Jasmine sniffed and set a holosphere on his desk, flung herself into the winged chair embroidered with the dragonflies she preferred, and grinned. “The new bio-liquid technique for saffron farming that I researched was good. My investment quadrupled!”
He lifted a brow. “Our investment.”
She sat up straight. “You put money in, too?”
“Of course. You convinced me months ago that the deal was sound.”
“Then you got the funds today and already knew.” She sounded deflated.
“Yes, but hearing you tell me was the best part of the morning. Excellent job, Jasmine.”
With one last wiggle, she settled into the chair and nodded to the folder on his desk. “The first quarter of this year I have made more than the amount I’ll receive as NobleGilt from the Council when I come of age in two years.”
“You’re well on your way to succeeding in your personal goals. I think it’s time I speak with your father about allotting some of the Ash Family funds to you to invest.”
“Really!” Her voice rose to a high squeak, her blue eyes sparkled.
“Yes.”
She began hyperventilating and put her head between her knees, her voice came muffled. “Thank you, so much. Father doesn’t like handling the Family finances, and the sooner I can take that over, the better. He’s very conservative.”
“I’ll ask your father to give you a quarter of his funds,” Laev said.
Face flushed, Jasmine bobbed back up. “A third.”
“A quarter. I’ll give him a report of your last two years’ investments and my personal opinion on your progress as a financial estate manager.” Laev slanted her a look. “You will write the report. Include graphs. Don’t manipulate the figures, I’ll know if you do. Make sure it’s thorough.” He waved. “Again, excellent job. You’re dismissed for the morning.”
She nodded and went to the door of a small office off his den. So she planned on working here instead of at home. He admitted he’d like the company.
He activated a holosphere about an airship venture he was considering. All in all, Jasmine was more conservative than himself. But she’d been brought up by T’Ash and D’Ash, both very aware of the value of gilt, and with the ingrained idea that the Family fortune must be preserved and grow and must not be put at risk. Gilt was important to them, but the bedrock of that Family was love.
He’d been raised by his father and FatherSire who weren’t averse to wagering a great deal to win a great deal, always knowing that their Family fortune was secure. Plans for increasing their wealth and influence had always been paramount for the Hawthorns. The men had been demanding guardians, always pushing for success, with little affection between them. He wouldn’t be like them in that.
“You should get married again. Consult with a matchmaker to find your HeartMate,” Jasmine said.
She’d caught him off guard and inwardly he flinched. Everyone knew his mistake, that he’d disappointed his Family. Tendrils of past guilt and shame snapped like lashes. He quashed them as always. “Over the line, Jasmine.”
Jasmine wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “Brrrr,” she said. “You can really freeze someone with that gaze. You look just like your FatherSire when he was displeased, like when you took me on as an apprentice.”
“Long time ago and I’m waiting for an apology.”
Her head dropped. “Sorry.” She shifted from foot to foot and he knew her outburst wasn’t just about him. He gestured her back to the chair.
“What’s the problem?”
Blinking rapidly she took the seat, whipped a softleaf from her sleeve pocket, and mopped her eyes. “It’s Nuin. His Passage fugues to free his Flair, his magic, are so big and intense and scary.” She shuddered.
Laev rose from his own seat, went to the no-time drink storage, and pulled out steaming hot cocoa with a swirl of white mousse. He handed the mug to Jasmine, weighing his words. He’d always been honest with her. “The greater the Flair, the stronger Passage is.”
She sipped, nodded, and looked up at him from under spiky lashes. “Dad and Mom are taking turns being with Nuin, but they have a Healer and a couple of fire mages, too,” Jasmine whispered. “Nuin’s always had fire psi. They’ve stripped his bedroom of nearly everything. No one’s died in Passage for a long time, right?”
“I haven’t heard of anyone.” Laev infused confidence into his voice. Families would usually keep such an occurrence a secret.
