There was a click. “I have physically locked the door,” said a quiet cultured voice.
Camellia jumped, looked around, felt foolish when she realized the Residence itself spoke.
“Thank you, Residence,” Laev said.
Clearing her throat, Camellia said, “Mica, come back to me. This was an emergency teleportation. We weren’t invited here.”
Laev’s back and shoulders stiffened. He moved to face her, his expression blank. “You are invited. I would not have brought you here if I did not want you here.” He sounded courteous, but it was clear to Camellia that she’d insulted him. Of course he had the Flair to teleport anywhere with two cats and a stranger.
“Thank you.” She stretched her arms out for her FamCat. “Mica!”
The calico ignored her. Sucking in a breath, Camellia translocated the cat from near the door into her arms, held her Fam tight. Behave or you will not get furrabeast steak like the rest of us for dinner.
Mica subsided.
“Thank you very much for your help, T’Hawthorn.” She dipped a curtsey. “I did want to tell you that I spoke to my friends about the Salvage Ball. Neither of them recall any other items that Nivea brought to the party.” Camellia would never tell him about the strange item she’d sensed. Didn’t want to think about it herself.
She dragged in a breath. “I’m sure you understand that I’m concerned about my business. I need to monitor what’s going on from my other location. If you will excuse me—”
“You don’t take tea with us?” asked the Residence.
Camellia jumped again.
Twelve
T’Hawthorn Residence continued, “Our housekeeper has retrieved some tea made by a D’Hawthorn two centuries ago, for your delectation and experienced palate,” the Residence said, almost silkily.
Camellia hadn’t realized that a Residence could express itself so well. She didn’t say so. In fact, she couldn’t seem to think of anything to say. “Ah, hmm.”
The door clicked and swung open. Brazos shot through it. Mica leapt from Camellia’s arms and bolted from the room after Brazos. A woman dodged them but chuckled tolerantly, saying, “Tea and sandwiches from the hands of GreatLady Huathe Blanca D’Hawthorn. Made in the year 219. The best cook the Family has seen.” The housekeeper beamed. She pushed a tray through the air that contained a complete tea for two—teapot, fragile cups and saucers, cream and sweet pots. There was a tiered tray that held tiny, crustless sandwiches.
Laev was staring at the setup as much as Camellia.
“That isn’t the same pattern as the vase you took to the Salvage Ball,” Camellia said and wished she’d kept quiet. Then her mouth dropped as a fully set table appeared next to one of the windows and nearby chairs moved themselves in front of the place settings. She heard Laev mutter under his breath, “Lord and Lady.”
“No, the china is not the same,” the housekeeper answered Camellia. “The vase was the last of a set that an ancestor brought with him when he wed one of our GreatLadies. Residence never liked it. This set is GreatLady Huathe Blanca’s herself. Tea and sandwiches and all.” Camellia wasn’t sure about drinking and eating food that was a couple of hundred years old, no-time or not. She kept her mouth shut.
Housekeeper and tray had positioned themselves close to the table. “Laev, escort GraceMistrys Darjeeling,” the housekeeper ordered, obviously a Family member with strong Flair.
“Of course,” Laev said. He angled himself toward Camellia, bowed formally to her as if she were a GreatLady herself, offering his hand.
Another thing she stared at . . . his long, elegant fingers. More than a few heartbeats passed before she gathered her wits enough to take the couple of steps toward him and put her hand in his.
A surge of lust with a hint of more, of intense possibilities. Camellia’s mouth dried, and she yearned for the tea. The fragrance steaming from the spout of the teapot was something she’d never scented before.
They were both silent as he seated her and sat himself. The chairs moved closer to the table and Camellia pretended that she was used to that, even as she wondered whether the spell was on the chairs, the table, the rug, or something the housekeeper or Laev did. She considered how much it would cost for her teahouses.
She recalled what was going on in Darjeeling’s Teahouse and desperately wanted to be back there but didn’t dare contact Tiana in case the priestess was in the middle of a ritual.
“May I pour?” asked the housekeeper. Both she and Laev were looking at Camellia.
“Please.” She tried her best smile. “Forgive my distraction. There is a touchy situation occurring at my business.”
