Heart Dance

by Robin D. Owens

  Have not decided if you good FamMan.

  Gaze fixed on the box in the cat’s mouth, Saille bowed. “I am Saille Willow. Please stay as my guest.”

  The yellow eyes, pupils large since the cat was near the previouslyunknown Fam door and the night, narrowed. I would accepta heated pad under the couch.

  “Done!”

  Cat door never to be spell locked.

  “Of course not.”

  Yes, Saille definitely cared that he got his HeartGift back. The cat could demand its skinny weight in gold, and Saille would pay. He tried a casual question. “Only myself and my HeartMate should be able to see my HeartGift.”

  You not Cats who fight to live.

  “Very true.” Now that he was regaining strength, Saille visualizeda heat pad kept in one of his bedroom closets. His MotherDamhad been susceptible to the winter cold. He activated it and ’ported it down from the closet shelf to under the couch, near the wall. It was too large and stuck out. He shrugged, too bad.

  Warily, the cat glided over and sniffed. Wrinkled his nose, dropped the HeartGift to stick out and curl his tongue. Smells bad.

  Bracing himself on the corner of his desk, Saille gestured and muttered another deep cleansing spell for the pad. It rolled and unrolled, flipped over and did the same.

  Saille said, “Come to me.” His HeartGift smacked into his open hand with enough force to leave an outline. Clenching his jaw, he drained his Flair for one last shielding spell. Then he leaned against the desk and fumbled the box with the swatch of red fabric sticking out into the embroidered red silkeen pouch. He dared not open the box to tuck the bit of fabric inside.

  The cat had disappeared under the couch, and a low purr rolled from there. Slowly walking to the small door, Saille set one hand against the wall, bent down and flipped the panel closed. When he looked to the couch, he could only see glowing yellow eyes.

  “Welcome to T’Willow Residence.”

  The eyes dipped as if the cat had inclined its head.

  “What should I call you?”

  After a few seconds of silence, the cat said, For now, you may call Me “Cat.”

  “Until you decide whether you want to be my Fam.”

  “Yessss.”

  “Fine.” He cleared his throat. “I will be sleeping on that sofa tonight.”

  Cat growled. Saille couldn’t even shrug. Gauging the distancebetween the wall that held him up and the couch, he figuredhe could make it before he collapsed.

  He did and closed his eyes, and once again darkness swirled him around and around as if he was on his own potter’s wheel. Before he spun into sleep, he thought that it had been a very eventful day.

  Dufleur awoke as the climax shuddered through her. She lay gasping. She hadn’t felt so well pleasured since she’d sufferedthrough her Third Passage a few months ago. When she’d reached for her HeartMate and he’d come eagerly to her arms. As he had tonight.

  The icy gleam of twinmoons’ light from frost-rimed windowsset high in the room patterned on her threadbare rug. But she was hot, hot, gilded with the sweat of passion. She glanced down at Fairyfoot, who snored gently at the end of her bed. Still asleep, good.

  Throwing the covers back, she shuddered as cool air met her overheated skin. She hurried to the small bathroom, murmured a spell light, and stripped off her long nightgown, putting it in the cleanser. With a wave of her hand, she started the waterfall flowing over the rock ledge and stepped under it only to find her skin so sensitized by his hands that another climax rippled through her. She propped herself up in the corner of the stall and directed the spray at herself, cooling the water, too.

  He was coming closer.

  She’d had his HeartGift in her possession twice.

  Fairyfoot was on his side.

  Dufleur’s mouth flattened. She had no talent for relationships.Hadn’t she and her mother argued as usual after dinner?

  She didn’t want a man in her life. She’d had no time for him when she’d been working at Dandelion Silk and experimenting in the mornings and evenings. Now with this new life pressed upon her, changing her routine, demanding efforts from her that she didn’t know she could provide, she still didn’t want a man. He would only complicate her life further.

  She felt his determination to have her.

  Trouble loomed.

  Seven

  As soon as Dufleur woke the next morning, a fine excitementfizzed in her veins, and clutched her stomach, as if she’d been successful in experiments the night before. When she realizedthat she was still at a standstill with an edge of fear associatedwith her work, her mood dimmed. Yet, she recalled what had pleased and jittered her so. She was going to show her embroideryto AppleHeir, who owned Enlli Gallery, this morning. The Apples were the premier artists of Celta.

