Heart Search Page 5

  Mica revved her purr. I did not like them.

  Camellia curved over herself, panting, nearly trembling with reaction, holding her arms close around her middle.

  I didn’t like them, Mica repeated, hopping down from Camellia’s shoulder, walking along her thigh, and nudging her elbow. Want on lap, now.

  With a gasp, Camellia straightened and Mica set her claws in Camellia’s trous and climbed up. They were not NICE. Mica sounded shocked as if she couldn’t imagine someone being “not nice” to her or her FamWoman. Staring up at her with wide yellow eyes, Mica put a paw on Camellia’s breast. They were Not NICE.

  “No.” Camellia stroked the kitten. “They weren’t. They were mean. They’ve always been mean.”

  Mean. Mica lashed her tail. I know that word. Now I know “mean.”

  “Oh.” It was a small break of the heart that Mica’s first hours with Camellia had taught the kitten the definition of mean. “Oh.” Tears trickled down Camellia’s cheeks. She stroked Mica and began to settle until she recalled that she’d left her diamond bracelet in her antique puzzle box. She jolted to her feet, tucked Mica under her arm, and sped to her bedroom.

  Four

  The wooden box lay in shards on her bed, broken open. Her bracelet was gone. So were a few pieces of costume jewelry that would give her uncle a pittance from someone dealing in stolen objects.

  Her stomach squeezed nausea up her throat. She’d purchased the bracelet the first year Darjeeling’s Teahouse showed a good profit, to celebrate. She’d worn it like a talisman at the opening of Darjeeling’s HouseHeart earlier in the week. Left the bracelet in the box in her wall safe instead of taking the time to return the diamonds to her private box at the bank.

  The door of the safe was wide open and empty. No gilt paper or coins. There hadn’t been much there.

  She looked at her second safe, the hidden one. Her uncle, obviously in a hurry, had vanquished the spellshields and punched the wall instead of trying to finesse other physical levers and combinations. His Flair for finding gilt and valuables, no matter how secret, was still strong.

  Hadn’t been much in there, either, but they’d gotten more than four hundred gilt from her.

  Camellia sank down on the bed, put her head in her hands while Mica played with pieces of the pretty antique puzzle box. Her uncle hadn’t needed to break that. He could have worked it in seconds. He simply enjoyed breaking things, maybe her things in particular. She rubbed at her face, went to the waterfall room to splash water on her cheeks, hot with anger and despair. No matter what she tried to do, this never ended.

  After she patted her face dry, she donned a mild expression and went to the new wall scry panel and called her brother.

  He answered on his perscry, his small personal scry pebble, and the angle and movement was odd enough to make her stomach lurch again.

  “Greetyou, Senchal,” she said.

  His thin shoulders wiggled and he shifted as if uneasy. “Hey.”

  “Senchal, did father and uncle visit you?”

  His gaze slid away. “No.”

  So they had.

  “Did you give them any gilt?”

  “I’m an artist and always broke, what do you think?”

  She thought he had.

  “Senchal, they are bad men. We have to file a Family action against them, declaring them a danger to us and the community.”

  His pale face turned mulish and she knew she’d already lost. “They aren’t that bad,” he said.

  She didn’t think their father had ever hit him. Ever stolen anything important from him. Probably had even given him a few gilt now and then . . . and affection. A person would do a lot for affection from someone they loved.

  “Look,” she said, trying again. “The authorities won’t do anything against them until they’ve investigated our claims, but meanwhile it will keep them away from us.”

  But Senchal was shaking his head. “No. Can’t. Gotta go.”

  He cut the scry with a quick flat-handed gesture . . . before she said something stupid like he wouldn’t be getting any more monthly “loans,” either. The words had been ready to spurt from her mouth. Mean words. Like those her father would say. She loathed that most of all.

  She gathered up Mica, the cat’s soft fur caressing her palms. “You want to see another new place?”

  Mica opened sleepy eyes, yawned wide, showing tiny, pointy teeth and red tongue. Where?

  “Horsetail Park Guardhouse.”

  Fun, the little cat said, but she was asleep when Camellia attached her to her shoulder with the safety spell.

