Hearts and Stones (Celta HeartMate)

by Robin D. Owens

  After huffing a breath, the GreatLord said, “I believe Black Pierre.”

  “The Fam also stated other Family pieces are missing.”

  T’Hawthorn’s face hardened. “Yes. I’m just beginning to figure out what they are.” His violet gaze met Garrett’s. “And, yes, I’m fine with hiring you to find the lost heirlooms.”

  Garrett almost jerked upright himself, but though tension ... and anticipation of a lucrative job ... jerked through him, he kept up a nonchalant attitude. “I can do that.”

  The only reason to work for a noble was a huge amount of gilt. He drew in a breath. “I’d like a retainer for this particular job.”

  “Of course.” The man frowned. “You anticipate finding the Family treasures and returning them to me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you’ll need enough gilt to buy items back. Your bank and account?” T’Hawthorn asked.

  “Cascara Bank, Garrett Primross, P.I.”

  “Right.” He gestured. “Let’s start with fifty-thousand.”

  Garrett thought he absorbed the shock of that pretty well, though he did straighten and have to clear his throat before he asked, “How many objects -- Family heirlooms -- do you think have gone ... astray?”

  The lord’s mouth flattened. “I have no idea.” Anger lived in his tone.

  Garrett cleared his throat. “Have you asked the Residence?”

  The younger man stood and Garrett got to his feet, too. T’Hawthorn turned away, his body stiff. His jaw flexed. “The Residence and I are currently undergoing a power struggle.”

  Raising his brows, Garrett stared at the nobleman. He’d never heard of such a thing. “I can’t imagine a GreatLord not controlling a house.” He didn’t, quite, sneer. And he shouldn’t have asked, noble matters that didn’t affect his work meant nothing to him.

  T’Hawthorn flicked his fingers and began strolling along the shady side of the house, where the lawn yet showed frost. Garrett kept up pace with the lord.

  “I could wipe the Residence’s current personality, of course, but I am reluctant to do that, since I grew up with it and it’s been the same since before my birth.”

  “Ah,” Garrett said, with a greedy urge to ask more and more. None. Of. His. Business.

  “But, no, I have not asked the Residence if it knows what has happened to the items.” Anger burned in his eyes. “I have no doubt it knows and is not telling me. Perhaps even other members of the Family know what happened to the objects. My FatherSire certainly knew.”

  Since that guy had been elected to the most powerful position on the planet, Garrett figured so.

  Laev’s jaw clenched, released. “But none of them are speaking to me.”

  “The FamCat Black Pierre did.”

  That had Laev’s shoulders relaxing as he snorted. “Because one of the staff accused him of taking something. A break in the silence, or, rather, notice that something was wrong that I didn’t know about.”

  “So the cat might have kept the secret, like the rest of the Family, indefinitely. And you believe he didn’t steal the objects.”

  “That’s right. He wouldn’t have said anything if his pride hadn’t been pricked. And if he thought the item would add to his comfort or his status in any way--say a priceless tapestry pillow embroidered by one of my ancestors, yes. But I think a writestick and blotter with the Hawthorn coat of arms stamped on the furrabeast leather--no.”

  Finally that made sense. “Where was the desk set kept?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think in here, but perhaps.” The nobleman shrugged. “I didn’t work in this room, but in my own office,” he gestured toward a different part of the House. “So I didn’t know the leather set,” his mouth twisted, “which I liked particularly, was missing. My FatherSire preferred a desk set presented to him by his father when he became an adult. Green and gold. I packed the pieces up myself and had them placed in storage in one of the attics.”

  “All right. And you think most of the Family knows what’s going on.”

  T’Hawthorn hesitated. “Some, yes, I do.”

  “But they’ve made no effort to retrieve the treasures.”

  “Not that I know of.” The man shrugged. “They aren’t great heirlooms. I’d have missed the most valuable and most cherished pieces.”

  “All right. My first order of business is to conduct some interviews here. Do I have your permission?”

  Waving a hand, T’Hawthorn smiled tightly. “Speak to whom you wish. Perhaps someone will tell you what they won’t reveal to me.”