  Hopping from bed, she went to the small niche that held the minimal kitchen, a hot-square and no-time food storage. She pulled out crunch biscuits in warm milk for herself. When Fairyfoot padded in, Dufleur set down a meal specially prepared for her according to a recipe of Danith D’Ash’s. And the thought of D’Ash led to T’Ash, whom she’d also see today. Fairyfoot would expect an expensive collar. Dufleur’s spirits dampened even more. “Good morning,” she said stiltedly to Fairyfoot, still irritated about the HeartGift and the suspicion she hadn’t seen the last of it.

  Good morning! Fairyfoot replied cheerily, even adding a trilling purr. We go get My collar today.

  “I know.”

  Dufleur ate, then smoothed her bedsponge linens and dress. She glanced at a table stacked with her pieces. She had plenty to show Apple for the Enlli Gallery, about twenty items. Her nerves shivered. Could they possibly be good enough to sell as art?

  Last night when she’d told Dringal about Enlli Gallery, her mother had been wide-eyed. She’d filled Dufleur’s arms with the gifts Dufleur had made for her with such haste that Dufleur knew they meant little to her . . . or Dringal preferred the gilt they’d bring, more.

  You will make much gilt this day from Quert Apple, then I will have My collar.

  She wasn’t about to spend a great deal of gilt, should she ever get it, on a Fam collar. She looked at Fairyfoot, who, despiteeverything, was a beloved but not very pretty cat. A simple collar would suit her best. Dufleur had the idea that Fairyfoot didn’t believe so.

  I will take My toy to show Apple, too, Fairyfoot said. But he cannot have to sell because it is Mine, Mine, Mine, Mine, Mine, Mine.

  Six “mines” was as good as a vow from a cat.

  Dufleur blinked at the stuffed oblong bit of gray cloth that had originally been a mousekin for Fairyfoot. The ears and tail were all gone. The fabric was nubby and snagged, with a couple of bits gone, showing the padding.

  She’d just finished carefully bundling the pieces in various bags and tubes when the door knocker rapped loudly. Hurrying from her rooms, she closed the door, her glance lingering on the wall to the secret room. She hadn’t even spent a septhour there in the last day, for the first time in months.

  The Holly footman-bodyguard waited just inside the main door. He took a couple of her light bags then opened the door for her.

  Sucking her breath against the slamming cold, Dufleur walked carefully out onto the stoop. To her surprise, it and the stairs were perfectly clear and dry of the soft snow that draped the bushes around her. Either her mother or D’Winterberry had used precious household energy to ensure the safety of the steps.

  The footman lifted the glider door, where an elegant Passiflora Holly sat, again in her faux fox fur. She said, “Merry meet.” Her eyes gleamed.

  Fairyfoot shot into the car and onto her lap, smiled up at her with a kitty grin. Merry meet.

  Passiflora laughed, stroked the cat.

  “Merry meet,” said Dufleur, sliding onto the warm dark green leather seats piped in red, gratefully breathing air that didn’t freeze in her nose. She kept an eye on the footman stowingher embroidery in the back cache of the glider.

  “My brother awaits
us at the gallery.” With easy charm, Passiflora kept the conversation light during the trip. When they reached the place, Dufleur saw that it wasn’t open for business, but lights were on. As they left the glider, the last of the pearly gray clouds parted from the sun, turning the day bright. The gallery’s roof was bespelled glass, so there would be plenty of natural light to view her work. Good. She hoped.

  She studied the building. It was so new that Dufleur blinked. The winds of time eddied around it more than usual— accustomed to sweeping over bare land. She received no impressionfrom the building, let alone any hint of sentience. Though there was a faint sense that the Apples had made a HouseHeart in the place, unusual for a business, but these were the artistic Apples.

  Passiflora swept into the gallery, with a smile and thanks to the footman and a comment that he and the driver should visit the staff lounge for pastries and caff. Dufleur’s mouth watered as if she hadn’t had any breakfast at all. But when Quert Holly walked toward them and her abdomen tightened, she was glad she hadn’t just eaten.