  A guardswoman commiserated with Camellia as she filed the complaint, and praised Mica. Camellia let out a long, slow breath. Here she was believed. As she’d told her father, she was a respected member of the community, and he was shady.

  The guard shook her head as she consulted papyrus. “He and your uncle are on our watch list. I have a note that they just boarded a luxury airship to Gael City.”

  Gilt from Camellia’s bracelet had bought those tickets. She unclenched her jaw to thank the woman.

  A male guard came in, glanced at the complaint, and jerked a bit. “Filing a report on your father? A noble lord?”

  “Shut up, Reptan,” the guardswoman said, “and if you want to know what happened instead of reacting like a stup, read the report.”

  Without answering, Camellia went to the teleportation pad and left.

  Men. They were no good.

  A woman had found the lost ship and Camellia’s tea set, which was the foundation of her career. A woman judge had ruled the set was hers. A woman had bought the large urn from the tea set for a more-than-fair price. Those three women, nearly strangers, had helped her escape her house and found her business, her life.

  She loved and valued her friends, Glyssa and Tiana, who were more like sisters. She could count on them if no one else. Men had only hurt her.

  She’d scried her fighting trainer for an appointment and was cleaning up the mess when two feminine voices called, “Camellia!”

  “You left your door open,” Glyssa scolded.

  Camellia had opened her front door so her father’s and uncle’s odor would be whisked away by the wind and the fragrance of her flowers would infuse her home.

  Glyssa stopped on the threshold of the bedroom as she saw the pieces of the jewelry box.

  “You’ve been crying,” Tiana said, coming over to put her arms around Camellia.

  “That man has been here. That bastard of a father of yours.” Glyssa’s hiss was hard. She put her arms around Camellia and Tiana and they had a threesome hug. “Your uncle, too?”

  “Yes,” Camellia hiccupped. The damn tears were starting again.

  “What did they get?” Glyssa asked.

  “They destroyed her beautiful puzzle box!” Tiana said.

  “My diamond bracelet. I wore it to the opening of Darjeeling’s HouseHeart. My fault, I didn’t take it back to the bank.”

  “It is not your fault that you have to hide valuables,” Tiana said.

  “No, it’s not your fault. Tell me you ’ported the fligger to the guardhouse,” Glyssa said.

  “I was going to. He broke my hold.” Camellia lifted her face, accepted the softleaf Glyssa held out to her. “I’ll have to practice more. I’ve already called my teacher for a lesson.”

  “Did you file a complaint?” Glyssa pressed.

  “Yes. For entering my house without permission and theft of the bracelet. Against both of them.”

  “Good girl.”

  With one last hug, Tiana and Glyssa stepped away. Tiana’s gaze went to the bedroom wall. “I see your uncle found the ‘secret’ safe we put in.” She shook her head. “You told me he would, but . . .”

  Camellia shrugged a shoulder, blew her nose into Glyssa’s softleaf, and dropped the linen square into the cleanser. Going to a dresser drawer, she pulled out two softleaves with little teapots embroidered in the corners, handed one to Glyssa, and put t
he other on top of her dresser. “I haven’t dressed. I’m running a little late.” She eyed her friends. Costumes for the party fell into several categories. There was the ragged, “salvage” look that Glyssa wore, no trous under a tunic—this was a tattered-hemmed skirt scandalously above her naked ankles and feet. It was shades of green and appeared like seaweed to Camellia. Mica hopped from the bedsponge to play with a trailing end.

  “Hmm,” Camellia said, staring.

  Glyssa turned around, modeling the complete costume. The sleeves were barely substantial enough to be pointed pockets. Most tunics had rectangular pockets built into the sleeves.

  “I like it,” Camellia said.

  “Homage to the sunken ship,” Glyssa said.

  “Um-hmm,” Camellia said.

  “I think it’s a little much,” Tiana said.

  “That’s because you’re turning into a staid priestess,” Glyssa retorted.

  Tiana herself wore formal wear, a robe of deep blue with a twinkling spell of white, blue, yellow, and red “stars.” Celtan night. She, too, twirled for Camellia. The robe was cut full and circular so it belled wide and beautiful.

  “Lovely,” Camellia said.

