The Tufarians who worked for the Benevolent Union at the hospital could be cagey about the Nessinian healers in their midst — unsurprising, considering the reaction that even Keifon had originally had to her arrival in the country. The Tufarian healers believed themselves to be the vessels of Tufar’s holy power, and seeing that same so-called holy power wielded by a godless foreigner did not sit well with them. Agna had only traded cordial nods with a few of the priests on hospital rounds, nowhere near enough to start grilling them about their church’s organizational structure. Fulvia had said — over tea, in public — that she thought the scheduling office tried not to have them on the same shifts, though that could be in order to spread out their talents, not to avoid irritating the Tufarians by shoving the heathens in their faces. That was when Agna had collared a server to order more tea. The point stood, though: if she wanted to feel out the Tufarian Church as potential backers for her gallery, she would have to manufacture her own leads outside the hospital.
Before the Benevolents came to town, the majority faith in the city had been Eytran. The Eytrans, far from resenting this ascendant wing of the Church, seemed content to keep to their drafty church in Oldtown, at the northern edge of the city. They trained earthbreakers and fed the hungry and minded their own business. The common logger would always be Eytran, since their lives were governed by the seasons and the trees. The Eytrans seemed to be unperturbed by the urban development around them. Their sect did not care about art, nor much of anything made by human hands. They tended to buy just enough statuary to make their churches identifiable from the outside. Agna did not expect much from them, but intended to pay attention to their influence.
The Daranite church, the branch to which Keifon had sworn his allegiance, was an old organization in Wildern. It had been built up by the now-declining lumber families when the city was little more than a work camp, but it was still supported by decades of well-invested donations. Counter to Agna’s early impressions of the faith, Wildern’s contingent of Daranites seemed more allied with law than the military — she compared a number of records from old court cases and turned up several Daranite priests who had served as well-respected judges. They had more capital than any of the other churches, but were not overly fond of spending it. If Keifon got around to joining their congregation after all, she might lean on him a bit to find out more about them, but until then she would leave them further down the list.
The last branch of the Church of the Four, the Lundrans, lacked their own church at the moment. Their old meeting hall had burned to the ground in a lightning-sparked fire two years ago, and they had yet to construct a new one. Their network of a dozen or so priests spent most of their time collecting donations for a new church, apart from their normal duties of counseling and conducting marriages and christenings and funerals. Wherever there were people, the Lundrans would be busy. So busy, in fact, that they seemed to spend their time interacting with the people of Wildern on an individual level instead of making a bid for larger spheres of power. Of course, the last mayor of Wildern had been a Lundran priest, and perhaps they only needed to regroup for a while.
The city government ran itself nearly in isolation — two regional representatives reported to Vertal for the entire northern third of the country, and both came from Laketon. The current mayor, Enira Windelle, had been in office for seven years, through the turbulence of the Benevolents’ arrival, and enjoyed a delicate balance of approval from both the traditionalists and the newcomers. Her traditionalist base was eroding, some said, and most would not be surprised if she threw her lot in with the so-called New Wildern. Most of her social appearances had been on hiking outings and tree-plantings, and she was not known to have a particular affiliation with any of the churches over another. One detail kept her on Agna’s list: she had been seen at several charity functions and grand openings chatting with Aines Shora.
Agent Shora had pushed the Wildern branch of the Benevolent Union from a sleepy storefront dispatchers’ office to the biggest hospital between Prisa and Ceien. Details about his origins were sketchy, and details about his current life were scarce. He was originally from one of the villages outside Wildern, up in the mountains. He had never been married, and the rumors about his tastes for handsome young men skirted just this side of scandal — he was never linked with anyone under his employ, nor anyone who was already married or engaged. He patronized both theaters and had donated a tidy sum to the library when it opened, and had hand-picked or commissioned all of the art in the main atrium of the Benevolent Union base.
He would have been the perfect trustee for her project. She even had a connection through the Union. And yet.
That painting.
