.”
“She is carrying your child,” Ambrose insisted. “For the babe will be delivered into your hands. A half-sibling born in exile. A halfer in need of the haven we represent.”
The resulting silence broke when Canary’s breath hitched. Cat stole up behind his best friend, wrapping him in his arms and asking, “Which of our fathers …?”
With a roll of his wrist, Ambrose silently indicated Canary, whose eyes began to water. Dragging Cat with him, he knelt before Greta and whispered, “Truly?”
She nodded shakily.
Ambrose grumbled, “Have you any of the reprisals she fears?”
Canary’s eyes rounded, and Ambrose went so far as to nudge him with the pointed toe of his hearth slipper. That worked to loosen the cat’s tongue. And then he was babbling apologies and endearments and compliments and vows.
“W-with your permission, Ambrose,” Cat stammered belatedly, for Canary was trying to kiss away each of Greta’s tears.
Ambrose merely rolled his eyes and waved them on. Felines.
All would be well. Probably.
If the Maker was kind, Greta would deliver a son. Heaven only knew what drama lay in store if Canary and Cat were called upon to raise a baby sister.
Answer for Your Deeds
Ambrose wasn’t entirely sure what traditions were in play when Canary insisted that Greta spend the night in their bed, but she accepted with such a wistful smile, it must have been a kindness. From behind the screen, Canary’s voice carried in a softly-sung lullaby.
Meanwhile, Cat lured Ambrose onto the settee, where a little overlapping soon led to outright entanglement … and inquisition.
“Why was Greta wearing your cape?”
“I told you,” Ambrose muttered. “You needn’t read into it.”
“You shouldn’t read out of it,” Cat countered. “You’ve taken a fancy. Have you taken it farther?”
Ambrose summoned up a glare. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Don’t be obtuse. If all you did was surrender your cape, why is her scent clinging to you?”
He’d forgotten, really. It was only the impulse of a moment. “I suppose there was some dancing.”
Cat’s incredulity doubled, then melted into amusement. “Ambrose! That’s avian courting behavior, pure and simple.”
“Coincidental.” Yet he couldn’t deny he’d enjoyed his role … while it lasted. “She needed cheering. It was a distraction.”
His friend pulled him closer and kissed him lightly. “Your kindnesses may be the sparkle on the surface, Lord Scatterlight, but down deep, you may have to concede that she’s wooed and won you.”
Ambrose considered those depths. And found that still, small voice waiting.
“Her child knows me. I think.” Shoulders hunching against the delight that brought him, he lamely added, “Somehow.”
“By jaguar clan traditions, a child is born knowing their mother’s voice and listening for their father’s.” Cat’s fingers set to kneading the tightness from Ambrose’s frame. “That’s why if there’s any uncertainty, cubs and kittens whose coloring offers no useful clues to paternity are given to the consort whose voice they adore.”
“Her child is feline. A fosterling for you and Canary.”
“Oh, we’ll raise the child together. All of us.” His gesture included the entire trainload, their unofficial enclave. “But especially us.”
“You’re including me?”
“As if we’d exclude you,” Cat scoffed. “I suspect, friend of my heart and this hearth, that when the days are full, Greta’s wee kitten will be born into a nest.”
Letters Brought by Heralds
“How’s your Shakespeare?” asked Canary.
“Undiminished,” assured Ambrose. “Although I prefer your scripts. Too many tragedies can weary a soul.”
A few days had passed, as had the miles, and with them, the mess on Canary’s table multiplied. Fanned playbills now shared space with the contents of a correspondence packet brought by a Dimityblest courier during the night.
“Our clerk in the next city has alerted us to a sudden opening.” Cat waved the missive. “Ruffin Theater’s been struggling with sore throats and sniffles. Too many actors under the weather, and now their leading lady has laryngitis. I’ve written back, offering to fill in. If they’ll give us a two-week run.”
“Frankly, the timing couldn’t be better.” Canary’s smile turned wry. “The slot would help to defray certain … unforeseen expenses.”
Ambrose hated to ask. “Greta?”
He was quick to defend. “We could consider the costs she incurred as an investment.”
“Toward our next three productions,” cut in Cat.
Elbowing Canary, Ambrose said, “You’ll have to write plays to match the color scheme of the bolts in our stores.”
The playwright’s eyes took on a shine. “That would be an interesting challenge.”
“All that aside, I believe there’s a Shakespearean production in our near future. One of the comedies.” Cat tapped the stack of playbills. “And a short run of an old favorite. You may choose, Ambrose.”
They were in the midst of narrowing the possibilities when a knock came at the door.
Fairlee shuffled inside, a small, square envelope in his hand. “This was missed, sir. Mixed in with the others.”
Canary took it and turned it, checking the seal. “Ah.”
As soon as the young bovine excused himself, Cat quietly asked, “Has the Mother put a paw in?”
He shook his head, unfolding heavy paper. The note must have been brief, for he spared it barely a glance. Sidestepping Cat’s question, Canary announced, “Two things worry me.”
Ambrose gestured for him to continue.
“Our courier needed a word with Lulu, and neither requested privacy. I overheard their conversation.” He shared a troubled glance with Cat. “She was recalled.”
“By her clan?” asked Ambrose.
Canary scratched behind an ear. “Apparently, she only stayed on when she
found out Greta would be the solitary female in our company. We’ve allayed any fears. And eliminated any reason for further delay.”
“When will she separate from us?” asked Ambrose.
“It’s done,” said Cat. “She’s gone.”
What haste. Ambrose frowned. “Has she so little regard for her apprentice?”
Canary said, “Lulu Dimityblest has every regard for her former apprentice. Before leaving, she demanded that Clemmorn, Cat, and I bear witness. Mistress Moth bestowed highest honors. Greta attained her mastery.”
Ambrose felt sure the woman deserved the elevation. But to be left alone? Surely this would redouble her homesickness.
Cat asked, “What has become your second concern?”
Lifting the note, Canary said, “My uncle. He requests a meeting.”
Back by Popular Demand
Greta was still reeling from her attainment when Clemmorn broke the news that he had little more than two days to pull all the costumes for two productions out of storage. And he wanted her help.
As he pulled one trunk after another from storage, Greta grew increasingly frantic with delight over the treasures they held. She even dared to hope that he’d let her amend some of the costumes before the first performance. Especially Ambrose’s.
By the end of the first day, she was utterly wrung. Canarian scolded and Colt dosed, and Catalan curled up with her so she wouldn’t have to sleep alone.
She spent much of the next day with Clemmorn in the theater, attending to final fittings. The atmosphere was surprisingly calm. The whole company was familiar with these plays and slipped easily into their roles. So it was fun, but Greta kept turning to say something to Lulu. Only to remember that she wasn’t there.
And wouldn’t be. Because she couldn’t be.
By day’s end, Greta was more heartworn than worn out. She was grateful when Canarian came to claim her, and doubly so when they didn’t return to the train, where she’d have felt Lulu’s absence even more keenly.
Catalan had secured rooms in a hotel along the same street as the Ruffin. For her comfort. Ambrose joined them. And that, too, was a comfort.
