Governed by Whimsy (Songs of the Amaranthine Book 4)

by Forthright

  Governed by Whimsy

  Songs of the Amaranthine, 4

  Governed by Whimsy

  Copyright © 2020 by FORTHRIGHT

  ISBN: 978-1-63123-070-7

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or shared in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the author. Which is a slightly more officious way of saying what I’ve always asked. Play fair. Be nice. But by all means, have fun! ::twinkle::

  TWINKLE PRESS

  FORTHWRITES.COM

  because you cannot resist any more than I can

  Table of Contents

  Putting Off the Inevitable

  Mademoiselles Dimityblest and Demerara

  Missing Goes Both Ways

  He Treads the Boards

  Stride into the Limelight

  Whatever My Lady Wishes

  Are We Almost Home?

  Destiny Leads to Duty

  Wasn’t His Hair Black?

  The Objectification of Males

  Something for Your Trouble

  Traditions Are for Keeping

  I’ll Take the Settee

  Give Him His Due

  Oh, You Can Tell

  My Shoes Are Missing

  There She Goes Again

  Keeping to a Budget

  Wonderful with a Needle

  Do Not Look Away

  They Know My Voice

  A Weakness for Finery

  You Carry the Day

  You Can Tell Me

  If Not for Them

  Half Amaranthine, Half Human

  Only If You Insist

  All Will Be Well

  Answer for Your Deeds

  Letters Brought by Heralds

  Back by Popular Demand

  Where Is the Balance?

  Revealing His True Colors

  Much to My Surprise

  No Room for Doubt

  Tending Is Always Honest

  A Most Auspicious Day

  Putting Off the Inevitable

  “Oh, my darling, we are very late.”

  “Are we?” Greta patted the topmost parcel in her accumulation. “They’ll forgive it once I show them this lace.”

  A smile warmed Lulu’s cautionary reminder. “We will not be among moths, my darling. Who can say if her ladyship’s boys will have a care for lacy confections?”

  Impossible. “Felines like their finery.”

  “Be that as it may, duty calls.” Lulu adjusted her grip on half a dozen bundles and bags as she directed, “Disembark at the next corner.”

  Spying a promising lineup of shops, Greta happily stepped off the trolley, full skirts swishing. Even after frittering most of the day in a series of boutiques and bakeries, she wasn’t entirely over the novelty of paved walkways or the satisfying click her kid heels made against them. A constant reminder that they were a long way from the rustic heaths and wide hearths of Evernhold.

  This human city’s style reminded Greta of Dimityblest or even Sylvansleek architecture. Tantalizing in its variety. Begging to be explored. Perplexing in its variance from the world Greta knew.

  To fit in among the unendowed populace, she’d adopted the current fashion. Her outermost skirt was a modest blue, unremarkable at a glance, which is all anyone spared her. So long as she didn’t call attention to herself by exclaiming too loudly, walking too quickly, or lapsing too deeply into the customs of the feline court.

  Assuming the females were in charge had raised eyebrows. Silly males.

  Showing her delight with her best imitation of a purr had earned a few odd looks. No matter.

  Kissing the porter had admittedly been a mistake. Force of habit. So much to remember!

  “Slow down, my darling.” A hand at Greta’s elbow checked her stride yet again.

  “I thought you were in a hurry.”

  Lulu glanced at the sky, her lips pressing into a firm line. It was intriguing that an Amaranthine like Lulu had so much more experience with humans who weren’t a part of the In-between. She’d been an immeasurable help when it came to preparations for this journey … as well as with smoothing things over along the way.

  Even in human guise, Lulu looked every inch a lady of the moth clans, with soft browns and creams in the subtle plaid of her skirts and the graceful drape of her short cape. She said, “We are off course.”

  “We’re lost?” Greta indicated a shop window with a tempting display of ribbons. “Let’s step inside and ask for directions!”

