Heart Dance Read online

  Saille winced. “I need to know more of this. Please contact as many other Residences . . . and the Ship, Nuada’s Sword, to collect any and all facts regarding this matter.”

  “Immediately.” The Residence sounded cheerful.

  Saille leaned back in his comfortchair, closed his eyes. Anothertrap.

  The next minute his mother was knocking on his door.

  “Enter,” he called.

  Face aglow, she hurried in. "GrandLord Horehound is here with his Heir’s son. He wondered if you have time for a top-levelconsultation.”

  Saille stared at her.

  “And Amy, who is taking appointments for us, has added two more scrybowls, manned by your cuzes.” She rolled her eyes. “You don’t understand.”

  “No.”

  “D’Heather has already spread word that you aren’t like MotherDam.”

  “I’m a man.”

  His mother snorted. “You aren’t formal, forbidding, or excessivelyexpensive.”

  Unease sifted through him. “That’s not bad?”

  “No! Better, D’Heather told Horehound that your Flair was strong, your mastery of your craft excellent.”

  Saille cleared his throat. “Give me five minutes to prepare for a full consultation and send them in, if you think the Lord will not interfere. If you believe Horehound will be a problem, let him wait or send him on his way.”

  She nodded.

  “Is this a request for a HeartMate Finding?”

  She shook her head. “No, the GrandSir Horehound states he doesn’t believe he has a HeartMate. He wants a character sensing,so you will know if you meet a woman who will suit him, and a preliminary interview for a Wife Finding.” She rubbed her hands. “Oh, we will be busier than we have been in years.” She met his gaze. “Saille, you do the house honor.”

  “It is my duty and pleasure.”

  With another nod, she swept from the room, closing the door behind her.

  For a few seconds he just sat thinking. Though his MotherDamwas a FirstFamily GreatLady, it sounded as if the others in her class, and those below their rank, hadn’t respected her. As he’d suspected earlier that morning in D’Dandelion’s shop. That was interesting and a little disturbing.

  Then he straightened, put away the residual papyrus and items from the previous consultation, swept an arm across the desk in a Renewing Sacred Space spell, lit several incense sticks to purify the room, and placed a thin, smooth pad on his desk—also ritually sanctified. He withdrew his favorite divinationtool from his safe, tilted a small basket. Multicolored glazed pottery disks with inset jewels and runes incised on them rolled onto the blotter. He’d made the disks himself and was proud of their beauty and their functionality. He scooped them into his hands, sat, feeling the cool smoothness of them. He prayed for a blessing of the disks and the consultation. Then he infused the runes with Flair that would reveal the character of the young man to him and signal how easily it would be to find a good match for him.

  He looked up and placed the pottery disks on the blotter, as his mother opened the door to his new clients. Walking around the desk, he offered his forearm to them for a greeting and T’Horehound, a very thin, gray-haired man, took it. A small surge of Flair zipped between them. Saille sensed his psi was stronger. “A pleasure to meet you, T’Horehound.”

  The older man studied him with an experienced gaze. “I think you mean that.”

  “I do.”

  Inclining his head, T’Horehound released his arm, introducedhis Heir’s son who looked to be in his early twenties, then took a chair in the corner of the room.

  Two septhours later, both Horehounds, very pleased, were leaving. T’Horehound stopped at the threshold. “I thank you for your consultation.” He’d already transferred a stiff fee to the Willow Family account.

  Saille bowed. “You’re quite welcome.”

  “I am an expert in horticulture,” T’Horehound said.

  “I know.”

  “Ah, then I will only say that you are an unsurpassed specimen,with strong roots and good staying power.” A smile hoveredon his lips. “And potent Flair. I’ll set up an appointment for myself on my way out.” He closed the door behind him.

  Saille stood staring at the door, pride breaking open the last, tattered husk of the former self who’d lived a purposeless life on the Family estate, only doing a few secret consultations for country folk. For the first time since he’d stood in this den as T’Willow he felt he wasn’t a fraud. He was T’Willow, a GreatLordwith strong Flair for matchmaking. Valued for his services.

