“Oh. And is opening a business and making it successful simple?” Acacia asked.
“No!”
“None of the best things in life are.”
The Residence informed Laev that Primross had arrived to discuss business. Laev walked down to meet the man and waved the great greeniron gates open. Brazos gamboled at his side, making forays into the bushes and trees that lined the gliderway.
Laev also keyed the security spellshield to allow Primross access to the estate during the day. The private investigator stared at Laev from under heavy brows and grunted his thanks.
They circled the castle, walking over a smooth green lawn that had been tended for centuries, until they reached one of the sacred groves on the estate. This was a small, private place that Laev had claimed when he was a teen—a mere circle of tall birches with a lichened stone bench in the middle. The grass here was not mown but grew wild in the tiny glade. Spring flowers were revealed as spots of color when the breeze moved.
Laev gestured for Primross to sit, then took a seat himself, looking toward the south and hints of rolling hills instead of toward the great Residence, the city, or the ocean.
“Nice place.” The words seemed dragged from Primross.
“Thank you.”
“Must be some big reason that you don’t want to talk even in the Residence.”
Laev slanted him an ironic look. “My staff is large, and like most FirstFamilies, they are all relatives. Many are older than I and believe they know my affairs better than I do.”
Another grunt from Primross.
“Not to mention the Residence,” Laev continued.
“What about it?” Truculence laced Primross’s tones, but when he turned his head to look at the castle, his gaze was admiring . . . and with a hint of envy.
“The Residence is the oldest being in the Family,” Laev said drily. “It will always be the oldest member of the Family. It has centuries of perspective.” He stretched out his legs. “And it has disapproved of me since I was seventeen.”
“Ah.”
“There are drawbacks to being from the FirstFamilies,” Laev said.
Primross stiffened beside him, and Laev knew the man’s prejudices were as strong as ever.
Laev focused on the unfurling birch leaves and said, “Now for business—”
“I can guess that, too. The late GreatMistrys Hawthorn stole your HeartGift.”
Eight
Emotions wrenched through Laev at the words no one had ever spoken aloud. His head went light even as he shuddered at flashing scenes of the past laden with emotion—his Passage at seventeen, sensing the girl he thought was his HeartMate, wooing her, giving her his HeartGift, claiming her, wedding her . . . then the awful discovery that she wasn’t the one for him. That she’d lied and deceived him.
His scalp prickled with sweat.
“Tough situation,” Primross said, still staring at the hills in the distance, and Laev knew the man had followed his history just as he himself had. Everyone knew he’d thought Nivea was his HeartMate when he’d wed her.
“My wife and I were estranged for the last seven years of her life,” Laev said.
“Separate suites?”
“Yes.”
“The Residence didn’t like her, I guess. That must have been hard on her, too.”
“Yes,” Laev said. He pulled in a deep breath, let it cleanse the depths of his lungs. The past was gone. He’d say what was necessary to Primross, then leave it to collect dust again. “I didn’t discover Nivea was disposing of Hawthorn items until I read my FatherSire’s Family journal after his death.”
“A shock,” Primross said.
“Yes,” Laev said.
“Tell me of this HeartGift.”
“As usual, I made it during my Second Passage at seventeen. I sculpt.”
“Sculpt?”
“My HeartGift is a sculpture of the Lady and Lord embracing.”
Primross’s brows went up. “The Lady and Lord embracing.”
Laev slanted him a look. “Not intimately. Arms around each other’s waists. Both with one foot stepping forward as if ready to dance.” He smiled. “Both clothed.”
“What material is the statue made of?”
“Marble. A very unique chunk.” Laev vaguely recalled creating it through the haze of the Passage fever dreams. “Part was brownish with brown veins, the other more pinkish.”
“Ah. The Lord a different color than the Lady?”
“Yes. That’s what the piece of marble felt like in my hands. That’s what I saw in my mind when I picked the stone up for the first time.” He pulled out the tiny gold acorn and handed it to the private investigator. “I carved a pedestal under the couple and edged it in gold—acorns for my Oak heritage, Hawthorn blossoms, and leaves for my Grove ancestry. This is one of the acorns.”