That afternoon at Rone’s new apartment, with the taste of chamomile tea growing sickly on her tongue.
It wasn’t wrong. While Rone had shown chagrin over his choices, he did not, strictly speaking, regret them. Her childhood friend, her mentor, the boy who had been kind to her when no one else had, who had smiled and showed her through the gates of the world where she had dreamed for so long of belonging, was not just another handsome young man for Aines Shora’s list.
And yet.
Agna set down her pen in the middle of her notes. They were all adults, after all. Adults did things like this, sad things that made the world smaller. Things like treating her childhood hero like disposable entertainment. Adults also had to do things like getting over such thoughts, and doing what was right for the project at hand. They sometimes had to face those who had hurt them, those who had hurt the ones they loved, and smile, and treat them like friends.
She dipped her pen. Aines Shora made the top of her list. Art collector, she wrote. Leader of Benevolent Union chapter. That was all that mattered.
Agna: Newcomers
“I was thinking,” Keifon said one morning, over breakfast. “Did you still want to get a cat?”
Agna sipped her tea, considering the offer. They hadn’t seen any signs of pests in the apartment, but she couldn’t stop checking, unsure what to even look for. Holes? Footprints? At any rate, it seemed like an excuse. The dogs that had belonged to her family’s housekeeper had been more use as playmates and doorstops than for chasing out mice or burglars. She’d never owned a pet herself. It was daunting. “I’ll think about it. Do you know how to take care of them?”
He shrugged. “My family had them when I was growing up. Barn cats, and two in the house. I helped take care of them.”
“I’ll get a book from the library,” she said. It was her standard answer for most questions, now that she’d become familiar with the stacks.
“Mmn. Let me know what you think.”
Over the next week, she and Keifon lobbed questions and facts and discussions about potential hazards back and forth. Whenever she was out shopping for groceries, Agna happened to come across some new oddment, as though it were accidental — a food bowl here, a litter pan there.
On the way back from his morning errands one day, Keifon carried in a big cardboard box with holes poked in its sides and lid and a paper bag balanced on top. Agna looked up from the counter she’d been scrubbing with lemons and salt, and tucked a stray wisp of hair into the kerchief she’d tied around her head. “What in the world is that?”
“Well… I should have talked to you first, but I thought I’d pick them up as a present. For Midsummer, I guess. Even though it’s early.” He knelt and unfolded the box flaps. “It’s not flowers or money, but… all right, maybe a very early Lundrala present, then.”
Two fuzzy heads popped up from the box, and Agna squeaked. “Kittens? You didn’t.”
“I thought we were ready,” he said, as the tiny creatures propped their paws on the edge of the box.
“Thank you so much! Hey there, little ones!” She hurriedly washed up and knelt with him on the floor, extending a hand to the kittens as they tumbled out of the box. The calico kitten approached her, whiskers twitching. “Oh, Kei, they’re so adorable I can’t ta
ke it.”
“Heh. They are.” He settled cross-legged on the floor, and the gray kitten braced its front paws on his knee.
“And they’re weaned, I assume?”
“Yeah, of course. I got some food on the way.” He lifted the paper bag away from the gray kitten’s curious nose. “Meat scraps from the butcher’s. She said the fishmongers carry stuff like that too, and it’s pretty cheap.”
“We’ll just pick it up when we go shopping, then.”
Keifon patted the gray kitten’s head, and scratched its cheek as it leaned into his hand. “They might scare some mice away now, but when they’re bigger they can do it properly. It won’t be much of a problem till wintertime anyway, and they’ll be bigger by then.”
“Sure.” She couldn’t think about mice right now, and besides, it was hard to think of them as capable of killing anything. Gingerly, Agna picked up the calico kitten and crooned to it in Nessinian. “What are we going to name them?”
“Hmm, well… I was thinking we could each name one. The calico’s a girl, of course, and this one here’s a boy.” The gray kitten flopped on its side on the kitchen floor, though it kept its eye on the bag of food. “I was thinking about Shadow for him.”