  “All right. You’ve seen ours, and you’ve been secretive about yours. What are you wearing?”

  “I considered going as an ocean diver.”

  “Oooh,” both her friends said.

  “But decided against.”

  As Camellia turned to the closet, her smile died and her insides clenched again. What if her uncle or father had found the gown? What if they’d destroyed it? They knew exquisite-quality fabric and embroidery when they saw it. Not that they could have sold it . . . she didn’t think. Maybe . . .

  Glyssa saw her face. “I’ll look for you.”

  “We’ll take care of it if something happened to your outfit,” Tiana added. “You won’t have to see it, and we’ll make sure it’s mended.”

  “You . . . you can’t. It’s heavy silk. Embroidered by D’Thyme.”

  “That means it’s artwork,” Glyssa said matter-of-factly, opening the closet door as Tiana put her arm around Camellia’s shoulders and angled her gently away.

  “Doesn’t appear like any of your clothes have been touched,” Glyssa said. She sniffed, then said, “Mica, come here and tell me if you smell the—”

  Mean men. Mica trotted over to the dark opening of the closet. She lifted her nose. Only a trace smell. Like someone looked but didn’t touch.

  “Excellent,” Glyssa said. “And what am I looking for?”

  “A celadon green silk robe—”

  “With exquisite embroidery,” Tiana added.

  “It’s shot with silver,” Camellia added.

  “Ah, here it is,” Glyssa said.

  Tiana kept her grip on Camellia so she couldn’t see.

  There was an intake of breath from Glyssa. Camellia flinched.

  “So gorgeous,” Glyssa said. “Artwork, indeed. It almost makes me want something like it.”

  Tiana released Camellia and they turned at the same time to look at the robe. It was a formal gown with a built-in breastband and a low heart-shaped neckline. The sleeves were long and had rectangular pockets. The dress was lined with a cream-colored silk.

  But what captured the gaze was the sheen of the fabric and the shades of pale green, cream-colored, and white embroidery that made the subtle floral pattern appear woven into the cloth.

  “Lady and Lord!” Tiana gasped. She turned to stare, openmouthed, at Camellia. “How could you afford that? It must have cost—” She snapped her mouth shut.

  Glyssa continued, “—a year’s worth of both my and Tiana’s salaries and your business profit.”

  “I stood in line outside D’Thyme’s home all night Halloween and the morning of New Year’s Day, Samhain, a year ago. You remember.”

  It was a tradition that the first hundred people who arrived at a noble’s door on Samhain received the services of the noble for free—or rather subsidized by the NobleCouncils as part of their yearly NobleGilt.

  “I thought you were crazy,” Glyssa said. She angled the hanger so the silk and thread caught the light. “It was below freezing.”

  “I wanted the gown.”

  “And you do tend to be determined,” Glyssa admitted.

  With hesitant fingers, Tiana touched the pale petal of a flower. “Beautiful, and it’s your pattern, isn’t it? On your tea set.”

  “Yes.”

  Glyssa shook her head in admiration. “You did fabulously well. As usual.” She handed the dress to Camellia.

  “It could be a bridal gown,” Tiana said.

  “No!” The word was too violent, but Camellia couldn’t help it. “No husband.”

  “No HeartMate, you mean. You have one.” Tiana lifted her chin.

  Camellia laid her dress on a chair. Sweat had sprung on her palms. “I thought we’d decided we wouldn’t discuss that.”

  “You have a HeartMate, not everyone does. That’s rare,” Tiana continued.

  Camellia’s mind buzzed and a haze of hurt and anger seemed to separate her from her friend. Tiana wasn’t the confrontational sort. Her numb mouth formed slow words. “Why are you talking about that now?”

  Glyssa stepped next to her and flung her arm around Camellia’s shoulders in a hug, facing Tiana. “Yes, why now? Hasn’t Camellia had enough problems today without you poking at her?”

  Tiana’s face scrunched, and she mumbled, “We discussed HeartMates at temple today. How fate will bring HeartMates together.”

  “Now is not the time, Tiana.” Glyssa’s voice held a note of arrogance that Camellia had never been able to master. “We all have our sore points, and our secrets. Maybe you’d like to tell us—”

  Camellia shook all the stupid emotions aside. Her friends needed her. Of them all, when Tiana and Glyssa argued, the friendship came closest to shattering. “No. Stop. We know she can’t tell us about her home.”

