by Megan Hart
“What is that?” he asked in a voice that sounded like he wanted to be harsh but couldn’t quite manage. Instead, he sounded languorous, mouth full of syrup. Oozing, liquid.
“Gillyflower oil, my lord. ’Tis good for headaches.”
“And you knew I had a headache the way you know when to put the kettle on.”
She continued rubbing, smiling. “Yes, my lord.”
He sounded drowsy. “Because ’tis your purpose and your place to know it.”
“Yes.”
“And your pleasure.”
“That, too.”
He put a hand over hers to stop her from continuing. “My headache is gone, Handmaiden. And I think I have figured out the flaw in my equation.”
Quilla took her hands away and rubbed the oil into her skin until her hands were no longer greasy. “I’m glad.”
Delessan stood a bit unsteadily, and she reached out a hand to grab his arm. He looked down at her hand, then straightened. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He seemed unable to look at her as he began to shrug into his jacket. Quilla helped him slide it over his arms, then stepped in front of him to button it with swift and efficient fingers. He was looking at her face when she glanced up. She smiled. He did not return it, instead gazing at her with a look so pensive it made her ask, “Is there something wrong?”
“No, Handmaiden. There is naught wrong.”
She nodded. He was a puzzle, Gabriel Delessan. She thought she understood him, but then wasn’t sure.
“Tomorrow is seventhday,” he said abruptly. “You don’t need to come to my laboratory.”
“No?”
“No,” Delessan repeated firmly. “I do not work on seventhday, and neither should you. You’re free to do what you like.”
She nodded. “You’re very generous, my lord.”
“ ’Tis part of your contract, Handmaiden.”
She smiled. “My contract says I am to be given one half day of rest. You already provide me more than that by not requiring my service beyond the afternoon. To add a full day in which I am not required at all is beyond what is necessary.”
“You’d wish me to take it away?” He turned, frowning.
“Of course not. I’ll be glad to have it. ’Tis rare I have an assignment where I am allowed this measure of freedom. I’m grateful to you for it.” She looked into his eyes. “I am expressing my pleasure at your generosity. Does that make you uncomfortable? Would you prefer I didn’t?”
“ ’Tis not necessary,” came the brusque reply. “I told you, I am fulfilling my contract. I fulfill my obligations.”
“Would it please you better if I took what you offered for granted and did not thank you?”
Delessan put his hands on his hips and glared at her. “Of course it would not. You are being impertinent.”
Quilla inclined her head in apology. “I plead your mercy, my lord. I did not mean to be.”
“Why do I not believe you?”
“I’m certain I don’t know.”
He scowled and huffed, though seemingly without fire. “Is that what you’re taught in the Order? To sass your patrons?”
“Only if I think ’twill please them,” Quilla said and went back to the shelves of books.
She waited for him to comment, smiling, back turned to him so he could not see her face. He didn’t, as she’d expected he would not. But he didn’t mutter quite so loudly after that, and once she even thought she heard the faintest sound of a chuckle.
Seventhday had passed, for Quilla at least, in meditation. Glad Tidings had a small chapel that didn’t look as though it got much use. She hadn’t minded. A day to herself was luxury, indeed.
The next morning, Delessan surprised her with conversation. “My son will be arriving this afternoon. My brother is sending him ahead and will arrive later.”
“How lovely for you.” Quilla poured him another cup of tea, adding the sugar and lemon he preferred, and set it in front of him. “You must be looking forward to that.”
Delessan frowned. “I shall have to put aside my work for the afternoon to greet him.”
She slanted a glance at him as she sliced the simplebread she’d baked for his breakfast. “And this displeases you because you feel it will set you behind in your tasks.”
He nodded, slowly, his eyes traveling over her face. “You know how to judge me, yet you seem to make no judgment.”
“ ’Tis not my place to judge you, but to understand you.”
“But surely you can’t help having an opinion,” Delessan said.
“My opinion is irrelevant, my lord.” Quilla Waited at his feet on the rug before the fire.
“What if I told you it would please me for you to give it?”
She smiled. “Then I would provide it for your pleasure.”
Delessan made a disgruntled noise. “Do most of your patrons find a mindless puppet pleasing?”
“Actually, yes, my lord. Many of my patrons find their greatest solace in having their own opinions and feelings reflected to them.”
“So you lie to them.”
“I do my best not to lie, but rather to adjust my thinking to theirs in order to provide them the best service.”
He frowned again, watching her over the rim of his teacup. “I love my son, yet I find it difficult to interact with him.”
She nodded. “He is how old?”
“Seven. No. Eight.”
“And you feel you ought to be able to interact with him as you would . . .” She paused, allowing him to finish the sentence.
“As I would my son.”
She Waited. He looked at her, frowning, brow furrowed and mouth pursed. He gave a heavy, long-suffering sigh. “Or so I suppose. Why? How do you think I expect to interact with him?”
“Perhaps you find yourself impatient with him because you feel you should be able to interact with him on a higher intellectual level than he is capable of maintaining. Perhaps you are impatient with yourself because you don’t have the patience to speak down to a child, or to wait for him to catch up to you.”
