Heart Dance

by Robin D. Owens

  Tinne hovered beside his wife, who looked pale and listless, her mouth set in strained lines.

  Saille ached for them. Even their physical cues spoke of a couple who hurt—separately and together. Everyone knew that they’d lost an unborn child just a couple of months earlier.

  That was always a terrible strain on a marriage—even a HeartBond, which this hadn’t been.

  Shifting his weight slightly to fade even farther into the shadows so he could examine their relationship completely, he also shifted his Flair sight.

  And immediately learned several things. The marriage he’d briefly consulted on three years ago had grown stronger than he’d anticipated. The couple had bonded on many levels. But the loss of their child had been a great blow.

  Tinne lifted his head from speaking to his wife and turned a brilliant gray gaze upon Saille. Then the younger man stiffened and nodded. We will talk later, Tinne sent mentally.

  Saille was a little dazed at the telepathy. No one else from the FirstFamilies had spoken to him mind to mind, and the intimacyand strength of that communication surprised him. He’d known the FirstFamilies, through centuries of ties and tradition, had their own shared “channel,” but hadn’t expected it to be so strong.

  He returned Tinne’s nod. A few minutes later, Tinne excused himself and his wife to their host.

  Come, he said to Saille, not looking at him, as he led Genista from the room to the entrance hall.

  Saille mentally ordered his Family glider to drive to the front door, bowed to his host with a few murmured words of appreciationfor the pleasant evening, received a bow in return, then left to bundle into his coat and step out into the gray night of winter.

  Tinne was handing his wife into a sleek Holly Family glider, when Saille’s old clunky one slid behind the vehicle. He alreadyknew that his chauffeur would be pressing for him to buy a model more like the Hollys’.

  Shrugging, he lifted the door open with a grunt, then slid into the heat. His face tingled, as the quick chill to his skin warmed. Tinne joined him on the cushy bench, snapped the door shut, and stared straight ahead. “You wanted to comment on our marriage, matchmaker?”

  Who is this?” A thin, blond woman let her haughty gaze slide down and up Dufleur, causing her to petrify. The lady was obviously of the highest class, a FirstFamilies GreatLady or GrandLady. She wore an incredible emerald necklace.

  They hadn’t been introduced, and Dufleur saw no indication of her House, so she was only miserably aware that she was outclassed.

  The woman said, “Oh, it’s Passiflora’s little bit of baggage she’s hauling around, so she can charm Holm into the Captain’s seat of the Council.”

  There were four Councils that ruled Celta, but the woman clearly believed only the FirstFamilies Council mattered.

  Dufleur wasn’t used to handling insults. She glanced under her lashes, but no one she knew and liked was near to help out. She was all too certain that if she said what she wanted the woman would be highly offended. So she took a step back, and another woman bumped into her.

  “How rude!” the newcomer said.

  "ThymeHeir,” the blond woman said in a disparaging tone. “She didn’t even greet me properly.”

  “Oh, the mad Thymes, I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised.” The other woman’s laughter was more of a bray. Dufleur knew this female. One of her mother’s old “friends,” a woman of lesser rank than the Thymes.

  Sixteen

  Fire crawled up Dufleur’s neck, heated her cheeks. She didn’t know what to say. All she could think of was the facts. “I am not mad, nor was my father,” Dufleur managed. She stared at the woman who’d pretended to be her mother’s friend and had listened for years to her mother’s complaints about her father.Were there many of these women around, spreading gossip about the Thymes? Dufleur’s mother had not been wise in choosing her friends.

  Or her husband. He hadn’t been a good match for her, Dufleur admitted painfully. How could she think that she’d be able to be wise in choosing a man?

  The man who was a HeartMate, ready to change her life.

  Yet those thoughts barely snuck through her current humiliation.Swallowing, she lifted her chin. “But the Thymes are loyal. Like the Winterberrys. Like the Hollys. We don’t feign friendship one day, then laugh at our friends and concoct rumor the next.”

