by Megan Hart
He bit into the scone and then sipped some tea. “Perhaps I should make you a list.”
Quilla smiled, then Waited. “If it pleases you.”
It was his turn to regard her with a serious expression. “Do you wake every morn with such an abominably cheery manner? Or is it something you put on, like your gown?”
“I was blessed with an easily contented nature. No matter how I feel when I go to my bed at night, there are few mornings I do not wake with the knowledge that each day is mine own to control.”
“So you’re happy all the time?”
She shook her head. “Of course not, my lord. I am sad, or weary, or irritable as any other. I just make a rather greater effort at finding joy when it insists on hiding.”
He snorted. “You speak as though joy were something anyone could find, like a slug beneath a rock.”
“More like a flower in a garden of stone, my lord.”
“Ah. You’ve been walking the grounds.”
“Walking is good for the legs.” She watched him. “Your garden, forgive my saying, could perhaps use a bit of color.”
“We have the conservatory and greenhouse to provide flowers.
The stone garden is not a place for frivolity, but for meditation.”
“Of course. ’Tis your garden, and should be planned however you choose.”
Delessan finished his scone and reached for the second she’d already prepared. “Don’t you want anything to eat?”
“If it pleases you for me to eat with you, than I shall.”
He frowned. “Are you hungry?”
“I am.”
“And if you were not?”
“If I were not hungry but it pleased you to have me eat with you, I would do so.” Quilla put some jam on an unbuttered scone and took a bite. It was delicious. Better than her simplebread.
She looked up to see Delessan looking at her with a mixture of appalled astonishment and speculation in his eyes. “Do you not have limits, Handmaiden?”
Quilla took a swallow of tea and wiped her mouth before answering. “I do, my lord.”
“And what are they?”
“I don’t know. I have never had them tested.”
“Never had—” This seemed to set him aback. He stared down into his teacup, brow furrowed, mouth pursed. “Why not?”
“I have never been assigned to any patron who has pushed me farther than I am willing to go.”
The answer was simple, but true. She’d been asked to do many things, and she’d always done her best to provide them. She hadn’t always succeeded, of course. Eating food that turned her stomach had made her ill more than once. Her poetry had earned disdain. She’d fallen asleep when requested to stay awake. Overall, she did her best to provide what her patrons needed.
“Then how do you know you have limits?” His gray blue eyes burned into hers.
“Everyone has limits,” she said, her voice huskier than normal, before she cleared her throat self-consciously. “I am not without morals.”
“So you would not say, steal, for a patron?”
“I think not.”
“Even if it made him happy?”
Quilla had heard stories of Handmaidens who’d committed crimes in the names of their patrons. It didn’t matter in the eyes of the courts, or the priests. They’d been held accountable for their actions.
“Theft rarely makes anyone happy, my lord. When happiness is measured by wealth or assets, then accumulating more, even by theft, rarely satisfies. If a patron wished me to steal in order to provide him or her happiness, I would likely decline, knowing no matter what I did, my efforts to provide that joy would be fruitless.”
Delessan looked at her while he sipped his tea. “Likely would refuse. But you’re uncertain.”
“I have never been told to steal. I believe I would refuse. But I cannot say I would never acquiesce, for there are always situations which defy reason.”
“Can you think of a situation in which you might agree?”
Quilla put down her cup and folded her hands, the back of her right in the palm of her left. “I have known of Handmaidens who became thieves for their patrons. All the cases I heard of, and we are all taught of them as cautionary tales, my lord, had one situation in common.”
He sat back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, teacup cradled in his long-fingered hands. “Which was what?”
“They all fancied themselves in love with their patrons, my lord.”
“Ah.” He sipped. “You say fancied themselves in love. Is it difficult for you to believe they actually were?”
Quilla shook her head. “It’s not my place to judge their feelings, only that whether or not they had given their hearts in addition to their service, committing a crime is immoral and the intensity of emotion cannot make up for it.”
“So you’ve never been asked to steal but you believe you would not do so, even if you were in love with your patron.”
“I have never been in love with a patron, but no. I do not believe I would steal. Nor murder, if that is your next question, and yes, I have heard of Handmaidens who did that, as well.”
“It would seem you are a most violent bunch, then. Thieves and murderers? I thought the Order of Solace would not condone such practices.”
She bristled at his cool tone, but kept her voice calm. “We are all human. There are far more thieves and murderers who are not members of the Order than are.”
This made him smile. “Agreed. And I see that though I try to make you angry, you refrain. Tell me something, Handmaiden, how much harder would I have to try?”
“Much harder, my lord, for I have heard every insult to my profession you can imagine and likely many more you have not. I have been called a whore, a demon, a temptress. I have been spit upon in the streets, set upon by jealous spouses; I have been slapped and kicked and bitten. I have been told I will freeze in the Void and there is no place in the Land Above for me. I’ve endured insult and degradation aplenty.”
“Why, then, do you continue?” He seemed genuinely curious, so Quilla gave him an honest answer.
