They sat in chairs set outside the sickroom, facing the tangle of woods left wild on the estate, lush and green. The FamCats played with a green-brown camouflage mouseykin toy the agent had bespelled, Thrisca helping the kitten hone advanced hunting skills.
Johns said, "All right, enough chitchat. And, yeah, the cat toy looks and moves great. You got a Flair for that sort of thing. But you must know that Druida City guards are still looking for the thieves. You did speak with the guards, right? Since you were contacted by the thieves and were going to buy back the script?" So Wattle had briefly informed Johns.
The agent's eyes slid sideways, more toward the pouncing noises of the cats. He cleared his throat with a squeak. "I, uh, was going to talk to them, the guards, right after my appointment with T'Spindle that morning, was, uh, actually on the way to the station."
Like hell.
"Did you see the thieves?" Johns persisted, roughly. "Or know any of their names?"
Wattle translocated bits and pieces of Flair tech machined pieces and fabric, dropped his gaze to his fiddling hands, creating what looked to be a Celtan rabbit, a mocyn, on a small scale.
Johns grunted to prod the man back into speech. Wattle met Johns's gaze and the agent twitched, making metal parts squeal. He flinched, then finally replied, words tumbling, "No, no, no. Was s'posed to meet the thieves that night, but they didn't wait for me! At the time of our appointment they'd already started breaking into and rifling the gliders, Lord and Lady dammit. Didn't see any script. And I didn't want anything to do with theft! And I wasn't feeling so good."
Giniana sighed. "You'd already contracted the sickness but didn't take care of yourself."
"Guess not. And I didn't get the script back, that's for sure. Only found a couple of pages, later." He held up his hand, flat, and with a long huff of breath, he translocated three sheets of papyrus.
Chapter 19
Blakely nodded to Johns, who stood and took the pages. Of those three pieces, two were blank.
Johns kept his face expressionless through bleak disappointment. He returned to his seat and smoothed the printed papyrus page on his knee. It only held the title page of the script, the byline, the verification of Wattle as Amberose's agent and his information. Not staring at the man and keeping his tone conversational, Johns said, "From the rumored conditions Amberose demands, I don't think T'Spindle will fund this play."
After hissing out a breath, fingers busy, Wattle said, "Because Amberose wants full creative and artistic control. She wants to name the actors to the play, watch the rehearsals—"
Nope, savvy producers wouldn't go with that. And the savvy people Amberose worked for previously wouldn't, either. This particular script would be a very hard sell, especially after a decade of no work.
Johns said, "It's pretty much all over Druida City that thieves took the script." No comment. "Not sure how Amberose will like hearing that, when she does."
Wattle barked a laugh that turned into a cough. "Not well. Sure have dealt with easier people in my career." He sighed dramatically. "And this has killed my business. This mistake. If I hadn't fallen sick, I'da managed to get the full script back ..."
Johns didn't think so, but if the guy wanted to rationalize his failure like that, who was Johns to dismiss it?
"I'll tender my resignation to Amberose," Wattle grumbled. "I made the rounds of all the Druida City and Gael City producers, shopping the script like she wanted—full creative control for her—to no avail." His face folded into an unmanly pout. "I did my best."
Johns shared a look with Giniana. Wattle's agenting career hadn't been stellar in the first place.
"I'm sure you did your best," Giniana soothed. "But maybe that wasn't the right career for you."
Wattle grunted. "I followed my G'Uncle in the business. Don't know what I'm going to do now." The pout deepened. Not a good look for him.
At that moment Melis kitten shot back into sight, zoomed to them and landed on all fours on Wattle's lap. She set her teeth in the outsized ear of the toy he'd been constructing. Is this mousie for Me? Just for Me? Put Me—Melis on it! she demanded. With a shaky finger the man did as told, though Johns couldn't read the actual letters.
Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine! She leapt off Wattle's lap, carrying the toy—which, to Johns's dismay, seemed to thrash like a caught animal—into the bushes.
THRISSSSCA! I got MY toy. MINE!
