by Megan Hart
Quilla bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “I plead your mercy, madame. Please, go on.”
“Like I was saying,” continued Florentine with an exaggerated sniff. “Before the boy was born, Mistress Saradin found the responsibilities of marriage somewhat more trying than she’d imagined. Also, the master’s work keeps him secluded and distracted. Not the way you’d like to be when you have a pretty young wife who’s used to your attention. Oh, he doted on her, sure enough, no question. But his work, you see. ’Tis all about his work.”
Quilla could imagine the end to this tale. “She had an affair.”
“Oh, not just one, my know-it-all miss. Many. Seems the Mistress Saradin wasn’t happy without a slew of beaux dancing attendance upon her, especially when she could nary seem to keep her husband’s focus. He gave her whatever she wanted, but not enough of it. Naught was ever enough for her.”
“She sounds perfectly lovely,” said Quilla wryly.
“Lovely she was in face and form, but she was also young. Too young for the master, who’s been old since he was born, I believe.” Florentine dropped a handful of herbs and spices into the stew, tasted it, then smacked her lips. “So it came to pass that the master discovered his wife in the arms of another man. His assistant, as a matter of fact, a young bloke by the name of Ravine. Turns out Ravine had been working for another alchemist before he come to apprentice himself to the master, and was intending to take away what he learned here back to his old master. I’m not sure which hurt the master more greatly, the betrayal of his wife or of his ’prentice. At any rate, he threatened to turn them both out, and when it came to be told that Ravine had no money of his own to provide the mistress a place in keeping with her standards, she left off with him and tried to woo herself back into the master’s good graces by telling him she was going to have his child.”
“Sweet Invisible Mother,” Quilla murmured. “No wonder he’s such a curmudgeon.”
Florentine snorted. “He was always like that. Dark, like. Kind beneath it, but dark all the same. Of course, after she poisoned herself he lost much of the kindness.”
“Poisoned!”
Florentine gave Quilla a shrewd look. “Oh, aye. Found out the master had been slipping it to the housemaid assigned to clean his rooms, and her belly was sprouting, too. When Mistress Saradin found out, she wrecked his studio and took a draught of sommat meant to kill herself. Well, she didn’t do her studying, because what she took didn’t kill her, only sent her mad, like. Didn’t hurt the boy, thank Sinder, though she might have killed him. Came out fine, the spitting image of his mother, fair-haired but blue-eyed. Not a speck of his father in him, that one, aside from his smarts. Dane’s smart as Sinder, he is.”
“Why does he not make a dissolution?”
Florentine looked at her as though Quilla were an idiot. “Because of the boy, of course. He sends the mother away, he must needs send away the lad, too. No man has the right to keep his own child iffen he sends away the mother. Not here in Gahun, at least, and I don’t think ’tis any righter than making it go the other way, mind, but ’tis the way it is.”
“But surely, if she’s mad—”
“Mad when she wants it,” said Florentine dismissively. “Mad when ’tis convenient. Mad when ’twill get her sympathy.”
The entire story had left Quilla almost breathless. “And the housemaid?”
“Took the money the master give her, conveniently ‘lost’ the child, and disappeared.”
“You don’t believe she was pregnant.”
Florentine rolled her eyes. “Not my place to say who or what the master does, my uppity miss, but seems far likelier to me he couldn’t be bothered with the girl and she took advantage of his situation to push her luck. But he never denied her claim, not to anyone I know of, and he took care of her. So did he, or didn’t he? ’Tis not my place to judge.”
“That’s possibly the most horrible story I’ve ever heard.”
“ ’Ware it don’t make you all gooey with compassion for him,” Florentine muttered, adding more vegetables to the stew. “There’ve been those who’ve tried that route afore, and failed mightily.”
“I’m not here to fall in love with him, Florentine. I’m here to be his Handmaiden. Nothing more. And it seems I’m not even to do that, unless he calls me, which is beginning to seem unlikely from the stubborn, spiteful git.”
Florentine’s face had been red from her exertion, but now her cheeks flushed deeper and her eyes widened. A smirk stretched her lips, her gaze went over Quilla’s shoulder, and Quilla’s stomach sank.
She turned, knowing before she did what she was going to see.
“The stubborn, spiteful git requires your presence in the studio.” Delessan’s face was impassive, his voice cold. “Immediately.”
He turned on his heel and left the kitchen, and Quilla got up to follow him.
“Good mazel,” called Florentine after her. “You’ll need it.”
Quilla didn’t bother to answer. She knew Florentine was right.
The door still squealed on its hinges, and again, Quilla made a note to fix it. It was easier to focus on that than what lay ahead of her. Delessan slammed through the door ahead of her, not even pausing to be certain she’d followed. Quilla made sure to close the door behind them.
He stood at the mantel, his hand upon it not as though for balance, but as though by clinging to it he might prevent himself from making a fist. Quilla watched him carefully, using all of her training to try and judge him. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak for so long she did the only thing she knew to do.
She Waited, this time not in Readiness but in Remorse, her palms not folded in her lap but flat on the floor in front of her, and her head bowed. The subtle shift in position was as much mental as physical, an outward representation of her inner regret at having displeased him.
