Heart Dance (5 page)

Fairyfoot gave one last lick of the bowl, lifted her muzzle, burped politely, then glanced around the richly furnished den.
I deserve to live here
.

Saille choked. But he knew what she meant. Hadn’t he just been enjoying the bounty of his Residence, finally? “I can fashiona new covering for the HeartGift—” His head came up. “Wait. Why don’t you bring me a pouch that she embroidered?”

The cat sat back, grooming her whiskers.
None in Our rooms
. She scanned the den again.
Our bo-ring rooms.

Nowhere Dufleur lived would be boring to him. He glanced at an antique timer on the fireplace mantle. “I’ll check DandelionSilk, then.” He always recognized Dufleur’s work. He liked her pieces. Liked buying them for his Family members. Liked staring at the depth and complexity of her expensive projects. Liked stroking the silk thread and feeling her essence.

He’d been planning on going there today anyway. He’d bought some cloth from an importer, a special raw silkeen that was new to Druida, just so he could commission Dufleur to embroidersomething on it.

Good idea.
She sniffed.
I am here instead of at Dandelion Silk.
She slid a glance toward him.
Perhaps I should look around this Residence. Then We can go to Dandelion Silk.

“Why don’t I give you a tour and introduce you to my Familymembers as a friend, so they know you get the run of the Residence.”

Passiflora D’Holly swept Dufleur away, leaving her mother and D’Winterberry openmouthed.

Dufleur opened the door for D’Holly and caught her breath at the cold. Three weeks after Yule and winter had set in, ice crisped the dead grass of the neighbors’ foreyards and rimed the trees. Beautiful, but frigid. The sky was shades of gray, except for a faint blueness of rays coming from the pinprick of the sun.

Her cloak was too threadbare for this winter, but she’d spent gilt on laboratory equipment instead of outerwear. When she pulled the door handle behind her, the cold seared her fingers in her thin knit gloves. She turned, and her breath stopped again.

Before her a man uniformed in the Holly livery held up the door of a sleek, black glider. A brand-new model, obviously personally crafted by the Alder Family. The windows had the gleam of multi-spellshielded armourglass. The man himself was as watchful as her cuz Ilex, sword and blazer sheathed on his hips. Dufleur had no doubt that he was ready to guard, defend,kill in the service of his Lady.

Their eyes met and Dufleur felt the faintest brush of mind against mind—distant kinship, him evaluating her for danger. She nodded, forced her cold lips into a smile, and hurried into the welcome warmth of the glider, sliding in next to D’Holly.

The older woman murmured her thanks to the footman as he lowered the door, then touched the dark green leather seat betweenherself and Dufleur, her smile much more genuine than Dufleur’s had been. “The glider is a Yule present from my husband.”

Distant cuzes or not, they moved in different worlds. Always would.

“Gorgeous,” Dufleur said.

D’Holly’s eyes sparkled like a girl’s. “He’s always very generous.”

He could afford to be. And that was an unworthy thought. From what Dufleur saw, D’Holly deserved all the lavish attentionher household of men showered upon her. And she and T’Holly
were
HeartMates, after all, still deeply in love after many years of marriage.

Passiflora told the driver to go to CityCenter and the exclusivedress shops.

“Passiflora, I’m deeply grateful . . .” Dufleur lied, “but I don’t want to take charity from you.” Favors from the FirstFamilies,the greatest ranked nobles,
always
came with strings.

Lifting one beautiful shoulder, Passiflora said, “I’ve only promised to pay for your gowns. I assure you, my HeartMate will hardly notice the expense.”

But Dufleur knew exactly how much those gowns would cost. If she worked three years, she wouldn’t be able to pay for them, let alone buy any of the basic equipment necessities to continue with her experiments. If she ever figured out how to conduct them again in a populated area. If fear didn’t continue to gnaw at her.

“There, there,” D’Holly patted Dufleur’s knee, garbed in worn commoncloth wool. “T’Holly would do anything to please me, and that includes dressing a distant relative of his. And I would do anything for him.” This time her smile had an edge. “He’s always wanted to become Captain of the FirstFamilies Council, and has never achieved that title.”