  “You have already spent your entire allowance. And lightened my own purse.” Lulu steered her away from the trove of satin and grosgrain. “More to the point, we are not lost.”

  They took a turning onto another busy thoroughfare, and Lulu kept them striding purposefully. Greta cast longing looks into shops, but she could tell that her mentor was done indulging her.

  “How do you know the way?” asked Greta.

  “I studied maps.” Lulu spared her a glance and softened her voice. “I wish I could do more, but at least I can see you safely to your new appointment. Canarian and Catalan are good boys. They’ll do what’s necessary without asking too many questions.”

  Greta chose to ignore the potentially ominous undercurrent those words carried. Her lady mistress might be changeable, but she’d parted with a whisker. “Are you sure? Cats are curious.”

  “Quite sure.” Lulu tucked her arm through Greta’s. “They don’t like questions themselves.”

  “How are they connected to Lady Evernhold?”

  “I told you.”

  Greta shook her head. She’d never been very good at digesting information. Once the words started piling up, she tended to tune them out. As if hiding from the preponderance of facts. Since she wouldn’t remember the details anyhow, why listen in the first place?

  Lulu patiently went over it again. “Canarian is Lady Himeko’s son, and Catalan belongs to Rand. They are the same age and close as brothers. Closer, even.”

  That was confusing. “Why would Lady Evernhold permit a strange kitten in her clowder?”

  “For Rand’s sake.” They turned onto a street where the buildings soared taller. “Or have you not noticed how thoroughly she dotes on her First Consort?”

  Greta knew the depths of that affection better than anyone. “But why are their sons here?”

  Lulu sighed. “They are only passing through, my darling. Your new hearth is more of a berth. These boys, they gallivant.”

  Surely this had been mentioned before. Greta knew there had been many words. Too many to hear. She’d found greater comfort in the wordless purring of Lady Evernhold’s consorts. Rand, Petros, Mnemba, Rhaymus, Chiilu—did they miss her?

  “Where have you gone to, my darling?”

  Greta whispered, “I want to go home.”

  Lulu’s expression saddened. All she could give was a repeat of assurances. “Canarian and Catalan are good boys.”

  “What if they don’t approve?”

  “Of a touch of drama? They are no stranger to scandal.” Her mentor hustled her along. “Trust me, Greta, they are the right scoundrels for this situation. The very sort you need.”

  Mademoiselles Dimityblest and Demerara

  Carriages clogged the theater district’s wide avenue, and Greta could have stayed for hours, gazing at the finery of alighting passengers. She memorized the cut and color of every coat and cape, thrilled over the clustering of flowers and the curling of feathers.

  Gemstones arrayed rings and broaches, but Greta found those disappointin
g. Empty sparkles.

  She touched her own ear, where blue and violet stones dangled. The crystals chimed sweetly, eager as ever to sing for her. Quirky little remnants. A surprisingly apt gift from the father she rarely saw and barely knew.

  He was a ward, and she had his affinity. Though not his classification.

  Greta’s mother had been a cosset of some renown, and in the feline tradition, Greta had taken her surname. And her place in Lady Evernhold’s cortege. Even though the academy had granted Greta a pinion’s classification. Even after her little hobbies had drawn the attention—and patronage—of Lulu Dimityblest.

  “My darling, we are exceedingly late.”

  Greta whispered, “Did you see the lining of that cape?”

  “The hour is half gone, Greta.” Lulu tugged at her arm. “This is not the best way to begin.”

  “Painted silk!” she exclaimed in reverent undertones.

  “Where?”

  “And that one. How many yards of tulle do you think she employed?”

  Heads together, they twittered softly over the extravagances and shook their heads over examples of poor taste or shoddy workmanship. Greta had no idea how many minutes had gone before a voice cut in.

  “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mademoiselles Dimityblest and Demerara?”

  They whirled guiltily.

