So now you can give Me the gift of the stuffed fish.
Tiana and Glyssa laughed.
Mica turned her head toward them and offered as innocent and virtuous a smile as a cat can manage. And you can tell My FamWoman how wonderful the fish is. How nice it will look in My closet.
“Closet! You think you get a closet?” Camellia asked.
Brazos says He gets a whole room. An image came to Camellia’s mind of a small room she thought might be a dressing room attached to a great Residence MasterSuite.
I want a room, too. But you don’t have many. So until We find a new house, I will take a closet.
Camellia reeled back against the table. “I don’t want a new house. I like my house.”
Mica lifted her nose. We need a house that the mean men can’t come in.
“A fortress more like,” Camellia muttered.
Yes, a Residence would be fine.
There weren’t many intelligent houses and most of them belonged to the highest nobles. The women laughed.
Scooping up Mica, Camellia settled her along her folded arm. “No Residences for us. And I’ve never seen a house that my uncle can’t get into.” She took off toward the teleportation pad.
My fish! Mica wailed, both telepathically and aloud.
Tiana altered course and swept up the fish, cleansed it with one of her excellent housekeeping spells as they walked to the pad. “It’s really not too bad,” Tiana said.
“Revolting,” Camellia repeated.
“At least it’s small,” Glyssa said. “And you’re hanging it in a closet.”
The dream that was a memory began well. It always did.
He was seventeen and the future was a road he owned. He was Laev T’Hawthorn, and someday he’d be T’Hawthorn, a GreatLord, maybe even the Captain of All Councils.
His Flair was strong inside him, rising through him like a tide, being released by his Passage. Sure, the dreamquests had been rough—especially when he relived the worst day of his life, at thirteen. He’d nearly killed and been killed.
In the dream-memory, he rose from the blanket he’d shared with friends at JudgementGrove, and his legs felt wobbly. Couldn’t show weakness, though, so he stiffened them and pretended nothing was wrong, that he wasn’t dizzy. That another occurrence of his psi magic wasn’t wildly spiking. Passage threatened. He should get home.
But he smelled something wonderful that hit him straight in the groin. His HeartMate was here! The power of his own Flair and Passage—a whiff of her Flair, too—told him that. He turned to follow his nose and there she was. His HeartMate! The one who would match his soul, as he matched hers. She was walking in a group of girls.
His heart thumped hard in his chest, rushed so his pulse drowned out the words of everyone around him. His Flair flashed and the atmosphere pressed on him and he knew he had to have her. He walked toward the group, his gaze fixed on the golden girl—golden hair, amber eyes, skin as if it held the glow of the sun itself.
STOP! His older sleeping-self became aware, as ever, of what would happen, had happened. Dreaded the consequences of this one fall into senseless infatuation.
But his younger-self was drawn by Flair and scent and sheer lust toward Nivea. She filled his vision.
Not . . . quite.
For the first time in ages, the image of Nivea blurred and the other girls beyond Nivea sharpened.
Six
His dream changed from the way the real event had occurred. He saw the girls. The shy, round-faced girl with long, curly black hair and beautiful emerald eyes—his age, seventeen—Artemisia Mugwort.
Then there were the three younger girls in their early teens. One was obviously Artemisia’s sister, though she had a sharper chin. Another stared at him with penetrating eyes and the gingery hair that marked the Licorice Family who ran the PublicLibrary.
The third girl, Camellia Darjeeling, had just had the guts to interrupt the case in JudgementGrove and request the ship salvager look for a fifty-piece tea set—and claim that set.
Her aura throbbed Flaired delight, she wrapped her arms around the other two girls her age and grinned. Laev felt a pull . . .
And Nivea, the golden girl, put her hand on his arm and he focused back on her.
Mistake! his older dream-self shouted. He tried to pull back, change what had happened, and couldn’t.
