Heart Change

by Robin D. Owens

  “It is time! It is half-septhour after RisingBell.” Avellana stamped her foot, and he shouldn’t have been able to hear it on the hallway rug, but he did. Were his senses expanding?

  “We do not eat at half-septhour after RisingBell, Avellana.” Signet was patient. He sensed them walking away and drifted to look out the doors. Signet had her hand on Avellana’s shoulder. “We eat later. Let’s look at your schedule.”

  “I’m hungry now.”

  “Hmm. We should adjust the schedule.” Signet glanced over her shoulder. Eyes full of affection met Cratag’s. That warm look punched harder than pure lust, and emotion filled him. He watched as they went down the hallway, turned into Avellana’s sitting room. To relieve some tension, he sprinted down the hall and into his own suite, stripped, and flung his clothes into the cleanser then stepped into a cold waterfall.

  “Signet has informed me that breakfast will be in half a septhour,” the Residence said. “Pre-breakfast treats of fruit and yogurt, honey and grain mix will be available to Avellana in the mornings.”

  “Fine,” Cratag said. “You kept an eye—ah, monitored Avellana—this morning when Signet and I were in the sitting room and the Fams were out?”

  “I did. She was in no danger. All outside shields were up. She looked at her balcony but did not attempt to go out on it.”

  “Good.” He set his head against the granite of the wall and let the water roll over him. For a while he didn’t think, just let the water cool his blood. He shivered under the cold fall and suspected he’d be doing this a lot in the coming days . . . unless he had Signet under him and was inside her. His shaft rose again, and he cursed. The plain truth was no woman had excited him like this one since his teens.

  A flash came to him, and he stilled. What was that? A dark image? A spear of jangled negative emotions?

  He tried to grasp it, but it was gone. And he wasn’t erect anymore.

  It was almost as if his survival had been threatened. Almost but . . . not . . . quite. Or the survival of his House, of his Family.

  Roiling, jagged fear punctuated with despair shattered inside him like shards of broken glass. He fought for breath. What was this? Then he knew.

  Passage.

  Not Avellana’s—Laev’s.

  He stumbled from the waterfall room, uncaring of the thick rugs soaking up his wet footprints, to the bedroom scrybowl. With clumsy, trembling fingers he touched the rim. Voice raw, he said, “Scry T’Hawthorn Residence.”

  “T’Hawthorn Residence here, Chief Guardsman Cratag.”

  “Laev? T’Hawthorn?”

  “Yes, Cratag, T’Hawthorn is with his Son’sSon, Laev, who is undergoing the first fugue of his Second Passage. It is bearable and progresses well. From my experience I believe this time will be short, only a quarter septhour, and not as intense as many Hawthorns’ Passages. I doubt he will have more than the now-standard three episodes for Second Passage. It was well done for the late HawthornHeir to marry into the Grove Family.”

  Cratag grunted as he reeled into a chair.

  “Are you sensing the Passage, Chief Guardsman?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause, then the Residence continued in its cool, level, masculine voice that Cratag had always accepted but seemed lacking compared to the mellow, varying tones of D’Marigold Residence. “If you are sensing Laev’s Passage, then you are bonded to him emotionally.”

  Cratag grunted again. Any Hawthorn with a lick of sense knew that.

  “I have been told that D’Marigold is a catalyst, an instigator of change in others’ lives.” There was the hint of disapproval as if change was inimical. Just how old was T’Hawthorn Residence, anyway? Was it stratifying? Cratag didn’t think that was a good thing for man, woman, Fam, or house.

  Beadle had come back to the suite, and now the cat was batting a cloth mousekin around the room and pouncing on it. No chance Beadle would stratify into dignified behavior soon.

  “Chief Guardsman?” T’Hawthorn Residence prodded.

  “Yeah?”

  “It may be that D’Marigold’s Flair is affecting you, amplifying your bond with Laev, or even your own Flair. Perhaps even changing your Flair.”

