by Forthright
Shortly after breakfast, Yvette had proposed an outing to the little church a few kilometers down the road from the Smythe estate. With the coming of Christmastide, the congregation was tending to the greening of the church.
Mounds of fragrant branches had been gathered, bunched, and bound—pine, juniper, magnolia, spruce. The greenery was being tacked up and tucked into niches by chatting women and the handful of teenagers who’d been bribed into cooperation with cookies. White and gold ribbons trailed everywhere. Clusters of cones and gilded nuts took prominent place in twisting wreathes. Pomegranates and pears lent splashes of red, and Tsumiko wondered idly if mistletoe had been included anywhere. Wasn’t that an English tradition?
Argent said, “He wants you to know that all the Smythe weddings are held here.”
Tsumiko hummed in polite interest.
“And in a wholly predictable segue, he wishes to know if you would like to be married here.”
She asked, “Is this a good time to tell him I was raised by a sisterhood that foreswears marriage?”
Argent smirked and spoke. Boniface frowned and made a beeline for his mother, who’d developed a sudden fascination for pew books in order to give Bon-Bon space.
Tsumiko pretended not to notice in favor of studying Saint George Chapel’s stained glass windows. Each depicted various stages of its patron saint’s famous story—quest and confrontation, battle and victory, rescue and reward. Tsumiko was familiar with the romantic fable of the courageous young man who rode out against a dragon in order to rescue a princess.
She’d always viewed the dragon as a symbol of the enemy of God, but now that she knew there were dragon clans, the tale made her uneasy. Was it possible that ancient knights had hunted and killed Amaranthine?
Before she could ask Argent for clarification, Jacques swooped in. His smile was a bit bleary, suggesting he rarely saw this side of noon. He didn’t bother with stilted Japanese, though Tsumiko had noticed that, like his brother, Jacques made frequent asides in French.
“Hey, pretty lady,” he greeted. “Don’t let Mom sway you. Bon-Bon’s always been her favorite, but I’m loads more fun. Tell her, Argent.”
With a haughty inclination of his head, Argent said, “Since the elder son is a mama’s boy, the younger offers manly debauchery.”
Tsumiko’s lips pursed. “I don’t think these boys are half as bad as you make them out to be.”
“They are on their best behavior at the moment. It will not last.”
Jacques looked between them with an expectant air, and Tsumiko searched for a suitably childish remark. Gesturing at the nearest window, she suggested, “Ask him if there are really dragons in England.”
Argent relayed her question, and the effect was immediate. Jacques blanched, mumbled an excuse, and bolted out the nearest door.
“What did you say?” Tsumiko asked.
“Only what you asked.” At her skeptical look, he added, “Truly.”
Yvette returned, babbling more words at Argent, who paraphrased her latest rant. “She wants me removed to the servants’ quarters.”
“Our suite is spacious enough for two,” Tsumiko said.
Her butler weathered a blur of protest, which he translated with a bland expression. “You should not take a beast—even a tame beast—into your bed. When you are older, you will understand.”
“Would this be a bad time to bring up the nestling?”
“Atrocious.” Argent smiled serenely. “In fact, never bring it up.”
“Then tell her that Amaranthine need next to no sleep.”
It took several minutes more to convince Yvette that Tsumiko would not be parted from her guardian. At that, the woman only left off because a stoop-shouldered vicar invited her to join the rest of the volunteers for refreshments in the neighboring hall.
When the last of the decorating committee filed out, a hush descended on the newly festooned sanctuary. Everything smelled of forests and flowers, and candlelight added luster to gold and linen alike.
The whole ambiance was sweetly familiar, so Tsumiko sat in the first pew and lifted her face. Saint Midori’s might be larger and grander, but this chapel was the same in an essential way. With the beginnings of a smile tugging at her lips, Tsumiko closed her eyes and opened her soul.
Minutes later, a careful voice interrupted. “What are you doing?”
She hadn’t heard Argent’s approach and was mildly surprised to find him kneeling before her. “I was praying. Don’t the Amaranthine know about God?”
He slowly inclined his head. “Our stories diverge, but they have the same beginning.”
Tsumiko’s entire childhood had been steeped in scriptures, and her curiosity flared. “You were in Eden?”
“Not personally.” He eased closer, placing his hands on her knees. “Rather than trade old stories, return to your prayers.”
“Why?”
“Because I am in charge.”
She waited, for Argent’s manner was troubling. What had pulled him forward? He shouldn’t need tending, yet he seemed prepared to beg.
Argent hesitated several more beats before muttering, “You shine. Like Soriel of the Dawning, like Auriel of the Golden Seed. Like every tale of the Kindred, the Broken, and the Blessed, you shine.”
“Who are they?”
“Heavenly visitations and heroes of yore.” His chest pressed against her knees, and impatience took the edge off his awe. “More old stories that can wait.”