  “I swore an Oath, swore a Vow of Honor, I’m bound to say nothing,” Tiana said miserably, backing away from Glyssa and beginning to tidy the room.

  Nudging Glyssa with her elbow, Camellia collected her shredded emotions and tried to mend them together. She knew that if they were shaped into a garment they’d look nothing like her gown. Not now. “Glyssa, you know there are great consequences to breaking a Vow of Honor, and you wouldn’t expect her to.” Camellia whistled out a breath. “Yes. I have sore spots.” She had to pant through the next sentence. “And secrets, and I don’t ever like to think of my HeartMate. I don’t intend to claim him.” Her jaw flexed and she stared at Tiana, who had her calm-and-serene-but-I-will-get-back-to-the-subject-so-you-will-release-your-problems- and-change-for-the-better expression on.

  “We’ll thrash this out later.” Camellia’s mouth pulled up in an ironic smile. “Tiana, you want to help us work through our problems and grow, that’s why you became a priestess, to help. But not tonight.” Rough anger clawed through her, erupted in acid scorn. “Not after I’ve seen those wonderful examples of manhood, my thieving father, my deadly uncle, and my gormless brother. I’m taking a waterfall.” She scooped up her gown, tried to moderate her feelings. “Since we’re running late, I’ll need some of your combined spells to make me presentable.” She swept from the room but heard Glyssa say, “Way to ruin a party.”

  “All right. I spoke out of turn. Let’s forget about it,” Tiana said.

  “That’s optimism for you,” Glyssa said.

  I am going, too! Mica said loudly. I want to party! My first party! “Rrrmm.” I love My FamWoman.

  Camellia’s shoulders relaxed and she smiled at Mica’s comment, the sounds of her zooming around the bedroom. It had been a horrible day . . . except it appeared Darjeeling’s HouseHeart would be doing well, and she now had a companion. Not a HeartMate but a Fam, and that was quite enough.

  Laev darkened the last investment holosphere, ending his business day, and turned his mind to the Salvage Ball. He was griml
y certain that the odd party was just the sort of venue that Nivea would have used to dispose of his Family property. He’d go. “Residence, what’s proper dress for the Salvage Ball?”

  There was a slight hum in the air. “We approve that you will attend the Salvage Ball. We have clothing from the era that the sunken ship set sail.”

  Of course they did.

  “The clothes are stored in a no-time storage wardrobe in the northwest tower attic,” the Residence prompted.

  “Fine.” As he climbed the stone stairs, the Residence said that it was glad that another Fam had joined the household, someone young and lively. Which, of course, made Laev wonder if the sentient house was hinting that it was time for Laev to marry. He’d have to, of course. But this time, he’d wait. Decades.

  Five

  Laev didn’t consider it much of a party. The gathering was held in a warehouse, dimly lit with a murky tint of green. There was no music—an insult in their culture—the liquor was bad punch, and the punch was red.

  His new FamCat, Brazos, thought it was wonderful. So many people! His whiskers twitched. So many smells! So many admirers of Me.

  Laev didn’t think so. In the shadows, Brazos could barely be seen and slunk around, pouncing upon unsuspecting feet. Laev had remonstrated, but of course the cat hadn’t listened.

  With all his senses extended, Laev had roamed the room, searching for anything that felt like a Hawthorn object. He’d found nothing after two rounds. His previous hunch that Nivea might have discarded Hawthorn Family property here sometime in the past stuck with him. She’d have liked bringing a treasure to the ball, carelessly leaving it on the table for anyone to pick up.

  Now he stood on the side of the room and observed people. He shifted and his trousers clung to his ass, then loosened. No, he didn’t like this style. For as long as he could remember, trous were full. He felt nearly naked in straight-legged trous with little excess material in the legs. The cloth was heavy, too, and much less able to hold spells than modern fabric. He was dressed in black, with a leather vest that had been cut close to his ancestor’s chest and was also too small. The shirt size had been hopeless, but the Residence stated that shirtless was acceptable at the Salvage Ball.