He stared at her for so long she was certain he would not speak again, but when he did, she did not imagine the tone of respect in it. “How do you know this about me?”
“ ’Tis my purpose and my—”
“Yes, I know,” he interrupted. “And your place, I know this. But how? How do you do this?”
Quilla sat back, thinking about it, really thinking about it for the first time in a long while. “It helps to know people collectively in order to know them individually. I have studied many people.”
“I don’t find I much care for being compared to many people.”
She smiled. “Most people don’t. They like to think of themselves as individuals.”
That earned her a faint upward curve of his mouth. “You’re doing it again. Using what you know of other men to think you know me.”
“I have no other choice,” she said, “until you allow me to know you, instead.”
The fire lit his dark eyes as he watched her. Finally, he gestured. “Come here.”
Obediently, she stood and went to him. He reached up to tug the cord holding her braid at the bottom. The weight of her hair sprang free, loose dark waves tumbling over her shoulders and back. He ran his fingers through it, catching them in the curls and pulling enough to make small, bright sparks of pain tingle along her scalp. Quilla said nothing, watching him, her eyes on his.
“It would please me to see you wear your hair down upon occasion,” Delessan said.
“Then I shall.”
He took his fingers out of her hair and looked toward the fire. “My son. How do you suggest I interact with him?”
“I would suggest, perhaps, that you play with him.”
He gave her a slanted, assessing glance. “Play? I’m not sure I know how.”
“I could teach you,” she said gently. “But I do think it would be better if you learned from him.”
Delessan rubbed his eyes and sighed heavily. “You suggest I play with him.”
“Children seem to like that.” She began tidying the tea things, putting the cup and saucer back on the tray, scraping the crumbs from the table.
“And you know about children as you know about men?”
“Not as much, no. But I was a child, once. And I remember something of what it was like.” Quilla smiled at him, brushing her hair off her face. It was more inconvenient to wear it this way, loose and dangling, but she would do it if it pleased him. “Don’t you?”
“I don’t think I ever was a child.”
“Did you spring full grown from an egg? Or perhaps from a trumpet’s blare?” Quilla laughed, comparing him to the stories of myths.
Delessan looked at her and shook his head. “Sinder’s Arrow, but you’re impertinent.”
“I plead your mercy.”
“To answer your question, impertinent miss, no. I did not spring fully grown from an egg, nor from a trumpet’s blare. I came into this world in the usual manner.”
She settled the supplies on the tray and wiped her hands free of crumbs. She made to lift the tray and take it away, but his voice, continuing, stopped her. She settled the tray back down, turning her gaze to him.
“My father was, ostensibly, a fabric merchant, but though his business often took him away from home for long periods of time, ’twas really his brother, my uncle Larken, who ran the business while my father gallivanted around the world on buying trips.”
“It must have been difficult for you as a young boy, not to have your father about.”
He smiled very, very faintly, eyes still staring at the fire. “Again, you compare to me to what you know of men.”
Quilla shook her head and Waited, this time kneeling close to his legs. Close enough for her to feel the heat of him against her. “Not only of men, my lord. But of you, also.”
He nodded, never taking his gaze from the fire. “My mother’s name was Violette, and she used to sit me on her lap and tell me stories about when the earth was young, and how we all grew out of the ground. Even as a boy I knew her stories weren’t quite true, but my mother painted pretty pictures with words. I became interested in Alchemy because of her stories of turning lead to gold, and how it could be done.”
Quilla leaned a bit closer as he talked, her arm brushing his leg. “And have you found a way to do that?”
He gave the barest shake of his head. “No. I have discovered a great many things, but not that.”
“Your mother sounds lovely.”
Shadows flitted across his face. “My mother was a liar with a mouth full of sweetness to cover up the fact that she was a betrayer.”
She watched him but said nothing, sensing there was naught she could say. Delessan continued, voice bitter and expression stormy.
“My mother betrayed my father by fucking his brother, my uncle, and getting pregnant with his child. Jericho is Larken’s son and my half brother, not my full.”
That explained much. She wondered how much of his anger at his mother had been exacerbated by his own wife’s infidelity. “And what did your father do when he found out?”
“He never did,” said Gabriel bitterly. “He died while on a buying trip. They were married within days of his body being returned to the house. My bastard half brother was born three months later.”
Quilla put her head on his thigh, her hand cupping his calf loosely. “I am sorry, my lord. I can hear how this distresses you. And yet you allow your brother to come and stay with you. That takes great strength of mind.”
She felt rather than saw his gaze upon her, and felt the weight of his hand as it came to rest on her head. He stroked his fingers down through her hair, smoothing it a few times before lifting his hand away.
“’Tis not his fault he was born to a conniving brother and a faithless whore. And as he inherited our fathers’ business, he spends much time on the road with little need for a house of his own.”
“It gives you pleasure to offer him a place in yours?”
He shifted his legs and she turned her head to look up at him. “It does not please me, Handmaiden. ’Tis a necessary obligation for me to provide space in my home for my brother.”
