Heart Change

by Robin D. Owens

  Then Avellana yawned, and the Hazels got back to business. Preliminary schedules were drawn up. Visits to the Hazels, and from the Hazels and Vinni, lessons with Avellana and the ResidenceDen. Time for Avellana’s wall holo crafting. Educational outings that Signet racked her mind for—a couple to the starship, Nuada’s Sword, a few to various theaters, to the PublicLibrary, where Avellana had never been. . . . .

  Finally Signet and D’Hazel took Avellana up to bed. Signet showed her how to activate the full wall and ceiling holos. She had preferred a night sky with bright twinkling stars and scudding clouds. Avellana wanted the ocean and surf, so she was surrounded by the ocean—illusion on the walls and the real one from the windows—with a double echo of surf that Signet thought strange, but pleased the girl. Music flexistrips were threaded into the wall slot, enough to play all night but timed to play for half a septhour after the last voice in the room was heard.

  D’Hazel had brought some real illustrated papyrus and leather books to read from and teach Avellana that ancient art. D’Hazel and Signet took turns reading the girl an epic story, Signet struggling a little, because it had been a long time since she’d actually read instead of watching holos.

  D’Hazel held her daughter’s hand until she fell asleep, then appeared torn.

  “It’s the very best thing for her,” Vinni said from the doorway. Behind him stood T’Hazel, holding the hand of Coll, the older Hazel girl, who appeared more concerned now that her younger sister wasn’t playing lady of the manor.

  She is not afraid of being here or of her Passage. It is an adventure special to her, said Avellana’s Fam, Rhyz. And I will be here. We can teleport to you at any time.

  T’Hazel and the older girl came in and kissed Avellana, then he held out his free arm, and D’Hazel went and fit herself to his side. They stepped back into the hallway but stopped as if unable to go farther. The small Family looked at their youngest.

  “It’s the best thing for Avellana, to remain here in Signet’s home and presence,” Vinni repeated. “Signet’s catalyst Flair will work subtly on her, as it does for all those who make friends with her. You do care for Avellana already, don’t you, Signet?” The last was a command that Signet answered instinctively.

  “Yes, she’s a wonderful and interesting girl.”

  The three other Hazels relaxed a little, and Cratag slipped into the room. He checked the windows, went into the other rooms, then returned. “Lahsin Holly does good work,” he said. “These rooms are well protected from any assault.” He looked down at Avellana, who had flu ng off her cover while they were talking, and bent down and pulled it back up over her.

  The gesture seemed to reassure the others.

  Coll glanced around the suite, stared at the windows, and tilted her head at the sound of two counterpoint rolling surfs—one real and one illusion. “I’ll come over sometimes and stay the night.”

  Signet nodded. “That will be fine.”

  Coll’s father squeezed her. “That isn’t on Avellana’s precious schedule. You know how she likes her schedules.”

  “It will be a surprise,” Coll said loftily.

  Her parents laughed and stepped into the hallway, leaving the sleeping girl and purring Fam. Signet was loath to join them, but she was in the suite next door.

  Residence, guard her well. Our Family may very well perish if she does.

  I hear you, and so it will be, D’Marigold.

  She could only trust her Residence as she had always done and went into the hall. Cratag followed her, shut the door quietly, and tested the latch. He grunted. “The lock is bespelled to let Signet and me and all the Hazels in and out. No one else.” He moved to the sitting room door. “Here, also.” Then he came back to stand behind Signet as she faced the Hazels, his body radiating an astonishing amount of warmth. “She is as physically safe as she can be this night. The new Residential spellshields will be finished in the next couple of days. You have me, Signet, our Fams, and the Residence to watch over her. Be at ease.”

  D’Hazel smiled wanly. Her husband tightened his arm around her, gave his HeartMate his own sweet smile. “I feel . . . hopeful . . . about Avellana.” His breath came out in a quiet sigh. “The most hopeful since her accident.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Coll said a little loudly. She sniffle d. “She always gets what she wants.”