After some long moments, he looked down at her. The firelight cast his face in shadows tinged with red and gold, and lit his dark eyes with dancing flames.
“It’s not your purpose and place to discuss me.”
“I plead your mercy. I was wrong to talk about you. I wanted to learn more about you, the better to serve you. I should have waited to speak to you in person.”
“Florentine is an abominable old gossip.”
Quilla kept her expression neutral and her voice calm. “I plead your mercy.”
“You want to know why I waited four days before calling you.”
“If it pleases you to tell me, yes.” She lifted her head and returned to Waiting, Readiness.
He cast her a suspicious gaze. “I was seriously considering whether or not to keep you or send you back to the Order for someone more suitable.”
His admission stung her more than she’d have suspected. Pride, one of Quilla’s thorns, lifted her chin. “You haven’t even given me a chance.”
Delessan frowned, looking into the fire. “Florentine doesn’t know as much as she thinks.”
Quilla rose gracefully and stood in front of him, pausing until he’d looked at her face before speaking. “It will be easier for both of us if you start by telling me what you’d like from me.”
“I told you what I wanted.”
Quilla suppressed a sigh, then glanced around the room before looking back at his face. “More specifically.”
Delessan frowned. “I want you to come here, every day, while I’m working. If I need refreshment, or something fetched, or if I need—”
“Solace?”
“I don’t need solace,” he retorted.
“Everyone needs solace.”
“What I need is someone who will fetch and carry and provide me with the things I need without my having to ask. Isn’t that what you’re trained for?”
She nodded. “Yes. Part of it.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “Good.”
Quilla smiled. “Tell me what time you rise and I will be here, Waiting.”
“Sunrise.”
/> If he thought to surprise or discontent her, he’d failed. “I will be here when you arrive.”
“See that you are.”
“And what, exactly, would you like me to do when I arrive, my lord?”
“I don’t have the housemaids come in here to clean. They disturb things. Everything must be kept exactly where it is. Everything. I presume it’s not beyond your ken to manage that?”
Quilla nodded. “Do you prefer to work in discord and grime?”
Delessan paused, looking around, his mouth pursed. “Of course not. But I’m a very busy man, and can’t be bothered to run a dust mop around the place, can I? And since the maids can’t be trusted, I do what I do.”
Quilla nodded again, adding to the list she’d begun. “It would not be above me to clean your studio.”
He scowled. “Don’t touch my table. Or my desk. The rest of it, do what you like, but leave that alone.”
She bit back a smile, sensing he wouldn’t take kindly to it. “If it pleases you.”
“Is that all you bloody ever say?”
True patience, Quilla thought before answering. “If you’d rather I say something different, I could.”
Delessan narrowed his eyes. “I don’t care to be mocked, Handmaiden.”
“No, my lord.”
“You’ll be here before me tomorrow morning.”
“I will be here until you give me leave to go.”
That seemed to set him back. He nodded, his frown becoming a bit perplexed. “I work long hours. Often I don’t break for meals. I forget myself. Lose myself in the tasks until the day has passed without my knowing.”
“Then I will be here to make certain you do not faint over your cauldron from lack of food.”
In his eyes Quilla thought she might have glimpsed a hint of humor, but it fled so fast she might have imagined it.
“And I’m quite uncontrollably rude and demanding. I don’t have time to be anything else.”
“Really?” Quilla replied calmly, keeping her eyes on his and allowing the faintest of tilts to turn her lips upward. “I’d never have guessed that about you.”
Another flash, this time brighter, of something that almost managed to be amusement before his eyes darkened again. “Take care with your tongue, Handmaiden, else it put you into trouble.”
She knew better than to push. Quilla ducked her head. “Your mercy, my lord.” But with her eyes fixed upon his unpolished boots, she had to struggle to keep from grinning.
“My personal chambers are through that door.” He pointed as she looked up. “I will not require you to serve me there. I didn’t bring you here to warm my bed.”
“I am here to please you. If you don’t wish me in your bed, I won’t go into it.”
Delessan made a low, disgruntled noise. “Do you never take offense to anything?”
At that, she did return her gaze to his. “I assure you, my lord, ’tis possible to offend me. Perhaps you need to work harder at it.”
“Perhaps I shall.”
And then he turned and left her to her work.
Chapter 2
Her tasks had been laid out before her, easy to perform. Quilla oiled the door so it no longer squeaked. She polished the battered teakettle until it looked a bit more presentable and threw away all but the least chipped cups. Just a few things, here and there, that would make his space seem a bit less . . . unbearable.
By the time the sun tinged the sky pink through the large windows, she’d done all she could. There was no purpose to re-creating the room all at once, aside from the fact she didn’t have the means to do it. She’d run out of time to do any sort of cleaning, really, so when she heard stirring in the master’s bedchamber, she smoothed back her hair and Waited.
When he came out of the bedroom, she knew better than to expect a sleepy-eyed, tousled, and yawning man. Gabriel Delessan, despite the early morning hour, was impeccably groomed, perfectly dressed, and looked as though he’d been awake for hours. He entered the room without looking at her and puttered with some bubbling beakers before turning to face the fireplace where she knelt.
