by Forthright
“Don’t praise the boy for eluding the ignorant.” Argent glared after his son. “His illusions won’t protect him against any fox worth their tails.”
NINETEEN
Left Wanting
The turning seasons left the veranda inhospitable for mealtimes, so Argent served his mistress’s meals in the formal dining room. At the appointed hour, Tsumiko slid into her usual chair and waited in silence for him to bring the first course.
“Why are we doing this?” she asked.
He shook out a napkin for her lap. “Humans require sustenance.”
“But why here?”
“This is the dining room. People dine here.”
“No, people do not. I do,” she said. “Alone.”
“You are the lady of the house.”
She shook her head. “I’m an orphan who inherited another lady’s cast-offs.”
Argent deftly ladled carrot bisque into a bowl. “Most would consider this an enviable acquisition.”
Tsumiko’s gaze roamed the elegantly appointed room. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“How quickly humans tire of their playthings.” Mockery edged his pretense at sympathy. How dare she complain? This was both hell and home, and her criticism bit into his pride. “Alas, you cannot give it back, mistress.”
But his fury didn’t touch her. Tsumiko only picked up her spoon and toyed with it. “This isn’t right,” she murmured.
“You have not tasted it.”
“I’m not talking about the soup.”
To his relief, the girl finally ate, and he was able to bring her next course. When he arrayed the serving dishes before her, she barely seemed to notice. Instead, she ran her finger along the edge of her plate.
“I remember this pattern,” she said. “From my first night here.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Every night, the china is different. And I’ve been here for …” The girl did a little mental calculation. “That’s more than forty sets of china.”
Noting her dismay, he smiled. “An embarrassment of riches? And these are only the autumn patterns.”
Tsumiko gazed at him in bewildered misery and repeated, “This isn’t what I want.”
“You have never turned away Sansa’s cooking before.”
And like the dutiful girl she was, Tsumiko picked up her fork. But Argent’s triumph was short-lived. She only poked unhappily at the evening’s vegetable course.
“I don’t like beets,” she whispered.
Over the years, Argent had learned how to circumvent weaker wills than his own. He might be little more than a caged beast, but his wits still worked. Although obedience was his only option, humans had an aggravating way of asking for things without making themselves plain. And in their politeness and diplomacy, they gave him loopholes.
“I don’t like this” and “I don’t want that”—these were mere statements of fact. He was well aware that his mistresses made their preferences known under the assumption that he would change his behavior to accommodate them. But assumptions weren’t commands.
Argent was under no obligation to cater to petty whims or indulge creature comforts. Not without a direct order. He didn’t care if his mistresses were happy or comfortable. So when they informed him of their likes and dislikes, they only provided him with ammunition.
When past mistresses alerted him to fears, dislikes, secrets, and peeves, he turned them into embarrassing moments, inopportune discoveries, bitter humiliation, or in one memorable case, an allergic reaction. He delighted in subtly ruining important days for people who thought nothing of ruining his very existence.
So when Tsumiko wrinkled her nose at the beets, he knew that the polite response would have been to banish the vegetable from the table. Instead, he added another spoonful to her plate.
She stared at the addition, a small wrinkle between her eyebrows, the barest of pouts on her lips. A laughably childish response. But then she lifted a candid gaze. “Are you going to make me eat my vegetables?”
“Is that what you want?”
Tsumiko asked, “Would it make you feel better?”
“Immeasurably.”
So the girl speared a chunk of the roasted vegetable and chewed it with obvious distaste, immediately reaching for her water glass.
Argent watched her choke down the double portion. And he did feel better. Perhaps because for the first time in his long and sordid history, one of his mistresses had chosen to join him in his misery.
“You could have asked me to take it away,” he murmured. Argent set a ramekin of pudding before her, as if she had earned a reward.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“For my own good. Sister Magdalene was always telling me to eat my vegetables.” Tsumiko slid a little lower in her chair. “I might be homesick.”
Argent pondered the risks of speaking out. Tsumiko wasn’t using him, refused to use him. Most of the time, she followed Michael’s lead—careful remarks, open-ended statements, suggestions that left Argent with a choice. Only in haste, when she spoke without consideration, did she use words that bound him. And even then, her demands had been inconsequential things.
“If you will pardon my saying so, mistress,” he said, hitting a congenial tone Michael would have applauded. “I have had quite enough of your petulance.”
Color rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t look angry. Only chastised.
“You do not have what you want, a sad state of existence. I can empathize.” Argent blithely continued, “If you wish to further bemoan your fate, you will find a better audience in Sansa, or even Michael. But if you are hoping for an alternative, I cannot oblige … unless ….”
He paused for dramatic effect, and she peered up at him, as if awaiting his command. A nice turnabout, even if it couldn’t last.
“Unless?” she whispered.
“Unless you tell me what you want.”