The atmosphere around Laev thickened, like misty clouds shrouding past mistakes. Then the light took on a green cast, as in the Salvage Ball. This time it was a ball and he had a supple woman in his arms and the music wasn’t fast and raucous but a smooth ancient waltz. They danced and he didn’t look too hard at the woman. Her scent was light and spicy, and included an undertone of female arousal.
Every step had their bodies brushing and lust fired. Vaguely he remembered sex dreams like this . . . maybe even this woman. A little taller than Nivea, more slender. Nice ass, though; his hands were on it. And then they were in his bedroom, in his bed and skin to skin, and her skin was so smooth and hot and her body was hot and wet and he was moaning and plunging and releasing all his cares into the sweet, sweet woman.
Camellia woke as an orgasm rolled through her. She shuddered, panted, then settled back in the bedsponge. She’d been making love with—No! No one she knew.
She would not admit that the door in her mind had exploded open. She shut it and refused to acknowledge that it remained open a crack.
The night was dark, warm, she was safe and happy . . . go back to sleep. Back . . . to . . . sleep.
One last shudder and she pulled the darkness around her and instructed herself not to dream.
A purr rumbled at the edge of her mind as she let herself sink back into unconsciousness.
Laev rose, took a waterfall, and let water pound on the base of his neck, slide down his back. He’d changed the sheets of his bed, embarrassed that he’d lost control of his body. He’d liked the sex dream, though, and it had been more satisfying than his last couple of affairs.
He wasn’t in the market for a real woman. Maybe he should welcome such dreams instead of pushing them away as he’d always done before. He stopped the hot herbal shower with a wave of his hand, stepped from the small stone room onto tile, dried.
Now that the sex was over, he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Memories would loop in his brain.
Gently he sent his mind searching through the night . . . and found that his older friend-like-a-brother, Cratag Maytree T’Marigold, was awake and walking the halls of his own Residence. Laev ignored the writhing envy that Cratag had a HeartMate and two beautiful children, and sent Cratag a clear mental call. You up for a fighting bout?
Surprise and pleasure flowed to him from Cratag. Always. Here. Training room one.
I’ll be there in ten minutes.
Whip your ass, Cratag responded. Even with Family he didn’t speak well telepathically.
Laev was already drawing on fighting clothes. You hope, old man, he said but knew the taunt was a lie. Cratag had made his living fighting, still hired out as a bodyguard. Laev himself had missed his weekly training sessions at the Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon for a few months. Something he must start again, especially if he wanted to keep his current fighter ranking.
Yeah, Laev’d get pounded into the mat, but he’d spend time with his friend, and that was worth it.
Camellia’s morning was productive, as usual. She rearranged her knickknack shelves, removing some. Both Glyssa and Tiana would approve of that. They’d always believed her house was too cluttered. But they hadn’t lived with her father and uncle. Those two men always took anything nice in the house to sell if they needed any money. Most of her life, Camellia had lived with a bedsponge, a rickety table, and four chairs.
Her father would smash things if he felt like it.
The luckiest time in her life came when her father and uncle had abandoned her, her mother, and her brother when she was twelve. Her mother hadn’t had much life in her then, and even less hope, but sh
e’d worked to support them and had helped Camellia find a job mixing potions for an herbalist.
Camellia scanned her modified home. The house was pristine, shelves with valuables too high and narrow for Mica to reach, the paisley fabric of the chairs had an odd sheen with the no-scratch, no-pee repellent on them.
She’d put away the matching plate to the cup that her father had destroyed.
House arranging done? asked Mica. She’d been sitting on the rounded top of the furrabeast-leather chair—that had already had a few pinpricks of claws in it—“supervising.”
“Yes.” Still a little too bare for Camellia, but her life had changed again with the advent of Mica. Someday the young cat would settle down and Camellia would be able to display more of her art objects.
What do we do now?
“I’m hungry, how about you?”
“Yesss.”
“Let’s go to Darjeeling’s Teahouse and I’ll introduce you to the staff.” She hoped they liked Fams. She’d also have to look into mastering—or paying for—premium spells to keep any Fam residue from contaminating her restaurants. There was a section on that in the instruction sphere D’Ash had given her.