Again she drank her cocoa, slurping a little. “Mother and Father are HeartMates. Second Passage is when you first link with a HeartMate, right? In sexy dreams?”
Laev supposed Jasmine needed reassurance that common knowledge was true. He took his chair, kept his manner cool and voice matter-of-fact. “That’s right. If there is a woman or man out there that you can bond with emotionally, physically, spiritually—one made for you, Second Passage is important. That’s when your mind and emotions spiral out to connect with your mate.”
Jasmine shifted again, this time in her chair. “And you make a HeartGift.” She stared at him. Everyone knew Laev had made a HeartGift—and given it to the wrong woman.
“How does that work?” Jasmine asked.
“I’m sure your parents told you,” Laev said.
“Well, yes, before Nuin’s Passage, but I wasn’t paying attention, and now they’re concerned and I don’t want to bother them.”
He was never supposed to have to talk about sex with Jasmine. That was a deal he’d made with her parents. Too bad she trusted him for answers.
He tapped his fingers together, one of his FatherSire’s mannerisms, which would age him even more in her eyes. Just an older brother-figure. For a moment he thought of her real older brother, Nuin, felt the echoes of his own hot passion for his HeartMate during Second Passage. No. All his problems stemmed from that mistake when he was seventeen.
“I don’t recall exactly making the HeartGift during my Passage.” Just the connection, the lust, the need to imprint a sculpture with all that he was, pour all his Flair and energy into it. It reflected his deepest self at the time. And it was gone.
“Laev?”
He jerked his mind back to the girl in front of him. She’d bounced back already, sure her brother would be fine, years from her own Second Passage. Still wanting answers.
“Most people don’t recall making a HeartGift.” He knew that for a truth. “You have just enough knowledge and control not to hurt yourself during the fever dream. There’s an urgency to make the gift.”
Jasmine grimaced. “Well, Nuin is a glass artist. Dad cleared out most of Nuin’s sitting room and set up a workshop for him instead, for him to make his HeartGift.”
“Your father’s a wise and pragmatic man.”
The girl rolled a shoulder, then leaned back and drank her cocoa in silence. After a minute, she nodded, hopped to her feet, and translocated the mug to the cleanser. When she smiled at him, it was brilliant. “Everything will be fine.”
“I’m sure it will.”
“And everyone thinks Nuin has a HeartMate. And being a HeartMate is wonderful.” Enthusiasm laced her voice.
“So they say,” he replied drily.
She lifted her chin. “I know. I see it every day with Mother and Father. You just need—”
“Jasmine—” he warned.
“—companionship. If you don’t want to look for your HeartMate right now, why don’t I ask my mother to find you a Familiar animal companion?”
“I have a Fam, Black Pierre,” Laev said. He would never want another wife, a HeartMate supposedly made for him or not.
“He was your FatherSire’s Fam. He’s old and sleeps in the kitchen all day. I think he’s the chef’s Fam now.”
She was right. That realization had pain splintering through Laev. Nothing he’d show her. His throat tightened and he scraped words from it. “The morning is going downhill.”
Jasmine winced. “I’m sorry, but you’re too lonely, and I love yo
u as much as my own dad.”
“I’m considerably younger and I don’t need companions.” He felt his gaze frost again. “There are fifty Hawthorns working in this Residence.”
“Which of them are you really close to?” she asked softly. When he didn’t answer, and the silence became strained, she looked at the door to her office, then at him. She inhaled deeply and marched back to his desk. Picking up a card from the “invitation” basket that Laev emptied every week, she flipped it in front of him. “You should go to this party tonight.”
He glanced at the card that was an odd shade of gray and had artistically ragged edges. “The Salvage Ball.” He grunted. “What is this?”
“It’s more of a party than a ball, I hear. We Ashes are not invited. We did not have any investments or property in the merchant ship that went down centuries ago and was salvaged in ’07.”
Laev stiffened. He didn’t care to be reminded of the trial regarding that ship. That had been the day he’d first seen—and fallen for—Nivea. But he recalled that Nivea had gone to the Salvage Ball though he never had.