“Because ’tis my pleasure to bring comfort and solace. Because I find joy in bringing joy. Because I truly believe in the higher purpose and that by following this course I am doing my part to fill Sinder’s Quiver. I believe there is a place for me in the Land Above, I do not believe I am a whore or immoral, and because I know the goodness of my heart and of my soul, I care little for those who denounce me out of their own insecurities. I don’t go ’round forcing my services on anyone, my lord. I am assigned to people, such as yourself, who have a need for what I can provide.”
Again, the intensity of his gaze rippled through her. She could admire his eyes, now showing flecks of gray and gold in them when the firelight caught them. Full black lashes fringed them, and thick but well-shaped black brows, a shade darker than the hair on his head, arched above.
He seemed to be scrutinizing her as much as she him, for his eyes traveled over her from head to her gown puddled around her on the floor.
“So, short of theft and murder, you have no limit to what you will do?”
“You make it sound rather ominous when put that way. But, the answer, I suppose, is yes.”
“Would you crawl on your hands and knees for me?”
She lifted her chin slightly. “If it would please you to have me do so, yes.”
“You would not find it degrading, to be treated so?”
“You cannot degrade me if I refuse to find humiliation in the task you set before me.”
“Many women would refuse to crawl willingly.”
“Many women are not Handmaidens,” Quilla replied.
Delessan set down his cup and rubbed his hands together, the long fingers twining and twisting. “And your limits have never been tested? Not ever?”
She smiled. “No, my lord. But should you wish to try, I am certain I will be able to accommodate you.”
This reply made him frown
further. “I assure you, Handmaiden, I have no desire to force your limits. I brought you here for a purpose, and ’tis not to break you.”
She nodded. “Of course it is not.”
He scowled, running a hand through his hair and mussing the strands. “What of your family? What say they about this avocation?”
“My parents were less than pleased when I announced I meant to go into the Service.”
“I can imagine. Tell me.”
A smooth command. She obeyed. “I have three brothers older than I. Three sisters younger. My father is an ointment merchant who provides oils to the temples. My mother is beautiful and languid, and would never have been able to care for seven children without the help of an army of staff to help her cook, clean, and dispense order.”
This account made Delessan smile. He watched her. “Go on.”
“I grew up wanting for nothing except, perhaps, for deprivation. In our house, material goods expressed affection as much as hugs and kisses did. My parents love each other greatly, their children as well. They raised us with as much privilege as they could provide, and in return, I spent the first ten and five years of my life indulged and complacent.”
“And when you turned ten and six?”
“At ten and six,” Quilla answered with a small grin, “Venice Bengley asked my father for my hand.”
“Ahh.” Delessan nodded. “And you did not wish to marry him.”
“Venice Bengley was sixty years old and smelled of pickled cabbage.”
His eyes flashed. “And yet, your parents thought him a good match?”
“He is wealthy. Kindhearted. He’d had three wives already, and a passel of children he wanted me to raise. Mind, some were already older than I.” Quilla shook her head. “I could not marry Venice Bengley. No matter what my parents proposed, nor how they pleaded, and not even when they finally demanded it of me. Bengley, you see, in addition to marrying me, wished to join partners with my father. It would have been a good deal all around.”
“Selfish child.”
“I was, indeed, to disappoint my parents so. And it surprised them. I had, until this time, been most agreeable to all they’d wished for me to choose. Clothes, habits, lessons. I was the eldest daughter and had been perfect until then.
My mother gnashed her teeth and rent her sleeve. My father reacted more practically. ‘You have ever had a nurturing nature, Eysha,’ he said.”
“Eysha?”
“My birth name. Eysha Caden.”
Delessan sipped some of his tea. If her revelation had surprised him, he did not reveal it through expression or words. “So your father was more understanding?”
“To a point. He told me I could nurture my husband and children as well as, and better than, strangers.”
“I understand your father’s reasoning.”
Quilla nodded. “As do I, my lord, but the fact remained, I did not wish to marry Bengley, not for any reason. So I told my parents I had no wish to shackle myself to one place or one person forever, and that I wished to travel. And I would join the Order of Solace. My mother fainted. My father growled. But in the end, they had no choice. I was of age. I could choose.”
“And you did.”
“Yes. I did. I was given the name Tranquilla, and considered it an honor to be so named.”
“And the Order of Solace instead of any other? Why?”
Nobody had ever asked her that, not in all her years of Service. Quilla paused, thinking. “The Order of Solace is the only one that does not indenture its novitiates.”
“Is that so?” Delessan lifted his teacup, and she got to her feet to fill it again before he even asked. He watched her kneel again. “And this appealed to you.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Why?”
She did not need to hesitate to think on this one. “Because I choose how to live my life. I am free to leave any assignment, at any time. I am free to leave the Order at any time, and would be sent on my way with the blessing of the Mothers-in-Service, should I choose to no longer serve.”
“This independent nature would seem to be at odds with what your Order provides.”