Had the Amaranthine been visited by angels? Did they have promises, principles, and prophecies to guide their way of life? “Are there books?” she asked. “Would I be allowed to borrow them?”
Argent muttered, “Stingy.”
Tsumiko gently touched his hand. “Was it really so different then what usually happens when I tend you?”
His gaze never left hers as he nodded once.
“Prayer isn’t a performance, you know. I don’t think I could duplicate your experience on command.”
Argent took a slow breath, inclined his head, and left it at that. “Rather than rejoin the gadding throng, would you like to visit Percival’s and Eimi’s graves? The Smythe family plot is in the churchyard.”
“Yes, please.”
He draped a fur-trimmed cloak around her shoulders and led her out a side door. Finding the path to the cemetery plot snowed over, he carried her to spare her sandaled feet. Behind Saint George’s, under the drooping boughs of ancient cedars and spreading dogwoods, past generations of Smythes resting beneath marble headstones. Argent set down Tsumiko and stepped back, face downcast.
Was this his first time visiting Aunt Eimi’s grave? And here they stood, emptyhanded. She asked, “Did she have a favorite flower?”
“Forget-me-nots.”
“If we can find some, let’s bring them.”
“A fitting gesture.” Argent asked, “Do you pray to your ancestors?”
Was he curious? Or simply eager for more prayers? Tsumiko said, “No, but I can honor their memory. What about you? How do Amaranthine face death?”
“Rarely.” He frowned faintly at his former mistress’s grave. “Hypothetically.”
“You … don’t die?”
“I know it is possible.” His gaze turned toward the shadowy boughs overhead. “And I have felt its approach.”
Tsumiko turned to face him fully. “Argent, what’s the average lifespan of someone like you?”
Argent’s voice took on a sing-song quality. “When the stars were young and the mountains were unclimbed and whole forests stood empty, we were chosen. When humans were few and the land was divided, and the birds and beasts needed our strength, we were fruitful and multiplied.”
Familiar phrases caught her attention. “Are you alluding to Noahic promises? How old are you?”
“I was neither in Eden
nor on the ark.” Argent teasingly added, “But you are getting closer.”
THIRTY SIX
Lady of the House
Tsumiko woke too early the following morning. She still hadn’t adjusted to the time difference, but that gave her the perfect excuse to check in on her brother.
I’m safe. Are you?
Me and Suuzu are good
Been packing for winter break
He sent her a snapshot of a bed covered with clothing, all perfectly folded and neatly stacked.
You received permission to visit his family home?
Yep
I get to see the tropics
Sounds lovely about now.
What’s it like there? Foggy?
Cloudy. Snowing. We’ll have a white Christmas.
Nice place?
This estate looks like something
out of a storybook.
The nearest town is quaint, charming.
This was yesterday.
Tsumiko sent him a selfie with the chapel behind her.
Huh? Why are you dressed like that?
Don’t you think it suits me?
Sis.
Kittens?
She snapped a picture of her kimono-draped quarters.
It gets much better. Or much worse.
These were Argent’s idea.
To keep me safe
From what?
Marriage meetings.
Keeping you for himself?
Argent peered over her shoulder and snorted at Akira’s remark.
“He’s only teasing,” Tsumiko assured.
“Is that not the entire purpose of younger siblings?”
She blinked. “You’re someone’s little brother, aren’t you.”
Argent only hummed vaguely, leaving Tsumiko to wonder. He must have come from somewhere. And if he wasn’t exaggerating about Amaranthine longevity, his family members were probably very much alive. Why hadn’t the Mettlebrights gone looking for their lost son?
Returning to the thread of her conversation with Akira, she tapped in the sad truth.
He’s eager to be rid of me.
I don’t like that
Let me see him
“Would it be okay to send Akira a picture of you? He’s curious.”
“I would prefer not.” Argent gestured for her to hand him the phone and took over.
This is the fox. Your sister knows
the number of my tails.
Your nestmate should understand enough
to allay any lingering qualms.
Suuzu is satisfied
Are you?
Would feel better if I could see for myself
Another time, perhaps.
When?
Are you not planning to spend
the summer at Stately House?
Yep
Didn’t think you were going to
stick around that long
Argent stiffened and quickly dropped the phone into Tsumiko’s lap. He’d responded with one word.
True.
. . .
Over the next few days, Argent took great pleasure in watching his scheme bear fruit. Cedric Smythe slipped easily into the role of doting grandfather, and the cousins were forced into a holding pattern. Giving up their seduction schemes, Boniface and Jacques now vied for the role of favorite uncle.
Jacques was slightly ahead in that regard, if only because his relaxed attitude put Tsumiko at ease. He probably only stayed at the game to frustrate his brother. Boniface was awkward with children, so his assumptions about Tsumiko’s age undermined his efforts. And Tsumiko had already grown bored with the young man’s daily rehearsal of inanities.
Greedy. Petty. Shallow. Vain.
