Heart Fate

by Robin D. Owens

“No,” Tab said, “you can’t stay. Classes are for students only. Paying students,” he added when she’d opened her mouth again. The boys relaxed. “Tinne, escort GreatMistrys Avellana Hazel to the teleportation pad and back to her Residence.”

  Tinne bowed. “Yes, sir.”

  She turned those big eyes on him, studied him as he covered the ground between them in a few paces. “He’s good.” She looked around. “Everyone’s good here,” she said, blinking her astonishing eyes at Tab. “I don’t get to stay with these good people?” She sounded pitiful.

  “No,” Tab said. “And your folks are good people.”

  With a big sigh, she said, “Yes, but they are old and busy.”

  “I am old and busy.”

  “Your nanny will be looking for you, Avellana,” Vinni said.

  The little girl made a face. “Yes. But she is very old.” She looked at Tab. “Even older than you. So old she has no teeth. She does not know what to do with me.”

  One of the Clovers spoke up. “Our family has placed a nanny at the Ashes, and I have a sister who has trained as a nanny and needs a good job. She’s young and pretty.” He smiled guilelessly. “She’s taking teleportation lessons now, from an agency.”

  “Teleportation lessons from an agency.” Avellana seemed to savor the words.

  The Clover boy grinned. “My sister could keep up with you.” He stuck his thumbs in the sash of his tunic, rocked back on his heels. “You tell your folks about Aralia Clover. Now go away, you’re wasting our time and money here.”

  That seemed another new idea for her. Tinne scooped up the FamCat, set him in the crook of his arm, grasped Avellana’s hand. She pulled away. “Muin must kiss Flora hello and good-bye first.”

  Someone snickered. Vinni turned red again. “Avellana . . .”

  But she was marching up to him, housefluff outthrust. “You must always be kind to her, you know. She already almost died once.” And that was said with such a strange inflection that the room quieted again.

  Vinni bent and kissed his Fam, and Avellana returned to Tinne and slipped her fingers into his, then looked at the Clover boy again. “I will tell GreatLady Coll D’Hazel and GreatLord Zabel Honey-suckle T’Hazel about Aralia Clover.”

  As Tinne walked Avellana to the entry lounge and the public teleportation pad there, he felt pulses of tingling electricity from the child. “You’re very strong.”

  “Yes, I know, everyone says so. Then they all whisper that they do not expect me to survive my First Passage.”

  Tinne couldn’t say something false, so he just grunted and squeezed her hand. “Most often we survive Passage.” He didn’t want to think of any hurt coming to this child or Lahsin during her Second Passage.

  “Yes. But I got brain damage when I tried to fly.”

  They’d made it to the reception room teleportation pad. Tinne flipped on the light, pulled the child and the housefluff close, and checked on the cat. All were ready. “Better stick to teleportation,” he finally said. “Faster anyway.”

  “Muin’s working on the problem of me and Passages. He said so to Mommy and Daddy.”

  Tinne thought of how young Muin T’Vine, Vinni, had filled the beginners’ class, helped them. “Vinni’s a good boy.”

  “His name is Muin.”

  “Yes.”

  She looked up at Tinne with those blue eyes, showing bright intelligence behind wisps of dreaminess. “Names are important. You should call him by his proper name.”

  Before he could answer, the little girl teleported them to D’Hazel Residence, leaving Tinne gasping at the unexpected trip. The cat jumped from his arms and trotted away as if accustomed to strange events. Avellana hurried down a polished marble hall. He had the impression she hadn’t been missed yet.

  He returned to the salon, trying to forget about the dangers of Passage.

  Lahsin didn’t take the Residence’s bait and go at once to the Summer Pavilion. The cunning in the Residence’s voice had alerted her that it might be a futile trip. If she wanted food soon, the conservatory was her best option.

  Straightening her spine and setting her shoulders, she got to work. When she was done, she pulled up a wrought iron seat and sank into it and simply stared. She’d worked long and hard to put the place in order; she wasn’t even sure of the time of day. But the results were fabulous!

