Heart Dance (12 page)

She did, but kept quiet.

He frowned. “Shouldn’t you be D’Thyme? Why’d you let your mother take the title?”

“It was all she had left to her.”

He nodded somberly. “But it was her mistake that she wed your father, that her life has been a miser—”

Dufleur stiffened.

“Beg pardon, that she believes her life has been a misery, or made it so herself.” He ran his hands through his gray hair, grimaced.“Lord and Lady know that was rude. Anyway, I can’t speak on that matter, either. I made a wife miserable enough to run off.” He shook his head, hunched a shoulder. “Decades past.” His eyes were shadowed. “Tell me, does this scheme to wed you to a wealthy lord and demand a large marriage settlementfor the Winterberrys disgust you? I’ll find a way to stop it.”

“I don’t care for the marriage part, but I’m committed to the social season for more reasons than for Winterberrys.”

He nodded. “D’Holly.” His lips thinned. “I don’t like that they called on her, that they’re using her. But I think the Holly Family still needs any help they can get.” He made a half bow. “I thank you for your generosity.”

More guilt bit at her for using his Residence for time experimentswithout his—anyone’s—knowledge. Once again she curtsied.“You’re welcome, and D’Holly has given me much more than I can ever repay.” Her mind dazed as she recalled her embroideryhanging on the walls of an art gallery.

For the first time, Meyar’s smile was easy. “Those FirstFamilescan be benevolent, benevolent enough to roll right over a body.”

Dufleur smiled back. “Right.”

His brows dipped. “Do you mind staying here?” He jerked a nod toward the MistrysSuite a few doors down the hallway. “Living with them can’t be easy. I can find a place—”

“No, thank you. My mother is a difficult woman when she’s unhappy—”

“I just made her very unhappy,” Meyar said.

“I’ll stay,” Dufleur said.

“Good.” He turned around where he stood, surveying the surroundings. “I’ve felt your Flair in maintaining this place, and I thank you.”

Again she thought that she’d received more from the Winterberrysthan she’d contributed. “Whatever her faults, your mother took us in when we had nowhere else to go.”

“Of course, you’re Family.” He bowed, looked over his shoulder again. “I don’t envy you calming her down. Your mother.” His jaw flexed. “Mine has already succumbed to a yar-duanstupor.”

Dufleur gave a little cough. “Why did you decide to fight for the title and estate now?”

All his anger disappeared. His face lit with joy. “My son and daughter-in-law gave me a Son’sSon last night. The birth oracle said he has great Flair.” Meyar beamed, chuckled deprecatingly. “Though every generation seems to have greater Flair, and we Winterberrys have enough mixed blood from several lines that we don’t have one overwhelming Family Flair. We’ll have to wait and see what the babe’s talent is.”

“Consult T’Ash and his Testing Stones when the time is right,” Dufleur said.

“It seems so. And for that, I need to be saving now. Merry meet, cuz Dufleur.”

“And merry part.” She gave the standard reply.

“And merry meet again.” He nodded and strode past her, his step and manner lighter than when he’d slammed the door. At least she’d had a good effect on someone. Bracing herself, she walked to the MistrysSuite door and knocked.

“Who’s there?” grated her mother.

“Dufleur.”

“Come,” her mother said on a grunt.

Dufleur entered. The stifling room reeked of yar-duan. She noticed a pot bubbling in the corner—potent oil being distilled from roots.

The heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the winter evening, and Dufleur wondered the last time the windows had been opened. She didn’t want to stay too long. Just lingering in the atmosphere could affect the mind, and she still had things to do before she went to bed.

As Dufleur turned to her mother, she caught Dringal holding her stomach and straightening as if from a blow. Surprised at the show of feeling, Dufleur asked, “Can I help?”

Her mother’s jaw worked a second or two, her mouth trembled in anger or hurt or both, her eyes sheened. Dufleur pretended not to stare, but she hadn’t seen her mother so discomposed for a long time—since they’d asked D’Winterberry for shelter when their home was gone. Even Dufleur’s father’s death hadn’t been as wrenching for Dringal as the loss of their home, and Dufleur found that hard to forgive.

“Our cuz, Meyar, has returned.” Dringal nearly spit out the words. Her face set, and Dufleur realized she’d decided to be angry.

“I met him in the hallway.” She kept her tone perfectly even.

