Heart Fate (24 page)

Shrugging, Lahsin said, “I needed to find out for myself.” She turned to the nearest wall, took a rag from her trous pocket, and wiped it. There
was
old-fashioned paper like in the corner room of Burdock Residence's attic. She might have liked this, a pale cream with sprigs of once-green leaves and spreading flowers that had been bright blue and deep red.

After sucking in a full breath, she put her hands on the wall. No interior shields, but faint traces of ancient human feelings—the joy of the dance, the wistfulness of the last dying GrandLord BalmHeal. The Residence itself had an enormous loneliness. An aching feeling of abandonment and betrayal. Her head swirled, and she was sinking, sinking, sinking.

Pain!

She gasped, saw blood welling from a puncture in her calf, and blinked at the dog—at Strother.

True. Another deep breath. She wheezed, took her hands from the wall, and bent over.

“Puny,” the Residence said.

She steadied her breath, ignored the throbbing of her injury. She could tend to it with herbs from the stillroom later if she had enough Flair for a minor Healing spell. She might have enough Flair to clean the room, but wasn't sure whether she could access her psi power. She was cold, and her Flair seemed to move like hidden fish under a thick slab of ice.

The dog slid his nose into her knee.
Work!

She glared at him. He leaned a paw on her foot. Ouch!

Her eyes widened. He was offering her some of his Flair!

True again, but energy was energy. Flair might be the only thing keeping him alive.

He narrowed his eyes and growled.

“All right!” One. Last. Good. Breath. Hands on the wall. Grime underneath fingertips. Ignore all sensations.

Pull a small spark from Strother, spear it into the solid ice. Breathe! Dredge up that Flair. It's slippery. Don't lose it!
There.
Here it comes!

She gathered Flair, sent it into the wall and Residence. Through numb lips she cried,
“Clean room!”
then sagged.

Strother sat straight, cocked his head at her use of so little of his psi energy. Then his ears pricked, his nostrils widened. He pointed his muzzle toward the large door.

Lahsin squinted and saw the slightest whirl of air. She bit her lip, hoping it would grow. She'd become accustomed to being thought a failure, used to forcing herself to proceed with any task though she'd be scolded for it. But now, after several
successes
, the thought of failing stabbed through her.

It was agonizingly slow, but the spell built as a sigh of a breeze on a hot summer's day increased to a strong wind, then a whirlwind of a coming storm. Strother hobbled back into the main corridor, but Lahsin laughed as the spell pushed against her to clean every millimeter of the room and leave it smelling of tea tree.

Leaning against the threshold, she saw the wind die. The windows sparkled, the fancy patterned parquet floor gleamed dully, needing more refinishing. There was no hint of the heap of debris that had littered the fireplace.

“The housekeeping spell is done,” she said weakly.

“For one room,” the Residence grumbled.

“For your largest room.”

The front door opened and closed—no squeaking. “Very well,” the Residence said, then paused. “You may access the kitchen no-times and may use the small floral guest room upstairs. Dog—”

Strother!
the dog mentally shouted.

“—may choose a closet.”

Lahsin chuckled, stepped away from the wall, and nearly fell, weak from her exertions. She managed to put a hand on it and staggered, coughing, back down the hall toward the kitchen.

Strother had kicked the door wide. Murky light came from windows in the back and on the end of the house. The place was filthy. She should have cleaned this room first. Time enough to do so tomorrow, if she had the same amount of Flair as today.

The dog stood, drool stringing from his muzzle, in front of the wall with no-time food storage units. One would contain prepared meals, steaming or chilled, exactly the same temperature as when they were placed in storage. The other would have supplies. But how much of each?

Come ON!
snapped Strother. His saliva pooled onto the floor, leaving a clean mark. Lahsin got the impression that he didn't want to sit on the dirty slate tiles.

Nearly panting herself, Lahsin went to the smaller unit that had a long chrome bar about chin-high. The panel that should have shown the list was blank.