TWENTY
Trappings of Gentility
“Tell … you?” Tsumiko edged backward in her chair. What game was Argent playing now? He might be her slave, but he couldn’t grant wishes. Especially impossible ones. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”
“Foolish girl.” He loomed nearer. “Did no one tell you that Amaranthine can smell a lie?”
Why should she tell him the ache she carried? Why leave herself vulnerable to mockery? After all, her wants were nothing compared to his captivity.
“Come, mistress. Confess.” Argent lowered himself to one knee and dropped the false smile. He narrowed his eyes and said, “I doubt you are capable of anything reprehensible. What paltry thing are you afraid to ask for?”
“Why do you care?”
“I do not.”
“Then why are you asking?”
His eyebrows arched. “Blackmail.”
A weak bubble of laughter ended in a sigh. “I don’t have any secrets you can hold over my head.”
“A word from me, and you will eat beets for a month.”
The threat was so silly, she smiled. “You’re a bully.”
“And you are easy prey.”
Tsumiko felt sure she was being manipulated by a pro, but she wanted so badly to give in. Maybe the truth could set them free. “I want a family.”
He retreated so fast, she never saw him move. One moment, Argent was at her elbow, the next he was on the other side of the table, radiating hostility.
“You do not need me for that,” he said coolly. “You will have your pick of the Smythe cousins.”
Cousins? Hadn’t Michael said something about a squabble? She asked, “Relatives of Aunt Eimi’s husband?”
“Yes.”
Tsumiko had been so focused on learning about Aunt Eimi’s reaver heritage, it hadn’t occurred to her that Lord Percival might have ki
n. “But why would they bother with someone like me?”
“Tsk. As I said, mistress, most would consider this an enviable acquisition.” He busied himself with tableware. “The Smythes would do anything to lay hold of you, your fortune, and me.”
“Wait. They’re reavers, too?”
“No.”
“But then how do they even know about you?”
Argent snorted lightly. “Despite repeated protests from my wards, Lord Percival and Lady Eimi made annual trips to his homeland. Due to the nature of the bond, I was in attendance.”
“You traveled overseas?”
“Regularly.”
“I’ve never been abroad.” Was that an option now? Tsumiko leaned forward. “But I didn’t mean marriage. I was talking about Michael, Sansa, and their baby. And Minx, Gingko, and you. Can’t we be a family?”
Argent’s hands stilled. “In what sense?”
“I don’t like this big, empty dining room. I don’t like this game of lady and servant.”
Some of Argent’s wariness lingered. “So you are proposing a new game. You wish to play house.”
“No!” She pressed shaking hands to the table. “I’ve been trying to fit in, but it’s no use. I don’t want to live like this, and if what Gingko said is true, neither do you.”
He scrutinized her for several moments, then said, “Bring your pudding.”
Tsumiko slipped from her chair, hugging the ceramic pot to her chest as she followed him along a short hall and into the kitchen. Michael lounged in a chair at the table in the corner, watching the news on a small television. Sansa turned from the stove and smoothed her hands over her apron.
“Miss Tsumiko?” she ventured.
Michael quickly muted the television and jumped to his feet, straightening his tie before executing a short bow. “What can we do for you, miss?”
“Please, would you call me Tsumiko?”
“If you wish.” Michael’s questioning gaze strayed to Argent.
He said, “The mistress wishes to rid herself of the trappings of gentility.”
Michael hesitantly asked, “Get rid of us?”
“No!” Tsumiko was accustomed to putting others first, not putting herself forward. Would she be asking too much? Her wish felt incredibly selfish. “No, that’s not what I want at all.”
Sansa moved to her side. “These foxes, they say good things in bad ways. Tell us in your own words.”
Taking courage from the woman’s faint smile, which hinted at understanding, she started over. “I do want to make changes. Would you mind if we dropped some of these Western customs? Aren’t there reaver ways that would be more comfortable?” Looking to Sansa, she added, “You dress differently when you’re patrolling.”
“If I’m not mistaken, miss. Tsumiko,” Michael amended. “The school where you were raised holds to Western ways.”
She nodded. How could she explain something she only half understood. This wasn’t about architecture, wardrobes, or culture. “Part of me belongs to Saint Midori’s, and part of me belongs to my homeland. But the only reason I’m here is because there’s a part of me that belongs to your world. You’re reavers.”
“As are you,” Michael reminded. “And we’ll gladly teach you more about what that means.”
Argent made an impatient sound. “Lessons in technique and etiquette have always been on the agenda. My lady is wandering off topic.”
“You have not finished your meal.” Sansa moved to the cupboard. “I will set another place.”
“Yes, by all means.” Michael pulled out a chair. “Join us.”
“And there is the crux,” Argent said pointedly, guiding her to a seat.
“Joining?” echoed Michael. “Or … us?”
Tsumiko kept her eyes firmly on the table, uneasy and embarrassed.
Argent sighed in a put-upon manner and took charge, quietly setting out the remainder of the meal and leaving Tsumiko to Sansa.
The woman eased into the chair beside hers and gently said, “You speak of belonging. Is that what you want?”