  “Wouldn’t be too bad a thing to get a little more Flair,” Cratag said, knowing everyone would agree with him, even T’Hawthorn Residence. He wanted to speak to Laev, more, to go over and hold him, comfort him, keep him safe from the Passage fugue. Which Cratag had never experienced himself and had only rarely seen traces of among the Hawthorn Family. But he couldn’t do that. Laev might have wanted him there, but Cratag had to remain here. He’d read his contract. He had free time when Avellana was with her Family and could return to T’Hawthorn Residence if the lord summoned him.

  “Not too bad a Passage, then—Laev’s?” he croaked.

  “No, I doubt it will last longer than two eightdays.”

  “Good.” He cleared his throat. “Laev’s message cache, please.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Laev Hawthorn here, give me some words.” Laev’s voice came young and enthusiastic, immediately recalling to Cratag the boy’s—young man’s—joyful smile.

  “Understand you’re in Passage and doin’ well,” Cratag said. “Know m’thoughts are with you.” He cleared his throat again, spoke clearly. “I’m very proud of you. You are a fin e . . . man.” Cratag hadn’t forgotten that people here in Druida would consider Laev a man, though as far as Cratag was concerned, there was a lot for Laev to learn. “End message.”

  Of course Cratag had declared himself a man at fifteen when he’d left Tref. He’d had a lot to learn and had learned it hard, was still learning. But he’d been more mature than Laev in some ways.

  Cratag dressed, feeling sure enough of his control to don less blousey work trous. He was behind schedule. Even as he thought that, a small silver calendarsphere appeared in front of his nose, flashing red. “You are late for breakfast,” the thing said in Avellana’s most officious tones.

  “I find this reminder obnoxious. It is not my calendarsphere reminding me. That is very rude.” He didn’t have enough Flair to have a calendarsphere draw on his psi power and manifest.

  The object vanished.

  He thought he could hear a question from Signet, could feel suppressed irritation from Avellana. The girl he and Signet would have to help through her Passage fugues. Dreamtimes that would not be as “easy” as Laev’s. Cratag shivered again as he recalled the darkness that had shrouded him in the waterfall.

  Everyone except he had known on an emotional level what a bad Passage might entail for the girl. Death, worse, madness.

  Before he could dwell on this, Beadle trotted to the door. Breakfast time, FamMan. The cat grinned his goofy grin, and Cratag couldn’t help but smile back. “Yes, you think they have porcine strips?”

  “How many do you want?” asked D’Marigold Residence.

  While Avellana was at lessons in architecture in the downstairs library, Laev scried Cratag. So he slipped away to his suite and took Laev’s call. The Hawthorn colors of purple and gold, along with a slight tinge of green light, pulsed through the room. Laev’s colors. He strode to the bowl. “Cratag here.”

  The water drops above the bowl showed Laev’s smiling face, but there was a hint of trials undergone and survived behind his eyes. Cratag blew out a relieved breath. “You look good.”

  Laev stood straighter, his smile brightened, as if Cratag couldn’t have said anything more complimentary. Cratag thought he felt—no, did feel—a wave of satisfaction from the seventeen-year-old. “My first fugue went well.” His voice was slightly deeper, more resonant, from emotional storms. “I have more Flair than ever, and I think the Hawthorn talent for business will be confirmed.” He frowned a little, and a distant look came to his eyes. “I think . . . I think I understand more of the web of the alliances that FatherSire has made.” Then a flashing smile with more warmth than Cratag had ever seen from T’Hawthorn. “I did a few fighting forms, and
I believe I’m more flexible, have more strength.”

  A seventeen-year-old was plenty fle xible. Cratag eyed Laev. There seemed to be colorless waves around the young man. Cratag thought it was his own meager Flair in action. “Could be,” he said. “Congratulations on reaching your manhood, Laev HawthornHeir.”

  Laev beamed. “There will be a huge celebration later. When you’re home again. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

  Cratag’s heart squeezed. “Thank you.”

  Rolling his shoulders, Laev said, “I miss our workouts already. May I have your consent to come there and train with you? FatherSire has given his permission.”

  Even more emotion choked Cratag. This was a man who would not forget him, who would value him as a part of the Family. “Of course. Will MidAfternoonBell work? That’s when my next session is scheduled. We run on set schedules here.”