The housekeeper clicked her tongue as her hand tipped the teapot, pouring golden brown liquid with a little fragrance of bergamot into the teacups. Camellia knew that black and bergamot tea had been very popular on Earth at one time, but wasn’t currently a taste that Celtans liked.
“You think too much of work.” The housekeeper gave Laev a frown, too.
Camellia took a dainty silver spoon with a bowl in the shape of a scalloped seashell and sprinkled some sweet in her tea, tasted. “Lovely,” she said truthfully.
Laev drank, too. His jaw bunched. “Good,” he said, but Camellia knew he lied.
The housekeeper sighed and went to a corner cabinet that Camellia recognized as no-time dedicated to drinks only. A minute later the older woman returned with a coffee carafe in a subdued masculine-looking pattern. She removed Laev’s teacup and saucer and they vanished from her hand to be replaced by a sturdy mug that she filled with strong caff that overwhelmed the fragrance of the tea.
“Here you go, Laev.” Her tone was indulgent and Camellia stilled, observing. There seemed to be a pattern going on . . . both the housekeeper and Residence outwardly deferred to Laev as GreatLord T’Hawthorn but seemed to speak to him like a youngster. Not her problem, but . . .
“T’Hawthorn has been very kind to me today. And to Nuada’s Sword.” Camellia lowered her lashes and lifted her cup to inhale the fragrance again. She’d mix some bergamot into her teas and try them on her friends. “I know the SupremeJudge appreciated T’Hawthorn’s help.”
Laev angled a glance her way. His brows rose ironically. She understood then that he was very aware of the attitudes of his Residence and Family, and for whatever reason, he was letting them ride. The Hawthorns were a patient Family.
Diversion had worked earlier with the Ship, maybe she could use it now, too. She grinned up at the housekeeper. “If you ever need a job, you have one at either Darjeeling’s Teahouse or Darjeeling’s HouseHeart, in any capacity.” Camellia looked at Laev.
“I am honored to introduce my cuz, Alma Hawthorn, to you, GraceMistrys Darjeeling,” he said. He drank down some caff and his exhalation was soft and a smile curved his lips.
“I’m also honored,” Camellia said.
The woman flushed. “So kind of you to offer, GraceMistrys. I’m sure I wouldn’t know what to do if I left T’Hawthorn Residence.”
Camellia figured the woman would do just fine anywhere. “My loss,” she said. “And I am most honored that T’Hawthorn helped me.” She cautiously picked up a bite-sized sandwich and popped it into her mouth. Terrible, just terrible. And the ingredients were definitely fresh. Celtan tastes must have changed. Of course she wanted to spit it out and couldn’t.
She chewed and swallowed as soon as possible. “Quite unique.” Her gaze slid to Laev, and though his face was impassive, his eyes glinted with humor. She noted then that he hadn’t touched the food. Wise man.
Alma nodded. “I’ll leave you two.” She exited the room.
“Thank you for asking your friends about the Salvage Ball, and telling me,” Laev said.
Camellia choked a little before replying, “’Welcome.”
“Too bad you already ate the sandwich,” Laev said.
“Yes.” Camellia gulped down some more very good tea. “I noticed you didn’t touch it.”
“Once is enough
for most of Huathe Blanca’s exotic food, though she really was a good basic cook. It shouldn’t harm you any.”
“Thanks.”
He rose and took the plate of sandwiches, dumped them on a piece of papyrus, tapped the sheet. “Farm pigs,” he said, and the whole thing disappeared.
“That’s handy,” Camellia said.
“Yes, though I haven’t done it much since I was a child.” He joined her again, picked up his cup, and stretched his legs out. This time his smile was lopsided and genuine and affected Camellia much more. Not good. How would she ever be able to put the man out of her thoughts if he smiled at her like that?
“Beautiful room.”
He glanced around. “Yes, thank you.” Another quirky smile. “I haven’t put much of a mark on it. The room remains much like it was when my FatherSire was alive. And I think he didn’t change it from his father or FatherSire.”
Camellia savored the last of the tea in her cup. “So your Family hasn’t been led by a D’Hawthorn, a GreatLady, for a while?” She placed the cup in its saucer, found her Flair had extended to test the atmosphere. Overwhelmingly male. Recalled that the Residence had spoken in a male voice.