She settled her cheek more firmly against him. “Your brother is a man grown. You’re not obligated to take care of him.”
He looked down at her, eyes narrowed. “Don’t argue with me about my obligations, which you can know nothing about.”
She lifted her head from his leg and looked into his eyes, then nodded. “Your mercy.”
“Do you see your parents?”
“Not as much as they’d like, I’m sure. But I write to them regularly. And when I have time between assignments I visit them, sometimes.”
“Assignments. That’s what you call them?”
She smiled. “What else would I call them?”
He shook his head, a little. “I don’t know. How many assignments have you had?”
“You are number four and thirty.”
“And how long have you been with the Order?”
“Twelve years. I began at six and ten years. I’ll have been there thirteen years in the summer.”
“More than one patron a year?”
“Yes, my lord. My first three assignments ended rather abruptly. My first patron died in a hunting accident. My second had a wife who did not approve, and when the ultimatum came, I was asked to leave. The third was so easily satisfied I needed only to stay for two months before she no longer needed me.”
That earned a raised brow. “She? And how did you so easily satisfy her?”
Quilla laughed. “She fell in love and wanted to be married. The love of another gave her the solace she needed, and my presence was no longer necessary.”
“I see.” Delessan crossed an arm over his chest and put his hand to his chin to look at her. “And you are not sorry when you need to leave an . . . assignment?”
“I grow to have great fondness for all my patrons,” Quilla replied. “But when the time comes for me to go, though I might feel sorrow because of that fondness, I can’t regret it. ’Tis part of the duty. I believe you can well understand. Fondness is not the same as love.”
“No. It is not.”
Quilla studied his face, the blue gray eyes, the full mouth, the high cheeks, and hair tumbling over his forehead. “I am sorry when I must leave a patron unfulfilled, for whatever reason.”
“And has that happened?”
She nodded. “Of course. I can only strive to be what each patron needs, but ’twould be unrealistic to expect that I can meet the needs of every person to whom I am assigned. Human nature simply does not allow for it.”
“You try very hard, though, do you not? To be what your patrons need?”
“I try very hard to please, my lord. Yes. I do.”
For a long, long moment his gaze locked with hers. He reached to tuck a loose curl behind her ear, then withdrew his hand and went back to looking at the fire.
“You’ve been doing a fine job, so far.”
The compliment pleased her, and she smiled. “Thank you.”
“Don’t let it make you lazy,” said Delessan grumpily, waving a hand at her. “Get off your knees and do some work. I didn’t bring you here to sit at my feet and gaze at me adoringly.”
Quilla unfolded herself, and on impulse leaned nearer to place her mouth close to his ear. “No. I daresay if you wanted that, you’d have been better off getting yourself a puppy.”
She squeezed his shoulder, well aware of the way he’d startled slightly at the whisper of her breath on his cheek. Then, smiling, she moved back to the bookcase to continue her work.
Chapter 4
Dane Delessan looked so much like his mother and so little like his father, Quilla wouldn’t have been surprised to find out the fae had left him without Gabriel’s intervention at all. And of course, based upon the story she’d heard about the lad’s birth, quite possibly at
least part of that might have been true.
“Mama! Papa!” The lad tumbled out of the carriage as though he’d been catapulted.
Saradin Delessan, who had dressed as though she were going to an embassy ball rather than for an afternoon with her son, opened her arms wide. Dane flew into them. Gabriel stood next to his wife. Tall. Stern. Even from her viewpoint from the window, Quilla could see the tense line of his shoulders.
She watched the lad step up to his father and offer a hand. Gabriel shook it. Saradin pushed Gabriel to the side and swept the boy into her arms again.
“Oh, why does he not simply hug the boy?” she mused aloud.
“Mistress?”
Quilla turned, embarrassed at having been overheard. “I’m spying on our master and his son.”
The girl who’d entered the parlor lifted her feather duster. “Us, too.”
Rossi, this girl’s name was, one of the three housemaids. Quilla gave a relieved smile. “ ’Tis great news the boy is home?”
“Oh, we all miss him when he’s away. He brings a lot of laughter to the place, him.”
“I can imagine.” Quilla peered back out the window.
Saradin had taken Dane’s hand and started toward the house. Gabriel followed them, watching. Quilla turned to Rossi. “ ’Tis good to see the mistress up and about.”
Rossi’s expression turned wary as she ran her duster along the table crowded with delicate porcelain bric-a-brac. “Oh, aye. Mistress is much better up and about than wailing in her bed.”
So she hadn’t imagined the nighttime screams. Quilla lifted the curtain again, but the family had vanished from view. Gabriel had dismissed her for the day so as to spend time with his wife and child. While Quilla appreciated the time to herself, inactivity bored her.
“Can I help you with that?” She indicated the dusting.
Rossi looked shocked, duster pausing. “With this? The cleaning?”
“I have no small amount of experience with it.”
Rossi seemed taken aback by Quilla’s statement. “Oh, but ’tis not your job, Mistress Tranquilla.”