“Residence, do you have furrabeast steak?” Just saying it made her mouth water.

No answer.

She put her hand on the bar. And couldn't open it. “Ooh!” She didn't have a smidgeon of Flair left to open the damn door.

Strother balanced awkwardly on his hind legs, scrabbled at the door, but couldn't get it open. His growls came deep and angry.

Damn!

Only one thing to do.

“I will lift you—”

“Not if it means food! And you can stretch tall, almost as tall as me. I'll put my hand around one of your forepaws and open the damn door.”

Grunting, she lifted, dropped him as he wiggled. “Be still!”

He growled.

They tried again, Lahsin muttering, “Furrabeast steak,” as she wrenched at the handle.

Failed.

The third time, breath ragged, shouting, they succeeded. Both of them moaned as the aroma of grilled meat wafted out. Lahsin swallowed spit. There were four plates of beautiful china, cuts showed the doneness. There were side dishes of potatoes and green beans on every plate. She nearly whimpered. Strother
did
whimper.

“Rare for you?” she asked.

She took the warm plate and put it on the floor. He ripped at it, then took slow bites. She pulled out the well-done meat for herself and put it on the table. When she saw that the no-time had replaced both rare and well-done with additional portions, she moaned and closed the door.

Tears came to her eyes.

She carried the plate into the conservatory, leaving the door open to the main Residence.

It was the best meal she'd ever eaten.

 
 
Tinne finished his day with Saille T'Willow's first training ses
sion. The man was less of a tyro than he'd indicated, and said he'd had some instruction at a country manor.

After drawing up an aggressive program, they parted, and Tinne grinned at the hefty annual fee Saille had authorized. Whatever financial dip occurred because of the scandal—and there'd been a loss—the salon was safe for the year.

Tinne teleported to the pad in Turquoise House.

“Hewwo, Tinnie! Gweetingth!” it said in a girlish baby voice, complete with lisp. Tinne stopped, mouth open in surprise. Ilexa rolled on the floor with echoing cat laughter.

Tinne swallowed. “House, do you
like
that voice?”

“Two actorth came today!” it caroled. “Thith wath the beth voith.”

Tinne suppressed a flinch, hurried to his bedroom. “Perhaps I can hear the other.”

“Of course, Tinne.” Dark, low, with a rasp that raised the hair on the back of his neck. Tinne recognized the voice from plays he'd seen. The actor specialized in villains, and the spin of horrific Flair gave Tinne the shudders. Apparently the actors weren't taking the request for a voice for the House seriously.

“You're right, the first voice is the best. Otherwise I'd think you an abandoned and haunted Earthan castle.”

“Unless you want Mitchella's? I've heard that one the longest, have the greatest range,” it said in Mitchella's tones.

He stopped stripping, held his clothes close. “No, let's go with the new female one. And speaking of Mitchella—”

“—you are due at an exthended Holly-Blackthorn Family gathering in half a thepthour.”

“Yes. I'm changing now. Please request that T'Holly Residence send a glider for me.” Teleporting took a great deal of energy. Even walking from the teleportation room to his own bedroom had been tiring. Or maybe his steps had dragged because he didn't want to have dinner with his Family.

Ilexa had passed him to stand in front of a mirror and was grooming herself. She turned her head and snorted.

“I'll be needing—wanting—to teleport to and from FirstGrove tonight. To soak in the best Healing pool in Druida.”

Her fur rippled in a shrug.
Perhaps I will go and kill more food for the dog.
She stood and pranced to him.
All cats are now talking about my exploits.

“Uh,
secrecy
, Ilexa.”

He was afraid he had. “I made a mistake. The more who know, the easier it will be to find—”

No. The location blurs in my mind, on my tongue when I speak of it. And Zanth and other FamCats can't get in. They do not have a desperate FamMan.
Ilexa smirked.

Tinne winced.

“The legendary FirthGrove?” asked the Turquoise House.

“Forget you heard that.”