  The woman’s mouth dropped open, and she turned red.

  The GreatLady sniffed delicately. “Your father was merely stupid then, squandering a fortune, blowing up his Residence.” She smiled a frigid smile and swept away, beckoning the lesser noblewoman to attend her.

  Dufleur trembled with anger. Her skin got hotter and hotter. She thought each follicle of the hair on her scalp was lifting.

  She had to get away before she did something foolish. Beforeshe began ranting about petty-minded people who couldn’t see beyond their trifling concerns. Arrogant people who believedthey had a right to dictate to others how to use—or not use—their Flair. Nobles who made decisions based on gossip and not facts.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  Dufleur told herself she shouldn’t pay them heed, they couldn’t damage her. Except they already had—beyond this horrible humiliation. This anger. This doubt of her father and herself.

  They had voted to make experimentation with time illegal.

  Walking stiff-kneed away, she saw T’Agave smirking in the background, knew he’d primed the women somehow, though he was lesser than they in status. But obviously excellent at manipulation.

  Her cuz Ilex was leading his wife, Trif, away from the musicalgroup. Passiflora was deeply involved in flirting with a GreatLord. Neither of them were paying attention to her, both of them could be damaged if she made a scene.

  T’Willow wasn’t here. He was her HeartMate, would he have defended her?

  She left the ballroom, jogged around the turn of a hallway. She shouldn’t care what people said. Nothing they said would stop her from her work, would only make her more dedicated to proving them—and all of the FirstFamilies Council—wrong, wrong, wrong.

  But she didn’t have the skills to avoid the women the rest of the evening. Sit at a table with them and pretend nothing happened.She had to leave.

  No one would miss her. She was a very minor noble. ThymeHeir.

  Glancing around to see she was alone, she visualized sanctuary. . . not the old lab in Winterberry house, but the new one she’d moved her equipment into that afternoon. She imagined how it would look, dark with a filtering of half twinmoons’ light coming through the windows. The night was cloudy.

  And found herself in blessed, warm silence.

  She yearned for her work, the solace of it. More than she feared it, feared failure.

  This was a new place with new possibilities—and excellent shields. Here she could be her essential self.

  She was alone, whatever she did could harm no one except herself.

  But if she wanted to work, she had to settle. Emotions had churned her up, affected her thought processes.

  She spent some time arranging her equipment, touching it, feeling the residue of the Time Wind. The lab had already gatheredmore molecules of the wind, just by her being here today and setting up her instruments and tools.

  Then she lowered the light, sat in her old chair and prayed. For peace, for insight, and renewing her dedication to her FamilyFlair. Her words faded and her feelings subsided, then her mind quieted too as she centered herself and opened herself.

  The Time Wind swirled around her in a blessing. Tension drained from her body and she opened her eyes, ready to work again, knowing she could work again.

  Saille didn’t answer Tinne but asked, “Where should I tell my driver to take us?”

  Tinne’s face went blank. “Genista is again spending time with her Family. Whom she doesn’t care for much. But she likes them a lot better than my Family.” He glanced at the long strip of mirror attached to the front window of the glider and met the chauffeur’s eyes. “T
ake us to the Mistletoe Club.”

  As the glider smoothly engaged, Tinne met Saille’s eyes. “You haven’t accepted membership in the Club yet, have you?”

  “No.” Saille cleared his throat. “I don’t recall an invitation.”

  Hunching one shoulder in an offhanded shrug, Tinne said, "FirstFamilies’ Men’s Club. Should have been automatic. Your MotherDam, being female, would have belonged to The White Lady’s Club.” He grimaced. “The ladies ever wanted the clubs to be separate, and now it’s tradition.” Once again Tinne’s gray gaze cut to Saille and back. “Your MotherDam gave her approvalof my marriage,” he muttered, then fell silent.

  “Privacy shield,” Saille said, and an invisible soundproof wall solidified between the front bench and the back. “Yes, she did.”

  “You scanned us with your Flair tonight. I felt the touch.”