  He was a large and handsome man with features just beginningto soften with age. He had hair several shades blonder than his sister’s bronze and the same turquoise eyes. His smile was warm, but his serious gaze told Dufleur he was reserving judgmentuntil he saw her work. Fair enough. But it didn’t make her any less jittery.

  Passiflora introduced them and GreatSir Apple bent over Dufleur’s hand. She managed to remain gracious as though they both didn’t notice the much-mended cuffs of her coat. She should definitely have spent gilt on a new winter coat instead of another couple of scientific gauges.

  Fairyfoot mewed politely.

  “Greetyou, Fam,” Apple said, then led them to a large, white, empty room with interesting angles. “This space should be excellent for soft art. Let’s see what you have.” He gestured to a long, narrow table, also white. With a Word he cleansed his hands. Dufleur and Passiflora did the same, then they began unwrappingand placing the pieces—everything from slippers to the flat hat to framed panels Dufleur had given her mother— onto the table. The last item was the Dandelion Silk box holdingD’Willow’s pale green, shot-silk robe, embroidered with twenty other shades of green.

  When they were done, Apple stepped back, set his hand on his hip. Dufleur gripped her hands together, watching him scan the work. She frowned at the line of pieces her mother had given her. There was every Nameday and New Year’s present she’d given her mother for the last few years. They’d been in storage and escaped the fire.

  Except the panel of a winterberry bush, bright red berries showing against a snowy hill. Dringal had kept that. Dufleur swallowed.

  But Apple was walking down the line, hands clasped behind his back. Before he was halfway down he turned on his heel and said, “Yes.”

  “Yes?” squeaked Dufleur.

  “Yessss!” hissed Fairyfoot, gamboling about the room.

  “Yes. I’ll take them all. I’ll buy them outright, or you can sell them through the gallery, and I’ll charge a twenty-eight percent commission.”

  “Outrageous! No more than fifteen percent,” huffed Passiflora, now free of her thick coat. She wore a patterned cream-coloreddamask tunic and trous accented with black and turquoise frogs and stood toe-to-toe with her brother.

  Apple grunted. “Twenty-six percent.”

  “Eighteen.” Passiflora slanted a look at Dufleur. “You need an agent, dear. A shark.”

  “You’re doing fine, Passiflora,” Dufleur said, her voice still high. She hated bargaining.

  Showing her teeth, Passiflora narrowed her eyes as she looked up at him. While Dufleur found a bench and wilted onto it, there was a flurry of offers and counteroffers. They finally settled at a twenty percent commission, with Apple buying twenty-five percentof the pieces up front—and transferring more gilt than Dufleur had made in the past five years into her bank account.

  Apple kissed Passiflora’s hand, then Dufleur’s. He nodded to Fairyfoot who sat proudly next to Dufleur’s feet. With a wave of his hand, Willow’s robe lifted to a wall, spread and centered itself.Apple went over to make adjustments, and Passiflora joined Dufleur.

  “So much,” Dufleur whispered.

  “I told you so,” Passiflora gloated. “Quert Junior, Dufleur needs caff.”

  “No drinks in the gallery rooms.”

  “Oh.”

  “Particularly near this wonderful art.” He studied Dufleur, frowning. “Why haven’t we heard of you before? You’ve, what, gone through your Third Passage?”

  She sat straight. “Yes. Embroidery is my creative Flair, not my inherent Family Flair,” Dufleur said, though she set the Time Wind in some of her stitches.

  He glanced at her, then back at the robe. “Necessity can refine any Flair.” He swept his hand a centimeter above her work. “Exquisite. I’ve never seen such a pattern, such combination of three-dimensional stitches and color, yet with a vibrancy that makes this true art.” He turned to her, his expression fierce. “Your art now belongs to me.” He poked a finger at her. “You do not make slippers, or flat hats, or, Lord and Lady forbid, cat toys.” He looked down at Fairyfoot’s scruffy mouse, then back up at Dufleur. “I want tapestries. You go home and block out several in different sizes.” Jerking his head at the wide space where the robe was centered, he said, “I want a large piece to fill the width of that wall.”

  Her mouth dropped, she searched for words. “But that will take me years!” And more Flair than she wanted to spend on her embroidery, Flair that should be used for her time experiments.

  He frowned. “Don’t you get a yearly NobleGilt? Surely you’re an Heir?” He waved, “and you’re definitely talented.”

