He was rewarded with the scent of tea and spices and a whiff of calming incense.
For a few blinks he let his eyes adjust to the dim light as he let the concept of restaurant-as-HouseHeart roll in his mind. All the HouseHearts he knew were secreted in the depths of sentient Residences, closely guarded with the greatest Flair. Usually the Residences belonged to the FirstFamilies—or the FirstFamilies belonged to them. But in the last decade or so, some GrandHouse noble houses had begun to become intelligent.
The place didn’t much appear like T’Hawthorn Residence’s HouseHeart. That reminded him that he hadn’t spent the appropriate amount of hours there this month and irritated him.
Brazos shot from his arms, through tables, and leapt over the counter and through the door to the kitchen.
All the tables were full, so it was doing a good business.
Mica says FamWoman will come see you soon, Brazos said.
A young woman dressed in a brightly colored work tunic and trous and a brown bib apron approached Laev.
“Welcome to Darjeeling’s HouseHeart. Please follow me.”
“I’m here for GraceMistrys Darjeeling.” He should have set up an appointment.
“Ah. She’ll be right with you. I’ll show you to the office.” There was a slight hesitation in the server’s voice that made Laev think she was mentally communicating with Darjeeling. Then she turned and led Laev around a pretty fountain, across the room, and behind the counter to an office that looked like it had been converted from a closet. Inside was a small desk with a chair behind it, and another chair jammed between the desk and the wall, with enough room for the arc of the door.
Camellia Darjeeling stood staring down at two cats who lapped from a bowl of milk. She looked up and he caught a smile on her face and something inside him twinged. Pretty woman.
But when she turned fully toward him, her hands were in her opposite sleeves and her smile had faded to one of pure politeness. More, she’d gone pale. “How can I help you, GreatLord T’Hawthorn?”
“Are you all right?”
Her jaw flexed. “A little headache.”
“I’ll be brief.” But he’d wished he’d planned out the meeting. This was beginning to feel like a mistake. Why hadn’t he just scried Primross to handle this? Because the women already had a poor opinion of him and he didn’t trust Primross to overcome that?
“I’d like to ask you some questions about the Salvage Ball.”
“Last night?”
“Can we be private?”
She gestured to the door and it began to slowly swing shut. There was a loud belch and the cats jumped. Both of them hit her shoulders, used them as springboards to leap over Laev and through the door before it closed.
Camellia toppled.
Laev caught her.
Seven
Shrieks of cat glee and the sound of racing paws came from beyond the office door and the odor of spilt spiced milk swirled around Laev and Camellia.
There wasn’t much room to move. He held Camellia, noticing that she felt really good in his arms. Womanly supple. Smooth skin over firm muscles.
He liked being close to her. There was a quality about her that soothed . . . or maybe it was just the place, because she pulled away and adjusted the sleeves of her gown. Her lips tightened as she glanced at the milk-soggy carpet.
She bent and righted the bowl, and Laev appreciated how her tunic showed the shape of her ass. Her hips appeared a bit larger than her bustline . . . not a perfect figure, just endearing. Nice and full. He had to curl his fingers to stop himself from squeezing her butt—something that hadn’t happened for a long time. Still he liked the buzz of attraction.
Too bad she was obviously a very serious woman who’d take sex seriously, also.
With a muttered couplet and a flick of her fingers, she cleaned the carpet. He noted that it was a standard pattern favored by the middle class, like most of the furnishings in the teahouse—the menu tables and cushioned chairs. The statues of the Lord and Lady in their individual niches were sold by temples, only the fountain was unique—a very wise choice.
She moved gracefully around the desk and sat on the chair, her expression once again one of courteous inquiry. “The Salvage Ball, you said?”
“Yes.” This was going to be difficult, he wished the priestess had been available. He tried his most sincere smile, spread his hands.
Camellia frowned.
Not good. “I was wondering if you or your friends might have recognized any T’Hawthorn items in previous years.”