She waved a hand. “First because of that long-standing duel with the Hawthorns. Decades.” She sighed. “Then because of . . . the problem we had with Holm Junior.” The curse on them because T’Holly and D’Holly had broken Vows of Honor to accept their son’s HeartMate.

“I haven’t participated in a full social season of three months since I was first introduced to society as a girl.” Passiflora’s eyes went dreamy. “Not even then, because Holm and I loved at first sight.”

Only destiny could do that. HeartMates were rare. Dufleur shifted in her seat.

Fierceness heated Passiflora’s gaze. “I’ve been a busy composerand musician, more behind the scenes than a participant, but this year everything is different. We have mended our bonds with our children.” She swallowed, sniffed delicately, then met Dufleur’s gaze with an intent one of her own. “Power and politicsare negotiated in the ballrooms, too, you know. By the time I am done, Holm will have the Captaincy.”

Four

Passiflora nodded. “I’m sure you do. I need a good reason to attend parties and soirees and balls, and you are that . . . the introductionof a young relative to society.”

“I’m not that young, twenty-eight.”

“Pah! A baby.” She smiled with simple charm, reached out and clasped Dufleur’s hands. Genuine anticipatory pleasure moved from Passiflora to her. “Just because I’d like you with me for other purposes during the social season, doesn’t mean that I won’t enjoy your company. I sense you’re as passionate about your work as I am about my music. Like-minded, there. I truly want someone with me in this endeavor.”

That was nice of her to say, and to mean, but Dufleur thought Passiflora Apple Holly had forgotten more charming social skills than Dufleur would ever know. “I’m glad I can help.”

“Thank you.” Passiflora squeezed her hands. “Now about those gowns.”

Dufleur stiffened. “You’re not paying for them.”

Passiflora lifted her brows. “On the contrary, I
will
pay for them. Half of the amount because you’ve agreed to be my companion.The other half because . . . well, it will be easier to show you than tell you.” She dropped Dufleur’s hands as the glider stopped, then looked out the wide windows at the closed CityCenter shops.

She frowned. “I didn’t realize it was so early.”

“Any store would open for your business.”

“Yes, they would, but one must not impose,” she said absently.Her face cleared and she nodded. “Then we’ll finalize the negotiations for payment of your gowns.” She raised her voice for the driver. “Dear Myrt, please take us to the GreatCircleTemple.”

Dufleur stared. She couldn’t imagine what GreatCircle Templehad to do with gowns.

A few minutes later, Passiflora and Dufleur were entering one of the outer rooms that surrounded the Temple itself, and Dufleur had her answer. Stretched upon a huge frame was a massive square of canlinin cloth, with a pattern traced upon it. Her breath hitched at the beauty of the piece. Partially done, the scene consisted of many mediums—oil painting, applique, tarpunto, sewn sequined beads—fabulous in texture, rich in color, exquisite in execution.

The scene showed a background of the nine sacred trees, the foreground was a tracing of the center of a labyrinth, and the figures were that of a nude Lady and Lord.

“I’ve seen your embroidery,” Passiflora said. “I think you will be perfect to render the Lord’s and Lady’s faces.”

Dufleur caught her breath. “I . . . it would be an honor.” To have her embroidery on the tapestry with so many other artists. Surely the painting was done by Passiflora’s father, T’Apple, a genius. Dufleur cleared her throat. “It would be an honor to contribute
without
payment. An expression of my faith.”

Passiflora’s laugh rippled. “Yes, it shows our spirituality, but the Lady and Lord do not demand that even primarily spiritual things not serve other purposes.” She ran a light finger over part of the bottom hem, and a lovely melody poured out, delivered by a full orchestra. Stopped abruptly. Passiflora shook her head. “That’s as far as I’ve gotten with my own contribution.”

“Even with Flair, this must have taken years. Will take years to complete.”

“Just so. And I want you for the faces.” Passiflora glanced at her, and Dufleur already recognized the look. Passiflora would be stubborn and determined about this, and whoever was opposingher charming manner would lose.

Dufleur bowed her head. “Thank you.”

“Nevertheless, working on this hanging will take time from your day, from your employment.”

“I need that job.” The words spurted from her lips a little too harshly.

Stroking the cloth, Passiflora sent her a mild glance. “You don’t seem to understand how much of your energy the social season will deplete.”