When he turned, Quilla got to her feet and poured the just-boiled water into the teapot to steep. She set the teacup on the tray, added sugar and the steaming liquid. She had it held out to him before he even made it to the fireplace.
“Less sugar,” was all he said after sipping.
“I brought you some breakfast.” Quilla indicated the round table next to the chair. She’d set it with a white cloth. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”
“I never eat in the morning.”
True patience is its own reward.
She had to repeat the principle three times in her head, even as she smiled and replied, “I’ll have it taken away, then.”
He gave an aggrieved sigh. “Never mind. I’ll eat it. It would be wrong to waste it.”
He sat and lifted the lid from the covered plate. “Scrambled? I prefer poached.”
“I’ll remember that for tomorrow, my lord.”
He gave her a suspicious glance. “I already told you—”
“You don’t eat in the mornings. I know.” Quilla tilted her head to smile at him. “But you might change your mind tomorrow morning, as well, and as it is my place to make sure all your needs are met, I will be sure to have food here should you require it. It’s easy enough to send back if you don’t eat it.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then turned in his seat to face the table. “I don’t know what they teach you in the Order of Solace, Handmaiden, or in the other houses to which you’ve been assigned. But here in Glad Tidings, we don’t waste food. Alchemy is not so profitable as to allow that.”
Quilla paused in the refilling of his tea, which he’d drunk despite his protest about the sweetness. “My lord, the food would not be wasted. It could feed the stable staff or someone in the kitchen.”
He scowled. “I suppose you pride yourself in thinking of a retort to my every comment?”
This was going to be harder even than she’d first imagined. “It’s my place to know what you desire and to provide it without you having to ask. That is why you brought me here, isn’t it?”
He looked her over without expression. “Yes.”
“If you truly don’t wish me to bring food in the morning—”
He waved a dismissive hand. “No. It’s fine.”
She nodded and took a step back. “If it pleases you.”
Gabriel said nothing else for a while, during which time, Quilla Waited. She used the time to meditate on the Five Principles. True patience is its own reward. Of the Five, she thought she would need this one most of all. She felt his gaze upon her, and she looked up with a smile.
Gabriel was not smiling. “Do you do everything only if it pleases me?”
She nodded. “Of course. That’s my function here.”
“But what of what pleases you?”
“I am your Handmaiden, my lord. I am your comfort. I am here to give you what you want before you want it. I’m here to give you what you need before you even know you need it. I am here so you will not have to think about anything else other than your own comfort and your own pleasure. If what you ask of me is within my ability to grant, I will do it. I will do whatever it is that you want, whether it be serving you on my knees or taking a whip to my back, if it pleases you, I will do it.”
Quilla paused to contemplate him. “You do understand, don’t you, what I offer? That this is my pleasure and my purpose? To provide you with absolute solace, beyond dusting your books and making you tea?”
“Why do you do this?”
“You mean, beyond because you sent for someone, and they assigned me?”
He nodded, watching her.
She’d never had a patron who had not had at least the minimal instruction in the Order’s history and reason. She had seen no signs Delessan practiced any faith, but she assumed that even if he were not one of the anointed he’d have at least a basic grasp of the
canon.
“I do this,” Quilla told him, “because for every patron to whom I bring absolute solace another arrow returns to Sinder’s Quiver.”
“And when his Quiver is filled, the Holy Family shall return to this plane and peace shall be restored.”
His answer pleased her. “You do know.”
He shrugged. “Foolishness.”
Quilla lifted her chin. “You need not believe in my reasons for providing service, my lord. You need only be served.”
“And ’tis all the same? You clean for me and help me around the workshop, you cater to my every whim, and in the end you’ll have done your part in bringing back the Holy Family.”
“I do so believe, yes.”
“And do you think this will happen in your lifetime? Is that why you work so hard at pleasing me?”
Quilla shook her head. “I do not do it with hope that Sinder’s Quiver will be filled in my lifetime. That would be a selfish reason. Selfish is the heart that thinks first of itself.”
Delessan stared at her, one hand to his chin. “This is what your Order teaches you?”
“It’s one of our Five Principles. Yes.”
He didn’t ask her what the others were. “There is no such thing as an unselfish heart.”
“No,” she agreed. “But ’tis not impossible to rise above selfishness and find selflessness in its place.”
She thought he meant to speak, but then without another word, he turned and stalked to his worktable and proceeded to ignore her. Quilla stared after him, bemused. What had Florentine said about him? Dark, like. Kind beneath, but dark on the surface.
Truth be told, she’d rather have it that way than the other. On the grounds of the Order there was a vast lake, so deep the bottom had never been plumbed. Sometimes the water in Loch Eltourna was gray, other times, black with depth. Sometimes it grew choppy when there was no wind, and sometimes, some rare times, the water tasted of salt. People boated on the lake, and fished in it. They bathed and swam and washed their clothes in it. They drank from it, too. But only the foolish did not respect and somewhat fear it, because even on the days when the sun shone brightly and dappled sparkling ripples on the lake’s surface, nothing changed the dark depths beneath.