“Nivea took things from your home?” Camellia’s voice was sharp.
Laev straightened in his chair. “I realize that I am a relative stranger, and that you and your friends probably have little goodwill toward me and mine—”
“Nivea didn’t believe that goodwill was important. Beauty and status were more—” Camellia snapped her mouth shut. “I beg your pardon.”
“Granted.”
“She was difficult to become close to.”
Laev nodded but was mentally considering statues in his workshop that he might offer as compensation. An instant later, he translocated a forty-five-centimeter-high statue of the Lord to Camellia’s desk. “I am prepared to trade for information,” he said easily.
Camellia’s eyes had widened, deepened to dark gray, her mouth opened a little.
“It’s much like the one you have in front.” Something he’d sculpted as a young man, copying from a standard statue, practicing his technique.
She slid her hand down the brownish marble. Laev tensed, he hoped it was smooth, he hadn’t looked at that particular piece for years.
“It’s wonderful. And a better color than the stock white,” she said.
“An appropriate trade for information.”
She smiled and it appeared almost easy, some strain that had been in her since he’d arrived—since they’d met—eased.
“Yes, indeed,” she said.
Good. He liked her better when she relaxed. He was pleased his gift hadn’t offended, been more than she’d expect for information. No need for her to know that he’d carved it.
Camellia turned the statue slowly around. Her lashes were lowered and her face impassive as she said, “There was a T’Hawthorn desk set some years ago. Red gold.”
His heart jumped. “Yes? Did you notice what happened to it?”
Her gaze met his briefly, then slid away. “It was the cause of a quarrel—the final quarrel between us and GreatMistrys Hawthorn.” Camellia’s cheeks tinted with color. “We—my friends and I—have strong feelings about objects going missing from homes. Glyssa Licorice was of the opinion that GreatMistrys Hawthorn shouldn’t have brought the desk set—especially since it had a spray of hawthorn leaves in the corners of the blotter and engraved on the writestick and stand.”
An emotional blow. He kept his face immobile.
Again Camellia’s glance flickered on his face, then went beyond him. “Tiana Mugwort remonstrated with Niv—GreatMistrys Hawthorn, who wasn’t pleased at the slight. And since Hawthorn was the highest-ranked person at the Salvage Ball that year, she made it hard on the rest of us and we left early. We didn’t see what became of the desk set.”
“When was that?”
Camellia leaned back and her old comfortchair jerked. Laev’s fingers twitched. He could fix the chair spell for her. But he had to make sure that she felt they were on an equal footing.
After a minute, she said, “It was about six years ago.”
Another jolt. He hadn’t thought Nivea was that angry at him so long ago. And it was too long ago to believe that he could find the set.
He stood and inclined his torso. There wasn’t enough space for a full bow. “Thank you. Could you ask your friends about any memories they might have?”
Camellia stared at him for a moment, her face serious, mystery lurking in her eyes. A corner of her mouth lifted in a wry smile. Again she trailed fingers down the statue. Laev’s body clenche
d.
“I’ll do that.” Reaching into her left sleeve pocket, she pulled out a perscry—a personal scry that was a drop of water encased in glass—and addressed it. “Message to Tiana and Glyssa’s scrycaches, come to dinner at my place, half septhour after EveningBell.”
Glyssa Licorice’s face formed in the small sphere. “Dinner at your house. Will you be cooking?”
“Yeah—yes, I will,” Camellia said.
The gleam sharpened in Glyssa’s eyes. “Good. You’re the best cook of us all.”
“Should be, I did all the cooking at the teahouse until I could hire it done. Later.” Camellia rubbed a thumb over the glass and it returned to dark opaque green. She rose from her chair.
“I must compliment you on Darjeeling’s HouseHeart, a well-conceived and well-run business,” Laev said.
Her smile was slow. She ducked her head. “Thank you. A pleasure doing business with you”
“My pleasure.”
She glanced at a wall timer. “I have an appointment.”
“I do, too.”