  “Very true. I congratulate you.”

  That had Tinne jerking his head to meet Saille’s gaze. “For a dynastic match, it is a good relationship. You are well suited.”

  Tinne blinked. Opened his mouth. Shut it. Inhaled through his nose, then said, “We both strove to make the marriage sound.”

  “It will need more work to stay healthy.”

  Tinne’s laugh was bitter. “The marriage is not as solid as it was. Nothing in the Holly Family is as solid as it once was.” He clenched his hands. “But I will do my best.”

  “That is all anyone can do.” And he was greatly relieved to know that neither he nor his MotherDam had made a mistake in advising this marriage. Saille had appointments with the rest of his MotherDam’s clients—those he could reach. Two couples had separated with one of the partners leaving Druida.

  The glider stopped, and Tinne opened the door and stepped out, but Saille made no move to exit.

  Face less haggard, Tinne asked, “Do you come?”

  “No, I am continuing on to the Aspens’ ball.”

  With a nod, Tinne said, “Thank you for your reassurance. I’ll double-check that you are on the membership list of the club.”

  “Appreciate you doing so.”

  The door descended, and Saille vanished the privacy shield. “To the Aspens.”

  His chauffeur, a kinsman, murmured, “Yes, Saille.” He hesitated.“Did you speak of HeartMates?”

  “No. It is not proper for Tinne to think of his HeartMate when she is wed to another man, and he to another woman.”

  “I do not think D’Willow knew who Tinne Holly’s HeartMateis.”

  “That is not our business.”

  “Aren’t you curious? It’s said he knows.”

  Saille was curious. “It’s not our business. Tinne and Genista spoke vows.”

  “I doubt any Holly is going to break a vow anytime in the future,though marriage vows aren’t the same as HeartBonding.”

  “To the Aspens,” Saille ordered in a tone ending the conversation.And to his own HeartMate.

  Dufleur stared at her Fam, who had just arrived from the ball. “I didn’t want to stay and listen to insults. And I don’t want any from you, either.” She picked up the cat and looked into big eyes. Fairyfoot glanced away. “I’ve heard that cats can be snotty, but your behavior is beyond cat selfishness. A Fam should not be a traitor to her FamWoman. A woman and her Fam should be companions.”

  Fairyfoot twitched her uneven whiskers. We belong with FamMan.Winterberry House hurts my nose, always. Stings my eyes.

  The yar-duan! Of course. It must have a different effect on animals than people, though its effect on people was all too awful.If she learned how to reverse time—no, she was only trying to affect the debilitating virus inside a person, kill it, perhaps reverse some of the most dreadful effects through the virus. Yar-duan addiction was a choice, not a disease, and she didn’t think she could make a Healing Time Tube that would stop the deterioration of an entire body, not just the virus and its immediatesurrounding tissue.

  Fairyfoot wriggled in her arms. Put me down.

  “Of course. I’ll speak to D’Ash. See if there’s some sort of spellshield that would protect you from yar-duan fumes.” She winced at the thought of more expense. Today she’d purchased layer upon layers of spellshields for this place and had little gilt again.

  She set Fairyfoot down on her cat tree, and Dufleur’s gaze was caught by her neatly stacked papyrus, the results of her experiments.Once again she thought of her earlier notion of followinga different path than her father had, using another virus to work with than he had. He’d experimented with one for years, but she still didn’t understand the virus.

  Maybe something simpler as a base. Perhaps not a pinecone, either, but something more fragile, a leaf. What would be better would be some diseased rats or mice. She might be able to spread the word to Fams that she would pay for such. She could communicatewith the rodents on a very minor level—impress upon them that their bodies were disintegrating and request their permissionto try and stop that disintegration.

  She wondered if D’Ash easily communicated with rodents; if so, Dufleur herself could make her wishes known to them. If D’Ash couldn’t speak with rats, perhaps Dufleur could trade her knowledge for Fairyfoot’s spell. Or D’Ash might want to help her just to learn more, as Dufleur did. Even D’Ash couldn’t Heal all the diseased rats out there.