Johns looked at Wattle to find him deeply flushed, except for the mole on his cheek, and Giniana studying him thoughtfully, her fingers clasped around his wrist in the ancient practice of taking a pulse. Jealousy spurted through Johns. He didn't like her hands on another man, not even one so ill. And he did look sick.
Standing, Johns took a stride to the man, reached down and hauled him up. "I'll help you inside."
"Yes," Giniana said. "You appear feverish, GentleSir Wattle. I'll set the sickroom to circulate fresh, cool air."
"Good," the guy mumbled, leaning on Johns. The scent of sick-sweat rose from his skin. "Guess I overdid it."
"Yes. And you know, GentleSir Wattle, I believe there's a market for your Fam toys, and even better, individualized toys like you made for Melis."
Johns stared at Giniana. Seriously? His mouth dropped open and he shut it. Who on the planet would prefer to mess around with Fam stuff instead of the theater? Crazy ideas.
"Really?" Wattle panted as they took the step up into the infirmary. A swift scan showed the simple room to be serene and comfortable. Johns would like having a similar space in his own home. Or change the current dark and heavy furnishings of the meditation room—no, he liked those in winter—he'd make a summer meditation room.
"Need to scry Amberose, first, resign." Wattle swayed, shot a bleary look at Johns. "I'll give ya the woman's scry locale and you can speak to her. Very difficult woman."
Johns's pulse spiked. "I'd like that."
A wave of limp, white fingers. "Yeah, yeah." He sent Giniana an appealing glance. "You really think I could make gilt by creating Fam toys?"
"I do," she affirmed.
"Always better to create, if you can," Johns added, lowering the man to the single bed, all clean linens.
"Think I should start with a mechanism that includes a good range of motion to attract kitty notice …" Wattle rambled. He looked at Johns with glazed eyes. "Then a tough material, finally a soft furry covering … that's what Thrisca and Melis like best …"
Johns scowled. Just how long had the guy been here to have gotten such info from the FamCats? Of course he must have paid more attention to them than Johns.
"What about Amberose?" Johns asked, as Giniana swung the soon-to-be-ex-agent's feet onto the bed. She drew up a light cover, then murmured for the man's clothes to fall away from him and slide to the floor.
But the guy only continued to mutter about Fam toys while Giniana finished making the room comfortable. Johns looked for any business cards of Wattle or Amberose, saw the man's scrypebble on the bedside table, but didn't take it, then reluctantly moved away and all the way out the door.
At the stoop, he told Giniana she should check Wattle's scry for any information on the thieves, the call that Wattle said he'd received. She'd raised her brows at Johns, and activated the scry, wrote down a couple of locale links. "No visual," she murmured.
Too bad. And too bad she'd been too honorable to copy Amberose's information for Johns.
Giniana closed the door behind her and stood beside Johns, grimacing. "And I think that the wretched man relapsed. He'll be here for another couple of days instead of able to return to his own home tomorrow morning." She glanced at her wrist timer, stood tip-toe and brushed Johns's jaw with a sweet kiss. "Must go. And so must you. I'll have the cats show you out."
"Great."
The whole event left an anti-climactic feeling within him, with only a slight touch of additional hope he might actually manage to get the leading role in the play that could make his career.
But at least she'd c
alled him, and they'd spent more time together. He'd continue that pursuit.
Over the next six days, Johns kept his ears pricked for rumors about the script, acted his best in Firewalker, and continued to clean up his estate and home. Most of all, he romanced Giniana … or tried to. He learned of Giniana's steely will, but her less-than-iron constitution. He knew she pushed the boundaries of her health, sleeping little and only eating a good meal when she dined with him, otherwise she subsisted on nutrition bars. She worked as much as humanly possible—her day job at T'Spindle Residence with emergency shifts at HealingHalls during the weekend, overnight at the Daisys, and even consulting with Danith D'Ash. All to accumulate gilt for the time procedure that might Heal Thrisca.