  Smiling, he decided to stroll in the conservatory and renew his drained Flair with scents of green before his afternoon appointment.He’d study the place and see what changes he’d like there, too. And he’d daydream of Dufleur.

  Six

  Dringal Thyme met Dufleur and Fairyfoot as they straggled to the door that evening, no doubt watching for the sleek dark green glider.

  Her mother stared, blinked, the door wide open in her loose grasp. “Dufleur, you look . . . wonderful!”

  Dufleur walked in and shut the door, watching her mother. The woman hadn’t complimented her since . . . she couldn’t rememberwhen. Since she was a girl.

  “Thank you.”

  Her mother’s steel-colored eyes looked a little dazed, a little envious.

  “We should have taken you shopping with us,” Dufleur realized.Dringal was the one who wanted this social prominence, would have enjoyed this.

  “No, no.” Dringal plucked at her long, full tunic that showed no trous at all. The outfit appeared fine in the dimness but would show definite shabbiness in the light. Her mouth soured again. “This is five years out of date. Not the right cut or color or fabric.I’d hate to be seen in it.”

  Dufleur nerved herself. “I’m a fair seamstress. I could make or alter—”

  “No.” Dringal jutted her chin. “I’ve seen those new styles. The hems of the tunics are halfway to the knee!” They’d been halfway to the knee since Dufleur could remember. Other things had changed, the style of the slits up the sides, necklines, but not the hem.

  “You don’t have any packages. What of your evening wear?”

  “My gowns are being made.” Daring long dresses with full skirts and no trous were now in fashion. Dufleur’s legs felt cold as she thought of them, or because her trous legs were cold.

  “Come up to dinner in cuz D’Winterberry’s rooms and tell us all about the day.”

  Fairyfoot meowed.

  Dringal’s lips tightened. Then she sneezed, pivoted, and started up the stairs. “Feed the animal and come to dinner. We have furrabeast roast, your favorite.”

  Dufleur’s mouth began to water. “All right.” Fairyfoot trotted down the stairs to their rooms. “Mother, you should participate in the social season, too.”

  “No!”

  Even in the shadowy light, Dufleur could see a flush mottle her mother’s face.

  “I left those circles long ago. When I married. And when your father blew up himself and our house, all my other so-calledfriends deserted me. Only our cuz took us in.”

  Shouldn’t have chosen friends of such poor character, but Dufleur didn’t say it aloud, and how could she speak? She’d been too busy and grieving too much to contact the few friends she had, and now didn’t have any at all. Entirely her fault.

  White knuckles showing her grip on the banister, Dringal gazed at Dufleur. “D’Willow spread her poison about your father all too well with the Nobles. I’ll not go just to be gossiped about and sneered at.”

  But she’d let Dufleur face the Nobles, the FirstFamilies that D’Willow belonged to. Several circles higher than the Thymes.

  Silence hung as deep as the shadows.

  “Come up for dinner, or not, I don’t care,” Dringal said.

  Oddly enough, Dufleur thought that for the first time in a long time, Dringal was actually thinking about her daughter’s welfare. Or just wanted to live through her. A mean thought, so Dufleur
shoved it aside.

  “I’ll be up.” Weariness made her mind like heavy wet wool, her body leaden, but if something she could do could finally scrape away a layer of her mother’s bitterness, Dufleur would do it.

  After a cheerful dinner with his Family, everyone sitting around the large table after the food was set on sideboards, Saille closed himself in his Den.

  Behind his desk, he unwrapped the small package of the pouches on his desk. Each pouch was individually wrapped, too. Finally all the small bags lay before him. Each was a different color of silkeen with a contrasting, Flaired cord to pull it closed. Tilting his head, he wondered at their purpose. Evening bags? Inner bags for the large sleeves on ladies’ gowns or inside a pursenal? Coin pouches? Or were ladies’ belts and waist pouches coming back into fashion? He didn’t know.

  Each one had a different design worked in perfect embroidery,too. Some had embroidery around the top and sides. A delicate tracery of cream floss on shining white. Gold thread worked in leaf patterns on emerald. A FamCat’s white and brown face and blue eyes on copper-colored fabric. A spray of summer flowers on pale yellow. A bold, multicolored design that harkened back to old Earth patterns on deep red. Fanciful waves and clouds in light blue and white floating across dark sapphire fabric.

