Heart Choice (48 page)

Looking around with raised eyebrows, Straif shook his head, stared at her uncomprehendingly. “You are a heroine to a house.”

The world whirled around her, and she felt like the set point.

When it settled, she knew it was time.

Time to break off the affair with Straif. It was already far too late for her. She'd hurt for years, part of her heart would be shadowed forever, knowing that she could never have her HeartMate.

She stared around, hardly believing that this was the time and place.

“Mitchella?” Straif touched her cheek, concern in his eyes, and she braced herself for the blow.

“You don't really understand me at all, do you?”

“What?”

“You don't understand what I feel for houses, but more, you don't understand what I feel for Antenn and you.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper.

“You love Antenn as your own son.”

She began narrowing the bond between them, reeling in the thread as much as she could. It would be bad enough dealing with the devastating blows of her own emotions, she couldn't endure his and not break.

“Yes, I do. He is my son, the child of my heart.” She lightly tapped above her left breast. “I love him as much as I'd love any child from my own body.”

Straif flinched.

“I know you don't understand that, but it
is
the truth.” She inhaled deeply. “And I love you. More than I've ever loved any man before. I'll never love anyone like I love you.”
HeartMate
echoed in her mind. “But I can't stay with you any longer.”

“No!” He reached out, grasped her hands. Energy shot and pulsed raggedly between them. She shut out all the pain—hers waiting to ambush her in a moment; his, fresh and raw.

“Stay with me,” he whispered.

“I can't. Not anymore simply as a lover.”

He just stared at her.

She wet her lips. “Will you marry me and have me as the only woman in your life? That's what I want from you, Straif.”

His expression was angry, hurting. She steeled her heart.

Straif said, “You know I can't do that. I want children and a Family, more than I want anything else in this life.”

“I have a child.”

“I must have a child of my own blood to carry on the Family name.”

“No. You want children who carry your blood and your great Flair. True Family isn't based on blood, but on love. You haven't figured that out. I have. I'll have more children.”

She pulled her hands from him and with strength she didn't know she had, she brushed her lips to Straif's and fixed a smile that was almost genuine on her face. “The time we had together was beautiful. I'll always cherish memories of our affair.” He whipped out a hand, but she evaded it—with a little help from the house manipulating the residual Flair.

“You can't leave me!” Torment radiated from him.

She spoke to him, walking fast out of the room, down the hallways. His sharp footsteps followed. “I must leave you, for both our sakes. I love you too much, and you can't give me what I need. To go on would damage us both. Now is the right time. The project of restoring the Residence is done. You'll be confirmed by AllClass Council as T'Blackthorn today. You've found new cuzes. There is no more business between us.”

When she reached the door, she found it straight on its hinges and shut. She flung it open easily and without any creaking. A pulse of fear came from the house. She patted the doorjamb. “I'll be back tomorrow.”

Outside the sky was blue and the air held the first edge of summer, but Mitchella thought she'd drawn in the atmosphere of the house behind her—hurting with no hope of surcease, only surviving through sheer will. Her eyes burned with the effort to keep tears from falling. Her throat tightened. A horrible hole was inside her that she didn't know how to keep from enveloping her. The blackness of it, of giving in to the urge to scream her hurt, tempted.

Searing agony seeped through the tiny link with Straif. She strove with all her might to ignore his pain, block her heart-break from flowing back to him. With him, now, she only had her pride.

Her heart contracted with shock, her brain numb, only her body's automatic actions kept her upright, walking. She didn't dare allow herself to think of Straif behind her. She'd fall to the ground and curl up.

And there, outside rusty, hanging gates, was Antenn, Pinky draped around his neck and stretched out on his skinny shoulders. Antenn clutched papyrus in his hands, crumpling them. He looked at her, past her, then back at her face, and gulped. She opened her arms and he ran into them, and she held warm, solid boy. Her son. The reason for her to go on.

Pinky crawled from Antenn to snuggle around her neck, and she welcomed the weight of him and his purring that vibrated against her body.

Antenn rushed into speech. “Danith D'Ash told me you were here. The snotty cat got herself kidnapped. I came by public carrier, and I have the last set of adoption papyrus. I've filled them out. Now you only need to enter your agreement. I thought we could take the papers to the GuildHall and file them and get adopted tomorrow. I mean,
right now.
Then we can go home to the Clovers. Family will be good.” He babbled, holding her, until the small displacement of air told her Straif had 'ported away and the bond between them ripped.

Thirty-one

Mitchella cried out as Straif teleported away, tearing
their bond. She squeezed Antenn harder.

“Your affair with T'Blackthorn is over?” Antenn asked a moment later.

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry.” He hesitated. “Can we go to the GuildHall and finish my adoption?” he said.

Tears still threatened. She sniffled, found a softleaf, blew her nose. She could control her emotions, the black emptiness another septhour or two, then when she cried in the dark in her old room in the Clover Compound, she would cry tears of loss mixed with tears of joy. And when she woke up, family would be around her, comforting her, as they always did, as they had when she'd learned she couldn't have children.

But she did. She had a son, right here, and a good son he was. “Yes, let's go to the GuildHall.” She checked the horizon for the huge starship to orient herself. From the angle and the distance of the ship, she knew she was in southeast Druida, in an old area populated by lesser nobles.

“Where, exactly, are we?”

“We're near Grain and Palmetto. Danith D'Ash told me where you were. She told all the Clovers. The snotty cat let herself get kidnapped.” He made a disbelieving noise and looked at Pinky.