But he kept his mouth shut about her schedule so she wouldn't dismiss him. He figured she needed his support, even as he continued to fall for the dedicated and driven woman.
Along with his obsession with Giniana, Johns brooded about the Amberose script. Every night he read the notes Lily had given him, let the phrases Amberose wrote resonate in his mind. Began to obsess over the play, plan on how to portray the character.
He wanted to find the script and read the full play, judge for himself if it would be a good vehicle for him. But he couldn't shove it to the back of his brain. The temptation of a role written especially for him, by the great Amberose, whose plays had made actors' careers, sang to him. What a coup it would be to have a part that showcased his talent.
The timing seemed right … and wrong. Even if someone jumped on the play now, it would take weeks to cast the thing—Amberose's preferences not withstanding—practice and produce the thing, market the play.
So far, he had no nibble from another employer, but it was early days. Chatt had mentioned some inquiries as to Johns's availability, but nothing solid.
Keeping an open mind, if he got a good job offer, would he forsake it for the hope of starring in an Amberose play?
He didn't know. It would depend. He loosed his jaw from gritted teeth. He intensely disliked indecision.
After Healing more from his sickness, Blakely Wattle had informed the city Guards of his dealings with the thieves. The man hadn't gotten any names or a good look at the thugs before they began robbing gliders at T'Spindle's party. The agent had left a brief scry message in Johns's cache that he'd heard a woman had purchased the script from the thieves, but that was all. The same gossip drifted to Johns's ears. He'd called Lily Fescue and she'd pouted that she hadn't been offered the script. Not that she'd have paid for it.
Rather naturally, Wattle dragged his feet in notifying Amberose that her script had been stolen. Instead, the ex-agent concentrated on his new career of making Fam toys, which he found much more fun and satisfying. Someone had hooked the man up with young Laev Hawthorn, who'd loaned Wattle the money to develop a line of Fam toys. With a sigh, Johns figured the industry would hit big.
Every Fam he knew wanted toys. More than one.
He'd even succumbed to blackmail and purchased a few for Thrisca and her Fam, Melis kitten, resenting the gilt spent. The truce with the feline Fams held, mostly because he and Giniana breakfasted at cafes, managed only three bouts of morning sex at the Thespian Club. Not nearly as often as Johns liked.
He slipped Giniana some energy when he could. Since it went down their link, and he timed it during their erotic foreplay and climax, he didn't think she noticed. Thrisca stated that T'Spindle Residence also gave Flair to Giniana during her work sessions. Which the woman might also not recognize.
For a person adamant in not taking gilt, the fact that others supported her with Flair seemed a blind spot. Or an issue tied to her feckless parents that she didn't realize. Which Johns thought. Gilt had been primary for her parents.
Well, it was primary for most people not born to wealth. His mother and FatherDam and he had struggled too, though they had the estate to shelter them and provide some food.
So Giniana could accept energy, Flair, emotional support, but not gilt. He was glad to provide what he could.
One evening, Johns caught a glimpse of the famous cartographer, Del D'Elecampane, whom he'd met at T'Spindle's party. A striking woman with curly blond hair, she moved with a loose athletic stride. A fascinating character to study. Interesting, too, and at the top of her career. A minor noble and wealthy beyond anyone's wildest dreams.
But she sparked absolutely no feelings in him other than cool curiosity and a hint of a prospective friendship. He didn’t know that she’d stick around Druida City long enough for friendship to develop. She most often lived in the wild and on the road. Nothing like the fevered near-obsession that flourished within him at his every thought of Giniana Filix, at his need to be with her.
Another night he noted a brief encounter Raz Cherry engineered between himself and the mapmaker. The sexual tension sizzled between them, and with narrowed eyes Johns watched their auras flow towards each other, mingle in a wondrous mixture. Breath hitching, Johns realized he witnessed the meeting of HeartMates. People destined to be with each other…though Raz didn't seem to recognize that. Johns thought the woman, older than both he and Raz, did understand it. She played the contact extremely cool, another arresting situation Johns studied. Maybe she'd even come looking for Raz. Fascinating.
