Governed by Whimsy (Songs of the Amaranthine Book 4)

by Forthright

  “If you don’t want it, simply give it back to her.”

  Ambrose hesitated.

  Understanding dawned, and Canary burst out laughing. “You like that little bauble.”

  Face heating, he murmured, “I cannot deny its attractive qualities.”

  “Oh, birdie mine. So you keep it. That would mean … what? That you’re under some obligation to pursue her?”

  Ambrose slowly shook his head. “According to the dictates of tradition, she would be courting me.”

  “But she isn’t.”

  He wished he could explain away the gift as easily. But Greta’s words had been so close to those traditionally offered. And he knew that by not-refusing, he was accepting her advances. He’d also be interpreting any future gestures as preludes to greater intimacies.

  Canary stood and took Ambrose by the shoulders, every trace of humor gone. “This really bothers you.”

  He nodded once.

  “Then we’ll have it all out. Come to our compartment this evening. Bring Greta’s gift and allow her to establish her intentions and your attendant obligations. Say it plainly. And if you’re polite about it, she’ll probably even let you keep your prize.”

  He nodded again.

  “And I insist again that you join me and Cat. We all need a long rest.”

  “Thank you.”

  Canary bussed his cheek. “You’re being silly, but I like your nobility. Maybe this would make a good plot for a play.”

  “I thought our next thing was decided. Didn’t you want to do a story inspired by Bethiel’s lore?”

  “Maybe I can do both.” His friend took the position for a dance, and he led Ambrose through the opening steps. Eyes sparkling, Canary accused, “You’re always giving me the best ideas.”

  I’ll Take the Settee

  The Cat’s Canary was in motion, and the familiar clatter and sway provided a backdrop to Ambrose’s solitary meal. The appointed hour had come and gone, and he was still closeted in his private carriage. Dithering over his decision. Wallowing in his solitude.

  On stage, he was as bold as Canary asked him to be. It was so much more difficult without a script. How should he proceed? Could he keep to both his pride and his preferences? Which consequences would he face? What choice did he have?

  In the end, all he really wanted was his nestmate, even though Canary’s companionship now came with a condition. Ambrose needed to make peace with the reaver.

  Slipping the woman’s gift into his vest pocket, he let himself out his back door. Twilight had deepened into a starlit darkness that carried the scent of smoke and seawater. But there was light enough to see that his needs had been given priority. During the grand shuffle, his friends had placed their carriage directly behind his.

  Closer than ever.

  Kind as always.

  Gathering his resolve, Ambrose knocked.

  Three dull heartbeats later, the door opened, and he was gawking at Greta, who’d abandoned anything resembling proper women’s attire. A colorful kimono clung to her curves. Below, she wore a reaver’s breeches, although the sturdy cloth had been bleached to a soft gold and embroidered with an extravagance of coral flowers and twining vines. Beaded slippers gleamed in the soft pink light of Cat’s favorite lantern.

  “Ms. Pinion,” he managed, unsure where to look.

  She hushed him with a finger to his lips. “They started without you.”

  “I’ll just ….” Ambrose edged backward, ready with excuses, but her hand at his wrist waylaid him.

  “Inside. You can still join.” With tugging and tutting, prising and pushing, she had him through the door, which she warded behind him. “Trains are surprisingly drafty,” she murmured. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find. Probably something more compromising. But both of his friends had retreated behind the folding screen that hid their bed. And the woman had clearly been seated in the green velvet chair nearest the stove. Padding across the thick tapestry rug, she returned to her post, propped her feet on a cushioned stool, and scooped up a length of cloth caught in an embroidery hoop. Evidence that she wore her own workmanship.

  “Here you are.” Canary came out from behind the painted screen, tying the sash of a robe that was probably modest by feline standards. “Welcome. Cat’s keeping the bed warm for us.”

  Ambrose’s attention jumped to the woman, who seemed comfortable despite her host’s dishabille.

  “You’re late.” Canary’s voice held a subtle roughness, and his eyes were heavy-lidded. “Lovely, yes?”

  He could only offer a bewildered shrug.