“Heh. I would say that’s obvious, but all I can think for this one is Lulu, which isn’t much better.”
“Lulu?”
“Well… ‘Cat’ is lutiea in Nessinian, so Lulu is baby-talk for ‘cat.’ Like ‘kitty.’ It’s a pretty common cat name.”
“It sounds cute, though.” The gray kitten grew tired of being petted and leaped up to swipe at his sister’s dangling tail. The calico — Lulu, now — squirmed, and Agna set her down. The two scampered off, batting at one another. Agna sat watching them, beaming. When she looked up, Keifon was smiling, too.
“Sorry for the surprise,” he said. “I’d seen the sign before, and I just went in today and saw them…”
“It’s fine. We’d discussed it. I’ve read up. I’m ready to do this. Hey, what’s one more… six more chores at this point?” They’d begun to work out rotations of chores the way they had on the road, though even the half-empty apartment seemed to have no end to needs — cleaning, shopping, cooking, cleaning again. But every week, it was easier to keep track of everything. Together they could tackle anything.
Agna stood, dusting her skirts, and sat next to him to give him an awkward leaning hug. “Happy not-Midsummer. Happy early birthday,” she added in Yanweian. “You’ll be… twenty-nine?”
“Mmn. Twenty-three for you, right?”
“Yep. We’re getting old.” She made a face.
“Heh. You’ve got a mortgage and dependents now, you know.”
“Ugh! Yeah, I do, don’t I.” She sighed. “I’ll have to make cookies tonight to stave off adulthood.”
“If you want,” he said.
“Yeah, well, it’s the principle of the thing. Maybe I’ll take some over to Fulvia’s. She keeps asking me to stop by sometime.”
Keifon got to his feet with the bag from the butcher’s, and fetched two of the dishes Agna had found. “Or take them to your meeting this afternoon.”
“Ha! I’m sure Quasta Kalen loves cinnamon cookies.”
He unwrapped the package of meat scraps and divided it between the kittens’ dishes. “You never know.”
“Well, I’m not above bribery.” Agna filled the remaining bowl from their water pitcher as Keifon found a corner to lay out the food dishes. She arranged the water bowl next to them and stood back. “Yep. Like they were here all along.”
“Mmn. Still have to set up the litter box. But yeah. I think… I think we’ll like having them here.”
Agna pinched his cheek. “I already do. Good thing you’re such a soft touch.” He blushed, and she had to grin.
* * *
Some sense of her childhood and her adolescence seeped into Agna’s bones as she rode in the rented carriage up the drive toward Quasta Kalen’s estate. She remembered this, riding in carriages that were handled by hired drivers, sitting rigidly upright in multiple layers of petticoats and a bodice laced so tight she could hardly breathe, sorting out research and battle plans in her head instead of enjoying the view. This was an echo of a life she might have had.
The current head of West Pine Company lived on the western edge of the town, in a sprawl of gated estates tucked among the wooded hills, separated from the rest of the city by a steep mountain spur. It had taken half an hour to round the southern tip of the spur, following the single access road. Now, the carriage rolled over the cobbles under a canopy of oaks and sycamores as it wound up the hill.
The last several gates Agna had passed bore an ironworked tree insignia — the sign of West Pine Company and of the Kalens themselves, there was little difference between the two. Each estate was hidden from its neighbors with bands of carefully tended woodland and iron fences topped with spikes and scrolls. The road serpentined up the hill as it approached the last estate, which was the only one visible for miles, crowning the hill against a backdrop of forested mountains.
She had done as much research as she could, and everything she’d seen indicated that Quasta Kalen was the most difficult mark on her list. It was fitting, perhaps, because next to Agent Shora, she was the most well-suited person in Wildern to serve on the gallery’s board. A greater challenge brought a greater reward.