  Laev raised his brows. “I wouldn’t have thought D’Marigold—ah, it’s the little one, Avellana Hazel.”

  “Yes.” Then Cratag recalled what Signet had said about Laev perhaps triggering Avellana’s Passage. He’d consult with Signet, but he wanted to see—to hug—the man who had been like his younger brother.

  While he was considering this, a masculine gleam came to Laev’s eye. “And Cratag, I think, I really think that I connected with my HeartMate!”

  That admission tangled Cratag’s emotions. Pride that the youngster was growing up and at his achievements, his potential. But also a sharp envy for such a love. He forced a smile. “Come this afternoon.”

  “I will.” Laev tilted his head, grinned. “T’Hawthorn Residence has told me that I only have a few more minutes in my morning break, and that I should eat. Since I’m hungry . . .”

  “See you later,” Cratag said gruffly and ended the scry. He rubbed his head, feeling more helpless than he had in a long time. He didn’t know, exactly, what he was doing here, no solid mission. He didn’t understand—i n his gut—great Flair or Passage or HeartMates.

  Fourteen

  Signet showed Avellana the small room that they’d skipped during the tour. The chamber held her bench and dyed leathers, wooden patterns, and hard soles. Avellana seemed as fascinated with Signet’s creative Flair as Signet had been with the child’s.

  Since the time was right to offer a new reward for good behavior, Signet measured Avellana’s feet for a pair of shoes and a pair of slippers—to be awarded at the end of a full week.

  Then they went to the gardens and took a small break from each other, with Avellana playing with Rhyz and Beadle as Signet and Du sat on a sunny bench. She could still barely believe that her life had changed so much for the better, so quickly.

  And she thought she was noticing small changes in her housemates. She stroked Du, believing that he was putting on weight already, he certainly was eating enough—of course the Residence was tempting him with the choicest tidbits from the no-time storage units.

  Even as she thought of the Residence, it spoke to her. Cratag Maytree wishes the primary dance studio on the second floor for a sparring area.

  Signet blinked. Yes, show him how to remove the barres and where our mats are stored. She frowned. Make sure whatever equipment he needs is acceptable. If it is too old or substandard, you have authority to refurbish the studio, dressing and waterfall rooms, and office as they were in the past. She wrinkled her forehead. Surely at one time it had been a fighting salon. Hadn’t that been mentioned in the Residence’s history?

  We should have already anticipated his needs, the Residence fretted, voicing her own guilty thoughts.

  Yes, she agreed. A chief guardsman would want to train daily. I will continue to use the smaller dance studio. After her parents’ deaths, she had closed off the main practice room, where she’d studied and played with them. She’d moved to a small studio that had belonged to one of the previous Marigold daughters who’d become a prima ballerina and had insisted on her own space. Though as she thought about that room, she realized it, too, should be refurbished. She had ignored the prods of the Residence about refinishing the floors and panels for the last few years. Go ahead and update my dance studio, too.

  Thank you!

  Signet smiled, and Avellana came over. “What did your Residence say to make you happy?”

  Hugging the girl, Signet said, “I told the Residence that some rooms need to be more fashionable. It is always happy when it gets more handsome rooms, and because I love it, I am happy when it is happy.”

  Avellana looked up at Signet with clear eyes. “You have been too much alone if you only have a Residence.”

  “Yes, I have.” She looked down at the child who was becoming dearer by the minute. “But now I have you as a friend, right?”

  With a short nod, Avellana said, “Yes. We are friends.” She stared into the distance, then said, “I haven’t gone to regular grovestudy, but have taken lessons from a nurse and a nanny and a governess.” Her lips pushed in and out. “I have no grovestudy friends. I only have my Family and Muin and Rhyz.”

  “But all of them love you very much,” Signet said.

  Avellana let out a sigh. “Yes, they all love me too much.”

  “I don’t know that it’s possible to be loved too much.”

  Sticking out her lower lip, Avellana said, “They watch me all the time. Everyone watches me all the time.”

  “We are all concerned for you—”

  “I know!”