  He couldn’t choose. He liked them all. They were all large enough to hold his HeartGift. One side of his mouth lifted as he decided that he could spellshield the pouch much more than the original leather one, keep it cleaner, nicer. It would be a shame to ruin one of the lovely pieces before him. This pouch would not circulate through all of Celta. He knew who his HeartMatewas, even if she didn’t allow herself to recognize him.

  Which one should he choose? He sank back into his floating, finely grained leather chair that shifted around him. For a momenthe closed his eyes, luxuriating, grateful that he now owned such wonderful possessions. Then he opened his lashes and gazed at the bounty before him. These he’d keep, wouldn’t give them to any Family members. But one would be the new outer case for the small box that housed his HeartGift.

  Which one did she like the best? He smiled. Surely, as her HeartMate, as a man who could pick up emanations from others,he should be able to discover that small fact.

  Pulling his chair forward, he sat up straight, closed his eyes and felt the fabric, sorting out impressions. This one she thought was too cute. He set it aside. This one was a standard piece of work, though she liked the pattern. That was culled.

  He sank deeper into his Flair, sensed even more evanescent emotions. This one was commissioned and, like his Mother-Dam’s looserobe, was refused. She hadn’t liked that. He didn’t either, and felt a spurt of pride that he’d managed to purchase it, wipe that lingering anger from her, from the pouch. Even deeper into his trance, he reached and found the one she’d enjoyed laboringover, had put more Flair, positioned her stitches just so, varied the length, breadth, and color of the stitches. This one.

  Opening his eyes, he found he was holding the red one with ancient patterns. Bold, beautiful, passionate. Like the emotions she hid.

  Dufleur went to bed early. Her mind and body were too weary to review her notes, let alone work with time, and fear lingered about her experiments.

  She lay in the heavy darkness, thinking the day had been like one of D’Holly’s own compositions where the music started slow and sped and sped until you whirled in place. Or like her own observations about time. It was completely subjective.If you were inactive and bored, time seemed to crawl. If you were swept up into a whirlwind of activity, time passed in a flash, and all you had were still, crystalline moments and the rest blurred.

  She touched her hair, as she had in one of those still moments.So different from the past—this morning. A lot of it had been cut off, to make her face seem less long, she’d been told. She had had enough wits about her as she faced T’Chervil and his wicked scissors to demand a cut that would stay out of her face and be easy to manage. She’d said she couldn’t have it hanging in her eyes, blocking her gaze from her embroidery.

  And Fairyfoot was up to something. The small cat lay curled at the end of Dufleur’s bed, purring. Dufleur was quite sure the Fam hadn’t forgiven her. Though everywhere they’d gone today—the hairdressers, the evening dressmakers, the spun shawl makers; oh, how Dufleur prized that item!—the Ladies and Lords had fussed over Fairyfoot, stroked her. Inflated her ego.

  Dufleur, Passiflora, and Fairyfoot were going to T’Ash Residencetomorrow. Not his shop, T’Ash’s Phoenix, his Residence.Where the scary GreatLord would personally show them the jewelry he crafted. Disaster loomed. Dufleur was sure that she didn’t have the gilt to buy even one piece, as if she’d spend gilt on jewelry instead of equipment anyway. Even she knew that a person in society was not considered formally dressed unlessthey had a piece of T’Ash’s work hanging around them somewhere.

  And adult FamCats demanded jeweled collars as indications of their rank. Dufleur had heard Fairyfoot’s recital of each and every Fam’s jewels: earthsuns, ancient Earth trinkets, blue diamonds.Heard Fairyfoot’s relish as she spoke of choosing her collar from T’Ash himself. Dufleur bit her lip. Fairyfoot was going to be furious in the extreme when she learned Dufleur couldn’t afford a collar. Would Fairyfoot leave her? Dufleur didn’t know. Despite everything, she loved the little cat.