Cat was fool-ish.
Pinky's telepathy was still shaky. He raised his nose and sniffed disdainfully. Though his mental speaking needed work, his attitude was all Fam.

“Anyway, I knew where to come,” Antenn said.

“What do you think of the House? It's my next project. It's becoming sentient. I thought if you liked it, we might . . .”

His eyes widened in horror.

“Look
at
the House. Use your Flair.” The House could be a great distraction. She'd never midwifed one from burgeoning intelligence to real sentience. This would be challenging. The House needed her, and its desperate situation overcame any reserve she might have at the thought of Kalmi. She could make a great difference to this House. T'Blackthorn Residence could help—another flash of pain, another notion to vanquish.

She turned to survey the House herself. Broken, rusty gates framed a pitifully dead grassyard, the weedy courtyard, the pathetic House. But it was large and could—possibly, with a lot of work—be beautiful. As if feeling their gaze, the House glowed. Turquoise.

Antenn winced, then narrowed his eyes in what she recognized as his Flair sight. Gulped. “I think we could get it cheap.”

A weak chuckle broke from Mitchella.

I like the House,
Pinky said.

Frowning, Antenn said, “It's . . . it's . . . it could become a Residence, couldn't it? We could live in a Residence. The Mitchella Clover Residence,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

He straightened his shoulders. “If we all worked hard, you and me 'n Pinky 'n the Hou-House we could make it a Residence.” He nodded. “This could be really good.”

“I think so.”

“Yes.” He looked at Pinky, around Mitchella's shoulders.

Pinky revved his purr.
I will be a Fam with a Res-i-dence. Good.

Slipping his hand in hers, Antenn said, “Our Clover family will help us.” He hesitated, said in a little voice, “I suppose we'll be getting a lot of gilt from—from our last project.”

She struggled for even tones. Any swerving of her thoughts to Straif, to the T'Blackthorn Residence, threatened her fraying control. “I haven't calculated our accounts payable yet.”

“It will be a lot. Enough.” With a last glance at the House, he said, “I don't know why it glows turquoise, but that must go.” He stared up at her and frowned. “You look terrible.” He led her down the street to the public carrier plinth.

He knew she needed solid contact with him, perhaps he wanted it, too, in this most important septhour of their lives together.

“It's a good thing that I got SupremeJudge Ailim Elder's personal seal on the papyrus.” He smoothed the papyrus and pointed to the silver seal of scales against the background of
Nuada's Sword
. Pride filled him and trickled through to her.

Feeling positive emotions, even if they weren't her own, mitigated her pain.

“Ailim Elder filled out some of the dates and info about when you got me and why. She asked me to call her Ailim! Just think, my mo—, my mother is the godmother of Captain's Lady Ailim Elder's baby girl.” He grimaced. “I saw the baby, she's really ugly, but Ruis Elder and Ailim like her. Since they look good and are nice people, I guess she'll get better.”

“I'm sure she'll always be adorable.” There was no tinge of hurt that she'd never hold her own baby . . . because she might. Someday she might be able to adopt a baby.

Antenn glanced at her, studied her face, the state of her dress. “Yeah, it's good that I have her seal, otherwise the GuildHall clerk might not think you wanted me.”

“Who wouldn't want you?” she tried a little teasing. Act normal, and the world would soothe her with normality, smooth the edges of her raw pain. Let her accept the deep hurt, and it, too, would become normal.

“Exactly.” Antenn attempted to look cherubic, and her breath broke on a shaky laugh.

The public carrier arrived, and they embarked, found a plush bench, and sat. Antenn separated a page of papyrus from the rest and handed her a writestick. “You fill this stuff out.” His hands trembled a little, and Mitchella put her arms around him, squeezed, then applied herself to the form, and she found that her eyes and hands worked just fine. She let her world narrow to her child and his needs.

“I bet the Clovers will throw a party to celebrate me becoming one of you.” He grinned, and somewhere in the gray cloud that enveloped her, she felt a spark of pleasure at seeing him happy.

Finishing the form, she handed the papyrus and writestick back to him and tousled his hair, boy fine and soft, not as thick as Stra—she ruthlessly squashed the memory. “
Our
family will celebrate with an impromptu party in the compound courtyard. Nothing we like better.” Montages of so many past parties flowed before her mind's eye, comforting her. “It will be fun.” She could endure it for the amount of time it took for Antenn to gravitate to the Clover boys and start up their own games.

 
 
Straif teleported to his ResidenceDen, glanced around with
pain-blinded eyes, and knew he'd have problems living in the Residence again—every room shouted Mitchella. He staggered over to the long, man-sized sofa and fell onto it. Why hadn't he anticipated this pain? This hurt that chilled him to the bone? Why hadn't he realized that he'd have difficult memories again? Because it was supposed to be a sex affair. And though he'd sensed that it had turned into more—that she, at least, had loved him, he had hidden from his own feelings.

Holm opened the door and strolled in, took one glance at Straif, shut the door, and called mentally,
T'Ash get your ass in here.
Aloud, he said, “AllClass Councils' Representatives are here and brought your formal reinstatement as T'Blackthorn. The party's in full swing. The duel, your acknowledgment of Stachys, and the Councils' approval are all old news. Catnapping and the unfortunate death of a madwoman are hot stories.”

Straif grunted.

T'Ash walked in. Straif felt him more than anything else. He was having a hard time moving. Maybe it was the debilitating cold encasing him.