More gilt to spend.
Mica brushed across the full legs of Camellia’s trous, purring loudly.
Gilt had been a primary motivator in Camellia’s life, sometimes secondary to love—the love of her friends—but not now. She didn’t have quite enough to feel financially secure, but she had her health and her drive and the resource of her tea set if disaster struck.
Now she had Mica, and the little cat had already made a place in her heart. Gilt would get tighter, but they’d make it. She’d just have to work harder.
Once again Laev was behind his desk. This time he was staring at the private investigator, Garrett Primross, in the scry panel. Laev had hired the man to find his Family treasures. Primross, of Prime Investigations, was a master of his craft and several years older than Laev. The detective had a craggy face and impassive manner.
Laev had received an invoice from the private eye for the entire cost of the case and wanted a full report.
“Ah, the report. You should have received a record sphere, also.”
“I did, but I prefer to speak with you personally.”
“Facial and body cues are important,” Primross agreed. He stared down at sheets of papyrus on his own battered desk. “I’ve retrieved seven objects for you that were Hawthorn Family treasures, which your late wife . . . distributed.”
“You never told me where you found them.”
“Three I obtained from the Sunflowers, your late wife’s Family, to whom she’d given them as gifts—one to her father, one to her mother, and one to her next younger sister.”
Laev gritted his teeth, he’d been afraid of that. At the time of his marriage, he’d given the Sunflowers a large dowry for Nivea, from funds that his MotherDam—the mother of his mother—had bequeathed him. He knew that Nivea had also made “loans” from her allowance to her Family. Anger cruised through him that he’d paid them once more.
He cleared his throat, rough with renewed irritation, and dipped his head to Primross. “Thanks for dealing with them.” The Sunflowers had never cared for him—his status and money and what he might do for them, but not him. They’d been completely chilly to him after Nivea’s death.
“’Welcome. Glad to be finished, though. They have assured me that they have no other pieces that have Hawthorn Family markings.”
“You believe them.”
“If they could make you pay more, they would.” Primross’s gaze met Laev’s, went beyond him. “Your wife died during the sickness?”
“You know that, why ask?”
“There seemed to be some feeling that she might have been neglected.”
Fury buzzed in his brain. Laev set his palms on his desk, rose, leaned forward, glaring at the man. “Nivea and I were estranged, but she lived here, in a sentient GreatHouse that monitors all the life signs of its inhabitants. She received the best of care.” He made a flat cutting motion. “The sickness killed a lot of people. She was one of them.”
“So I believe.” Primross held his stare steady.
Laev inclined his head and sat. When he spoke, it was with the cold tones he’d learned from his FatherSire. “The Sunflowers don’t care for me. If they thought Nivea was neglected during her sickness, they would have sued. No doubt about that.”
“Agreed. Now you know what they feel and might be saying.”
Shrugging, Laev said, “They have never praised me. People know that.” A corner of his mouth twisted. “The newssheets enjoyed reporting Nivea’s excesses.” Another reason why he wanted to keep this investigation quiet. “She was not gentle with their reporters.” He wasn’t the only one his wife disaffected. A fleeting vision of the three women he’d met the night before rose. Nivea had dumped them as friends.
His FatherSire and Laev himself had had to mend alliances that Nivea had tested.
Laev missed the first part of Primross’s reply.
“. . . true. Your reputation is more sterling than hers,” Primross said.
Brazos leapt from his velvet-cushioned chair to the desk, hissed, and arched at Primross. WE ARE NOT MEAN. SHE WAS MEAN. His tail thrashed. I HAVE HEARD THIS. SHE KICKED FAMS. He ended as if that said it all. Brazos sat, curled his tail around his paws.
“I see,” Primross said.
“You heard my Fam?” asked Laev.
“Oh, yeah.” His eyes narrowed. “She kicked Fams?”
