“I’ll get my new shoes dirty,” Avellana said between hitching sobs. Signet had noticed that she was wearing the shoes she’d made the girl the week before.
“My crafting can stand a little dirt and twigs from garden paths,” Signet said. “Come on.”
With a small honking noise, Avellana blew into the softleaf again, then wiped her fingers and put the softleaf in her sleeve pocket and took Signet’s and Cratag’s offered hands.
Still not looking at them, she said, “I’m sorry I hurt you, Signet. I’m sorry I hurt you, Cratag.” More words came out in a rush. “I’m sorry I hurt Muin. I’m sorry I hurt D’Ash and her babies—the new Jasmine Ash and Abutilon Ash. I’m sorry I hurt little Nuin Ash.” She sucked in a breath and continued, “I’m sorry I hurt T’Ash and Zanth Fam and Princess Fam and Velox Fam.” The hiccupping recitation took them through the Residence to the entryway.
Sharing a glance with Cratag, Signet thought that Avellana had been made to apologize personally to each of the beings listed. She even got a wisp of a memory from the girl’s mind—of Nuin Ash running away from her and hiding behind his nanny—
“—and Walker Clover,” Avellana named the man. “And the butler, Alf Honey. . .”
By the time she’d listed all T’Ash’s staff and the animals she’d drained, they were down the front steps and into the garden. Finally she stopped and stared at her shoes, shifted.
“What have you learned about shifting your balance?” Cratag asked mildly.
Avellana sniffed. “Not to do it.” She pulled at her hands as if shame washed through her, but neither Signet nor Cratag let go.
“We love you, Avellana,” Signet reminded.
“I didn’t control myself! I hurt all those people and Fams!”
Again Signet shared a glance with Cratag. “But you Healed Flora, and none of the sick Fams at T’Ash’s died, did they?” Signet knew there had been no deaths.
“No.”
“So the bottom line is that you saved a life and did good,” Cratag said. He swept a branch of lilac away before it caught on Avellana’s gold-ribbon-edged tunic.
Avellana breathed deeply, then looked up at him. “No one has said that, only that I hurt everybody.”
“The cost for that life was very high,” Signet said.
Nodding, Avellana said glumly, “Everyone has said the cost was too high.” She sighed and wiggled her fiingers again, and they let go of her hands. With a dry corner of the large softleaf she wiped her face, rubbed under her nose. “And Muin has not been allowed to visit me, nor I allowed to visit him. He is in disgrace, too.”
“Sliding down bannisters can be dangerous,” Signet said, keeping any scolding from her tone. It sounded as if Avellana had had enough of that.
In a prim voice, Avellana said, “We didn’t break any rules you gave us.”
“No, you didn’t,” Cratag said. “We forgot to say that one.”
The little girl’s shoulders slumped. “But common sense should have told us that it was dangerous,” she said in the voice that revealed she’d heard that from several adults. She peeped at Signet. “But it was so fun.” Another heaving sigh. “We couldn’t resist.”
“I know,” Signet said. “Many things are hard to resist.”
Avellana’s lower lip trembled. “I didn’t control myself.” She walked stiffly along the path, carefully keeping to the stepping stones.
Signet slipped her arm around Cratag’s waist, hugged him, knew he shared her concern for the girl—that Avellana would once again become too rigid. Then she caught up with the child. “You don’t have to be in control of every aspect of your life, every second.”
“Yes, I do.” Avellana stopped. She looked at a cluster of lilacs near her nose, bent to sniff, then made an appalled noise when some of the tiny blossoms separated from the stalk and fell onto her tunic. She quickly brushed them off.
“No, you don’t.” Signet took one of Avellana’s hands, and while the girl watched, she asked permission of the plant to take its flowers, snapped one off, shook it a little on herself, letting the florets fall on her as they might.
“You still look good,” Avellana said wistfully. “Even with lilacs scattered on you. Your tunic looks good.”
Signet struggled for words. “Every person must control some aspects of their life, like their Flair and their emotions that might hurt others, but we don’t need to be in control all the time. Sometimes I yell and shout and stomp by myself in my rooms when I’m angry.”