“He accuses us—me!—of being negligent with this estate! After all I have done.” She slid a gaze to D’Winterberry.

Yet her mother didn’t look too exhausted by whatever energyshe was sending to the Residence, and the last time Dufleur had visited Dringal’s rooms, they’d been richly appointed and well tended. “Can I help?” she asked again.

D’Winterberry roused unexpectedly and laughed, then coughed with the harsh roughness of the yar-duan addict. When she was finished, she said, “Yes, you are central to our plan to remedy our finances.” With a hand gesture that should have been a wave, but looked more like a flopping fish, she continued, “You just wed the right Nobleman, and all is saved.”

Dufleur started to inhale deeply, recalled where she was, and said, “You two should not pin your hopes on that.”

“Not very pretty,” D’Winterberry mumbled.

Ignoring her, Dufleur said, “My creative Flair is valuable. Mother, what of your tatting? Do you have any? It’s lovely, especiallyset off against rich jeweltone velvets and silkeens. We might be able to talk Quert Apple into a mother-daughter show. That could be a draw, I think.”

“My tatting,” Dringal said. She turned her head and stared at the drapes enveloping the window. “Most of it is gone with our home. Fifty years of tatting up in smoke.”

Dufleur flinched.

“You sent me some,” D’Winterberry cackled, reaching to the table beside her for an elegant teacup that held her yar-duan, and sipping. “I never liked it. Looked too much like spider-webs.” Another little cough. “You can have them all back, if you like. I don’t care. Ask old auntie where she put them.” She licked her lips, finished the cup, reached for a bottle. “More’n fifty years worth of Nameday, New Year’s gifts. Since we were children.”

Dringal turned her head slowly and stared at D’Winterberry. Dufleur’s heart squeezed. Depression and anger and fear whirled around the room. Hurt.

What could she do to make it better? She went to the scrybowl.It had a nasty film coating the water, but Dufleur disregardedthat. She circled the tarnished metallic bowl with her index finger and said, “Scry Cascara Bank.”

“Here,” said the Bank’s automated teller.

“This is Dufleur Thyme. Transfer a third of the funds I receivedthis morning into the household account of D’Winterberry.”

“Done,” said the Bank.

“How much is in the account?” asked her mother.

The Bank told her.

Dringal staggered a step to a chair and sank down. “So much?” she whispered.

“Quert Apple is showcasing my embroidery in Enlli Gallery.” Dufleur cleared her throat. “I sold a few pieces to him outright, but most are on commission. All of yours are on commission.”

“Good.”

Dufleur looked at her mother. “You and Winterberry use Cascara Bank, too, don’t you? Authorize me to review the Winterberryaccount. I don’t need to have access to it, but I want to know where the gilt is going.”

Scowling, Dringal addressed the scrybowl and the Bank. “Dufleur Thyme may receive information or statements on the D’Winterberry account at any time.”

“Done,” said the Bank.

“Thank you,” Dufleur said. “End scry.” Turning to her mother, she said, “I should have been able to address the Residenceand have it form a link to the Bank.”

“We just don’t have the gilt to keep up all the housekeeping spells.”

“Now you do,” Dufleur said. “Use it.”

Dringal stood and shook her long tunic skirt out. “And now. Now that
man
is suing us!”

“He was WinterberryHeir before you were. This is his home.” Dufleur tried to sound reasonable. But her mother was up and pacing.

“
I
am WinterberryHeir now. This
was
his home. What is he doing back here, and now? He should have established his own home by this time in his life.” She whirled and jabbed a finger at Dufleur. “There will be examiners coming. We’ll need your testimony.”

“The examiners will probably have truth-sensors with them. I’ll answer any questions.” Pray the Lady and Lord they didn’t ask her about her own activities in D’Winterberry Residence.

“From what Meyar told me, if we can reenergize the Residence,we might be able to disprove the charges of negligence,” Dufleur said half-heartedly. She wanted the Residence healthy and safe, but thought Meyar would be a better guardian.

Dringal flung her hands in the air. “How can we do that?”

“The HouseHeart? I—” As ThymeHeir only she knew the spells for their own, lost, Residence HouseHeart. “Shouldn’t you, as WinterberryHeir, know—”

“I don’t,” Dringal snapped. She shot a glance at D’Winterberry,who’d fallen asleep again, teacup in her lap. Dringal’s pacing got faster. “What a mess. All I ever wanted was a secure home of my own. Is that too much to ask? Is it?”