Though when the pair parted on a casual wave from Del to Raz, yearning for such a bond flooded Johns. The three dreamquests to free his power, his Flair, had happened early and each had become stronger as the years passed, but he'd never experienced a connection with a woman who'd be a HeartMate.
That moment of observing Raz and Del crystallized Johns's awareness. He couldn't imagine a better woman for himself than Giniana Filix. He'd leave Raz and Del—or Del and Raz—to their journey to a HeartMate bond, and concentrate on keeping the hot and steamy sex rolling with Giniana, interspersed with too few tender moments.
So the hectic weekend of matinees and evening performances had passed, and he'd moved into the penultimate week of the show. At the end of the month, his job was over, his career in hiatus. The knowledge lived under his skin, running along his nerves like an anxious fever.
And finally, finally, on the second business day of the week, a week and a day from T'Spindle's party and the night he'd met Giniana and the last sight of Amberose's script, Giniana scried him during her morning break. She relayed information Wattle had just given her—how to contact Amberose. Wattle hadn't resigned from the job, just moved onto his new enthusiasm.
From the gossip, Johns knew that no one trusted the genius playwright Amberose to make good business decisions with regard to her play.
Maybe it was time to contact the woman herself. The very thought made Johns catch his breath. That would take balls. To tell such an important person that the agent she'd chosen wasn't ethical, that the script itself was missing.
How much did Johns want this part? Enough to risk completely irritating Amberose for it?
He supposed he could rationalize that Amberose should know what was going on in Druida City, since she lived on a country estate nearly a day away by airship.
Walking along his gliderpath from gate to garage, removing weeds, he contemplated options. Amberose had given a single copy of the script to her representative, and the minute she did that, it was out of her control. Wattle had lost it—thieves had stolen it from Lily Fescue—so now Amberose's creative manuscript was definitely beyond her control. She couldn't know who had seen it, papyrus pages or in its entirety. Who'd read the piece, understand the story. Might crib the story.
So her need for privacy had triumphed over her need to show the play to people who'd buy it and produce it, otherwise she'd have accompanied the manuscript to Druida City and kept better track of it.
Or maybe she just understood her lack of business acumen.
In any event, her masterwork was out of her control, and Johns just bet she didn't know that and would hate it.
He put himself in Amberose's position. If he'd created something, given the fruit o
f his genius to a trusted representative and the item disappeared and his rep didn't keep him updated, would he want to know?
Hell, yes.
So man up and inform the woman. Let whatever consequences—ill or good—happen.
Be factual, unbiased.
He could do this—and, if lucky, find out more about the script itself and any role he might have in it.
After a last scrutiny of the gliderpath that he’d put in good shape in case Raz came through with the at-cost glider Johns hurried inside, took a waterfall and changed into his best business tunic and trous.
Still enough time to scry Amberose before NoonBell and lunch. He practiced breathing exercises, tongue twisters, and made a brief outline of points he wanted to cover on a papyrus that he could refer to. He'd put it out of scry pebble view.
Now he'd find out just how much charm he could master, and maybe, even how much of an actor he was. For an instant, he wished he'd passed all the info and this particular chore onto Raz Cherry. But that man sure had problems of his own, what with those break-ins and thefts at his house and dressing room and glider—and with the added distraction of HeartMate energy swirling around him.
Johns's lips quirked and his gut unclenched a bit—that last oracle reading he'd done with his breakfast group a week and a half ago had been damn well correct. Raz might be willfully blind as to the identity of his HeartMate, but pretty much anyone with eyes could figure it out. And that particular morning, Raz had drawn the card indicating a HeartMate coming into his life. But Johns had flipped over the card of The Oak King, solid and continuing success in his career. Yeah, he could do this. He could contact Amberose. He sucked in and puffed out a couple of breaths. He would do this.
He manually set Amberose's scry locale in his pebble, embedded his St. Johnswort house banner to show his identity, flicked his thumb on the pebble and initiated the call.
Script of the Heart Page 18