Avellana stared at her. “You do?”
“I hurt no one, not even myself.”
Cratag grunted. “Be better off doing some fighting patterns.”
“Maybe so, or dancing, or sports.” Though she didn’t do sports. Signet shrugged. “Everyone has Flair and talents that must be controlled. Cratag has learned to control his great strength, and not let his emotions use his strength against himself or others.”
“Cratag is a hero.” Avellana stared up at him again. “He saved us all. We might have all died without him. Mama is very glad he was there and is your lover, Signet.”
Signet winced.
“I might have killed us all.” Avellana gulped watery tears while others rolled down her cheeks.
Cratag paced forward and squatted before her, took his softleaf from her hands, found a dry corner, and wiped her eyes, then held it to her nose. “Blow.”
Avellana did.
Cratag said, “You didn’t know you’d endanger us all. You didn’t know what your Flair was or that your fear and guilt would spiral out to all of us and drain us so you could use your Flair. You learned a valuable lesson with regard to power and Flair and . . . strength. You won’t let your emotions rule your Flair and hurt others again, will you? Just like I don’t let my anger or fear or guilt out during training. I’ve learned how to control my emotions during a fi—, when sparring. But I can be less controlled when . . . uh . . . dancing. You can’t be rigid in life, Avellana. It will hurt you and might break you, and then you’ll be no good to others—to Vinni.”
Avellana grimaced. “I will think on that notion,” she said in her adult voice.
“Good,” Cratag said. He gave her back the softleaf. He stood and came over to Signet. This time he slipped his arm around her waist. “Life is knowing what you can control and what you can’t. When control is essential and when it isn’t.”
“To be a complete person. . .” Signet fumbled for words and just spoke what she believed and hoped for the best. “Life isn’t only about control and responsibilities and duty and common sense. It’s also about enjoying yourself and fun and sometimes giving in to temptation.”
The Lady and Lord knew her parents had shown her that and she was grateful. And the Lady and Lord knew she had no resistance to temptation when Cratag was involved.
“We all make mistakes and learn from them,” Cratag rumbled.
When Signet met his eyes, they were cool, and she wondered what he meant. Did he think their affair was a mistake?
That afternoon, right before his anticipated good workout with the simulacrum, Cratag received a call from Laev.
The young man’s eyes were crinkled with worry when Cratag looked into the scrybowl in the dressing room off the training room. Laev let out a sigh and smiled so deeply his dimples showed when Cratag answered—then scanned him up and down.
“I just heard you were hurt in that contretemps at T’Ash’s.” Laev looked a little sheepish. “And I didn’t know about that until Vinni T’Vine didn’t show up for our training at the Green Knight. His Family has ‘housebound’ him. He’s not allowed out. Not even on his castle grounds, I’m told.” Laev grimaced. “But you look fine.”
“I am fine.” Not quite, not near normal. And what sort of a word was contretemps?” Cratag studied Laev and saw nothing to indicate Laev knew it had been a matter of life and death. T’Hawthorn had not told Laev the real circumstances of the situation, and that gave Cratag pause. Those who knew were keeping the
wraps on what had happened. Of course someone would eventually tell Laev—either T’Hawthorn when he gave Laev more authority over the household, or word would spread through the younger generation of noble FirstFamilies lords and ladies. After all, Vinni and Avellana were two of their own.
Cratag jerked a head at the training room behind him. “You can come for my afternoon sparring session and see for yourself.” Cratag would push himself more if Laev did and that might be good. Maybe he was taking it too easy. Signet had been pampering him, and the Fams and the Residence pampering both of them with ultra-civilized treats that were supposed to make him feel better but only made him feel gawky and like a hick.
“Come join you?” Laev asked as if he’d never considered it, had never spent septhours sparring with Cratag. The young man cleared his throat, flushed a little, glanced away from the scrybowl. “Ah, not today. I have an appointment.”
“Oh?” Cratag lifted his brows.