  “If you mean me,” interjected Greta, “I have him on the wrong side of a couple of wards. Mister Merriman isn’t privy to your tending experience.”

  Canary’s smile showed actual fondness. For this female. He murmured, “Very considerate. What do you say, Ambrose? Her tending will relax you, or Cat and I could groom you.”

  Ambrose blushed. “I only intended to speak with her.”

  “Ah, so you did. Very good. Have at it, and have it done.” Canary kissed his forehead and whispered, “Your usual spot awaits, birdie mine.”

  “Perhaps,” he murmured, even as he shook his head. “For now, I’ll take the settee.”

  Give Him His Due

  Greta watched out of the corner of her eye while Canarian shook out blankets and built a nest for an auburn-haired Ambrose. The company’s star actor seemed to accept this treatment as his due. He folded his lean frame into the available space and leaned into the little touches his friend lavished.

  Although she knew almost nothing about avian behavior, Greta could tell that Canarian’s fussing was different than the interaction between feline consorts. Which likely meant that he was catering to his friend’s preferences.

  This was the real cat and canary. A smile curved Greta’s lips. She had no idea if there was a canary clan somewhere in the world, but it would be more than appropriate if they were Ambrose’s people.

  Their camaraderie stirred her curiosity.

  She wondered how they’d met. She wanted to ask how long they’d been friends. But her training held true. Greta could not intrude upon this moment, even as she encouraged others to linger in it. A good cosset offered ease and elation, sweetness and strength. Her greatest asset was her presence, yet it was considered bad etiquette to call attention to it.

  Await—that was the first rule. Let the Amaranthine initiate.

  Greta knew why she was exceptional. She had good breeding, excellent patronage, and the kind of confidence that comes from the constant application of one’s skills. Daughter to a diva. Raised among consorts. Ever since her mother’s passing, Greta had been her lady mistress’s treasure. Which had led to one indulgence after another.

  School, even though textbooks couldn’t add luster to a soul.

  Tutelage, since Greta found so much happiness in her little hobby.

  Allowance, which never seemed to be enough, despite Lady Himeko’s generosity.

  Mentoring, because the consorts had unanimously supported her apprenticeship to Lulu.

  Contracts, for Greta was from a long line of cossets, and lines needed continuing.

  Forgiveness.

  “Greta?”

  She looked up from her sewing and smiled for Canarian.

  He said, “I’d like your professional opinion. Does our Ambrose need tending?”

  “For shame,” she gently chided. “Only he can say for certain what he needs, and those needs are not open for discussion.”

  “You would do him so much good,” he insisted.

  She could, but not unless Mister Merriman wanted the heartening. Greta knew the look and feel of trust, and she didn’t have his. “Thank you, Canarian. Go to Catalan.”

  He hesitated, clearly torn.

  Ambrose touched his shoulder and echoed her order. “Go to Cat. And leave room for me.”

  Canarian brightened and touched their
foreheads together. Greta couldn’t hear what he whispered, but she didn’t need words to understand people. Already attuned to Canarian and Catalan, she had no trouble picking up on their feelings. They loved their Ambrose with typical feline ferocity.

  It made her miss home. In a sense, it made her love Ambrose a little bit, too. Which actually meant that she loved Canarian and Catalan. Their trust was becoming hers. Could it work the other way?

  Pausing beside the screen, Canarian said, “Please, Greta love. Just like before would be perfect.”

  “My pleasure,” she assured.

  “Ours entirely,” he returned with a grateful gesture.

  Greta liked this part of tending, when she reigned over a space, filling it with peace and pleasure. Everything settled until the only sounds were the silken rasp of thread through cloth, the muted crackle of the fire within the enamel stove, and the low murmur of Canarian’s voice as he coaxed his partner through the stages for a long sleep.

  These Amaranthine were far too accustomed to getting by with little naps here and there, forcing their bodies into a semblance of humanity. Even though their needs were so different. They were meant for deep rest. To give themselves over to oblivion in a haven made safe by friend or by kin.