  “That’s not true,” D’Hazel said in a tone that showed she repeated these words often, and began moving down the corridor to the stairs and the glider that awaited them. “No more than her complaint that you always get what you want because you are Heir.”

  Signet and Cratag accompanied the Hazels to the entryway, and as soon as the greeniron gates closed behind their glider, Signet sagged against the wall. She hadn’t known how much tension had kept her going until then. “By the Lady, what a day,” she murmured.

  Cratag slanted her a wry look. “Surprising to you, too?”

  “Very.” She pushed herself upright, rolled her stiff shoulders. “Those FirstFamily lords and ladies move people around like markers on a gameboard.” She recalled he was close to T’Hawthorn. “Beg pardon.”

  His smile turned grim. “Consider me another marker.”

  Then he’d had no real choice about this either. “I’m sorry that you were forced into this.” A sigh wended up and out of her, and she told the truth on a breath, meeting his eyes. “But I’m very glad you’re here.” He was strong. Gorgeous.

  I am glad to be here, said Beadle, trotting down the stairs. The cats had explored the Residence all evening, sometimes with T’Hazel and Coll.

  Signet stifled a yawn, but Cratag’s sharp gaze hadn’t missed it. “Sorry,” she said.

  He went to the front door and tested the lock and spell. “Long day,” he said.

  It wasn’t as late as she usually retired, but she was exhausted at the events crammed into this day. Thinking back to her morning sadness was an effort. That seemed years past, and she was a different person. A person with purpose. The recollection that this was her Nameday pushed through her hazy thoughts, and she chuckled.

  “What?” Cratag asked.

  But the Residence, as usual, had picked up on her thoughts and emotions. “It is Signet’s Nameday.”

  Eight

  Cratag paused, his face inscrutable. “I have no gift.”

  Signet laughed quietly again, shaking her head.

  “She has already received her gifts,” the Residence said in a smug male tone. “But small iced teacakes, Signet’s favorites, await in the kitchen.”

  Music unrolled through the rooms, a Nameday waltz.

  To Signet’s surprise, Cratag turned to her and bowed with elegance. Well, she had noticed how well he moved, but that was a guardsman’s, a fighter’s grace. “You dance?” she asked a little fog gily. Then wanted to sink with embarrassment. She didn’t mean to insult him.

  But he didn’t look offended. Maybe she’d just sounded as dazed as she was. Barely able to lift her feet. Good thing this was a waltz and not a tap routine.

  Cratag smiled slowly. “Oh, yes, I dance.” He took her into his arms, and she knew she’d received another gift. His body was big and strong and flexible. His hands on her were warm and comforting with an easy, commanding lead. He was light on his feet as he twirled her down the long atrium, making her breathless with more than the exercise. She liked how he affected her, with tingles. And the way he looked at her and held her—as if she were precious and beautiful.

  Sensuality spun between them. He held her close, so their bodies brushed, and she felt his rising passion—and her own. She looked up and was snared by his violet eyes, beautiful, unusual eyes, darkening as she watched.

  They twirled, their steps matched, their bodies moving together, and her breath came unevenly as she wondered how they’d move together in bed.

  He felt it, too, this attraction.

  A gift indeed.

  Then they reached the kitchen door, and he stopped, held her in his arms.


  The Residence opened the door and broke the moment. Signet cleared her throat, forced her mouth to curve in a smile when she wanted her lips to form a kiss. “Do you like teacakes?”

  His large chest expanded with deep breaths. “My favorite.”

  This was the best Nameday of her life.

  The sugar in the icing and the teacakes, and the tea itself, revitalized Signet enough that she followed her usual nightly ritual of bathing and changing into a nightrobe. This time, though, she didn’t go to her meditation room to sink into a trance, but turned the opposite way to go to the main sitting room and review the events of the day, smiling.

  The sound of the ocean was loud here, the constant ebb and flow soothing.

  So.

  She had a gorgeous man she was attracted to and who felt something for her staying in her house for a time. He wouldn’t leave.

  She had a Fam and a new friend in a child.