She smiled. “My lord, the Order of Solace did not train me to accept the will of others over my own, but rather to re-create my own to match that of those whom I serve.”
“And you don’t feel this compromises your freedom?”
“No. It provides me with more of it. Serving in the Order allows me to travel. It allows me to contribute Arrows to Sinder’s Quiver.”
She thought he might show disdain at that, but he only nodded. “You really believe that?”
“I do.”
He sighed heavily. “I suppose if you can believe that Sinder walked through the Void and created valleys with his footsteps and rivers with his piss and winds with his breath, and if you can believe he found Kedalya in the forest and begat a son from her, I suppose you can believe his Quiver, once filled, will bring about an age of peace and prosperity to all the faithful.”
“Even if you don’t believe those stories as truth,” Quilla said, “is it such an awful thing to want to make people happy?”
His gaze locked upon her for so long and so hard she thought she had made him angry. He stood. “You’ve kept me from my work long enough. Less talking in the mornings, Handmaiden. Breakfast is an activity that should be undertaken as swiftly and efficiently as possible. I’m a very busy man.”
“As you wish,” Quilla responded, getting to her feet and beginning to clear away the dishes into the basket to take downstairs.
He huffed, then moved past her to head toward his worktable again. She watched him from the corner of her eye, thinking much upon what he’d said.
She had limits, indeed, though they were far broader than those of a woman not in the Service of the Order. But she had them.
Delessan had been muttering for the past twenty minutes. Muttering and pacing. Quilla watched him from her place at the bookshelves, where she’d been taking down each book, cleaning it, and replacing it in alphabetical order. She’d been working as silently as possible, not taking all the books off at the same time in order to prevent making a mess. The work was slower that way, but she suspected if he turned round to see the floor piled high with texts he’d be rather more upset than if only one shelf was empty at a time.
Now he exploded into a string of colorful curses that made her bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at the sheer absurdity of the phrases.
She put down the book and the dustcloth and moved closer to him. Not too close. He was still pacing, hands on his hips, scowling and muttering.
“Surely that would be an awkward and uncomfortable experience, my lord,” she said in reference to the last string of curse words he’d spouted. “And it might possibly kill the duck.”
He stopped and glared at her. “What are you babbling about?”
She repeated his phrase. “I can think of a better way to solve your problems than that.”
Would he explode in anger or had she successfully diffused him? Quilla braced herself for a torrent of fury. For a moment, it appeared uncertain if Delessan himself knew how he was going to respond.
When he did, with a huge, utterly despondent sigh, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Her limits were broad, indeed, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed being berated.
“ ’Tis this last set of calculations,” he explained, waving his hand at his worktable. “I’ve done something similar hundreds of times before. The elements are all the same. And yet I cannot seem to re-create the results each time. In order for this formula to be valid, it must end up the same in every use. Else it’s worthless.”
He scowled again. “It’s making me bloody mad!”
Quilla took another step closer and held out her hand to him. “Come here.”
His wary look made her smile. “What?”
“I’m not going to bite you. Come here.”
His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowe
d, but he allowed her to take his hand and followed her a few steps toward the chaise lounge. She unbuttoned the front of his white coat and helped him out of it despite his protests.
“I need that—”
“Shh,” she said firmly, setting it aside and removing the vest beneath. “Sit.”
“I thought Handmaidens were supposed to be subservient,” he grumbled, but did. “You’re unbearably bossy.”
“So I’ve been told before, my lord. But perhaps ’tis not so unbearable, really. You seem to be surviving.”
He huffed, less grouchily than before. “You are interrupting my work.”
“Your work was at a standstill, unless you consider pacing and proposing illicit advances upon harmless waterfowl to be part of your work.” Quilla stood behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. “Now hush and let me help you.”
“Help me? What do you know about Alchemy?”
“Nothing,” she replied, her fingers finding the tension in his neck and beginning to work it. “But I know much about men.”
“I am not men,” he grumbled.
Quilla said nothing, just kept rubbing. He groaned under his breath, which made her smile. She dug in a bit harder.
“Damn it! Are you trying to incapacitate me?”
She rubbed harder and the knots beneath her fingers began to loosen. He sighed, tilting his head down to allow her greater access to his neck and shoulders. She changed from kneading to smooth, flat strokes, from his shoulders and up his neck, running her hands through his hair and stroking his scalp. Then down again, starting at his shoulders and moving upward. Slow, steady movements.
His breathing slowed, and every so often a small moan crept from his throat when she passed over a particularly tense spot. She worked his shoulder blades and along his spine, using her knuckles to press along the knobs of bone.
The smooth linen of his shirt felt good beneath her fingers, and Quilla lost herself in the repetitive movements. She could not have pinpointed the moment he finally relaxed beneath her fingers, only that one moment he seemed all coiled wires, and the next, soft feather pillow.
Quilla pulled a small vial from her waistpurse and uncorked it, dabbing scented oil on her fingertips and replacing the vial. She put her fingertips to his temples and began rubbing them. The smell of gillyflowers filled the air.