  “—but perhaps we will watch you less after your First Passage.”

  The girl grabbed Signet’s hands and gripped them fiercely. “Do you really think so?”

  Signet met the child’s intense gaze. “Yes.”

  Of course, said Du, walking over Signet’s lap to rub his head against Avellana. His amber stare was steady. You will climb through Passage well. He purred.

  Avellana transferred her gaze to him. “You think so?”

  “Yesss,” Du vocalized.

  “Yesss.” Rhyz hopped up on the bench and nudged Du aside, purring louder. I know human Passage. You must not fear. He nosed Avellana’s hand. Now it is lunchtime.

  The whole gang of them, cats and girl, pivoted on the path and marched back to the Residence, and Signet could only hope that the Fams knew more on an instinctual level than the humans. Because even Vinni T’Vine, the prophet, feared for Avellana.

  After lunch, Cratag and the Residence displayed the changes they’d made to transform the main dance studio into a sparring room. He had forbidden Avellana to cross over the threshold and made it a “no new shoes” violation, up there with being on the balcony or the sea path without an adult human.

  It was during Avellana’s nap time when Signet realized he’d withdrawn a little from her and wondered at it. She’d adored waking up next to him, had yearned to feel the slide of his bare skin against hers, inside her.

  But he had barely touched her all day, and when he spoke with her, his voice was gruff. She had dared to hope that they might have sex when Avellana took her nap, but he seemed more preoccupied with Laev Hawthorn, who had teleported directly to a newly specified area within the training room. Signet and Avellana had lingered outside the closed door and shared a glance or two at the thumps and mutters. Then there had come a ripe swear, and Signet had reluctantly realized they had to retire somewhere else and had taken Avellana back to the craft room and started on her slippers.

  Just before nap time, Cratag had shown up, newly cleansed, had glanced at her work and grunted in approval, then escorted Avellana to her suite for her nap. They saw her safely abed with Rhyz and Beadle then went to the sitting room. He left the doors open and went to a large chair and sank into it. Signet suppressed a sigh. Frowning, he rubbed his head and the scent of soap and man came to her, and she shifted in her own chair. She wanted him. Had she been too passive? Perhaps she should be bolder.

  “You know that Laev had a Passage fugue early this morning,” Cratag said.

  She thought he meant his voice to be expressionless
, but she heard tones in it, and more, she felt emanations from him. Resignation that he hadn’t been there to help this young man he loved, a trace of anger and, worse, helplessness. “I don’t know much about Passages. Never had a deep one. Not even one fugue. Twinges, I guess.”

  “You said things went well?”

  He shrugged. “So they told me, and he wasn’t as tense as he’d been lately, but I still don’t know what to expect.” His violet gaze met hers. “What are they like?”

  The day had been warm, and sun still spilled through the windows, making the room comfortable and cheerful, but Signet shivered. It had only been a couple of days since she’d understood that her Third Passage had nothing to do with her parents’ deaths. “Powerful,” she said. “They wring emotion from you, as if Flair demands that all of you—mind, body, spirit—be integrated so it can manifest.” She shook her head. “I don’t know that I’m saying this well.”

  “You’re the only one who talks to me about it,” he said in a low voice laced with anger.

  She glanced up sharply. “What have you been told?”

  “That Laev’s first fugue wasn’t bad, but he looked older—different—more there afterward. He moved better, too. More integrated, you say?”

  “Yes, Flair is a part of us all.” She bent an admonishing look on him. “You, too. You can speak telepathically to your Family, and this Residence as well.” Can’t you? she sent the last mind-to-mind toward him.

  His mind was dense, his entire presence was dense, solid. But he nodded. Yes, I can mindspeak some. He formed the words slowly and precisely.

  I knew it. Do not think you are a lesser man because you have different skills.

  He grunted again at that. I cannot teleport. His words were wistful.

  I cannot handle a long and heavy sword, a broadsword.

  Do you want to? His reply was immediate, and his thoughts lit as if he was considering how to ensure she could do so.

  Perhaps, but it would take me years before I could do so, and I’d never be as good as you.