A knock came on the door and it opened to show Tiana Mugwort, dressed in the in the pale blue of a ThirdLevel Priestess. Behind her stood a priest and priestess, both in darker blue—second level.
“I wanted to show my mentors Darjeeling’s HouseHeart,” Tiana said.
Another half bow to the newcomers. “Excuse me. I have an appointment, and my apologies for my abrupt departure.” For some reason—the serenity of the place, the energy of Darjeeling or the priestesses and priest, or all three—energy hummed around him, boosting his own natural Flair. “Merry meet,” he said.
“And merry part,” everyone replied.
“And merry meet again.” He glanced at pretty Camellia, her coloring and body type so different from his hurtful ex-wife’s, and realized he was pleasurably anticipating meeting her again. Then he thought of his den and teleported away.
Camellia’s trainer, Acacia Bluegum, seemed unsurprised when Mica accompanied her for the lesson. The ex–Druida City guardswoman gestured to a Fam play center that would keep the young cat interested during the lesson. The woman also casually mentioned that there were mice in the alley behind the gym.
Mica watched as Camellia stretched, practiced her fighting patterns, and managed to draw her instructor to a tie in the first light bout.
My FamWoman is sooo skilled, Mica said mentally, purring.
Camellia saw the corners of her teacher’s lips twitch. Acacia could use Camellia to polish the wooden floor if she wanted.
As soon as Mica got bored and headed to the play center, Camellia informed her teacher of the confrontation with her father and the trick he had used to break her grip.
For the next three-quarters of a septhour they practiced holds and releases, grappling, then they did a full-out fight. Once again adrenaline raced through Camellia and she held her own.
After the bout, Camellia lay panting on the mat. Renewed confidence sizzled through her. Next time her father came, she’d be ready. If he dared break the tiniest cup of a miniature tea set, she’d haul his ass to the guard station.
“I would like to recommend you to the Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon,” Acacia said.
“No!”
Camellia received a flat and steady look. “You need to train with men. That will help you in several ways. You will become accustomed to men’s strength, weight, mass.” Acacia’s smile came and went on her face, leaving a brief impression of white teeth ready to bite. “You can pick out one of the patrons there who is close in build to your father, practice with him.”
With a skeptical glance at her teacher, Camellia rolled to her feet. “The Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon has older men running to fat?”
A snort. “Not the teachers or the higher levels of patrons. But it is also considered a fashionable social club.” The former guardswoman walked over to a wall panel, slipped it aside, and touched a couple of buttons. Camellia winced as a full-sized hologram of her father appeared.
“I believe we last updated this profile several years ago. Is it still accurate?” her teacher asked.
Swallowing hard, Camellia rolled to her feet and walked around the thing. “He’s put on weight around the middle. And he never was a fighter, never very fit that I know of. Always depended upon his charm.” He was still a big man, with more brute strength than Camellia could summon.
“So you informed me,” her trainer said, holding down a button. “Say when.”
To Camellia’s delight, she saw her father’s paunch thicken. “When . . . no, I lie, a little less.” She sighed. Since the colonists arrived on Celta, the birthrate had lessened, sickness took more of a toll . . . but the compensation was that people lived much longer than they had on their home planet. Her father would be stronger than she for years . . . unless she worked harder than he on her training. Became better physically, more clever in a fight.
She didn’t want to concentrate on physical training. She wanted to spend time honing her businesses until they were exactly as she’d envisioned . . . then laying ground for her next teahouse, a small place, catering to the ultra-feminine crowd.
Currently both Darjeeling’s Teahouse and Darjeeling’s HouseHeart were decorated to be comfortable for both men and women, but Camellia had old pics and holos of Earthan places that were obviously targeted at women. It was an idea that had spun in the back of her mind . . . when she thought she’d be able to afford a third place. She frowned. To get the detail she wanted, she’d have to consult with the starship, Nuada’s Sword. Would that be worth the risk that it would uncover her own secrets?