  Now this sounded like an easier case than Garrett had anticipated when first speaking with T’Hawthorn. Merely winkling out a secret. From a FirstFamily full of pride and discretion. And members who’d probably look down on Garrett as a commoner more than this GreatLord who’d hired him. Not to mention a sentient Residence who seemed snotty enough not to talk to the new head of the Family.

  Garrett would earn his gilt, after all.

  They stopped by a side door of the Residence and T’Hawthorn entered. Garrett trailed after him into the flagstoned hallway. A couple of meters later they turned into a richly carpeted wider corridor, then stopped at a polished and carved door of golden hawthorn planks. This must be a real Family antique and heirloom, for sure.

  T’Hawthorn pushed open that door with fingertips, trod across stacked Chinju rugs that had Garret’s feet sinking into them. The lord hesitated only a moment before moving behind the equally imposing carved desk that must have been used for generations, then settling into a new comfortchair that would conform to his body. He gestured to the two antique chairs facing the desk. Garrett took the one with embroidered jumping goats instead of the more feminine dragonflies. Dragonflies and goats again.

  Drawing in a breath, T’Hawthorn projected his voice mentally, as well as speaking loudly. Garrett got the idea his words reverberated throughout the castle. “Garrett Primross, a private investigator, has been hired by me to find the missing Family items. I am authorizing him to speak to whomever he needs to in order that he can discover what happened to those items and return them.” A pause. “Please do not test me on this, or the individual will find herself or himself on a tour of Hawthorn properties, starting with the small lodge in the north, as of immediately.” The echo of his voice died.

  The GreatLord shrugged. “That might work.” He frowned at Garrett. “I hope you’re good.”

  “I’m very good.”

  T’Hawthorn tapped the latest model of a scry panel. “T’Reed Bank, transfer fifty thousand gilt from my personal account to Cascara Bank, Garrett Primross Private Investigations’s account.”

  “Yes, T’Hawthorn,” stated a deep voice. “Done.”

  “Thank you,” the lord said. “End scry.”

  Garrett blinked.

  “T’Hawthorn Residence, I expect you to answer GentleSir Primross’s questions also,” the nobleman said.

  And that got only silence.

  T’Hawthorn met Garrett’s eyes and this time his smile was more of a wintry grimace. “Right.”

  His calendarsphere flicked into existence. “Scry discussion with the saffron farmers in ten minutes.” This voice sounded chirpy and cheerful.

  The lord inclined his head to Garrett. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  Garrett stood. “Of course. Who do you think I should speak with first?”

  “Our housekeeper, Alma Hawthorn.” A line creased between his brows. “She should be in the main sitting room now,” and he gave precise directions. Obviously he knew his staff’s -- his relatives’ -- schedules, but Garrett got the idea that this was something a regular lord might ask of his intelligent house.

  When Garrett entered the sitting room, an older, tall and comfortably plump woman rose from a chair. Her lips pursed. “Garrett Primross.”

  He bowed. “Yes, GreatMistrys Hawthorn,” he gave her the honorific she’d expect.

  With a short nod, she sat again, but didn’t indicate he should.
So he crossed over to a floor-to-ceiling window and leaned against the frame. Smiled and said nothing. She sat, spine straight, disapproving expression, hands quiet in her lap and stared at him.

  He let the silence stretch until it reached the edge of discomfort, then pretended to be conciliatory, “GreatMistrys Hawthorn, as you just heard, T’Hawthorn --”

  “Laev,” she corrected with the smallest sniff.

  “Laev T’Hawthorn,” the most he’d concede to her, “has become aware of some missing Family heirlooms, and requested that I investigate the matter on his behalf to locate the items and return them.”

  “You are a Primrose?” she interrogated Garrett, ignoring his own question. “I thought that line died out a generation ago.”

  “A distant branch,” he muttered. “My people moved to the south. I’m the last of us.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Hmmm. Where in the south?”

  “Near the Smallage estate.” He gave her his coolest stare. “Where the Iasc plague started.”

  With a sharp breath, GreatMistrys Hawthorn flinched back in her chair. Yeah, there wouldn’t be any more questions about him now.