“Where did you find it?” asked Primross, setting the small bit on his palm and angling his hand so it wobbled back and forth. The way his nostrils widened and his mouth opened slightly, Laev thought that the man was using all his Flair to sense the essence of the piece. Which was, of course, mostly Laev’s essence at seventeen—and whatever smudges from others it had picked up in the years since.
Laev had given his HeartGift to Nivea to claim her as was Celtan law, before they’d married. Before they’d had sex—well, he’d been making love and she’d been having sex.
I found the acorn! Brazos surged out of the high grass and pounced on Primross’s boots. I found it.
Primross lifted his brows at the cat. “Young and sturdy tomcat.”
“Yes.”
“All black,” Primross said.
“A blessed cat,” Laev said.
I am BRAZOS HAWTHORN.
“Loud, too.” A smile lurked on Primross’s mouth. He jiggled his feet a bit and the Fam followed the movement and continued the attack. Now Primross smiled, easily, sincerely. “A real warrior.”
“Yessss,” Brazos hissed.
“Yes,” Laev said at the same time. “I am lucky to have him.”
Primross’s expression soured. “FirstFamilies lords and ladies often get Fams.”
“This one arrived as a present from my FatherSire’s old Fam. An indiscretion.” Laev shuffled his feet and Brazos pounced again, trying to sink a tooth into the smooth and expensive leather. “He has no pedigree.” He laughed.
Primross’s gaze slid toward Laev. The detective tossed the small gleaming acorn in the air, caught it with the flourish of a stage magician, held it a moment, opened his fingers, and the bit of gold had disappeared. He’d used sleight of hand instead of Flair to do the trick. Primross cocked a dark eyebrow at Laev. “Where was the acorn found?”
“At the Salvage Ball. Very dusty.”
With a dead bug, added Brazos.
“That event was at one of the Kelps’ minor warehouses,” Primross said. He stood, and Laev rose, too. Brazos abandoned their boots for a brightly colored flutterby.
“Yes. I’d never been before, though Nivea had attended.” He couldn’t help it, his voice cooled and tightened along his throat.
Primross took a step back, nostrils pinched. “She was only a GraceLord’s daughter.”
With deliberation, Laev turned toward the investigator, let his annoyance show. “I wouldn’t have cared if she was a Downwind beggar. She was beautiful, dazzling. I thought she was my HeartMate, and she—” He bit off the sentence, shrugged.
The detective’s face had softened slightly. Guess the man liked it better when Laev showed all his flaws—though his pride had been savaged enough by circumstances that he usually covered any weaknesses with thick shields.
Slightly inclining his body, not enough to be called a bow, Primross said, “I’ve seen holos and vids, pics and the portrait that the great T’Apple did of your lady wife, T’Hawthorn. She was pretty.” Primross tilted his head. “Attractive and it appeared as if she had a touch of charisma and charm. But I believe you were the one man who was drawn to h
er the most.”
Laev tapped his temples. “As the ancient saying goes, to see her beauty you had to look from my eyes.”
“Exactly,” Primross agreed. “And she used and betrayed you.”
Laev’s teeth gritted, then he said, “You’ve been very successful in tracking the missing items.” He moved so he could see the edge of the ocean. It appeared gray. “Can you find my HeartGift?” His voice came out as low and as rough as the rumble of the distant surf.
The acorn appeared in Primross’s fingers again and he rubbed a thumb over it as his amber eyes deepened with thoughtfulness. “What kind of spellshield does it have?”
“The usual. Hard for anyone except my HeartMate or me to sense.”
The detective nodded, looked down at the acorn. “So it has considerable HeartMate-Passage-illusion-type Flair shrouding it.” His nose twitched as if he might even be able to scent such Flair. “I intend to find it.” He slid his glance away, then back, and Laev steeled himself for the comments or questions that he’d been dodging for two years since his wife died.
“Your HeartMate could sense your HeartGift. Do you know . . .” For once the man wasn’t pressing.
