Heart Dance (36 page)

Passiflora sighed. “T’Yew and his Heir. I don’t like him much, but he has gathered around him the most powerful and conservative of the FirstFamilies Council members, so we’ll have to meet and greet and be polite.” She slid a gaze over to Dufleur. “He was an ally of GreatLady D’Willow.”

Dufleur tensed.

But before they took more than a few steps toward the clusterof conservatively dressed people, a girl of about sixteen dressed expensively but unflatteringly in pastels hesitantly pushed through the force field and walked to T’Yew.

“You’re late,” he snapped, towering over the young girl.

“His wife,” whispered Passiflora to Dufleur, who stopped to stare in shock.

“My deepest apologies,” the young woman said instantly, then added, “If we’re late, it’s my fault, not the driver’s.”

“Of course.” T’Yew looked down his long, arrogant nose.

“The kind of Noble who gives all the FirstFamilies a bad reputation,” Passiflora murmured.

Licking her lips, the girl said, “We left exactly when my calendarspherealarmed.”

T’Yew lifted a brow in patent disbelief.

His Heir said, “Unlikely, as you’re always late and always blame it on the calendarsphere. I don’t suppose you have it with you.”

With fingers that trembled, the girl held out a small calendarsphereso antique that it was an actual sphere and not a disk that could project a hologram. She peered at it. “The time reads seven forty-five.”

“Nonsense, give me that,” the middle-aged woman, T’Yew’s daughter and Heir, said loudly, drawing attention to the group, and took the sphere from the girl.

The Ship said, “The time is twenty septhours, two minutes.”

“No, it isn’t,” Dufleur said absently.

“What?” boomed the Ship.

Everyone fell silent. Dufleur realized what she’d said, wished she could take her words back. People were turning to stare at her now.

She inhaled, let her breath out quietly, and said, “At the momentyou spoke it was only nineteen septhours sixty-six minutesof the day. Not twenty septhours two minutes, as you called the time. Your figuring is five minutes fast.”

A whispering as if a sussuration of many voices lasted a few heartbeats, then quieted. Someone said, “I have twenty septhours ten minutes, eight ten at night.”

“It’s nineteen septhours sixty-eight minutes,” Dufleur said.

Captain Ruis Elder checked his antique watch. “I have the same time as the Ship, but that is not surprising.”

Captain of the Councils, GreatLord T’Hawthorn looked at his wrist timer and said, “I have the same time as stated by GrandMistrys Thyme, who,” he added drily, “I see is
not
consultinga timer or calendarsphere.”

Others called out their time.

“It is the third month of the Celtan year, Alder, the fifteenth day, the twentieth septhour, four minutes and fifty-three seconds,” the Ship said.

“No,” Dufleur said. She closed her eyes, felt the gentle wind of time. “You are five minutes and fifty seconds fast.” She opened her lashes.

Everyone had crowded around her, looking at timers, checkingtheir calendarspheres.

Dufleur met T’Hawthorn’s lavender gaze. “Captain of the Councils’, T’Hawthorn’s, time is correct, because it is synchronizedwith the Guildhall timer, which a Thyme calibrates every year at zero hours Birch, the first day of the new year. Or as necessary.” Her gaze slid to Ruis Elder, who had spent some time in the Guildhall and whose Nullness had completely stopped the Guildhall timer. He grinned back at her.

“Ship, I challenge you to calculate the rotation and revolutionof the planet Celta and apply the mathematics to our humantime and date constructs.”

“Whatever the time,” young D’Yew said with the trace of a smile and a slight lightening of the shadows in her eyes, “it wasn’t anywhere near the time on my calendarsphere, which was quite slow.” She gazed pointedly at the old object that YewHeir had not given back.

There was silence for a full minute.

“Calculated that way, it is the time you have named,” Ship admitted reluctantly. “But with some additional Earth equations—”

“They don’t apply here,” Dufleur said.

“I don’t like this,” the peevish voice of an old man said, and he shook his timer in one hand and his calendarsphere in the other, as if that would correctly set the time.

“I am the Ship!” the Ship boomed. “My time should be the standard.”

Dufleur kept her mouth shut.