  “The late Nivea Sunflower Hawthorn perished of the plague seventeen months ago,” she murmured, looking away, out the sitting room window at the beautiful spring day. The cloudless deep blue sky acted as a lovely backdrop for the heavy white blossoms of the hawthorn hedges that delineated every section of the estate. Spring flowers bloomed too, and all the lingering morning frost coating the grass had vanished, leaving the yard lush.

  Almost absently, the housekeeper stated, “And the Healers believe a trace of the sickness damaged the late Huathe T’Hawthorn.”

  Garrett didn’t think the Iasc plague came in “traces,” but he kept his mouth shut. The absolute last thing he talked about was his experience -- as the sole survivor -- of the Iasc sickness. He’d only brought it up because he thought the mention would distract the woman. As it had.

  “She -- Nivea Sunflower Hawthorn -- was a very sad person. Spoilt and angry and sad.” The words sat in the quiet of the luxurious house.

  Garrett didn’t know how all those might mix together.

  “May she be blessed during her time on the Wheel of Stars and may her next life be more fulfilling.” The housekeeper sounded doubtful.

  So was Garrett, since being a FirstFamily GreatLady -- but Nivea Hawthorn hadn’t lived that long, had she?

  “Wasn’t she the lady of the house, acted as hostess when she was here?” Garrett asked.

  A hesitation. “GreatLord T’Hawthorn lived in this Residence all of his life, as most of us who are Hawthorns and staff do. Much of the time, his mother acted as hostess, until she passed away.” The housekeeper lifted her chin, her mouth tightened. “Then T’Hawthorn kept the control of this household firmly in his hands.” Her gaze challenged Garrett.

  “If T’Hawthorn could run the AllCouncils, I’m sure he had no problem here, with a Family staff,” Garrett murmured. Unlike the new GreatLord ... who most of the staff would have seen grow from a child.

  The housekeeper stood, brushed at her elegant tunic. “And that’s all I’m going to say.” She marched to the door.

  “One moment,” Garrett edged his tone with steel. “I understood you accused the FamCat, Black Pierre, of stealing a writestick ... a shiny piece to play with, maybe. And a leather desk blotter to sleep on.”

  She stood with straight spine. “I didn’t. A member of the kitchen staff did. A cook-in-training, a girl perhaps envious of Black Pierre’s new relationship with the chef.” Another smoothing of her tunic, as if she usually wore an apron during her work. One that would remain white and crisp all day, Garrett thought.

  “Black Pierre’s relationship with the chef,” Garrett repeated.

  “That FamCat joined our household during the feud between the Hawthorns and the Hollys and bonded with FirstFamily GreatLord Huathe T’Hawthorn,” she emphasized the Family’s status as if Garrett wasn’t all too aware of it. He stretched a little. She noticed the gesture, but didn’t comment on him, continued to speak about the situation, “When T’Hawthorn passed on to the Wheel of Stars two months ago, Black Pierre did not transfer his affections to Laev, but to the chef.”

  “I see.” Must be tough on Laev, another slight by his Family.

  The housekeeper inclined her head. “At the time the cook-in-training spent her nights in the chef’s bed, then Black Pierre came, and he did not like the young woman and ...”

  Yeah, Garrett could see the dynamic. “Where’s the cook-in-training now?”

  “I thought it best that she be reassigned to another of the estates.” The Hawthorn housekeeper waved a dismissive hand. “The one nearest our new cinnamon growing concern, many kilometers from here. I believe she is creating new recipes using the spice, a better use of her Flair than as a cook-in-training.”

  Garrett grunted, then put his understanding into words, “I see.” And he did, the jealous girl had let her anger get the better of her and brought a hidden secret to the notice of the new GreatLord and had to be moved before she spilled more beans.

  With a final inclination of her head, the housekeeper whisked from the room.

  Garrett sat and thought for a while. Definitely a conspiracy. Or at least a Family secret no one planned on telling him ... or Laev T’Hawthorn.

  Garrett would put the idea to a final test. He raised his voice, “Residence?” he called on the intelligent house, wondering if it would be as condescending as the housekeeper.

  No response. “Residence?” Garrett projected his voice. Nothing. He moved to the window and began tapping on the glass, varying the pattern at random, then hit a beat of a song he liked. One written by GreatLady D’Holly herself, wed to the greatest enemy of the Hawthorns. Interesting to see if the Residence would recognize the tune.