Awash in relief, Tsumiko mumbled, “If it’s no trouble.”
“So that’s it!” Michael chuckled. “She reminds me of Isla.”
“Who?”
“Our second daughter.” Sansa tugged Tsumiko into a crooked embrace and kissed the top of her head. “A child forever afraid to ask for what has always been hers.”
Taking the seat beside Michael, Argent served Sansa. “Take her in and raise her well. Dote on her as another daughter, but I will thank you to leave me out of the proceedings.”
“And betray your very nature?” Michael reached for bread and butter. “Foxes seek companionship.”
Argent’s jaw tightened. “Do not speak lightly of betrayal, boy. You may yet learn its bite.”
TWENTY ONE
Lovelorn
Later that night, a perfunctory knock on Tsumiko’s bedroom door announced Argent’s entrance. He wasted no time in crossing to her usual chair, where he dropped to one knee, stiff and silent.
Setting aside her book, Tsumiko asked, “Is that how Amaranthine normally dress?”
“Hardly. But reaver garb will do until I can secure something more fitting.” Argent smoothed his hand over a tunic that looked a little too big. Soft cloth fell in dark folds to his hips, and sheathed blades hung from the belt at his waist. Bare feet flexed against the plush rug, as if savoring their newfound freedom. He averted his gaze at her silent appraisal. “I am borrowing Michael’s, provided you have no objections.”
“You can wear whatever you want, Argent.” When he accepted this with a curt nod, she asked, “Is it a little better? I mean, do you feel more like yourself now?”
“Myself?” Argent snorted. “I am new with each binding, for each mistress defines me according to her whim. This is yours.”
“Then who are you really?”
“I have forgotten,” he said dully.
Given how many centuries Argent’s enslavement had endured, maybe it was the truth. But Tsumiko couldn’t imagine forgetting herself entirely. Roles could be picked up and set aside, but weren’t one’s self and soul inviolate?
She asked, “What have you been?”
“Obedient.”
“That’s not what I meant. Aunt Eimi made you a butler. What other roles were you given?”
Argent studied her warily. “Are you looking for ideas on how to put me to use?”
“I was hoping to get to know you better.”
“Guard, thief, hunter, tutor, entertainer, assassin,” he rattled off without expression.
Tsumiko drummed her fingers on arm of her chair. “Did you like any of your jobs?”
“I endured them.”
“What would you do if you could do anything?” she asked.
“Fly far from here, high and fast and free, with sea spray in my coat, foxsong rising to the stars, and the wind in my tails.”
And no wonder. Freedom to choose might be a nice change of pace, but he was still trapped. Tsumiko said, “We’ll find a way to give that back to you.”
“So you say.”
Tsumiko tentatively touched his shoulder. “It’s a promise.”
Argent eased closer. “So you say.”
“Are you here for … more?”
“Would you prefer I beg?”
Really. How did one deal with someone who was all push, pull, and prickles? He fended her off with words, yet he vibrated with yearning and trembled at the edge of touch. Needing, yet hating the need.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. And since they may as well get straight to where they’d end up, Tsumiko slid her arms around Argent’s shoulders and tugged. His forehead bumped her chin, but he quickly settled against her with an ear over her skipping heart.
“Are you trying to be
brave?” he muttered thickly.
“Yes. I’m trying.”
His arm encircled her waist, and his nose grazed her throat. “I still hate you.”
Tsumiko wasn’t surprised. All they’d changed were the trappings.
. . .
Mere minutes later, Argent tore himself away and brusquely excused himself, pulling the door shut with the barest click. In the next moment, the latch on one of Tsumiko’s windows lifted with a stealthy snick.
Gingko poised on the sill, an upraised finger at his lips pleading for secrecy.
“You missed supper,” she whispered.
“Couldn’t be helped. I was scouting.” He dropped into the room, easing the swinging panel shut behind him. “I usually eat between-times anyhow. Dad’s grim silences don’t do much for my appetite.”
“Did you find anything out there?”
Gingko sat on the floor in the very spot where his father had knelt. But he had none of Argent’s aloof bearing. “Oh, you know,” he said vaguely. “Traces.”
“Of what?”
“Mostly old tracks and fading scents. I’ll fill in Sansa and Michael tomorrow.”
“Is it bad news?”
Silvery ears flicked forward and back a few times before flattening to each side. “It’s definitely not good news. Even if they’re gone, they were here.”
“But the wards are holding?”
“Seems so.” Gingko’s ears snapped upright, and he swiveled toward the window. “Someone’s on the prowl.”
“I asked him to help Sansa with the patrols.”
“Can’t hurt. Dad’s senses are a hundred times keener than mine, and he might actually recognize something. But most of the evidence is past the property lines.”
“That won’t be a problem. I lifted the restrictions.”
Gingko blinked. “Which ones?”
“Everything he asked for.”
“Does that mean you take requests? Because all that tramping around sure does work up an appetite.”