  Wiping her sleeve across her forehead, she just gaped at the sight before her. She’d used Flair, of course, when it had come to her, in trickles or spurts or even a flood or two. But she’d also worked hard physically, she had a layer of dirt and sweat to show that.

  More creative Flair had flowed through her fingers than she realized. The flagstones of the path were clean and showed thyme plants between them. Lower ground cover gave way to lush ferns and low trimmed bushes, then larger bushes and small fruit and nut trees, then, finally, to large trees whose branches brushed the glass. And the glass! Everywhere she could see a bit of the greenhouse itself, the glass was clean, nearly sparkling.

  She turned her head to see the section she had planted with her vegetable seeds. Every time she’d walked by she’d sent them a little Flair, a little encouragement to grow, a little love. Green shoots were already poking through the earth.

  She shook out her limbs and carefully put her tools away. She could use a walk in the brisk air. The snow had fallen for only a few moments before the sun had once again appeared, and there was no accumulation to slush through.

  So she drew on her winter cape and left the conservatory with the satisfaction of a job well done.

  Getting to the Summer Pavilion from the Residence was a struggle through overgrown paths and closed hedgerows. When she reached it, she noticed the place was clean and in better repair than the Residence itself, but had an odd smell. She found a tiny no-time, but it wasn’t working. She searched the place and found one dusty, well-wrapped trail meal in a window seat.

  Swearing under her breath, she left the place by a well-worn path to the square pools a short distance away. Definitely exercise pools and not Healing ones. Just the trace of steam rose from them instead of the thick mist that would be hanging over the main Healing pool. For a moment she thought she might stop and swim, but she wanted to return to the conservatory. Her work was not yet done.

  The dog had seemed depressed, as if he might have finally stopped fighting. She didn’t think she could endure it if he silently wasted away—as if she, too, might give in to despair. Somehow they’d developed a small bond.

  So she trudged back to the Residence, determined to get in. She was taking care of herself, relying on herself to survive, and had a small string of victories now. She didn’t want to lose momentum and fail. Too much depended on her confidence in herself—all of her future life, her successful weathering of her Second Passage, surviving the winter here, repudiating her marriage.

  For an instant, Tinne Holly’s image appeared in her mind, and before she brushed it away, she decided that she would let him teach her how to defend herself.

  In the conservatory she stopped a few feet from the curled dog who looked at her with sad eyes.

  “The Summer Pavilion’s no-time is not working,” she said. Leaning over, she picked up a large set of pruners and clicked them together.

  The dog’s eyes fired. Do not think you can kill me easily.

  She stepped back, sucked in a shocked breath, then shook her head. “I don’t mean to kill you.” Keeping her voice low, not knowing if the Residence could hear her but hoping not to warn it, she said, “I intend to get into the Residence.”

  The front door is stout, behind many rosebushes.

  Lahsin looked ahead of her, through the glass pane at the portion of the Residence in view. She smiled, showing teeth, that felt good. Snicking the pruners again, she said, “I’ll get in.”

  Settling an extendable ladder under her arm, she marched through the weak afternoon sunshine around to the front of the Residence. She was not going in any side or back door. No, she’
d insist the entity deal with her as a person requesting entrance at the front door.

  She stopped some meters from the front of the house. It had its back to the northeast corner of the city walls, facing inward to the estate. Behind it were tall trees that marked the line of the vine-covered walls. It had been a beautiful house, well proportioned of mellow red brick, with large windows now blank with the dirt of ages and trim that might have been tinted white.

  There was a wide portico. The pillars were covered in thorny roses gone wild, which barricaded the front door. It appeared the whole porch was one huge mass of roses. The Residence no doubt had encouraged the growth. More daunting than she expected, even with the pruners she had, and she wasn’t sure how long her Flair would hold out.

  It would have been better if anger filled her. But she’d worked through that for today. It would come back. How many times she didn’t know, but now she just wanted inside the Residence.

  She started snipping the growth anyway, taking off long whips of thorny stalks. Some had bright rose hips, and she set them aside to use in potions or for decoration.

  She thought of all that might be in the Residence that she could use—pay for with energy to clean and power the house—to keep her determination high, when a thorn caught her, sticking deep or sliding in a long scratch against her skin.