“No,” said T’Hawthorn, gazing at Dufleur. She thought this was the first time he’d ever noticed her and didn’t particularly like it. Didn’t like this whole business. He scanned the area and a half-smile curved his lips. “I see we have a quorum of the FirstFamily Lords and Ladies. I move that GrandMistrys D’Thyme, here, continue to calibrate the Guildhall clock with the correct time, as determined by her Flair. Which she obviouslyhas been doing. That time will be the standard. Ship can set its time by the clock. If there is ever a discrepancy, the currentThyme will be the authority.” He gave her a hard, sardonic look. “I suggest you apply for your proper title.”

“That doesn’t help me,” said the old man. “Neither of these are correct, nor is my official Residence timer!”

“I’m sure GrandMistrys Thyme can regulate all timers and calendarspheres to conform with the Guildhall timer,” Saille said smoothly from beside her. “For a fee.” He was smiling.

She glanced around the room. Most people appeared fascinated.T’Yew and his coterie left, and as she watched them, she noticed Agave in the shadows, hatred on his face. Directed towardher.

But Saille was drawing her to a desk and chair that was beingset up at one side of the room for her use by a grinning Ruis Elder.

She knew through their bond that Saille was sure this would keep her busy enough that she’d stop her experimentation. He was probably right, and her spirits sank. She’d get more gilt but less free time to research. And she’d brought it on herself.

Dufleur arrived at D’Winterberry Residence from Nuada’s Sword exhausted and with a massive headache. People had come to her to have her align their timepieces. They’d paid a very nice fee set by T’Hawthorn directly to her bank account.

She’d only recalibrated those small items they had with them. Contacting Residences through the Ship was a cumbersomeprocess, and it would be better if she went on site for those. As for general whole-house timers, she thought she’d write up instructions and sell them for a small fee for people to be able to set their timers correctly or link to the Guildhall timer.

But she had a sinking feeling that it had just become very fashionable to have Dufleur Thyme herself attend a Family and reset their household timer. This was the additional project she’d been wanting, but though it would plump up her income, she didn’t know as it would do much in rescinding the law about experimenting with time or clearing the Family reputation.

So she had just enough Flair to teleport to D’Winterberry’s. Fairyfoot had left earlier, which was a blessing, because Dufleur didn’t think she’d have had the extra smidgeon of Flair it would have taken to teleport her, too. Her knees weakened, and she stumbled to lean against a wall and barely staggered downstairs to her rooms, shoved a snoring Fairyfoot from the middle of bed, and fell into sleep.

The next morning, she’d decided to prioritize her time so she could do her serious work in the mornings. She’d make her timer alignment very exclusive and do only one house/Residence per day and a couple of sets of personal timers and calendarspheres. Or a full set of timers and calendarspheres from a household over several days. Her first appointment was with T’Hawthorn, the Captain of the Councils.

When she teleported to her laboratory, she let out a huge breath. This place was hers, no goals or expectations to meet but her own. She’d spent some gilt and Flair in purchasing some Celtan plants that thrived on the Time Wind and lined two walls with them, staggering the heights, setting them behind invisible shields that kept the lab safe and clean. These living beings, too, would not suffer if there was an explosion.

Fairyfoot studied them critically.
Not as nice as Willow conservatory.

“Of course not. This is a lab. My father would have been horrified with them.”

They fine.
Fairyfoot sneezed.

Dufleur studied her. She drooped.

“You have a cold. You’ve been doing too much. You shouldn’t be here. You should be back in bed.” No wonder she’d gone back to Winterberry’s early the night before.

Fairyfoot sat up straight, blinked eyes that appeared a little runny.
I am good. I can be Time Cat. Told the other Fams at the Ship yesterday that I would be Time Cat soon.

Closing her eyes, Dufleur prayed for patience, opened her lids again. “Fairyfoot, these experiments are supposed to be secret.”

They know now about the timer stuff
, Fairyfoot pointed out.

“Did you say anything about the experiments?”

No.
She looked away, then glanced back.
Only to Samba and the dog. And they are Elders and our allies. Nothing to the others, and nothing to Black Pierre, T’Hawthorn’s Fam.
She grumbled under her breath.
He had cold.
Her sniff was loud and wet.