  And Signet knew her Flair. She was a catalyst.

  Though no one, including her, knew exactly what that meant. Furthermore, so far her Flair was a passive trait. Somehow she’d have to discover how to make it active. Signet sensed that helping Avellana through her First Passage would tax all her innate skill.

  What she must do was think back on the times during GreatRituals and how she’d tried to help, one way to discover how to actively use her Flair. She frowned, surely she’d made some memoryspheres about those times . . . particularly after her parents had died and she’d been the sole Marigold in the noble ritual circles. Hadn’t she journaled then? Feeling a shift and blossoming of her Flair, even though she didn’t know what it was?

  Groping for memories, she realized the time she’d felt most in control of her Flair was during the Healing ritual for D’Holly. The time Vinni had insisted she be placed beside Cratag Maytree.

  Now that she sent her mind back, it was after her First Passage that the Marigolds had been invited by the FirstFamilies to participate in their august circles. She had a shadowy memory of a very old woman with a deep voice and a phrasing that sounded like . . . Vinni’s? Old D’Vine, the previous prophet of Celta? Her parents had been excited by the old woman’s visit, though Signet had been settled in the craft room to work on new shoes.

  She’d known they’d talked about her, but the Residence hadn’t told her what or why when she’d asked.

  How had she forgotten that?

  Perhaps because at fir st the memory had made her think she was special, but along the years it had seemed to be proven wrong, and that was an inner hurt.

  She’d have to view her parents’ memoryspheres. She had some that she’d never listened to after their death, fir st because she’d been wrapped in grief, then because she’d been so lonely. She’d get those tomorrow.

  Cratag had remained downstairs, shooing her from the kitchen after their little sugar feast, telling her he would clean up. She’d been aware that, guardlike, he was checking the windows and doors and the security spellshields—something she’d stopped doing years before. No sound from him alerted her, but when she looked up, he was a large dark shape standing in the doorway.

  She studied him, this huge, quiet man who was both vital and calm, had participated in this day—unusual for him, too—with reason and utter dependability. She wasn’t quite used to men like him—not used to men at all, of course—but the several affairs she’d had had been with men of subtle intelligence and quicksilver charm. Since her father had been a man like that, she knew what to expect of such gentlemen.

  This was an altogether different man, a very intriguing man. She didn’t think he was the type to create on-the-spot love poetry for her. But she wouldn’t be surprised if he read her love poetry—and from one of those old-fashioned books.

  Yes, she could imagine an antique album in his strong hands as easily as the sword and blazer he wore on each hip. She could still see in her mind’s eye how his large hand had steadied Avellana on the stairs, how he’d lifted the girl easily and with complete assurance of his strength.

  She could still feel his muscular arms around her in a dance, the ease of his footwork.

  If you only looked at his scars and his once broken nose, his face was fearsome. But his beautiful violet eyes were steady and held depths and interesting shadows. His chin was strong. His hair was cropped so close to his skull that it was difficult to see what color it was except it was darkish, perhaps the color of his brows, a dark uncompromising brown. Such a hairstyle was favored among some household and city guards, but she thought he wore his hair so short for some reason she didn’t know.

  Her gaze went from his face, imperturbable but not offended, though she knew she was rudely staring. His shoulders were wide, the muscles of his arms and legs thick—n aturally, she thought, as well as being developed by his profession. He was a strong, solid man.

  He looked a little odd standing in the white framed doorway of the room that suddenly seemed too feminine, though her father had designed it for the Family. The cream-colored walls were too light, and the gilded furniture upholstered with cream-colored cloth with pastel embroidery looked frivolous next to this man.

  But the Marigolds had always loved their frivolous home.

  And he could dance.

  He didn’t move, merely stood there casually, and Signet reluctantly dropped her eyes, flushed. “I’m sorry for staring.”

  He shrugged massive shoulders. “You have a right to look at the man who was foisted on you, who will be guarding you.”

  Impulsively she stood and held out her hand. “You don’t need to guard me.”

