by Forthright
“Have we forgotten anything?” asked Canarian.
Ambrose drawled, “Surely not.”
Four trunks rested against the far wall, which seemed a bit excessive, even if they did have a fortnight’s stay ahead. In the first, she found clothes and personal items, and in the second, a generous sampling of her sewing things. However, the last two trunks baffled her. They were empty.
Finding it difficult to get comfortable in a featureless room, Greta pulled several things from the box of supplies. Soon, the desk and tabletops took on the brightness of cloth, ribbon, and trim. But how to put them to use?
Canarian said, “You should sleep.”
“Soon,” she murmured, fingering a skein of foggy blue embroidery floss.
Ambrose came to her side. “Will you sew?”
“I want to. Do you have something I can embellish?”
He extracted a clean handkerchief from an inner pocket. “Will this suffice?”
Snatching at it as she might a lifeline, Greta made her selections and retreated to the chair closest to a lamp. Soon, the only sound in the room was the rhythmic tug of her needle. Her whole being calmed, and the atmosphere warmed toward sweetness. Not quite tending, but close enough to tease.
Canarian came to sit on the arm of her chair and watched the curling feather patterns emerge under her needle. Blue and gray and green and gold. With speckled eggs to anchor each corner.
He smiled and said, “You spoil Ambrose.”
“He lets me.” She arched a brow. “Will you surrender a trifle for me to trim?”
“If you asked me to.” Canarian searched her face. “But you never have.”
Greta shook her head. “The last thing you want is orders. Besides, you have your style, and he has his. You wouldn’t enjoy my little elaborations.”
“Our Ambrose has grown increasingly splendiferous under your attentions.”
From across the room, Mister Merriman grumbled a low protest. But Greta found that she agreed. With every passing day, he gained new luster. And not only onstage. Ambrose cut a compelling figure. Ruled every room. Drew every eye. Or hers, anyhow.
Despite the conjecture and criticism of many Amaranthine, he was doing what he loved, just as she was doing what she loved. That their passions were so complementary was either the kindest of serendipities … or the keenness of foresight, for Himeko’s brother was reputed to work in mysterious ways.
Speaking of mysteries. Greta’s meandering thoughts circled back to the trunks. “Why are those empty?”
“Ah,” said Canarian, looking rather sheepish. “It was Cat’s idea.”
Shouldering the blame with grace, Catalan said, “This is one of the largest cities in this part of the country. They may not have an Amaranthine market, but there are many shops. And you’ve shown a certain fondness for visiting them.”
Canarian gazed at her over his glasses. “There will be leisure hours. Any of us would gladly escort you.”
Greta nodded cautiously. “Which costumes did you need me to change.”
“Oh, this isn’t for the company.” Canarian slipped his hand under hers. “This is for you.”
Cat added, “All we ask is that—if at all possible—you limit yourself to the space available. Two trunks. No more.”
She grasped that this was meant as a gift, and she knew she should be grateful for their generosity. But she still wasn’t clear what they expected her to fill the trunks with.
Her glance in Ambrose’s direction brought him to her other side. With an earnest air and heightening color in his cheeks, he offered two words of elucidation. “Baby things.”
Where Is the Balance?
Greta quickly learned that she did indeed have leisure hours—whole mornings and afternoons during which her presence was not required. And evenings, as well, since she was extraneous to the Leclerc Company’s long-established routines.
During most performances, Greta kept to the hotel suite, which became increasingly cluttered and colorful, thanks to her daily forays into the shops. This evening, she had Colt and Fairlee for company.
Colt coaxed for stories about her other children, so she reminisced and bragged and felt better for it. His interest was genuine, and his whickering laugh raised her spirits. Fairlee surrendered his overshirt and looked on with bashful delight as she embellished the yoke and collar with a profusion of spring flowers.
“You’re the first to ask,” she said, hoping Fairlee would start a trend.
“Except Ambrose,” countered Colt. “He’s always peacocking around, putting your work on display.”
Greta’s needle paused midway through broadcloth. “Mister Merriman never actually asks.”
“No?” Colt’s tone remained neutral. “Why have you singled him out?”
Is that what she was doing? Greta added a few more flowers before admitting, “He wants more than he asks for. And I find myself wanting to please him.”
Fairlee quietly said, “You please him.”
Colt shook his head. “I’m sure Ambrose enjoys your gifts, but what of balance?”
“Oh, he can’t reciprocate.” She laughed softly. “If he were to give me presents, that would count as courting.”
Both males gawked at her.
She began adding a cluster of rosebuds around a buttonhole.
“So you did know,” murmured Colt. “He talked to you?”
Greta appreciated their concern. “I trust him, and he’s beginning to trust me. We’ll find our balance eventually.”
Colt seemed dissatisfied, but Fairlee was smiling. “You are balanced.”
“We are?” asked Greta.
“He pleases you.”
And she pleased him. At least, that was Fairlee’s assessment.
Was it as simple as a matter of matching preference? Greta’s whole life had been ordered by others, not that she had any cause to complain. Because the one time she’d shown a preference—for sewing—her lady mistress had accommodated her. Neither of them realizing that Greta’s skill would attract Mister Merriman’s favorable opinion. And make her life easier now.