  Tailored gray suit. Chartreuse vest. Velvet shoes. Peridot cuff links. Fanning feathers in the band of the hat in his hands. The gentleman’s tone was cautious, and Greta could guess why. He looked her up and down through glasses with lavender-tinted lenses, shaggy eyebrows on the rise.

  Greta rearranged her many parcels, using them as a shield.

  “Who might you be?” Lulu’s posture slowly shifted. “Canarian?”

  “None other.”

  He lowered his glasses, revealing eyes of the same deep orange as his mother’s. Mahogany hair swept away from his brow in waxed waves. “I’m widely known as Monsieur Canarian Leclerc, founding member of the acclaimed Leclerc Company. How may I be of service, ladies?”

  His smile was pure Petros, and Greta moved without hesitation, flinging herself at that fragment of familiarity. The first glimmer of home in many lonesome miles.

  Canarian caught and spun her around, graceful as a dancer. “Here now, love,” he gruffly chided. “You’ll have the world wondering how we’re acquainted.”

  But instead of pushing Greta away, he whisked her into the relative privacy of an alley, escorting her toward a staff entrance. Lulu bustled along behind, but without protest. So it seemed safe to assume that they’d reached the entrance into exile.

  “I’m sorry,” Greta mumbled. “I’m not used to humans and all their rules of propriety.”

  “Don’t apologize for courtesies I’ll welcome here and now.” So saying, he bent and brushed his lips to her brow. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re in want of my embrace.”

  Greta leaned into Canarian, who enfolded her gently. When he added light touches and a hint of a purr, teardrops formed. He and Lulu traded hasty words in an unfamiliar language, but Greta couldn’t bring herself to care. She was tired of explaining. Let them sort it out.

  “… cannot refuse. Not if I want to keep certain freedoms,” Canarian was saying. “However, I have to wonder why Mother would send us a sweetmeat she obviously cherishes.”

  “Trust,” said Lulu.

  Canarian grumbled under his breath. “Time is short, but your answers are shorter. Work with me, Lulu. What’s going on?”

  “You requested a reaver escort. Greta is a pinion.”

  His sigh was almost a hiss. “Do pardon the indelicacy, but I beg you to consider my position. Your pinion is pregnant.”

  Missing Goes Both Ways

  “Must we have this conversation here?” Lulu waved a hand at the darkening alley.

  “A thousand pardons. I’ve been inconsiderate.” Canarian set Greta at arm’s length and suggested, “We’ll save all the fussy details for later, when Cat can hear. He has a part in tonight’s performance, and I’ve arranged for a private box … if you’d care to join me?”

  “What would be the point?” Lulu demanded crisply.

  “The point?” Canarian opened the door and bowed. “Equal parts indulgence and pleasure. The Leclerc Company is here to entertain. Come one, come all!”

  Lulu stood her ground. “It would be better if I were to accompany my apprentice to her accommodations.”

  “The box is private, and I can promise deep chairs and a cushioned footstool, hot tea and cold sandwiches.” He addressed himself to Greta. “And you can get a look at our Ambrose. He shines brightest on the stage.”

  Greta drew a blank. “Who?”

  “We’re an able bunch as actors go, but Ambrose is a true master. He’s our star.” When Greta shook her head, Canarian’s face fell. “Ambrose P. Merriman, unrivaled in this or any generation. He’s gained fame and earned acclaim on three continents.”

  Into the awkward silence, Lulu asked, “What of him?”

  Canarian stroked one shaggy sideburn. “He’s the reason we requested a pinion. Mostly a formality, but it’s required, you see. Contractual obligations and proper oversight. Since we mingle so freely with humans.”

  “Your star performer is Amaranthine?” asked Lulu.

  “Not something we advertise, but yes.”

  “And he requires a pinion?” pressed the moth.

  “Ambrose has many requirements.” Canarian got them moving by the simple expedient of scooping up Greta and carrying her along an ill-lit hallway. “And frankly, we cannot travel without a reaver.”