  After one song by the lady, others flooded Garrett’s brain and he began humming as he drummed his fingers on the window.

  So, how patient were sentient castles? Surely, such-long lived beings must learn patience. Garrett could tap and hum and contemplate what to do next, or occupy his mind with the cheerful fact that he’d get paid well for this particular job. Idly, he said, “You know, I charge by the septhour.”

  A whoosh and the huge fireplace across the room shot flames up the chimney, heat radiated out. “Garrett Primross, private investigator,” a hollow-sounding voice issued from ... maybe the chimney, maybe just the air around him though he’d noted no audio speakers.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “I have requested references on you from the other Residences. No one knows of you. No FirstFamily lord or lady has hired you. We have only heard that you botched a case for GrandLord Cowitch at his estate in Gael City.”

  Garrett’s jaw clenched, but he said evenly, “I wish I’d had references of GrandLord Cowitch before I worked for him. If you have any concerns about my honor or reputation, I suggest you speak with GreatLord T’Hawthorn about me.” That might get the two personages talking again, though currently it was to Garrett’s benefit that they didn’t. Still, he’d liked the look of Laev T’Hawthorn.

  A long pause, then a quiet voice just audible over the crackling fire. “We have never conducted business with the Cowitches in the four generations since they became a Family.”

  “I guess that’s telling, since I’m sure the Cowitches would like to associate with the Hawthorns, and have sent in a proposal or twelve,” Garrett paused, then curiosity pricked. “And have any of the FirstFamilies signed contracts with the Cowitches?” He thought they might have. The Cowitches rose too high in status too quickly for the Family not to have a boost from a FirstFamily or two.

  “Only to their detriment, but that has nothing to do with this business.”

  Garrett didn’t find out who, too bad. “You brought up my reputation. Like Black Pierre, I don’t like having my honor tainted. I’m sure before I leave today, T’Hawthorn will have a contract -- a fair contract -- drawn
up for me to sign. I will abide by the terms, as I have always done. In fact, I continue to honor my confidentiality agreement with Campsis Cowitch despite the fact he’s never paid me past a minimal retainer and has spewed insults about me.”

  “You are discreet,” the Residence stated.

  “I’m a private investigator, I’m interested in solving problems and I deal in secrets.”

  Heat pumped from the fire along with a few muted pops

  Garrett offered, “Every family has secrets, commoner to noble. You can trust me to keep yours.”

  “Huathe T’Hawthorn stated that I am not allowed --” it stopped. A creak, maybe like it recalled that Huathe Hawthorn passed two months ago. Since the house itself could span centuries of life, months passing might not mean a lot. Sometimes. “I am not allowed to speak of this matter.”

  Definitely a Family secret.

  “No?” Garrett ladened his voice with disbelief.

  “I prefer not to speak of this matter to you, Investigator Primross.”

  At least the being gave him some respect.

  “All right, what can you tell me that might help?”

  A long pause. “I believe the last piece to go missing is an inexpensive signet ring with a tiny diamond made for a younger Hawthorn daughter a century ago.”

  “Ah. Do you have a precise description, size of the ring, metal? The quality of the stone, the diamond?” Garrett figured that Laev T’Hawthorn would be able to tap GreatLord T’Ash, a blacksmith and jeweler, for knowledge about the ring. Its value, whether it had come into T’Ash’s hands, what he might know of it, rumors or whatnot. Heady notions, that Garrett could actually be working with the FirstFamilies. Honorable Families.

  “Our inventory described the ring in detail. I have told GreatMistrys Alma Hawthorn to give you a papyrus copy of the account of that piece.”

  “Thank you. And, my final question, what is your opinion of Laev T’Hawthorn?”

  The fire sucked out and the temperature in the room dropped to downright cold.

  “I thought so.” Garrett stretched. “But, to me, T’Hawthorn seems like an intelligent man.” A few years younger than himself. “And an astute businessman and entrepreneur,” he paused. “As his FatherSire taught him to be. Tell me, T’Hawthorn Residence, did the late Huathe T’Hawthorn respect and admire his heir?”