“I . . .” Words stuck in her throat. She had no idea.

Passiflora crossed to sit on one of the carved wooden cabinet benches set against the creamy tinted walls of the room. Dufleur blinked. She’d been so dazzled by the artwork that she hadn’t noticed anything else. The outer curved wall wasn’t very tall, about twelve feet, and the angled ceiling above them was of spellshielded glass. Fabulous light for the work.

“The room is due north.” A dimple fluttered in Passiflora’s smile. “My father has a great deal of influence when it comes to art.”

A FirstFamily GrandLord, a Flaired genius of a painter. Of course he did.

The inner curved wall of the Temple itself was much higher, rose above the room for at least another half-story. Dufleur hadn’t attended many rituals in the Temple and now felt a little ashamed. She licked her lips. “I could do more than just the faces.” She turned back to the work of art. It was too riveting to ignore. She scanned the pattern, looking for another portion that might need a delicate touch. In the lower right corner were a few animals. Fams. A cat, a dog, a fox . . . Her lips quirked. “I can do the FamCat, at least.”

“As I said, I’ve seen your Flaired work, your embroidery.”

“Embroidery is my creative gift, not my Family Flair,” Dufleur said absently, studying a lower corner of the huge linen rectangle with faint lines of the scene.

“Oh. You make your living with embroidery, I thought it was your primary Flair.”

Dufleur stiffened, straightened. She’d already said too much. Keeping her face impassive, she said, “No.”

“What is your greatest Flair?” D’Holly tilted her head. Then she stilled. No doubt she was remembering Dufleur’s father. Not difficult to connect Thyme with time. D’Holly gave a little cough. “We won’t talk about that. And I suggest you, ah, present your primary psi power as skill in needlework.” She smiled warmly. “Your talent for embroidery is certainly lovely enough to be recognized as a primary Flair gift. I have a couple of pieces of yours. The stitches
glow.
In fact, the scenes depicted become three dimensional.” She frowned, tapped her lips with her finger. “Haven’t you considered making your pieces
art
insteadof working on pillows and robes and suchlike? Design your own patterns and execute them?”

A lump formed in Dufleur’s throat. She hadn’t. When she’d been a child, embroidery had been a joy, then her skill had rescuedherself and her mother from poverty. “I would love to do that,” she whispered.

D’Holly nodded decisively. “My father is T’Apple, the well-knownpainter. My brother Quert runs the Enlli Art Gallery. I think I can promise a corner of his gallery to show some of your pieces. They should sell well. I’ll let Quert determine the price, but they should at least be five figures. Do you have additional projects you can give me? Perhaps some pillow covers? Especiallyanything you designed yourself.”

What equipment she could buy with the gilt! Dufleur’s mind spun. This is what happened when you spent time with powerful Nobles, one word in the right place, one wave of the hand, and your life changed. Connections indeed! No wonder D’Holly wanted to reclaim whatever influence she’d lost while her house had been under a curse.

When she could speak, she answered, “I have a few.” Not enough for a good showing, but . . . “I have a tapestry I made after my father’s death. It is . . . disturbing.” Shades of gray and black, rust and touches of fire red.

“All the better for contrast.” Passiflora looked at the elegant gold timer encircling her wrist and smiled in satisfaction. “The shops should be open now, and we’ll go to Dandelion Silk first. You must have some items there, too. Slippers, perhaps, or a flat hat?”

“Flat hats went out of style two years ago, but Lady D’Dandelion,the proprietor, might still have the sample I did.” A slow smile crossed her face. “We
do
have a looserobe that the late D’Willow ordered and never paid for.” Another strike against that lady. Dufleur had labored on the large pattern for days, and even GrandLady D’Dandelion could ill afford to take the loss of the expensive fabric and Dufleur’s wages. But D’Willow had called it too small and caused such a fuss that they’d boxed it away.

Chuckling, Passiflora crossed to the door and opened it, glanced back at the tapestry. “Ah, I imagine that might be intricate.”

“Yes. But not as gorgeous as this piece.”

Passiflora said, “You truly think this tapestry is wonderful and are eager to work on it, aren’t you?”

“Yes. To be a part of the community contributing their skills to such a masterpiece . . .” She shook her head. “I have no words.”