“No,” Dufleur said in a small voice. Her mind was getting dizzy, her emotions becoming exaggerated. She didn’t want to hear again of her father’s failings that were all too like her own, of her mother’s shattered ambitions. She couldn’t think. The air began to waver in rainbow patterns. Tongue thick, she said, “Perhaps you should consult the HouseHeart. I must leave.” She went blindly to where she thought the door would be.

Dringal snorted. “Useless.”

Dufleur didn’t know if her mother meant the Winterberry HouseHeart or herself. The thought that her mother sneered at her was a lancing pain. Yes, her feelings were too sensitized. She had to leave this room. How could her mother stand it?

Why had D’Winterberry ever turned to yar-duan? The drug dulled the mind. How could anyone live that way?

She plunged through the door and pushed it shut, hard. It slammed. Weak kneed, she hobbled down to her own rooms, her sanctuary in this place. Flung the door open.

And was struck with the blatant sexual heat of a HeartGift.

“Light,” she slurred the command, but her Word was loud enough that her bedroom lit as if it was midsummer. On the carpetfaded to shades of gray lay a vibrant red pouch. A pouch
she
had made and embroidered.

Her heart thumped so hard she quivered with the beat. “Wha—” Despite the fogging of her mind, she should be able to deduce where the pouch had come from. Ancient Earthan designsthat had appealed to her when she’d stitched . . . she’d made it for the shop.

Fairyfoot grinned.

“Traitorous cat. I’m not paying for your collar.”

He will pay for My collar
.

Her Fam knew who her HeartMate was, even if she didn’t. Dufleur should have reasoned that out. “Go to him, then, and don’t come back.”

Brain misty and with blurred eyes she stared at the HeartGift.She remembered the filthy thing she’d thrown outside a couple of nights before. She didn’t see this pouch clearly, just a rectangle of vivid red, but she remembered the septhours she’d spent on the pattern. The care she’d taken with each stitch, usingher Flair to create a piece she was proud of. She swallowed. She couldn’t fling this outside.

She couldn’t think. Especially with whatever was in the pouch emanating waves of sexuality that had her skin warming, her thighs loosening, her body preparing for a man.

Dragging heavy feet, she moved to a safe in the wall. There she fumbled with the spell words, cleared her throat, and enunciatedthem again. But she was flooded with a huge longing to hold and be held, for a man’s hands to trail down her sensitized skin . . .

The safe gaped open. Moving as quickly as she could, she scooped the pouch up.

Bad idea. The silkeen caressed her hands, the silk embroiderypattern pressed against her fingers.

And she felt him come up to stand behind her, his hard body against hers, jolting her. It had been years since she’d had physicalsex, and the entire act had been less than what she now experienced;heavy passion laced her breathing, the raggedness of the man’s behind her. The sense of being consumed by desire. Yearning so bad . . .

The touch of her fingers on the pouch sizzled fiery need through Saille. He reeled three steps to the couch, collapsed upon it, gloried in the thought that she held his HeartGift—that which emanated from his deepest self. The small gift he’d made with exquisite care during his third Passage, his soul calling to hers.

He felt her weariness in mind and body and spirit and longed to go to her. But he was wary of pushing his suit too quickly and too hard. Instead he closed his eyes and savored her touch. Sent a wave of compassion, respect toward her. Her surprise jolted through the silkeen of the bag she’d made. Penetrated to his HeartGift and then came to him in the connection between their two creations. His lips curved. She sensed him. He opened the link wide between them.

She snapped it.

Ten

Uhn!” He couldn’t prevent the groan. He’d have fallen if he
hadn’t already been lying down. His mouth dry, he swallowed, but gained no relief. Opening his lashes, his eyes slowly focused, and he saw the bar across the room, the crystal brandy decanter. With an out-flung hand he ordered, “Drink!” The glass stopper lifted, teetered, fell to the bar, then the floor. Liquid poured from the carafe to a snifter, the snifter flew into his hand. Lifting his head, he drank a few mouthfuls, felt the punch of it—as hot as his continued desire, as hard as the pain of her rejection. Why did he think he liked the stuff?