  With the utmost care, shielding himself as much as possible from the effect the HeartGift would have on him, Saille opened his safe and withdrew the filthy leather bag. His gorge rose. The thing left slime on his hand, from the streets and the layers of clashing Flair upon it, and, one of the first layers, the evil vibrationsof murderers.

  Gritting his teeth, he dropped it on a disposable sheet of thinleaf on his desk. His fingers trembled as he scrabbled for a knife to open it. He only had to set a point on the bag and whistlea sharp two-noted spell, and the leather fell apart around the small wooden and brass box holding his HeartGift.

  Waves of heated sexuality enveloped him. He remembered his Third Passage, no more than a year ago, when he’d made the gift. How, deep in a fever, shuddering with wild Flair, he’d reached with his mind/body/soul/self and connected with another,his woman. His HeartMate.

  They’d joined then, in frantic sex that seemed not of the mind, but all too real. Her long, strong, soft-skinned body slidingagainst his as he heard her cry of need moan through his mind—

  He shook his head, hard, casting the feelings, thoughts, sensationsaway, biting his lip until blood came so he could fumble for the box, shove it awkwardly at the new pouch crafted by Dufleur. He missed. The box shot off the desk, hit the marble top of a table. Opened. The red silkeen wrapped around his HeartGift unfurled as it fell to the floor.

  The china thimble he’d encased in a semisolid perfume ball rolled on the thick rug. The perfume was long gone.

  He was lost.

  Again his entire self reached. Again he found. Her self.

  His mouth touched the heated skin of the curve where her neck met her shoulder and he inhaled her scent. This was right. Completely and ultimately right.

  They lay facing each other, but he couldn’t see her. The dark was midnight velvet wrapped around them, thick and soft and encompassing them in passion.

  His fingers went to her breasts, soft and fitting into his hands. Her tight nipples pebbled in the center of his palms, drawing a moan from him, a whimper of need from her.

  Soft. Her skin was so soft, her long legs sliding against him, the slight curve of her stomach arching against his hard erection.Maddened by her touch, he rolled, sweeping her under him. He gasped with aching pleasure as the movement caressed his shaft. Slipping his hands over the fullness of her bottom, he found the damp heat of her, ready for him.

  He plunged inside her, and all that mattered was the demandsof his body.

  She arched, wrapped strong legs around him, cried out her yearning. Her fingernails bit into his shoulders.

  He thrust, and thrust again. Hard, penetrating, needing the feel of her warm
core sheathing him, pulsing around him.

  Her gasps filled his ears along with the humming of his blood, and he smiled in fierce triumph. They matched each other.

  She screamed and convulsed around him. He shouted. Perfection.

  Despair. He didn’t want this to end. To ever end.

  He hurled through a storm of black, torn from her by their very release. He reached and did not find.

  A while later sharp pricks of pain along his back roused him to the here and now. Reality.

  With a grunt, he turned his head. A light weight moved from atop him and a matted cat of browns and blacks appeared in his vision. Slit-pupiled yellow eyes stared down at him. A feral cat. In his Residence. He should care, but didn’t.

  Get up. I put toy into box.

  The cat could speak to him telepathically. A feral Fam in his Residence. Did that make a difference?

  Angling his head, he saw a tiny swatch of red silkeen protrudingfrom the box, sensed his HeartGift was back in the small case. He could still feel the waves of lust radiating from it. He closed his eyes, too limp from the powerful climax to move.

  Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

  He opened one eye. The cat, a male, was smacking his HeartGift around the floor, then pouncing on it.

  He definitely should care about that.

  The cat picked it delicately up in his mouth and trotted towarda place where an icy draft issued. A small square portion of the wooden panel was flipped up, and Saille could see the hole through the wall to the frigid night.

  “Don’ . . .” he mumbled. It didn’t come out as the sharp orderhe’d wanted. With energy he didn’t know he had, he rocked to his hands and knees, wrinkled his nose at the dampness of his trous and the rug.

  He growled a cleansing spell, and a brisk breeze, with the added cold of the winter air, rippled the carpet, giving him an added boost to his feet, then whisked around him with a force that chilled him. Cleaned everything. Slapped him awake. “The night is too cold for you. Don’t go out. Stay in.”