  Tonight, Greta was their safety. And she knew many a way to ensure their sleep was sweet.

  Soft rustles and sighs gave way to a deep purr, and Greta shared Canarian’s satisfaction. All was as it should be, and he’d soon follow his bedmate into slumber. She gave a little more, letting power sway over them in time to the rhythm of the rails that were their road.

  A soft gasp recalled her to the state of her wards.

  In the soft glow of the lamp with its rose-colored glass, Ambrose Merriman’s eyes were wide and dark … and willing.

  Oh, You Can Tell

  Greta blurted, “Are you ready, Mister Merriman?”

  It was only a tiny breach of etiquette. He should have been the first to speak, but she wouldn’t make him ask. Otherwise, he wouldn’t take the strength he needed. Not because he was disinclined. At least, that’s the impression he gave. She might understand better if he let her in.

  He was resisting her, though. Like a child fighting sleep. So silly.

  Setting aside her embroidery, she asked, “May I approach?”

  He didn’t answer, but he didn’t deny her request.

  Picking up her footstool, she set it beside the settee, sat, and presented her hands. “May I touch, Mister Merriman?”

  “Is that necessary?” he muttered.

  “No. But it would allow me to sense your responses more quickly. Then I can tune my tending to your wishes without any need for words.”

  He didn’t hesitate for long. Few did. Few could. So Greta was in familiar territory, and when Ambrose Merriman placed his hands in hers, she was ready to guide him.

  “Too much?” she asked softly.

  For a moment, his mouth opened, but no sound came. He shook his head.

  “More, then?”

  “Is that wise?” he asked in a voice gone husky.

  “I think it would be best.” She sought his gaze and nodded once. “You can trust me, Mister Merriman. This is what I do. It’s part of my birthright as a reaver.”

  He looked away. “Your duty and delight?”

  “This isn’t duty, Mister Merriman.” She let another ward slip, and he sucked in a startled breath. “This is trust.”

  How long had it been? Several years, now. Ambrose hadn’t gone in for tending since leaving Europe. With the necessity of taking on reaver escorts, there had always been access. He was aware that Canary partook, as did Cat. But up until now, the reavers assigned to them had been bland things. They never stayed long, and none of them had inspired interest. Let alone trust.

  Up until now.

  It was mortifying to be so thoroughly drawn in. What had Canary said of the crew? Smitten. Ambrose could see why. It had nothing to do with Ms. Pinion being female. In his experience, a soul was a soul was a soul, regardless of the gender of the body in which it resided. The attraction wasn’t physical, yet the desire to be closer took hold with surprising strength.

  He forced his eyes open, needing to assure himself that he hadn’t reached out. “Wait,” he whispered.

  Greta’s presence immediately dwindled. She was retreating, and he hadn’t meant for that.

  “Wait,” he begged again, feeling foolish and awkward and … yes, still mortified.

  “What is it, Mister Merriman?”

  “Let me do it.” He needed to control the pace, rather than be swept into hers. “I want to do this my own way.”

  “My pleasure.”

  And her trust was entirely his. She left herself wide open, a pool of patience, utterly passive. He tested the fringes of her reservoir, a cautious mingling of souls. She welcomed him, warmed him. Impressed him.

  Slowly, carefully, he let her surround him. And it was exquisite.

  A shared intimacy that whispered secrets. His to her. Hers to him.

  “You are with child?”

  Her eyes opened—too quickly, too wide. “Oh, you can tell? Yes, I am. These are early days, so it’s not obvious yet. Unless I’m tending. Canarian could tell right away, though. Scent.”

  She was flustered. He could feel her discomfiture.

  “Are you bothered?” she asked. “I may be able to use a ward ….”

  “No,” he interrupted. “Not bothered. But I feel like an intruder in another’s nest. Surely your mate wouldn’t approve.”

  “I am bondless, Mister Merriman.”

  How sad. He’d overheard remarks. Enough to know that this was the reaver way. It wasn’t as if he disapproved. Their way was as different as his was from Canary’s. But the reaver way had always sounded so … lonely.