Laev continued to stare at the far white line of the surf. “No, I don’t know who my HeartMate is. That was one issue I buried during my marriage. I would never get a divorce.” He looked at Primross. “Family pressure is considerable. I behaved the way my FatherSire, the Residence, and the rest of the Family believed to be honorable. The way I believe is honorable.” He’d endured an estranged and angry woman living in his home. He’d used spells to banish his sex drive.
Primross appeared inscrutable. Laev wasn’t accustomed to explaining himself. Though the man didn’t seem to need explanation, there was a certain relief for Laev in putting his reasons and actions—inactions—into words. “I have no intention of looking for my HeartMate. I’m not interested in another wife.”
Primross grunted. “Women can be troublesome . . . but HeartMates . . .”
“Claiming a HeartMate is not always easy. If anyone is an example of that, I am.” Laev figured his face was as grim as his voice.
“Um-hmm.” The detective moved with a fighter’s panache to stand beside Laev and look toward the sea. “HeartMates.”
“Do you have one?” Laev asked.
The investigator was so silent Laev figured he wasn’t going to answer. Finally he said, “Yeah.”
“You’re not HeartBound or married?” Laev looked at the guy’s wrists, no marriage bands. His own arms felt light and free.
“No,” Primross said.
Laev liked the man. He was trusting the detective, someone he hadn’t known all his life, and it felt good. Maybe it was easier to trust someone who hadn’t known him for many years.
His calendarsphere popped into existence. “Appointment with your lawyer in half a septhour.”
“You’re a busy man,” Primross said mildly.
The investigator was different than Laev’s noble friends. “You are, too. Glad you’re on the job.”
Primross nodded. “I’ll get your HeartGift.”
“I expect you will.”
Many evenings Camellia and her friends would eat very casually, but tonight she wanted a bit more . . . ritual. Indications that the evening was important. Revealing secrets usually was, and she was finally ready to talk of her most personal one.
So she’d set up her small ritual room for food. All that work on Darjeeling’s HouseHeart was reflected here. In keeping with most of their gatherings, there were no chairs and tables but large, soft pillows to lean against. The room wasn’t large, about three and a half meters square, fine for an intimate gathering of her friends.
Mica had pounced on each pillow, rubbed herself against each, and kneaded them all, settling for the new, smallest one. Camellia had bought it that morning, cannily choosing a muted orange ginger to match the calico’s fur, making sure the seams were piped in bright gold. The tassels were thicker than mice and were designed to withstand kitty claws . . . or unravel in a satisfactory way.
She’d bought the pillow in a shop that catered to Fam companions, Lady and Lord help her. A whole shop that sold nothing but objects for Fams, with brushes for everything from housefluffs to foxes to horses. And now Mica knew where it was, though she had no gilt of her own.
Mica pranced around the room, purring loudly. Brazos has no room like this. He does not even have his own pillow.
Yet, Camellia thought.
Yet, Mica said. She circled, setting claws in her pillow. She gazed approvingly around the chamber until her gaze lit on the upright slab of green black granite in the corner and the water streaming down it into a basin and cycling up to fall again. Mica got off her pillow and pushed it closer to the small fireplace in the opposite corner. Though the days had been nice for spring, the nights had been unseasonably cool.
Camellia’s friends arrived right on time . . . with Tiana bringing a mixed vegetable salad and Glyssa a dessert to complement Camellia’s finfish casserole.
“Nice,” Glyssa said, before putting the pastry box in the tiny food storage no-time in the altar. She took her favorite plump pillow of a rusty red and gold pattern. Tiana sank down onto the blue green paisley, and Camellia sat on the silver and gold one.
The women made happy anticipatory eating noises as they settled around the long, low table.
Glyssa opened the wine and poured them all a full glass. “What’s the occasion?”
“Secrets,” Camellia said bluntly. “We’re sharing tonight.”
Tiana wiggled her butt deep into her pillow, grinned. “Good.”
“That means you, too.” Camellia lowered her brows at her. “One statement. That’s all we want. About homes or HeartMates.”