  He nodded briefly, touched her fingers. She didn’t see acceptance of her words in his gaze. He was a man who would do what he planned to do unless you gave him more than weak words to change his mind.

  For a moment he awed her with his size and his solid presence, and she stood wordless. Could only hear the beat of the sea and her heart and feel an intense awareness of him.

  Then he spoke. “It will be a pleasure to guard you.”

  Cratag thought his words were utter foolishness. The woman didn’t need him to guard her, need him in her life. There she stood like a beautiful princess in a beautiful home that loved her and would protect her. With new excellent security spellshields soon to be in place. A woman surrounded by more magic than any other he’d ever known.

  Yet he felt a pull to her, a very earthly sexual attraction, a visceral longing to see hot color in her cheeks, her hair mussed and tangled, her eyes wild . . . as he lay over her, in her. That image was new and had insinuated itself into his thoughts in the hours in her company, during that dance that had made him ache.

  He hadn’t expected that she would still be up, had thought that she’d be in bed or in the meditation room. The light and the open door of the sitting room and her floral scent had drawn him. He’d ignored it as he checked every lock on this floor.

  In the end he’d been drawn to the room and the woman inside. He couldn’t refuse her gesture to come near, and trod as softly as he could on the expensive rug, feeling like some thick and clumsy animal in this room of ultra civilization.

  “I have some questions.” He winced inwardly at his blunt sentence. He’d planned on having a nice conversation, working up to nagging concerns. Not just blurting something out so she frowned, then withdrew behind a polite manner and sat again.

  But he pulled up a chair—not as heavy as those in T’Hawthorn Residence—close enough to her that he could see the rim of gold around her pupils. Lovely eyes, fringed with light blond lashes that were longer than they seemed.

  “I have some questions,” he repeated in a gentler tone.

  When her eyes softened, he had to look away. Then he glanced at the dark glass of the windows, and the room reflected the watery outlines of himself and Signet. Now he felt enveloped by magic, aware of little frissons that had touched him all day. He was imagining things.

  “Yes?” she prompted.

  He shifted, and the soft chair cu
shion settled around him as if welcoming his weight. More imaginings. But he met her gaze again and said, “I was told by T’Hawthorn that Avellana’s life was at risk in her upcoming First Passage, and everyone else confirmed that. But, ah, I wasn’t informed why . . . ah. . . .”

  She nodded encouragingly, but he was all too aware of rudeness . The word had been used a lot. Including when she’d stared at him . . . but since she’d had admiration in her eyes, he hadn’t felt it was rude. He couldn’t recall the last time a woman looked at him with such innocent appreciation. Occasionally he got heated sexual appraisal . . .

  “Cratag?”

  “Sorry, thoughts wandering.” Down a road they shouldn’t go. He cleared his throat. “Why will Avellana be staying here?”

  Signet stared at him. “This is my home. No one said a thing about having me move in with the Hazels.” She hesitated a few seconds. “I don’t know that I would. Even FirstFamilies wouldn’t expect me to leave my home and live with them.” She sat up straighter. “Even if I am a GrandLady, and my household only consists of me, I am the head of my household and have duties here. I couldn’t leave the Residence empty!”

  Now he was agitating her when he hadn’t meant to. Worse and worse. He ran his palm over his head, realized he’d given in to an old nervous gesture and put his hand back on the chair arm. “I meant why did they choose you as Avellana’s companion?” There, it was out.

  She went very still, and he thought she paled, though she was very fair skinned. Her tongue swept her lips. “No one told you.” Was there a hitch in her quiet voice? She glanced aside. Her mouth pressed tightly and her chin rose as their gazes matched once more. “You should have been told.”

  His senses went on alert. “Some danger?”

  Her hands half rose, then fell back to the padded chair arms. “Yes. No. I don’t believe so.” She drew in a large breath, and he kept his gaze from falling to her breasts rounding her nightrobe.

  Looking him straight in the eyes, she said, “One of the problems in my life was that though it was known I had great Flair, the type of Flair had never been uncovered. Apparently Vinni discerned that I am a catalyst.”