Laev was frowning, as if tabulating the past Heads of Households in his mind. “You’re right, it’s been some time. At least a century and a half. And I’m the fifth T’Hawthorn in a row.” He grimaced. “We haven’t been as long-lived as some of the other Families.”
“But powerful,” Camellia said. “Your FatherSire was Captain of the FirstFamilies Council, which made him the head of all the councils.”
Laev’s lips curved deeper, but his eyes took on a hint of tension. She should leave, not want to ease that strain, to help the man who seemed now to have vulnerabilities she’d never have guessed. Despite the essential male feeling—and with no bitter tang of anger or hatred for those less noble—the room was comfortable. She poured herself another cup of tea and met Laev’s eyes steadily. “I think you’ve added more to this room than you believe.”
He blinked as if coming back from a past vision. “I haven’t.”
She pursed her lips. “Maybe not in the furnishings, but in the . . . quality of the Flair.” The more she felt the psi power around her, the more it sank into her skin; she experienced its undertones, like a perfume, or the taste of a complex tea.
“I’ve only been GreatLord for three months,” he said.
“But you worked in this area for a long time before, yes?”
“The ResidenceDen has two offices off it.” His smile turned tight. “For the usual two children of the Family. I am an only child, as my father was, and FatherSire. I had an office here.”
“You miss your FatherSire?” There had been affection in the tone.
“Yes.” He looked at the impressive desk. “He was . . . tough . . . when I was a child, but he mellowed in his later years.”
Not from what Camellia had heard, but no one saw the real inner workings of a Family. “He was an impressive man.”
“Yes.” A touch of red showed on Laev’s cheeks, and she finally recalled how the last T’Hawthorn had died. She couldn’t help it, she laughed.
Laev closed his eyes.
“Don’t you think it’s wonderful?” she said.
“Why? Because despite his public service, the fact that he made cinnamon a common spice, what most people recall most is that he died in a lady’s bed?”
Camellia wasn’t sure of the public service bit, either, but she saw that the manner of his FatherSire’s death bothered Laev. She reached out and put her fingers over his clenched fist, met his turbulent eyes, the color of a deep lavender that she used in some brews. “Isn’t that the way most men want to die? During sex? Hell, I wouldn’t mind it, either.” She shouldn’t have mentioned sex. Warm tremblings began stirring in her lower body.
He turned his hand over but didn’t link fingers with her . . . yet the touch of palm on palm went straight to her core. His hand was strong, not soft. She rushed into speech.
“What would he have thought?”
“He’d have been mortified.”
“Are you sure? Maybe his proud... um . . . business and professional persona. But the man?”
Laev opened his eyes wide and grinned at her. Grabbed her fingers and squeezed, withdrew his hand. “You’re right. As a man . . . well, it was pretty evident that he’d satisfied the lady, at least, and he’d have cared about that.”
Camellia choked and leaned back into her own space. “Ah, yes. How was his sense of humor?”
“Deeply buried,” Laev said. He stood and prowled the room, and Camellia could almost see the paths along the rugs that he—and his forebears—used when they considered important matters. Laev looked up and his smile was easy, like a boy’s. The boy he might have been before Nivea. “You’re right, though. He might have been amused.” Laev looked away, murmured, “The situation has been difficult to deal with, though.”
“Ah.” Camellia cleared her throat. “Well, he was human, and every human makes mistakes.” She knew at once she’d made one as soon as the words left her mouth and Laev’s smile vanished.
Nivea. She always stood between them.
He pulled on his impassive mask. “Yes,” he said coolly.
She rose and kept her chin lifted and her eyes steady. “Everyone makes mistakes, T’Hawthorn.” Her mouth turned down. “I have.” Because she couldn’t walk away from the hurt that filled him, she walked toward him, stopped close enough that she had to tilt her head back a bit to meet his gaze, spoke bluntly.
“You aren’t the only one to make a life-changing mistake.”
“A bad mistake for my Family.”