  Her mouth watered as she thought of food from the no-time storage—premade meals she didn’t have to try to cook herself. Meat. She could almost taste a good furrabeast steak.

  Food for the dog, too. She was coming to like the dog. It was having a hard time hunting in the garden, and she couldn’t imagine it surviving on the vegetables that she was growing in the greenhouse.

  And she hoped for a library. Not just the ResidenceLibrary that would answer questions if she asked, with data, but also a roomful of books and scrolls and holospheres and maybe even memoryspheres of those who had lived here before. She thought she’d be blessed beyond her dreams if she found no-times and a library. And an inside bath.

  So she wrung every iota of Flair from herself, all the strength from her fingers, hands, and body, to clear a path to the large front door. Beyond the thick outer layers of bushes were dead and brittle branches that were easier to pull away.

  As evening fell, she reached the door, trimmed the last of the growth. Wiping an arm across her brow, she chanted a spell to send the deadfall to the compost pit she’d developed earlier near one end of the stillroom.

  The door looked old and dry and cracked, desperately in need of reconditioning. Despite her aching body, Lahsin went back to the large conservatory walk-in storage area. There she checked on the dog, still curled tightly and sleeping, then pulled out some oil for wood, and even some stain. With a bit more Flair, one coat should be enough to reverse the damage of years and protect it for more. She thought she might have just enough power to do that. The Residence would appreciate a good door, wouldn’t it?

  She didn’t know.

  Another few ups and downs on the ladder, and she was ready to try the newly polished door latch. It was locked, more, it had spellshields upon it. They were somewhat like what she sensed cloaked the whole estate. It seemed to exude: “You don’t see me, there is nothing here, you don’t want to come in.” Further, she could sense an additional backup spell that would be triggered if she tried to force the lock. Testing the strands of the spell one by one, she figured out that a wave of dread and fear would crash over a person who tried to enter by force. Something dreadful awaits beyond the door. You don’t want to proceed.

  She pressed the thumb latch down. Pushed. Nothing.

  With a little sigh, she decided that she wanted to try diplomacy once more. She recalled the noise and fury of T’Yew Residence when she’d escaped and was sure she’d hurt it by breaking all those windows and doors. That being might have deserved her anger. This one didn’t.

  “Residence, you know that I’m here. Will you unlock the door for me and open the spellshields?”

  “You’ll raid my provisions!”

  “Who are you saving them for? You can’t eat them yourself, and I would promise to provide you with some of my energy”—if she knew how to give it Flair—“to give you strength. You’ve seen how I cared for the conservatory, have restored the front door.” She waited in silence for a long minute, then shrugged and turned away. “Your no-times have probably failed and spoiled all the food anyway, the same as in the Summer Pavilion.”

  Instead of answering, the Residence slowly opened the door with a long creeeaak that had a slither of dread slipping down Lahsin’s spine. Just the spell she’d sensed before. She took a shaky breath. The Residence wanted to intimidate her, would it, too, try to trap her?

  But curiosity was overwhelming. There was only darkness ahead. “Lights?” she whispered, then, “Light!”

  A flash erupted before her, blinding her for a few seconds, until she blinked the afterimages of white spots away. Then her mouth dropped open at the torches flickering in iron holders along the wall. They weren’t really live flames, of course, but an affectation of some long-ago century.

  “Come on in, little girl.” The Residence chuckled, and for a moment Lahsin thought it sounded like T’Yew Residence, with all its malice. What could happen to her if she went in? It couldn’t prevent her from leaving, not with spellshields, not if she bespelled this particular door to lock open.

  But it might drop a chandelier or something on her head. Might let a board in a staircase break under her weight.

  Was she being paranoid? Or sensible?

  “I’ve changed my mind.” She made sure her voice was firm. “You obviously don’t want me in there, and I won’t go where I’m not welcome. I thought I’d shown you that I could only help, by reviving the conservatory. Not only the plants were tended, but the structure and the glass, too. I’ve restored your front door. Keep your food and your secrets.” She turned her back on the gaping entrance.