Jasmine said, “And be sure to take an ugly item from your storage rooms. Everyone does. That’s what makes the party unique.”
“Ah.” He glanced at the holosphere he’d been studying.
“Life isn’t just about business,” Jasmine said. “It’s about love and Family, too.”
“I have enough Family.” And he didn’t believe in love.
Jasmine stared at him from under lowered brows but said nothing to refute that. He figured her Family had sayings about love as much as brooding, and he didn’t want to hear them.
But again she tapped the Salvage Ball card. “And you should go to this one because more than just FirstFamily nobles will be there. This one could be fun. Go. Act like Laev instead of GreatLord T’Hawthorn.” She offered him a sunny smile. “I know you can do it.” Then she said, “I’ll work on that report now.” She actually went into her office and shut the door behind her.
He rubbed the cheap papyrus of the card. At the party there would be items a household didn’t want . . .
Could Nivea have taken Hawthorn property there? She might have, to hurt him and the Hawthorns. Just give away their heirlooms.
She might have hated him enough to do that by the time she’d died. That hurt, but it was his own fault that he hadn’t worked at his marriage after the first few years. He cared for Jasmine—as a younger sister or a daughter—more than he had for Nivea after his infatuation had worn off.
His chest was tight. The girl made him feel. More, she made him understand his current circumstances. He was lonely. But he didn’t want a Fam. And he didn’t trust his judgement in choosing another woman to be his wife again.
Even if he ever found his HeartMate.
Camellia Darjeeling stood behind the counter of her tearoom, surveying it for perfection, and grinned. Finally, finally, the dream she’d striven for was coming true. This was her second teahouse. A tearoom, shop, and gathering place.
It was only one cozy room, but it was full of customers. The atmosphere was almost hushed, the three servers unhurried.
She moved into the room, walked toward a table to talk to patrons—a woman and a man who were often at her first place, Darjeeling’s Teahouse. From their expressions she was sure they liked her new tearoom, and some tension eased. “Welcome to Darjeeling’s HouseHeart. I’m glad you came.”
“Different than the teahouse, but nice,” the man said.
“Serene,” the upper-middle-class woman agreed.
“Thank you. I wanted serene.” Business was great, if it only stayed that way once the novelty wore off. Darjeeling’s HouseHeart had opened at the beginning of the week.
“I think you have another hit,” he said.
Camellia let out a quiet breath. “That’s good to hear.”
“You really modeled this place after a HouseHeart?” asked the woman.
“Yes. I did a lot of research,” Camellia said. Since only the oldest of the houses on Celta—usually FirstFamily Residences who were sentient beings—had HouseHearts, her tearoom drew in everyone who wanted to know what a HouseHeart looked like, or experience the ambience of the innermost ritual space of a house.
The walls were windowless—a detriment to the space that Camellia had turned into an advantage—and of various shades of brown, roughly plastered and cavelike. Everyone knew HouseHearts were hidden under the Residences, so cavelike made sense.
Inserts in the corners rounded the room. Light was just low enough to be flattering, provided by several spell-lights glowing like miniature suns. High in the north wall was a ventilating shaft with an ornate grill that also let in natural sunlight.
“I like how you included the four elements,” the woman said.
“Everyone knows a HouseHeart has all the elements,” said the man. “I like the fireplace in the south wall.” The fireplace was fashioned to look rough and worn into the rock, natural rather than man-made. On this warm late spring day, the flames were small.
The woman laughed. “I prefer the round pool in the middle. That copper lily fountain is fabulous.” She gave a little cough. “I wouldn’t have thought to have floating copper flowers. The sound when they bump against each other is lovely, just lovely. I like the water sound, too. I have this entryway . . . Might I ask the artist?”
“Enea of Yerba Lane.”
The man raised a brow at the woman, who was fussing with her napkin. He glanced up at Camellia. “Good of you to give your sources.”