Laev’s blush deepened. He leaned a little closer to the scrybowl and said in a low voice. “With Nivea Sunflower. Cratag, she’s the most wonderful girl! And my HeartMate. We’re courting. Today we’re going on an excursion to the Great Labyrinth. I’ve heard that the spring flowers are all in bloom, and it’s a sight to behold.”
Courting agreed with Laev, the boy was glowing. “Some other time then.”
“Yes. Sometime soon. I want her to meet you, and you her. Soon.” He lifted a hand. “Later.”
“Later,” Cratag growled. The boy didn’t notice, of course, he’d signed off in a blink.
Cratag realized his jaw was tight and loosened it. It was good that the boy had found his HeartMate. Wonderful.
Only to be expected of a young man who was descended from FirstFamilies on all four sides of his bloodline.
And it was only natural that a young man would prefer to spend time with his love, his HeartMate, a young woman he was interested in instead of a grumpy older-brother-friend. Cratag shouldn’t feel slighted. Or envious. Yet he nearly stomped to the training room and simulacrum.
His strength and energy still weren’t up to their usual levels, so he’d set the simulacrum for a lower level of power. As for his Flair, he could only manage a little mindspeak, otherwise not a twinge of psi. He wasn’t accustomed to being so weak, and it angered—no, irritated—him.
He wasn’t an angry man.
Not really.
Or maybe, deep inside him, where he hid it, was a kernel of anger. Maybe more than anger. There might be hurt, too. And just a twinge of despair.
All the negative emotions he’d felt for a long time . . . years maybe . . . and kept battened down and under control.
Couldn’t lose control when you’d sold your sword to merchants to guard their goods on a long trek to the northern continent. Had to keep a sharp lookout for bandits who’d slit your throat as soon as spit at you.
Couldn’t lose control when you were fighting for your life and the lives of other guards and your Family during the time of a stup—misguided—blood feud.
Couldn’t fliggering lose control when your lord assigned you a job without a by-your- leave and you watched a young girl and boy and the woman you loved dying before your eyes while you were the only one who could save them ’cause you were so common as to have no damned Flair.
No, couldn’t lose control then.
But now . . . yeah, now!
He slammed the simulacrum in the jaw, heard his own finger bones snap and an ominous rattle as the neck of the thing jerked back and fell, limp.
A scream from Signet tore through his mind, and he whirled to see her teleport to a corner of the room, rush toward him. “You’re hurt! Bones are broken.”
He cradled his hurt hand with the other. “Oh, yeah.” Then he looked down on the equally broken simulacrum. He knew what those cost. About fiive years of his salary. Fliggering flligger.
Avellana, holding Rhyz close, also showed up, properly on the teleportation pad. She walked over and looked at the dead thing. “It is a simulacrum.”
“Was a simulacrum.” Cratag breathed through the pain.
“It was as big as you,” Avellana said.
“Yeah.”
A little frown formed on her brow. “We Hazels do not have one of these. Even an older model was too expensive for our use.”
“My lord T’Hawthorn provided it for me,” Cratag said. Signet was moving him toward the teleportation pad. “Not Primary HealingHall, go to AllClass HealingHall.”
“I will not!”
“Yes, you will.” He scraped his brain for a good reason. “Lark Holly practices there, she’s the best.”
“Oh.”
They stepped up on the pad and even the tiny bobble jarred his hand and he clenched his jaw.
“Your hand is broken, too?” asked Avellana.
“Yes,” he hissed out.
She joined them on the teleportation pad. “I have never been to AllClass HealingHall.”
Signet turned on the indicator that their pad was in use, then tilted her head, mentally checking the pad of the HealingHall. “And we aren’t going now,” she said. “I don’t know the coordinates to teleport there. We’re going to Primary HealingHall.”
Cratag swore under his breath.
She looked at him, concerned. “Unless you want to scry T’Hawthorn for his Healer to come here.”
Cratag weighed the options. The bill from treatment at Primary HealingHall or calling T’Hawthorn’s Family Healer, who would tell the whole household and rib him forevermore. “Residence, scry T’Hawthorn’s and ask their Healer to come here.”