  “You’re hungry! And the miserable hound, too.”

  Suppressing a groan, Lahsin picked up the ladder and her pruners. “I am, but you seem to think that I’m begging, or that I wouldn’t return value for your provisions. That I’m a . . . a supplicant. I’d rather not deal with you on those terms. There’s another who comes to FirstGrove and the Healing spring. I’ll ask him to bring some meat. There’s an empty no-time in the stillroom that I can program to store food.”

  “What do you give him in return for food?”

  Good question. Lahsin lifted her chin. “Companionship, friendship . . . a listening ear. None of which you want from me. I trust you won’t bar the conservatory from me. If you do, the dog and I will find some other place to stay. The man would probably help us get out of Druida secretly. Too bad, because I wanted to work on the gardens.”

  “Come back!”

  Stepping into the cool winter twilight, Lahsin said, “No,” and closed the door behind her.

  When she opened the door to the conservatory to store the ladder and pruners, it swung easily in. She looked for the dog, but he wasn’t inside and she didn’t know if that was good or not, couldn’t tell if he had heard her brief exchange with the Residence.

  Still, it was a letdown that he wasn’t where she expected him to be. She supposed she’d wanted some contact with someone else, even if it was just a clash of gazes.

  The grime that coated her itched unbearably. Night had fallen, and her thoughts had gone back to Tinne Holly and the night before. Would he come back? Or was once in the sanctuary enough to soothe his soul?

  She didn’t know.

  When she got to the pool, he wasn’t there.

  “Welcome, welcome, welcome!” the Turquoise House squealed in delight when Tinne wearily opened the door that evening.

  It was Mitchella’s voice.

  “Thank you,” Tinne said. Lights blazed on throughout the house. Mitchella had positioned small lights where they could accentuate art or furniture. The general decor was of simple, clean lines. The f
urniture seemed more square than what he was used to, and of a slightly lighter, redder wood.

  “Clothes and personal belongings including three drums have been moved into the MasterSuite for you.”

  His favorite drums, then, but that wasn’t what concerned him.

  “Um,” he said.

  “Yes? How can I serve you, GreatSir Holly?” the House asked eagerly. It sounded close to becoming a fully sentient Residence.

  “Call me Tinne—”

  “Yes, Tinne! Thank you!”

  “Could you not use that voice?” he muttered.

  There was a long moment’s silence as if the House was searching its memory.

  “I have this voice, too.” A sly, raspy feminine voice. The last owner’s? He sighed. “Thank you, no.”

  “If you speak to me longer or read to me, I could use your’s.”

  Two voices. Maybe it wasn’t as close to being a Residence as he’d thought. Three choices. None of which he really liked. And wasn’t he being picky all of a sudden about his environs? Maybe because he felt as if his skin had been peeled away, leaving him raw and sensitive to every little thing.

  “Why don’t we ask Mitchella—”

  “Yes! I have scrybowls in almost every room, and I can initiate a call to GrandLady D’Blackthorn all by myself!” the House said proudly. “Turquoise House contacting D’Blackthorn Residence.”

  Tinne hadn’t meant now. He shrugged, saw a large leather chair in oxblood red and sank into it.

  “T’Blackthorn Residence.” It sounded stiff. “D’Blackthorn is unavailable, Turquoise—”

  “Contacting on behalf of my new resident, GreatSir Tinne Holly,” the House caroled.

  “Tinne Holly has immediate status. I will put you through,” T’Blackthorn Residence said.

  Tinne winced.

  “Tinne?” a breathless Mitchella said. The large 3-D holo that the House projected showed her holding a female toddler.

  “Greetyou, Mitchella.” He stared at the baby. “I don’t remember that one. A new addition to the Family?”

  Mitchella bounced the young one in her arms. “Yes, we adopted her from the Saille House of Orphans. She has no Family except the explorer Helena D’Elecampane, who is on the Southern Continent and out of touch. The last time Straif tracked her to give her a message, he was gone for two years.” Mitchella shrugged elegant shoulders draped in green and covered with baby spit. The baby gurgled and tangled her hands in Mitchella’s red hair.