His panache pleased her. Her presents pleased him. But did it stop there?
No. At least, not for her.
His blissful expression when he handled fine silk. The concentration with which he sorted beads. Every trill that slipped out when she presented him with a garment. The commanding way he’d drawn her into a waltz. His stubborn need to dominate their connection. All the yearning he couldn’t quite hide when he spoke of her child.
Oh, yes. Mister Merriman pleased her. But as things stood, that would have to be enough.
Revealing His True Colors
By the second week of the Leclerc Company’s engagement at the Ruffin, Greta had realized that she wasn’t the true reason Catalan had booked rooms at the hotel. No, no. It was the decadence offered by the suite’s adjoining bathroom.
Every morning, she woke to the familiar sounds of an extended grooming session. The scent of bath salts. The swish and patter of water. The murmur of low voices. Usually, by the time Canarian and Catalan emerged, one or another of the crew would be tapping at the door, carrying communiques or questions. Or pushing a cartload of breakfast.
This morning was a little different.
They’d wrangled some company.
Ambrose emerged from the ensuite with flushed cheeks and towel-wrapped hair. His pants billowed loosely in the manner of many clans’ traditional attire, the cloth an uninterrupted pale coral that begged to be embroidered. The shirt was similarly uneventful. Perhaps a touch of ribbon in that same sunrise hue?
“Methinks the lady has chosen her next project,” Canarian said cheerfully.
Catalan chuckled. “May as well surrender the key to your wardrobe now, Ambrose. She won’t be satisfied until she’s added a flourish or two to all you own.”
Ambrose merely inclined his head. “Good morning, Ms. Pinion.”
“And to you, Mister Merriman.”
; “So formal,” sighed Catalan. “Too formal by far.”
Canarian pushed Ambrose to a seat on an ottoman and worked at the towel. “My fault entirely. It’s our usual way, using his pseudonym. We’re overdue for a proper introduction. Don’t you think, birdie mine?”
Greta was picking up on enough undercurrents to guess that their whole exchange was scripted. Were they bullying Ambrose into confiding more? Or creating the opening he needed?
But then Canarian stepped back, the towel in his hands.
Ambrose’s shoulders hunched, but then he cast a shy look her way. Through a curtain of still-damp hair—fine, straight, and startling in its hue.
Fussing with the shoulder-length locks, Canarian said, “Come and be introduced, Greta love.”
She slipped from the bed and Catalan held a robe for her. Once she’d knotted it, he escorted her into position before Ambrose, who lifted his palms. But she bypassed them to touch his hair.
“Oh, my,” she breathed. Then with more feeling, “You … you beauty.”
Canarian gripped the avian’s shoulders and announced, “Lord Ambrose Scatterlight hails from one of the smaller bird clans.”
Catalan nudged her with an elbow. “Care to guess which one?”
She could have, but that was hardly the most important matter at hand. Greta quickly covered Ambrose’s palms, then slid her hands into a supportive position. Leaning in to study the play of morning light and highlights through his hair, she excitedly shared, “I have several excellent crystals that would complement you perfectly. And a whole bolt of painted silk.”
His lashes fluttered. “Painted silk?”
Canarian snorted with laughter and whispered, “Told you so.”
Catalan blandly muttered, “It’s flamingo, by the way.”
Which would have been her third guess, if she’d bothered to try. But Greta was more interested in the show of trust … and the implications that came with the offering of Ambrose’s true name.
She’d resigned herself to less, yet here he was, giving more.
Much to My Surprise
Colt and Fairlee escorted Greta to the company’s final performance at the Ruffin, which left her giddy and taught her the meaning of ovation. In the aftermath, she helped Clemmorn with the gathering, cleaning, and storing of every costume. That part left her wistful, since it felt like another kind of goodbye.
Before returning to the train, she fulfilled her duty as Ambrose’s pinion by tagging along to an appointment with the local newspaper. She felt bad about the whole thing. Why had no one warned her? When nervous, he came off so haughty. Mercifully, Canarian was there and did most of the talking. Even she said more than Ambrose. Although in parting, the reporter complimented the illustrious Mister Merriman’s hatband. And earned a genuine smile.
A day and a night were needed to move everything back onto the Cat’s Canary, but they had to wait for an opening in the railway schedule before they could move along. And into this lull came a restless sort of doubting.
What awaited her at that final station?
She didn’t want their journey to end.
More than anything, she dreaded another goodbye. And sticking to reaver etiquette was far from comforting. Maybe it was more polite to await, await, await. But she was fairly certain that Ambrose was like his friend Canarian. He’s the sort of person who will try to understand.
So she spoke first.
“We get along, don’t we, Mister Merriman?”
“Much to my surprise.”
“Will you hear me out?”
Ambrose stopped poking through a pile of mismatched buttons. “As you like, Ms. Pinion.”
“I’ve been through this twice before, but never alone.”
He studied his claws. “You’re not alone.”
“Not entirely,” she conceded. “But something is lacking. I lack something I think I need.”