“I think you should teleport home. If you don’t have the strength, I can—”

But Fairyfoot leapt for her perch—and missed. Dufleur grabbed for her, snagged her, got scratched for her efforts. They fell. The table’s edge and the carton of expensive, fragile image memoryspheres rushed toward them.

Instinctively, Dufleur acted. She stopped time, slowed their fall, moved through the heavy press of time to set her feet under her.

It wasn’t enough. The memorysphere she’d been using for her notes rolled off the table, hit the floor, and cracked.
Fligger!

She started time again, but the damage had been done. She couldn’t afford to lose that memorysphere. “Quiet!” she snarled at a hissing Fairyfoot, moved with the cat to the far corner of the table. Staying in the gray place, she walked several steps back into the past, just long enough to catch the memorysphere and tuck it in her lab coat pocket, then
jumped
forward in time a full five minutes and hoped for the best.

Stepping out of the Time Wind, she and Fairyfoot were still alone in the laboratory.

Interesting
, Fairyfoot said.

“Yes. I shouldn’t have done that, but it harmed no one.” Excepther energy level was now too low to work. She had just enough Flair to teleport herself back to Winterberry’s.

Fairyfoot licked her chin, purring. Dufleur grimaced and put her down. She strutted back over to her perch and hopped gracefully up.
I have traveled through time. I am the Time Cat.

“Yes,” Dufleur muttered. She hurried over to the worktable. “Let me check this memorysphere, see if
its
travels through time distorted anything.”

“I wanted the best, and the new ones hold more information.”

“Yes, yes. Quiet a minute here.” She thumbed the memorysphereon, watched her last experiment.

Fairyfoot gave a little sniff.

“Looks good.”

Fairyfoot sniffed again.

Dufleur’s head jerked up as she registered the sound. She carefully opened a drawer and put the memorysphere in a small nest. Then she scrutinized Fairyfoot.

The cat’s eyes were bright. Her nose didn’t look runny. “How do you feel?” Dufleur’s voice quivered with suppressed excitement.

Fairyfoot set her claws in the blue velvet and stretched luxuriously.
I feel GOOD!

Could it be?

“Cough for me.”

Fairyfoot rolled big eyes, emitted a tiny cough.

Striding over to the scrybowl, Dufleur activated it with an impatient whisk around the rim. “D’Ash’s Office.”

“Here,” D’Ash answered a minute later.

“Fairyfoot needs a quick consultation.”

“Is something wrong?” D’Ash asked.

“I think she had a cold.”

D’Ash frowned. “I’m sorry, Dufleur, but I don’t have time to see Fairyfoot for a cold. There’s nothing we can do, anyway.”

“Can’t you do a very quick scan of her with your Flair, it’s important,” Dufleur pressed. “A minute, two at the most.”

“Very well.”

“She’s ’porting to you.”

Blinking, D’Ash said, “You aren’t bringing her?”

“Frankly, I can ’port there, but don’t have the energy to get to Winterberry’s.” Though her pulse was beating fast and adrenalinwas kicking in.

With a sigh, D’Ash said, “I’ll send you home in a glider.” She raised a finger. “
After
you reset my personal calendarsphereand timer and all my office timers.”

“Done! We’ll be there transnow.” Dufleur looked down at Fairyfoot. “I don’t think you have a cold anymore.”

Fairyfoot lifted a smug nose.
I don’t. I have succeeded at the experiment. Me, me, ME!

“This is secret, Fairyfoot! Please ’port with me on three to D’Ash’s office suite teleportation pad.” Dufleur knit her brows, trying to recall the space.

A very clear and detailed image came from Fairyfoot.

“Good,” Dufleur said.

A half-septhour later, Dufleur crawled into the Ash glider. She’d managed to align all the timers and calendarspheres that D’Ash had placed before her after a two minute examination of Fairyfoot that pronounced her cold-free.

Fairyfoot hopped into the glider, purring loudly.

“We,” Dufleur said.

“Yes.”

She’d killed the cold virus with the manipulation of time— progressing back and forth. But not through a device. By using her personal Flair. It seemed her father’s way was not entirely her path.