“One statement won’t satisfy Glyssa.” Tiana filled her mouth with casserole.
“We’ll discuss it or not as much as needs be,” said Glyssa.
Camellia let the taste of the spices sit on her tongue before swallowing another bite. This was one good dish. She kept an eye on Mica, who was eating from her own plate filled with shredded furrabeast bites. Not begging. That was good. A stray thought passed through Camellia’s head that she didn’t think T’Hawthorn would be as strict with Brazos as she was with Mica.
As if Tiana had picked the image of the man from her mind, her friend said, “You looked very cozy with GreatLord T’Hawthorn today.”
Food fell off Glyssa’s fork and onto her plate as she jerked. Her head swiveled toward Camellia. “Laev T’Hawthorn? Where? What did he want?”
“Two people in my office at Darjeeling’s HouseHeart always looks cozy.” Camellia chewed. Yes, she loved the food. “And he wanted to know if Nivea had ever left Hawthorn items at the Salvage Ball.”
“She stole from the Hawthorns!” Glyssa and Tiana exclaimed together. Camellia reflected that they’d all been friends a very long time.
“Petty thievery is not only limited to villains like my father and uncle.”
“Nivea was always low,” Glyssa said.
Tiana hesitated, then offered womanfully, “We don’t know what she was feeling. She must have had a very unhappy marriage.”
“That she brought completely on herself,” Glyssa pointed out ruthlessly. “She pretended to be Laev’s HeartMate and snagged one of the highest nobles in the land—against his Family’s wishes. Unhappy marriage or not, I guarantee you that she enjoyed her status.” Glyssa stabbed at a chunk of finfish and noodles.
Mica trotted back to her pillow and circled a couple of times before lying down and draping her tail around herself and yawning. Talking about mean woman bad for stomach.
“That’s right,” Camellia said. “I told him about the desk set.”
That surprised a soft snort from Tiana, no doubt recalling her argument with Nivea. Camellia knew Tiana hadn’t been so much personally hurt by Nivea as protective of Artemisia Mugwort. Nivea had been spiteful to Tiana’s older sister.
They
ate in silence, Tiana’s gaze dreamy and unfocused, her face turned toward the windows; Glyssa frowning in thought as she probed her prodigious memory, eating absently. She loved a problem like this, enjoyed all riddles.
Camellia closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, concentrating on the now, the simplicity of the moment of being with good friends.
After a couple of minutes, Glyssa let her fork clink against her plate. Mouth still tight, she shook her head. “I don’t recall anything other than the desk set. I think there was something else, but the recollection is foggy.” Her shoulders shifted, uncomfortable with such an admission. “I can’t even remember the year of that one.”
Camellia recalled the year and the object clearly. She’d had to stay across the room from it. She wasn’t about to say so.
“I don’t believe I noticed everything Nivea brought; she came to the Salvage Ball for years, since she and Laev Hawthorn returned to Druida from Gael City.” Glyssa’s upper lip lifted. “I do remember that the first three years she brought some tawdry trinket. I’d guess that wasn’t from T’Hawthorn Residence. What about you, Tiana?”
Tiana started. She blinked. “No. I don’t have your memory, and I got sidetracked.”
“Thanks,” Camellia said. She gathered Mica’s and her friends’ plates—clean like her own—and the casserole and walked to the kitchen. The plates and silverware went into the cleanser, the casserole into a no-time.
“Beautiful sunset tonight,” Tiana said. She stood at the threshold of the galley kitchen, really only comfortable for one, and looked out the large mainspace windows. She moved into the mainspace and Glyssa and Camellia joined her.
Camellia’s home was in a refurbished upper-middle-class, lowernoble area to the south of CityCenter. She only had a glimpse of the southern end of the starship Nuada’s Sword, the artifact-being that dominated the western Celtan skyline. Just a few kilometers away was the ocean—not quite close enough for her to hear the sweep of the tide. The trees swayed. No longer were the branches skeletal black. New leaves were outlined against the color-shot sky of pink and gold splendor.
Heart Search Page 9