“... you need to feel a man’s hands on you.”
Camellia reeled, luckily the wall was there to brace her shoulder against. “What?”
“I thought that would bring your mind back to me and to training.” Her teacher’s smile was wide with real amusement. “I can tell when you’re thinking of your career and businesses. Excellent job at Darjeeling’s HouseHeart, by the way. Like it a lot.”
“Thank you.” Camellia sucked in a deep breath. Under her tutor’s eyes she held it for a few counts, released it slowly.
“You need to feel a man’s hands on you—in a variety of ways. Just the impersonal touch of an instructor. Hard when fighting . . .”
Camellia had liked Laev T’Hawthorn’s hands on her . . . when they’d stood together, she hadn’t panicked. She was pleased with herself.
“When was the last time you had sex?” asked Acacia.
A croak stuck in Camellia’s throat. She flushed, mostly from the recollection of the sexual dream last night, but some from anger that she had to deal with this issue again.
Acacia continued, “Sexual frustration can be used in a fight, but it’s not the best energy. Like any emotion, it can cloud your fighting, especially for an amateur.”
Another deep breath . . . and . . . hold . . . and . . . release. “I don’t think I’ll have a problem interacting with men in a training salon.”
“No, I don’t, either. But your best friends are female and you spend most of your time with them. When did you last have a social interaction with a man?”
She wouldn’t talk about Laev T’Hawthorn. “I was at the Salvage Ball this year,” Camellia defended.
“Did you dance? Touch men’s hands and waists and arms as you went up and down the lines, made the patterns?”
“Ah. No. The music was bad.” And she and Glyssa and Tiana had left before the dancing started.
“Camellia. You need to spend some time with men, learn that they aren’t all like your male relatives.” Acacia flicked her finger, saving Camellia’s father’s bio profile.
“It will be good for you to experience a mostly male atmosphere. Despite that they’ve integrated the classes, most of those who frequent the Green Knight are predominantly men. Some of the evenings are social. Which reminds me.” Acacia rubbed her hands. “Maybe you can help me set up a women’s fighting-fitness club here? I’d
like to bring more social events here. Maybe have drinks and food in the building next door. That space is finally for rent. We can do a trade.”
“Maybe,” Camellia said, seeing more of her time swirl down a sucking drain. “But if you want me to go to the Green Knight instead . . .”
“Let me work some comp time out with the owner, Tinne Holly.”
“It occurs to me that the fee for sparring at the Green Knight is probably considerably higher than here. So my ‘trade’ will not go as far.”
“That’s right. But I can get you in, which I don’t think you’d be able to do on your own. We’re talking the highest class of nobles. Think of the business you might do, the connections you might make, the information you might gather . . . at the very least, you’ll be able to study how they think. Noblemen and -women of the highest class.”
Camellia narrowed her eyes. “You’re a member?”
“Yes. But you won’t be working with me. My level and sessions are strictly for professional fighters.”
“Oh. Maybe. I’ll think about it—”
“You’ll outclass your father in this, too,” Acacia said.
“Done,” Camellia said.
Her teacher slung an arm around Camellia’s shoulders, squeezed. “Let’s head for the waterfalls.”
Loosening her muscles as she walked, feeling twinges as she stripped in a small cubicle and went into one of the sectioned-off stalls, Camellia called to Acacia, “You know one of my best friends is a priestess, right? I’ve been getting advice from her, too.”
Steam rose from another waterfall. “Then you should listen to both of us.”
Camellia sighed. “She’s on the topic of HeartMates lately.”
There was a pause and Camellia felt a pulse of surprise from Acacia. “I’d forgotten. You have a HeartMate, don’t you? All the more reason you need to spend time with men.” Acacia’s tones hardened. “You’re lucky to have a HeartMate. I don’t. Most don’t. By the Cave of the Dark Goddess, why aren’t you looking for him?”
“It’s complicated.” Camellia was more defensive than when she’d been fighting.
Heart Search Page 8