Argent counted himself fortunate that their cousin was not in the running. Stewart Smythe might have appealed to Tsumiko, if only by contrast. He had always been moored in some quiet corner with books and studies. Not unlike Tsumiko. They probably would have hit it off.
The steady son. The Smythe family heir. No one mentioned Stewart’s conspicuous absence from meals and outings. Perhaps he was away?
“Do you have family, miss? Brothers or sisters?”
“A brother. I heard from him this morning.”
Tsumiko fumbled through her limited vocabulary, and Argent intervened. “He is staying with a friend from school during winter holiday.”
Mrs. Draper smiled and nodded, then poured more tea. The rest of the family had wandered off after their own pursuits, leaving their guest in the capable hands of their housekeeper.
“He would have been welcome,” she said.
“Thank you.” Tsumiko ran her finger along the edge of her teacup. “I would have enjoyed that.”
Argent supplied, “She misses him.”
While Yvette currently reigned as lady of the house by virtue of her marriage to Cedric’s younger son, Mrs. Draper remained the primary female influence over everyday affairs. A genteel hostess. And an unforeseen threat. Because all it took to dismantle their grand misconception was a spot of tea.
Violet Draper might be brisk, but she was gracious. And Tsumiko responded in kind, forgetting to play her part, betraying herself in a dozen small ways. Argent watched in frank dismay as the housekeeper’s confusion finally cleared.
She knew. Would she tell?
But the woman startled him. Meeting his gaze, she smiled faintly and tapped her own shoulder in a placating gesture. One common to his race.
With a roll of his wrist and fanning of fingers, he offered the expected response. And she understood. But how? Where had Mrs. Draper learned Amaranthine idiosyncrasies? Even with the Emergence nearing its first anniversary, the average citizen understood very little about their culture. Only reavers were familiar with such fleeting courtesies. And this woman had been here since she was in her teens.
He well remembered her initial wariness, when Percival and Eimi’s annual visits exposed her to a butler who wasn’t remotely human. She’d kept her distance, but she’d kept the secret of Argent’s existence. And as time passed, she’d grown accustomed to him. Violet and her husband had watched out for him in simple ways, so that Argent could count on a modicum of comfort during his stays—a quiet room, generous trays at mealtimes, and polite inquiries into his domestic needs.
When Mrs. Draper excused herself, Argent held the door for her. “Where did you learn such trivialities?”
“It’s not my place to say.”
He accepted that with a nod. Still, he couldn’t help asking, “Are you in any kind of … trouble?”
A smile creased her face. “No, Argent. But you’re kind to ask.”
“If you are certain,” he murmured.
“I’m not one to gossip.” Mrs. Draper glanced Tsumiko’s way and repeated, “It’s not my place to say, but you’ll understand by and by. When the master is ready.”
THIRTY SEVEN
Meanwhile
A sedate brush of power lit up the outermost wards, and Michael glanced at the clock ticking on his office mantle. They were early. But not entirely unexpected.
“Well, now,” he murmured. “This should be interesting.”
Strolling through the house, he checked the kitchen and nursery before finding his wife in the armory. “Sansa, we have company.”
“The regular courier?”
“I think not.”
She squared her shoulders. “How many?”
“Two have declared themselves, but there are at least two more.”
“You cannot tell?”
Michael chuckled. “The wards are vibrating so much, it’s difficult to say.”
“We did expect an investigation.” Sansa’s eyes flashed. “Let them come! We were thorough enough to fool any number of foxes.”
Ever since Argent’s departure with Tsumiko, they’d cleaned house, using every trick in their arsenal to remove evidence of his presence. Gingko had helped for the first week, but they’d sent him packing two days ago. Just in time.
With a sly smile, Michael said, “Let them come, and make them welcome. These aren’t foxes.”
She paused in the act of strapping on a sword so weighty, she really shouldn’t be swinging it at this stage. “Wolves, then?” she asked.
“Unless my senses deceive me, we’re facing a small herd of horses … and their escorts.”
Her patience for little games was wearing thin. “Plain words, husband. If not foxes or wolves, who accompanies my birth attendants?”
He kissed her cheek. “Cats, love.”
. . .
“Sensei!” Sansa called, lumbering down the path and into Rilka Withershanks’ waiting arms.
Their former teacher was from one of the horse clans, an imposing personage who had shaped Michael’s appreciation for strong beauties.
Rilka taught herbs and healing at Ingress Academy, and she’d been the first to notice that their most gifted battler had a gentle touch. The matriarch of the Withershanks clan had passed on much of her lore to Sansa. At Michael’s request, Mare Withershanks had attended the births of all their children.
Lean brown hands cupped Sansa’s face as Rilka quietly quizzed her former student. While they enjoyed a rather weepy reunion, Michael took it upon himself to welcome their other guests. “To what do we owe the honor, Spokesperson?”
“I’d be more comfortable with Sensei, if you don’t mind. For old times’ sake.”