Clasping her hands in her lap, Agna remembered every professor who had given difficult marks and every art agent who had narrowed their eyes at her as she tagged behind her father through the halls of his agency. She had every right to be here. She was in control. She was capable and intelligent and ready to handle anything Quasta Kalen could throw at her. She was doing these early supporters a favor, letting them in on the ground floor of her venture. Best to look at it that way, and argue from a strong position. Otherwise she’d lose her nerve and with it, the chance at a powerful backer.
It would have been easier to disembark with grace and confidence if the driver had been her old, familiar Raffaele. Still, the driver was professional and courteous, and accepted the tip she palmed him without a flicker of expression. If she’d employed a driver of her own, she wouldn’t have to pass them tips every time she got to her destination, nor would she need to pay extra for the carriage to wait for her. But she had neither the space nor the funds to support a carriage and horses and a driver. Besides, it would have taken her all afternoon to reach Quasta Kalen’s estate on foot, and she suspected that arriving out of breath and sweaty would erase any chance of impressing her potential investor.
The carriage had pulled up to a curved driveway that encircled a stand of birch trees and a marble statue of a nymph. It was unfortunate that she wouldn’t get a better look; she’d have had to hop over some shrubbery to get any closer to it. Instead, Agna turned toward the doors, which were a rich, warm gold-brown banded with a dark, swirling grain. Walking up the stairs gave her a chance to take a few deep breaths and release her too-tight grip on the strap of her shoulder bag. The bag was becoming a bit battered, but she needed her notes and her contacts. She’d do her best to downplay it.
The heavy iron knocker was also cast in the shape of a tree, hinged at its highest branches. Agna knocked three times and stood back. She kept her face pleasantly neutral as a young Kaveran man opened the door. “Yes?”
“Good afternoon. Agna Despana, the art dealer. I have an appointment with Quasta Kalen.” Her father and Marco Pirci and any first-year apprentice in the Despana Agency would scoff at the thought of styling herself as an art dealer before she’d made a single sale. Good thing they wouldn’t know, she thought.
“This way, please,” the butler said, swinging the door open on oiled hinges. Agna stepped up into the airy dark of the foyer. Some sense in the back of her mind insisted that this house was a mistake, a parody; its floors were inlaid in wood, worked into patterns and polished to a silken gleam, but who builds a respectable house out of anything but stone? Even so, it was obvious that so
meone had spent a vast amount of time and money on this place. Every side table and chair she could see from the entryway was a masterpiece of graceful, economical lines, and each surface supported one or two well-chosen objects: a small carving, a marble bowl, an immaculately tended houseplant. Agna scanned the walls for paintings as the butler closed the door behind her. She spotted the edge of one, halfway around the corner, but could only see a tree and the hindquarters of a horse in muted tones.
She kept her steps calm and even, trying not to scamper, as she followed the butler down one of the corridors that branched off the foyer. Here, the polished wooden floors were overlaid with carpets from the Alharan mainland, woven in intricate, interlocked patterns. Their wool pile absorbed the butler’s footsteps. Without turning her head, Agna peeked into the rooms as they passed — a parlor, a breakfast room, the entrance to a servants’ staircase. They’d already passed through enough space to swallow her new apartment. Don’t think in those terms, she warned herself, drawing her spine straighter. Wood construction aside, it wasn’t so different from Grandmother Despana’s city house. Moving into a second-floor apartment and paying her own way by working in the hospital hadn’t made her unworthy, and this Quasta Kalen wasn’t going to lecture her on how disappointed she was in Agna’s life choices. For all Quasta Kalen knew, Agna had her own mansion just down the road. She was out of practice in proper comportment, that was all.
At the end of the hallway, the butler paused in an open door. “The art dealer Agna Despana, ma’am.”
“Show her in.”
The butler pivoted, motioning Agna through. One more deep breath, taken clandestinely. One more chance to gather her wits. She would do fine. She knew more about art than nearly anyone in this city. Agna nodded to the butler and passed into Quasta Kalen’s study.
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