  Lulu had followed, though she didn’t sound happy about it. “Greta isn’t here to pamper your prima donna.”

  “You misunderstand. He isn’t begging for companionship. Far from it. Ah! Here we are!” They’d reached a faded door at the end of a dingy hall. Carefully setting Greta on her feet, Canarian murmured, “Give him a chance?”

  Why did that sound like a plea for mercy?

  He opened the door onto a different world—regal with red plush and frosted by gold. In this part of the theater, stairways curved, and light glittered through crystals. The very air seemed to hum with grandeur and anticipation. Pulling aside a drape, Canarian revealed a carved door that he opened with the brass key hanging from his watch fob.

  The private box was hushed and cozy. Once they took seats, Canarian served them from the table waiting in the corner. Putting her feet up, Greta finally allowed herself to slow. Beyond the heavy velvet drapes, the swell of voices grew hazy, and she sat up a little straighter in her chair, afraid she might drift off and sleep through her first play. If only she had some needlework to occupy her hands.

  “How is mother?” Catalan inquired, coming to kneel beside her chair.

  “She is well,” Greta promised warmly. “Strong, beautiful, soon to deliver, and pleased by the prospect.”

  Lulu added, “This will be her tenth.”

  A small smile played at the corners of Canarian’s mouth. “Is she hoping for a daughter?”

  Greta giggled. “After nine sons, you have to ask?”

  “How long have you been with her?”

  “All my life. I was born into her hands. Just as my children were.”

  Canarian’s concern showed in response to her wistfulness.

  “There’s no cause for worry.” She reached out to touch his cheek, marveling over his strong resemblance to his mother. “They’re also well and strong and beautiful. They’re at academy.”

  “You miss them.”

  “More than I could have imagined.”

  He winced.

  She tweaked his nose. “You looked like your father just then.”

  “Which one?” he joked.

  Feline culture existed in matriarchies, and it wasn’t uncommon for the lady mistress of a clan to attract multiple consorts. Himeko Evernhold enjoyed the companionship of five consorts; three of them had fathered one or more of her sons.

&
nbsp; “Petros may be the kindest soul I know,” murmured Greta. “He must miss you.”

  “Missing goes both ways. As you and your children no doubt know.” Canarian’s fingers lightly touched her abdomen. “At least you’ll have this one for a while.”

  Greta really wished he was right.

  He Treads the Boards

  The curtain rose with a whisper of heavy cloth, and Canarian moved Greta’s chair closer to the railing so that she could see the full panorama.

  Theatricals weren’t something Greta associated with feline custom, let alone Amaranthine culture. She’d listened to storytellers in the song circles. And to bards and their ballads. Many clans used dance to recount great events in their history. But cats were sensualists with a passion for grooming. If pressed, Greta would have pinpointed massage as their highest art form.

  Yet counter to his culture, Canarian Evernhold was a playwright.

  Greta feared she’d disappoint him, that the words would be too many for her to follow, and she’d lose their meaning. But a man hurried onto the stage, caught up in his own troubles. And she was caught as well.

  When the curtain swung low, hiding the players as thoroughly as if sigilcraft were involved, Greta was honestly dismayed.

  “An intermission,” Canarian explained.

  She would rather have returned immediately to the story, but Greta was glad enough for such luxuries as water closets and a second pot of tea.

  “What did you make of our Ambrose?”

  “Was there an Ambrose?” Surely not. She’d have remembered a name like that.

  “The tall fellow in the red doublet,” supplied Canarian. “He plays the king.”

  Greta laughed at herself. She’d forgotten that she was meant to be watching for him.

  Lulu asked, “How many Amaranthine are in the company?”

  “All of us.” With a nod to Greta, he added, “Excepting yourself.”

  “All males?” the moth inquired.

  “You might consider it a founding principle.” Canarian frowned. “Will you remain with your apprentice, Mistress Moth?”