“You would have me wipe my memory?” the House said, appalled.

Tinne ran a hand through his hair. What happened to peace and quiet? He nearly shouted, “No! Please designate any references to FirstGrove as extremely private and personal, not to be disclosed to anyone without my authorization.”

“My firth thecret! Done. I have a warm brithe brandy for you in your thitting room.” There was the sound of a metallic drawer extending.

“Thank you.”

“A new beverage-only no-time wath inthalled today.”

“You had a busy day. House, could you try to make your esses a little harder, please?”

“Yethss.”

“Excellent.” Or about as good as it was going to get. He pulled on a new holly green shirt of silkeen with bloused sleeves, black trous gathered at the ankles, and low boots.

Brushing his hair, he wondered again whether he should visit FirstGrove tonight—recalled that the purpose of the dinner would be to announce a new baby. The clench of his gut told him that time in the FirstGrove might be wise.

 
 
Lahsin spent the rest of the day in the Residence. She'd swept out
the room the Residence had assigned her, pulled off the bed linens, and gone, under protest from the Residence, into another room to hang them outside on its balcony. She'd tested the bedsponge and found it crumbly and soft, but acceptable.

Strother hadn't told her which closet he'd chosen, and she hadn't asked. He might prefer sleeping in his greenhouse den since the mild winter days kept the place warm. There was some heat in the Residence from ancient spells circulating hot springs water through the pipes, though the Residence had grumbled about spending more effort to heat the place.

There wasn't any plumbing, the Residence had admitted truculently. That system was different than the heating pipes. Lahsin had decided that item had to be the very next to activate when her Flair revived. She wasn't sure how much energy plumbing would demand, but didn't think it would be easy, and a lot less interesting than the estate spellshields. But no cleaning could be done without water.

Then she'd returned to the stillroom to make a salve for her puncture and a sore muscle balm for Tinne as payment for self-defense training. She hoped she could ask for the lessons tonight.

Though she said little Healing jingles as she made the ointments, she'd had no Flair to power them. So she said prayers to the Lady and Lord, too, and hoped blessings might work.

As she was fixing a hearty meal of stew and bread for herself, Strother strolled in, and she gave him a bowl of clucker bites. He hummed in pleasure as he ate.

Dark came early in the month of Rowan, the days getting shorter until Yule, the winter solstice. She'd wanted to retire in her not-too-clean-but-warm room and sleep on a real bedsponge. But Tinne always came late to the garden, after most people ate dinner. The more she thought on it, she believed it wasn't his work that wearied him. It was time with his Family and friends. Being the butt of a scandal couldn't be good.

She only hoped the Yews were suffering. Which reminded her that Tinne had brought newssheets that she'd ignored and left on the bench. They'd have disintegrated to garden mulch by now.

So she went late to the Healing pool, scraped the remains of the newssheet off Tinne's bench, and dropped them in the arbor. She couldn't distinguish whether the titillating first story was Tinne's divorce or her vanishing. The Hollys were always interesting to read about. The Yews and the Burdocks, less so.

As she slid into the steamy herbed water, she let out a quiet moan. She should do this every day, Tinne Holly or not! Secretly she wanted to see him. The dog was no company, and the Residence was a crotchety old man, needing and greedy for caring, and pushing friendly overtures away because of it.

Tinne Holly, despite his own problems, had still carried an air of stoic optimism about him. He'd weather this suffering because he was a survivor. More than that, a fighter. Lahsin admired him and wanted his courage to rub off on her.

He was nothing like T'Yew, or any of the older men she'd met since her marriage, which both comforted and frightened her. But Tinne was the best chance she had of learning how to protect herself in the future.

Perhaps tonight she'd be brave enough to let him teach her.

Eighteen

Tinne stopped in the great hall of T'Holly Residence. His
brother, Holm, stood in the center of the chamber, arm around his wife. Their parents were behind them, holding hands. Beside them was GreatLord Vinni T'Vine, the young prophet.