  “I receive the minimum NobleGilt as ThymeHeir,” she said.

  Snorting, he said, “Then I’ll tell them to raise it to FirstFamilyGrandHouse levels.” He raised a hand at her strangled gasp. “That’s what you’re worth.”

  She swallowed, then brought out a carefully protected tube. It had lived in her closet for some time.

  For months after her father’s accident she couldn’t face a laboratory, and she siphoned all her rage and grief into her creativeFlair . . . mundane objects for Dandelion Silk and this piece. A visual journal of her grief.

  She carefully unrolled the tapestry of the time landscape she’d visited after her father’s death. The grayness shading to distant hills under a darker gray sky that shifted to silver at the top. The two bonfires shooting red flames and smoke. Her chest tightened, and she looked away from it, left it in Apple’s grasp.

  He stared. “Magnificent,” he whispered. “I’ve never seen anything like this, the varying textures to create the tiniest shadows,” he lifted his hands as if to touch, fisted his fingers, “the shades of gray.” He grinned. “It’s like the finest painting. You’ll challenge T’Apple, and that will be good for him. He hasn’t had such an artist to duel with in decades. Wait til I bring him down to the gallery this afternoon.” With a huge wave of his arm, all her pieces were hung.

  She blinked, staggered back a step or two, swiveled her head. Every placement was perfect, the robe a statement of greens on green on the white wall, her most colorful work displayedin fabulous light. Curtseying low to GrandSir Apple, she said, “Thank you.”

  A big grin spread across his face, lit his eyes. “Your pieces will sell very, very well. My pleasure.” Once again he rubbed his hands. “We’ll have a special opening for this show itself. Introducethe new gallery and a new artist at the same time.” He frowned. “I want it soon. Next week. Passiflora, my assistant will contact you to consult on the best date and time. There will be food and liquor of course, in the reception area.” He took Dufleur’s hand and bowed low over it, kissing it with great charm, and all the while Dufleur thought he did it absently, his mind already on business.

  Her work art! And her on display as an artist. Scary. But wonderful. But so bittersweet. She wanted to be known for her true Flair, her Thyme Flair. Her Time Flair.

&nbs
p; As she stepped back into the glider with Passiflora and Fairyfoot, Dufleur was still shaken at the amount of gilt she now had in her account. Her mind spun with calculations. If her art sold well, she might manage to build a laboratory on the bit of land she’d inherited in the country come spring. So she was equally quiet on the ride to T’Ash’s Residence as she had been to the gallery.

  Fairyfoot made up for her silence, talking all the way, projectingloud thoughts that Passiflora could also hear, or making excited cat noises. Then there was the whisker twitching, tail flicking, pacing along their laps and the backseat of the glider, hopping down to the wide space of the glider floor and prancing. All her comments revolved around what sort of jewels she wanted on her FamCat collar.

  Finally Passiflora said, “It’s always been my understanding that a FamCat gets what she or he deserves.”

  Fairyfoot froze in mid-step, paw lifted. Slowly she turned her head to Dufleur and widened her big, round, green eyes. An ingratiating smile formed on her muzzle. I have been a very Good Cat, she said.

  “Not lately,” Dufleur muttered and stared at Fairyfoot’s shortened whiskers. She leaned back against the soft leather, sighing, prepared to enjoy the show.

  Passiflora snickered.

  “Your New Year’s gift was expensive—that padded cat perch of blue velvet embroidered with gold mice,” Dufleur said.

  But this is My COLLAR. Again the wide smile, the big eyes holding infinite appeal. This shows how much you Love Me.

  Dufleur fingered the large gold coin Apple had given her to seal the bargain. She held it up. Fairyfoot’s gaze immediately focusedon the gilt. Her pink tongue came out as she swiped her muzzle.

  “Despite what you think,” Dufleur said, “we don’t have a lot of this. We have expenses for our social season—”

  Need a **GOOD** collar for that.

  “I’m going to order three more Flaired gowns.” Four would transform into a full wardrobe if she bespelled them correctly. She’d originally ordered only one and had bought material to make her own. “We have other bills to pay, since I won’t be working at Dandelion Silk, and some gilt must go to support D’Winterberry and my mother.”