  Was she lonely? He shouldn’t infringe upon her simply to satisfy his curiosity. But there was a strain of sadness in her soul’s song, and it called to him.

  Ambrose didn’t remember moving. But when Ms. Pinion’s hands gently covered his, he was touching silk. Perched on the edge of the settee, his long legs on either side of her, he’d pressed his hands to her midriff.

  “Are you curious about my child, Mister Merriman?”

  He tried to pull away, but she didn’t let him.

  “It’s all right. I’m glad.” Even her smile was sad. “Every life is precious … right?”

  Ambrose tried to fathom this nestling’s future. “The other parent,” he ventured. “You did not love him?”

  She laughed softly, and a tear slipped down her cheek. “I’m sure I love him very much.”

  My Shoes Are Missing

  Ambrose woke slowly, drenched in a pleasant sense of satiation and safety. The train had stopped, but a steady vibration remained. Purring. Fingers stroked through his hair, and he angled his head appreciatively. His friends were always stealing his wigs and hairpins, and Ambrose secretly hoped they’d never stop.

  With a low trill, he stirred.

  Cat’s calm gaze and soft kiss welcomed him home.

  “I fell asleep,” Ambrose croaked.

  “You slept for days.”

  He glanced around, still muzzy. Canary’s favorite lamp cast the whole room in its usual rosy glow, and with drapes pulled, he couldn’t guess at time.

  “It’s just us.” Cat’s smile was completely relaxed. “We needed the respite, you more than anyone. You outslept the entire company.”

  “How long was I deep?”

  “Five days.” Anticipating his next question, Canary said, “We’ve arrived, and we’ll stay put for at least a week. In part because some of us have kin in the area. But also because this city has an Amaranthine market, and the costume department is pleading for high-quality fabrics.”

  Ambrose wouldn’t complain if their tailor brought in Dimityblest wares. The more bolts, the better. Nothing compared.

  “Any requests?”

  “A blue suit. Not navy, but not cobalt. Pacific, I think.
” He rolled onto his back, folding his hands across his stomach. “Mmm … and scarves trimmed in tassels. Or beads. Canary will have me in turbans for the next role.”

  Cat propped himself up on one arm and grinned down at him. “I meant breakfast. What are you hungry for?”

  Ambrose thrust aside his disappointment with a sigh and admitted, “Everything.”

  “Here or there?”

  He stretched languorously before deciding. “Have the trays brought to my compartment.”

  Ambrose poked his head out of the cats’ compartment when he heard a familiar footfall. Balancing two laden trays, Canary mounted the stairs to the platform between their train cars.

  “You changed your mind?” asked Canary. “Where do you want breakfast?”

  “I wish to return home.”

  Bemused, he said, “You’ve long legs. It’s what … three strides?”

  Opening the door further and waving a hand at his feet, Ambrose explained, “My shoes are missing.”

  Canary clearly didn’t see the problem. “Afraid to sully your stockings? No one will notice if you skim across. Get the door for me?”

  Ambrose hastened to comply, and he did keep the soles of his feet a fingerbreadth above weathered boards. “I’m not being fussy.”

  “You embody fussy.” Canary’s tone was entirely fond. “It’s an endearing quality, birdie mine.”

  “But my shoes …!”

  “They’ll turn up. And if they don’t, we have a few days. Buy more.”

  “My proportions require specialty craftsmanship. And fittings.” Which was as close as Ambrose would come to admitting he had big feet.

  “Aren’t those yours?” Canary asked, nodding toward the narrow bed.

  Ambrose’s missing shoes rested upon the coverlet. Alongside a second pair of footwear. He stole cautiously closer, unsettled by the idea that someone had invaded his nest. But a bright trill slipped from his throat as he picked up one of the new shoes.

  Soft soles, supple sides. He strongly suspected they’d been shaped from calfskin. However, it was the extravagant embellishments that stole his heart. Row upon row of ribbon and beads created lustrous patterns in pale greens, delicate yellows, and soft blues. The very kind of extravagance that he both craved and could not have. Yet here they were—long, narrow, and tapering to elegant points.