“Done,” the Residence said. “The Healer is on his way by glider since he does not know the Residence well enough to teleport. The siren of the T’Hawthorn Family glider has been engaged.”
Great, the whole city would know what a fool Cratag’d made of himself.
Avellana stepped off the pad with an expression of disappointment. “I do like our afternoon educational outings.” She walked to the simulacrum, looked at it and then at Cratag’s swelling hand. His fingers felt like sausages.
“I don’t think a Healer can fiix this simulacrum.”
“No,” Cratag said through gritted teeth.
Rhyz wiggled, and Avellana let the FamCat down. He pounced on the simulacrum’s hand, then hopped up on the body and walked back and forth.
“Will fixing the simulacrum and your hand be expensive?” Avellana asked.
Cratag set one foot off the teleportation pad, then the next, tears of pain stung the back of his eyes, but he answered the girl. “Very. Losing control is always expensive.”
And it often hurt. But he thought this particular stupidity would hurt a whole lot less than losing Signet.
Twenty-eight
While the Healer was dealing with Cratag’s broken hand in his rooms, Signet returned a scry to T’Hawthorn to discuss the incident from her sitting room. She straightened her slumped shoulders. It seemed all she was doing these days was reporting to the FirstFamilies.
T’Hawthorn answered immediately. He was a handsome man with black hair and violet eyes, the same color eyes as Cratag’s. He had a hardness of expression that was actually lighter than when she’d first met him, though no one would call him an easy man. Or stupid. He sat at a desk, petting a large flluffy black cat that was even haughtier in expression than its master.
Signet got to the point that bothered Cratag the most. “The simulacrum you sent over for Cratag’s use is broken.”
T’Hawthorn’s smile was knife thin. “Is that so? I was told that couldn’t happen. It’s under warranty. I’ll have T’Furze provide another.”
She let her breath sift out.
Waving the hand that wasn’t petting his cat, T’Hawthorn said, “That isn’t the most pressing concern. How is Cratag’s hand?”
“Being Healed now. It gave him considerable pain. Not that he admitted it, of course.”
“Of course not.” T’Hawthorn’s light purple eyes drilled
into her. “Cratag isn’t a man who gives in to pain . . . or other emotions. Usually.”
Signet let the silence hang. She had a general idea of what had happened through their link. Emotions had gushed through Cratag, and he’d planned on working through them physically, ridding himself of the negativity trapped inside him—that meditation had brought to the fore, she supposed. She’d known he was capable of great emotion, but hadn’t realized he’d suppressed such an amount. For how long? She studied T’Hawthorn. This man must have been responsible for a fair chunk.
She glanced at the shut door of her sitting room, double-checked her link with Cratag—sitting stoically letting the Healer work on his fingers. Then she lifted her chin and stared back at the lord and said, “Cratag was hurt that you sent him on this job without truly consulting him.”
T’Hawthorn sent her a cool look that told her he wasn’t used to explaining himself to anyone whose ancestry didn’t go all the way back to old Earth. Signet held her ground.
His turn to let out a sigh. “I was not as diplomatic as I should have been. I was, and am, sure he understands how much I value him.”
“You think so?” Signet raised her eyebrows. When T’Hawthorn’s lips turned down, she said, “He might know that with his head, perhaps.” She touched her chest with her fingertips. “The heart’s another matter.”
“I do value him. In every way.” T’Hawthorn narrowed his eyes, and she knew then that the lord knew she and Cratag were lovers, had known for some time. “He’s a part of my Family, a good man, and a good mentor to my Son’sSon, Laev. I would hate to see Cratag hurt further.”
Intimating that she would hurt him more than T’Hawthorn or Laev had ever done. Hadn’t it been a scry from Laev that had started this whole particular situation? But Signet kept her mouth shut. She’d deal with that later, right now it was time to take the plunge. She met T’Hawthorn’s gaze. “I am Cratag’s HeartMate.”
The lord’s eyes widened. He sat in stilled surprise for three seconds. “You’re sure?”
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