So WE can prove. Brazos lifted a forepaw, extended and retracted his claws, seemed to see a hair out of line, and licked it.
Primross nodded and continued, “Of the other four items I retrieved for you, T’Hawthorn, two were from collectors and two were in separate antiquities stores. You’ll find the exact shops named on my invoice.” The detective paused, then asked, “How many other pieces were lost?”
“At least two.” There had been a red-gold desk set—and his HeartGift. Feeling as if his face had gone grim and brittle, Laev continued with new information for Primross, “I am not sure when my late wife began removing Family items from the Residence. Neither my FatherSire nor the Residence itself informed me of the matter. My FatherSire left few notations in his journal.” He drank from a cup of caff that had cooled. “The items were not pieces my FatherSire considered valuable or important to the Family.”
“But you do,” Primross said.
“Yes. I do.” That Laev had brought a woman into the Family who had stolen lacerated his feelings. He wanted everything she’d taken back. “There’s no record of the exact objects Nivea took.”
“Your wife, as the lady of the Residence, didn’t keep an accounting journal?” Primross’s tones were even.
“No. I wish to speak to you about something of a more personal nature. Are you available for an appointment tomorrow at MidMorningBell?”
Primross’s eyes flickered as if he internally consulted his own schedule. “No.”
“I would like to speak as soon as possible.” Laev knew damn well that he was the highest-ranking—and paying—client Primross had. If the man wanted his business to grow, he’d give Laev what he wanted.
The private eye stared at him, finally muttered, “I can be at your place in about a septhour and a half.”
“Fine. I can send a glider—”
“I’ll teleport to your front gate,” Primross said gruffly, words Laev had hoped to hear. He didn’t have a glider without the Family arms tinted on the side, something he was considering remedying right now.
“I’ll meet you there.”
Primross nodded. “Merry meet,” he said formally.
“Merry part,” Laev returned.
“And merry meet again.” Primross ended the scry.
Laev scrutinized the invoice. All had little logos beside the entries—the Sunflower’s Family arms, business logos of the shops. He’d seen one of those logos last night, embroidered on
shirt cuffs. The man who’d pounced on his vase. No doubt Primross had already winnowed everything there was to know from that source, but . . .
“Nivea went to the Salvage Ball more than once.”
Brazos stopped licking the pads of his paw. Took your best gift there.
Laev’s HeartGift. “Probably. The women we met last night attended that party for years, too. They seemed sharp.” Between the three of them, they might have memories of objects left on the tables. A few of the missing items showed the Hawthorn arms.
Mica said they talked a lot about the party, what was there and what wasn’t. Mica is a smart Cat, too.
“Residence, scry the Temple directory and ask for Tiana Mugwort.”
A couple of minutes later, the Residence said, “She is unavailable today.”
Laev recalled the avid curiosity of Glyssa Licorice.
Brazos leapt onto his lap, looked up at him, and purred loudly as he kneaded Laev’s thighs. Mica and her FamWoman are at Darjeeling’s HouseHeart.
“What?” He hadn’t thought GraceHouse Darjeeling had an intelligent Residence.
The TEAHOUSE.
Teahouse. Yes, he’d heard of Darjeeling’s Teahouse. The connection between a rare tea set and the teahouse snapped together.
Brazos leapt from Laev’s lap and strolled over to the teleportation pad. Follow Me. I know the coordinates.
Laev stared at the cat. Did he really want to put his life in a cat’s paws? He stood. “You fail and I die and you won’t be welcome here in the Residence.”
“No, he will not be welcome,” the Residence boomed.
Laev figured it was only upset because he didn’t have an heir yet. But since that was the first sentence the Residence had offered independently since the previous T’Hawthorn died, Laev decided he was making progress. He stepped up on the teleportation pad and picked up Brazos.
He’d thought the cat would send him an image, but the animal teleported them both. They fell a few inches to a rug covering a firm pad, and Laev instinctively sucked in a breath.
Heart Search Page 7