“I can understand instinct.”
“Maybe that’s it.” Greta shook her head. “I don’t really know.”
Ambrose said, “Canary and Cat will devote themselves to you.”
Greta wished that was the case, but she knew better. “They’re devoted to each other. And I won’t impose on them. They don’t want the kind of obligation that I represent.”
She winced at her own words. He had to realize by now that she hoped to impose on him.
Yet he sat quietly, studied closely. At least he was willing to listen.
“I don’t think I can ….” Greta’s voice wavered. “I don’t want to be alone during the months that may be the last in my life.”
“You’re not alone.” Then more quietly, so carefully, Ambrose said, “You are my pinion.”
“I’m not a pinion any more than you’re a king or a scoundrel or a dragon lord.” Greta needed him to understand what she needed most. “That’s what I do, not who I am.”
“Understood.” Ambrose tipped his head to one side. Then the other. “That part of our tale has ended. There is only me, and I am willing. What do you need?”
“Somewhere to go at the end of the line. Something to do.” She found the courage to ask, “Please, Mister Merriman, let me be your seamstress.”
He touched the back of her clenched fist with a single finger. “Face this fully. I am no more Mister Merriman than you are Ms. Pinion. Ambrose will do.”
Greta managed a nod.
“And I think perhaps you have more concerns than facts. These rails have their limits, but their end doesn’t necessitate ours. Cat’s Canary is Leclerc Company’s home. All of us are here because we have no other place to be.” Ambrose hesitated, then firmly spoke four simple words. “We will continue together.”
“Aren’t we going somewhere?”
“Usually.” Ambrose shook his head. “But bookings are temporary.”
She wondered why she’d been so certain there was a destination.
“We make stops at stations to bring in supplies and to lend credence to our identity within human society. We stop, but we never stay for long.” His gestures were tight, succinct, utterly confident. “I have it on good authority that you are universally adored by members of the Leclerc Company. And Canary and Cat would fight to keep you.”
“The company’s cosset.”
He countered, “The mother of their child.”
Greta giggled miserably. Either way, she was only valued for containing something desirable. A soul. A baby.
“An uncle was mentioned,” Ambrose added. “Would he really have been sent to do you harm?”
“Uncle?” She thought for sure she’d missed something. “You’ve heard from Canarian’s uncle? No, no. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t!”
“Cat has gone hissy and wants to jump rails. Or reverse course. Canary hasn’t asked you about warding the train against strangers?”
“No?” At least, she didn’t think so.
“All that aside.” Ambrose lay a second and third finger on the back of her hand, then slowly covered it with his own. “I wonder if it’s the wisest course, taking on a seamstress.”
“But … you love the things I make.”
“With increasing regard.” His hand tightened around hers. “But do you truly want employment? Ply my instincts even a little further, and we shall neither of us lack for any good thing.”
Greta got a little stranded in his wording, which was too roundabout by far. She asked, “You want more presents?”
“I would not refuse them. However, I will begin looking for ways to match your generosity.” Scanning the stuff before him, he plucked up a trifle and held it out. “Here. A token of my affection.”
This was a strange game. “It’s a button.”
“It’s a gift.” His smile was small and smug.
Greta’s heart began to beat faster. “I thought gifts incurred certain obligations.”
“They do.”
“What kind of commitment does one little pink button signify?”
Ambrose joined her in contempl
ating its delicate perfection. “The only kind I know how to give.”
No Room for Doubt
“I am quite serious,” Ambrose said awkwardly.
Greta slowly adjusted her posture into something nearing receptivity, but he was getting enough mixed messages to muddy the waters. Afraid to hope. Resigned to end. Willing to doubt.
So he circled the table and dropped to one knee. Raising a hand in a command for attention he said, “Did you know that in all of Canary’s plays, the happy ending comes as a surprise, even though all the necessary elements have been there the entire time?”
Her surprise melted into amusement. “You told me before. Is this the part where you discover that you have been the hero all along?”
Ambrose inclined his head. “Much to my surprise.”
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”
“Very little can proceed if you are not amenable to my proposal.” He tentatively admitted, “I could have put more thought into a gift.”
Greta quickly closed her fingers over the button and held it to her heart. “I like it.”
“And me?”
The nod was hardly more than a twitch. “But I might not live. And … I’m going to die.”
Which was not a rebuff. Token protests at best.
“I am aware,” he assured. “I am willing.”
“Ambrose, I don’t want you to be sad.”
Her concerns were for him? “Then make me happy.”
The notion seemed to intrigue her. “Could I?” she asked, meaning it.
What simplicity.
So he took her hands and promised to hold them. He kissed her fingertips and begged for future finery. He touched her hair and confessed his fascination He told her the color of his blaze and guided her fingers to its place
And when she gazed at him with eyes that were wide and dark and willing, he made the vows that granted this human woman the shelter of his wings and the splendors of his nest. Her sweetness made him tremble. Her trust was his elation. Her only question broke his heart.
“What if it ends poorly?”
Ambrose, whose faith in every story was many centuries stronger, countered, “What if it never ends?”