  But first, leaves. She’d have to visit a flower grower.

  FamMan has a nice, warm conservatory.

  Dufleur wasn’t asking for Saille T’Willow’s help. He was getting too close to her secret. The more he learned, the more he could deduce that she was continuing with her father’s experiments.

  She and her father had gone to the Horehounds when they wanted leaf specimens. She glanced around the laboratory. The place would look better, less sterile, more welcoming in the winter,with plants.

  And that idea would never have occurred to her father.

  Dufleur set her shoulders. She wasn’t her father. She wasn’t his assistant anymore. She’d always had a line or two of her own inquiry going, with his absentminded, grunted blessing. She crossed to the minuscule no-time she’d set in the heaviest bespelled corner. If disaster struck, this corner and the area around Fairyfoot’s perch should be spared.

  The corner held her greatest secret, her most important discovery.

  A minuscule no-time that kept a living thing in stasis. One leaf at a time.

  She set to work.

  Later, her calendarsphere began chiming, pulling Dufleur from her studies.

  Fairyfoot stretched and yawned on her perch, licked her paw, and groomed a bit of hair near her ear. Home now.

  Dufleur put down her writestick, sighed, straightened, and stretched. The first three experiments with the leaf and its virus that mimicked the one Dufleur actually wanted to study had gone well. The results were promising, even better than the experimentswith the pinecone. “Did you program my calendarsphere?”

  Another lick, another swipe at sticking-up cat hair. WinterberryResidence did.

  “Oh. Well, that’s a good sign that it is recovering.”

  Fairyfoot sniffed. Getting better. Let’s teleport back.

  For a moment, Dufleur’s stomach clenched. Did she have enough Flair energy left to ’port? That was one thing she’d forgotten. If she didn’t, she wasn’t dressed for even a walk to the nearest public carrier plinth. And she didn’t know the carrierroutes or schedules. Stupid!

  She was too accustomed to working in the same premises as she lived. She’d have to put a bed in here, and a small wardrobe. Rolling her shoulders, she took stock. Just enough energy to teleport to her bedroom. Good thing she’d only done simple spells tonight.

  Stripping off her lab coat, she adjusted her ball gown, which had been more comfortable than anticipated, picked up Fairyfoot, and teleported to her bedroom. She received a jolt when she found it crowded with people, all as appalled as she that she might have ’ported on top of someone, into someone.

  “What’s going on?” She clasped Fairyfoot tighter.
r />   “You disappeared from the ball,” Passiflora said, worry lines crinkling around her eyes.

  Dufleur had meant to send her a note, but hadn’t. Guilt nibbledat her. “I’m sorry.” She lifted her chin. “I’m a competent adult.”

  “If not a courteous one,” her mother said. One glance at Dringal told Dufleur that her mother was infuriated. And scared.

  She scanned the room. Passiflora D’Holly was there, so was Saille T’Willow—Dufleur’s heart twinged in her chest— Dringal, and three other people she didn’t recognize.

  Worse, the door to the secret room was open!

  Fear clogged Dufleur’s throat.

  But first things first. She put Fairyfoot down and swept a deep curtsy to Passiflora. “Please forgive me. I teleported to my new studio. I’ve sketches for the Temple tapestry.” That was true enough. She had managed to work on that lately.

  Passiflora smiled. “You had me worried.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  With a nod, Passiflora said, “I’ll leave you all to your business,then. My glider awaits.”

  “I’ll escort you to the door,” Saille said in a neutral tone that warned Dufleur that he, too, was angry.

  “Thank you,” Dufleur said, her own voice rough with emotion.She darted a look at the second chamber. It didn’t look or smell badly. In fact it was pristine from the cleaning Dufleur had given it in the afternoon. More, there was a scent of sage. She’d also returned the battered altar and religious instruments that she’d found in the room back to their places. It looked like the ritual room it was designed to be.

  The question was, who believed that?