Narrowing her eyes, she said, “Your mistake was very public. Don’t you think that every single FirstFamily has recovered from bad mistakes? They may be less well known, so they are private Family secrets.” Her shoulders shifted. “Better that all is known.” The urge to reveal some of herself could not be fought. “That’s what I tell myself when my father humiliates me. When I know someday he will land in gaol.” She breathed heavily through her nose, cheeks continuing to flame. “But there’s no room for blackmail there, like other Family secrets might draw.”
He watched her with an inscrutable face. Why had she bothered to tell him such? Making a cutting gesture with her hand, she walked back to the rug in the corner of the room that was his teleportation pad, then faced him. “You weren’t the only one to be deceived by Nivea and the Sunflowers.”
“Others knew I was making a mistake and I didn’t listen to them.”
She snorted. “Lady and Lord, who does at seventeen? Mica, I am leaving; ’port to me now!”
Her Fam appeared on the rug, back arched and hissing. Don’t want to go! Like it here!
“I am your FamWoman, and I am leaving.”
“And Brazos will answer to me for disobeying,” Laev said loudly, as if he knew the Fam would hear his words, either mentally or relayed by the Residence. “No special pillow he requested.”
With a growl, Mica jumped into Camellia’s arms and turned her head to look at Brazos, who appeared on Laev’s desk, whipping his tail.
Camellia sent a tendril of her mind questing in Tiana’s direction. She was in GreatCircle Temple. A check on Darjeeling’s Teahouse found Camellia’s office teleportation pad available. Breath pushed from her lungs. “Appears like everything’s fine at my business.” She looked at Laev, who was as urbane as always, GreatLord T’Hawthorn, rich, noble, powerfully Flaired.
“Thank you for your graciousness. I do appreciate it.” She looked at the beautiful china on the lovely antique table. “Thanks for the tea, also.” Then she squeezed Mica.
Had good time, Brazos, the cat sulked.
“You’re welcome,” Laev said.
Camellia ’ported before he said anything else.
When she arrived at her office to the sweet scent of prime spiritual cleansers and a new rug—Aquilaria must have authorized that—and the babble of conversa
tion from the dining rooms, a sigh bubbled from her. All was right in this portion of her world. “Scry Darjeeling’s HouseHeart.”
The wall scry panel lit and connected with Darjeeling’s HouseHeart. Camellia’s manager answered immediately, smiling. “There has been no problem here, Camellia.”
“Thanks.”
“Your brother dropped by, but that was all.”
Camellia’s gut tightened and she really regretted eating that sandwich. The taste seemed to coat the back of her throat again.
“He was favorably impressed, I think,” the manager said, beaming. She had a soft spot for Senchal. She raised her brows. “And he paid.”
“That’s good.” Camellia heard a noise and saw Aquilaria standing in the doorway, hands tucked in the opposite sleeves of her tunic. Camellia said, “I’ll be by tomorrow.”
The manager nodded. “See you then.”
“End scry,” Camellia muttered, then spoke to Aquilaria. “How much did the ritual and the new rug cost?”
Aquilaria stared at Mica, who was checking out the rug with punctuating sniffs. Aquilaria laughed.
“Yes?” Camellia asked.
“FirstLevel Priest T’Sandalwood sent an invoice to the NobleCouncil and the Guildhall, to be charged against T’Darjeeling’s NobleGilt account.”
“As far as I know, my father hasn’t fulfilled his annual NobleGilt salary for years . . . decades, maybe,” Camellia said. “GreatCircle Temple won’t ever see that payment.”
Aquilaria shrugged. “And the priest and priestess considered filing charges of blasphemy.”
“Blasphemy!” Another unusual occurrence.
“But decided that your father would be punished enough when the curse catches up with him.”
“Huh.” Camellia hoped so but didn’t think that would happen. Her father always slid out of situations.
“Everything is fine here, Camellia. You don’t need to stay.”
“I’ll tour the dining rooms,” Camellia decided. It would soothe her nerves to know everyone was having a good experience.
At the end of a septhour, she was satisfied that the happenings in the office had minimally affected her patrons. The teahouse itself was doing well, and several customers said that they’d been to the HouseHeart to compare. Occasionally some stated that they had a preference for one over the other. That tested Camellia’s hostess smile; she’d have liked them to love both, but tastes were definitely subjective.
Heart Search Page 13