Camellia chuckled. “Everything Enea does is unique.”
“Thank you.” The woman gazed around again, her forehead creased. “Lovely place, wonderful atmosphere.” She breathed in and her nose twitched and her lips pushed in and out as she studied the sculpted greeniron tubs on either side of the door that held lush plants. The greenery climbed toward the ceiling on trellises in the same pattern as the ventilation shaft above the plant life.
“Very, very lovely,” the woman said. She eyed the long shelves lined with jars of tea. Behind the counter was a note of color from canisters, tiles to set teapots on, and teapots themselves. All wares Camellia sold. “You have different products here than at Darjeeling’s Teahouse.”
“More suited to this place,” Camellia said.
“I like that brown teapot,” the woman said.
“I can set it aside for you.”
“Yes, please do.”
At that moment the server arrived with their food. Camellia kept the menu very simple, foods a person would have during rituals: cheese and crackers, fruits, breads both salty and sweet, some sandwiches, flatsweets, whatever would complement her teas. The teas themselves were more robust here than at her other place, strong and hearty.
“Enjoy.”
“Mmmm.” The man nodded as he chewed a sandwich.
Camellia welcomed other patrons—some she didn’t recognize. All seemed pleased.
Then she went to the east wall where sconces held statues—one of the Lord and one of the Lady. Before them stood tall urns with many-holed tops for the subtly fragranced incense sticks that patrons could light. One odor-free but sparkling-smoke-producing stick always burnt in each of the urns—the element of air. A stick had finished and she needed to replace it.
When she was done, she examined the room again, making sure it matched the image she’d had in her head for so long. Yes, she was sure her concept would work. All in all, it seemed like a HouseHeart to her.
Not that she knew of a HouseHeart personally, but she’d done her research—hard not to when one of her best friends was Glyssa Licorice, the Heir to the PublicLibrary Family. So Camellia had seen records describing HouseHearts in general, and even some private records and record spheres of an unnamed HouseHeart or three. Since the destruction of the HouseHeart would kill the Residence, information on them was stingy.
Her friends were the best. At thirteen they’d had a grovestudy research assignment on a sunken ship
that had been discovered and was being salvaged. Camellia, her mother, and brother had been living in her Family house at the time. Camellia had recalled a story of losing their fortune in a shipwreck. Her friends and she had searched the few Family documents and found a letter and the invoice for a tea set from a famous Chinju artist.
Camellia had interrupted the hearing on a lawsuit about salvaging the ship at JudgementGrove and was awarded the tea set—if GrandLady Kelp could find it in the ocean. The woman had; the fifty-piece tea set had not only survived but increased in value astronomically. Camellia had sold the largest item, a huge urn, and had enough gilt to found her business.
She owed everything to her friends, to the women who had helped her.
A server came to Camellia and discreetly gestured to a table where two women sat. Camellia knew the smaller one with brown hair, GreatLady Danith D’Ash. She’d married into one of the twelve GreatHouses, the crème de la crème of Celtan society. Danith liked tea, and Camellia had concocted a special blend for the woman. The GreatLady often patronized Darjeeling’s Teahouse.
Camellia didn’t know D’Ash’s companion, a boldly voluptuous woman with flaming hair and cream-colored complexion, but since her clothes were in the latest fashion and of the most expensive fabrics, she must be another high-status Noblewoman.
“D’Blackthorn wishes to speak with you, Camellia,” the server said, identifying the other woman.
“Take the counter for a moment, please,” Camellia replied. But as she walked toward the table, her pride in the HouseHeart trickled out, replaced by a stream of anxiety. Of course both of the ladies knew what real HouseHearts looked like.
D’Blackthorn was the interior designer of Druida. If she said the design of the HouseHeart was poor and uninspired, she could ruin Camellia.
Two
Danith D’Ash stood and offered her hands along with a smile, and the knot in Camellia’s stomach loosened. “Greetyou, Camellia.”
Heart Search Page 2
