No Greater Pleasure

by Megan Hart

  “If it pleased you.” The standard reply, but said with teasing. She put her hand in the bag and closed her fingers upon the leather journal. “I brought something for you, as well.”

  “Did you?” He cocked his head to look at her. Behind him, Jericho had lifted Dane in the air and the boy was laughing himself into hiccups. Gabriel kept his eyes on hers. “What is it?”

  She handed him the journal. “For your work. To replace the one that was ruined.”

  “I have other notebooks. You needn’t have wasted your coin on another.”

  She raised an eyebrow, her gaze solid on his. “Then perhaps I shall take this one back?”

  He did not laugh, as he never did, but the corners of his mouth tilted the barest amount. “Perhaps I can force myself to use it.”

  She handed it to him, and when he took it, their fingers touched. “I hope it pleases you.”

  Before he could answer, a feminine shriek shot across the courtyard. “Jericho!”

  Gabriel straightened, his gaze leaving Quilla’s and growing distant again. He took two measured steps away from her, the sudden formality between them as solid as a wall of brick. “Saradin.”

  Saradin lifted her skirts to skip across the stones, her golden curls atumble over her shoulders. “Jericho Delessan! You have returned!”

  “Ah, sister,” said Jericho, turning.

  His posture, so easy in the marketplace, in the carriage, and with his nephew, became stiff. He left off holding up the bag of sweets with which he’d been tormenting Dane and handed them to the boy, then put his hand over his heart and executed a perfect bow that stopped Saradin in her tracks.

  “Brother,” she replied coyly. “It has been too long since your presence graced this house. It has been sore lacking in frivolity.”

  She threw a glance over her shoulder at Gabriel, whose posture now echoed his brother’s. Two men, so alike in stature and form, the only difference in their features the color of their hair and eyes. They faced off, a woman and a child between them, and the air fair crackled with sudden tension that Saradin appeared not to notice.

  She held out her hand to Jericho, who seemed to have no choice but to take it or else seem rude. He brought it to his lips with such brief attention that it was clear to Quilla, at least, that he wanted no part of Saradin’s flirting. Gabriel’s wife, on the other hand, giggled like a schoolgirl and fluttered her hands at him before turning back to her husband with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

  “Your brother has been naughty, has he not, my lord husband? Depriving us of his company these long months?”

  “Indeed.” Gabriel looked at his wife, not at his brother. “He has been most inconsiderate.”

  “But he’s back now.” Saradin nodded as though pleased with herself. “And oh, what gay times we shall have. I’ve learned a new card game, Jericho, which I must teach you. ’Tis most merry.”

  Jericho nodded stiffly. Gabriel might not be looking at him, but he had not taken his eyes off his brother until now, when his gaze flickered to Quilla, then back to Saradin. His smile grew bright again, though it didn’t seem to meet his eyes.

  “I look forward to it.”

  “Come, wife,” said Gabriel. “I’m certain my brother is fair weary from his journey and would like to eat and rest.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Saradin turned on tiny, slippered toes and clapped her perfect little hands. “I’ve told Florentine to make tea in the parlor. Let us see if she’s done so!”

  She swept past Quilla without a second look, and Quilla’s amused glance followed her. The woman was either oblivious or a great actress, or a good mixture of both. It did not bother her to be so ignored. She knew the woman treated the house staff in the same manner—invisible unless needed.

  With another look at his brother, Jericho took Dane by the hand and started toward the house. “Let’s go find Jorja, shall we?”

  Dane skipped alongside his uncle, chattering away, and after a moment, Gabriel looked at her. “You are dismissed, Handmaiden. Seek your entertainment elsewhere until the morrow, when I should have need of you again.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She watched him go, then went inside to her own room.

  Chapter 6

  Jericho’s presence at Glad Tidings helped the house live up to its name. With Gabriel’s brother in residence, more laughter rang through the halls, Florentine made better desserts because the other lord Delessan liked sweets, and the young lord Delessan ran rampant through the house, terrorizing the staff with his uncle-approved escapades.

  The rest of the house might have been in high spirits, but Gabriel withdrew to his work and his temper, leaving Quilla at a loss as to how, exactly, to soothe him. He snapped more ferociously when she confused amelium with bareelium. He threw vials of half-completed potions against the walls when they did not coagulate correctly, and left her with the mess of broken glass and stinking fluid to clean. He worked at an almost frantic pace, as though by focusing on his work he need not focus on his brother, his son, or his wife.

  Quilla tried hard to understand him, but he would not be understood. He did not want to be understood, nor soothed. Placating him was impossible. He wanted cocao when she made tea, scones when she brought simplebread, her aid when she busied herself with other tasks, and her absence when she offered her help.

  “This is clearly not crystallized quartz!” he shouted at her one day when she tried to hand him a bottle with a faded label she thought had contained the ingredient he wanted. “Are you an inbred simpleton that you cannot comprehend what it is I wish of you?”

  “Are you an arrogant, crotchety curmudgeon with absolutely no idea of how to treat people?” she shot back, and threw the vial down so hard it bounced on the scarred wooden floor but didn’t shatter. “Yes! Yes, you are!”

  She turned to stalk out of the room, heart pounding and tears sparking behind her eyes. True patience, she reminded herself, but it didn’t work. Fury made her hands shake. She hadn’t made it halfway to the door when he caught her by the elbow and spun her around to face him.

  “How dare you speak to me that way?”

  She yanked her arm from his grip. The faint rise of his brows showed surprise, perhaps at her strength. “How dare you continue to abuse me so?”

  He made as though to grab her again, and she stepped back, her arms going up to cover herself in a defensive posture. He watched her and did not try to reach for her again.

  “I thought Handmaidens were bound to please their patrons.”

  She did not relax her stance. Submissive did not mean without defense. There were patrons who did not understand the line, and despite what he’d told her about never giving in to the desire to hit someone, at that moment she did not trust him.

  “And patrons are understood to at least attempt to be pleased.”

  He scowled. “I hired you to assist me with my work. To make my life easier.”

  “And yet nothing I do makes you happy!” she shot back. “You’re incapable of being pleased!”

  He took a step toward her, and she raised her hands, her posture clear. She would strike back if he touched her. Gabriel looked at her hands and did not move closer.

  “You would allow me to take a strap to your back, but you would not allow me to come closer when I would apologize for my behavior?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “One has naught to do with the other. Is that your intent? To plead my mercy for being an insufferable prat? Or maybe you intend to bruise my arm again with your inconsiderate grip.”

  He blinked at her words, and in an instant had bowed his head, one hand over his heart. “I do plead your mercy, Handmaiden. I was out of turn. I beg your forgiveness. I have been . . .”

  “Insufferable,” she repeated. “Intolerable. Rude. Shall I go on?”

  He kept his head lowered but raised his eyes, hand still over his heart. “I don’t believe ’tis necessary, no. I am full aware of how ill I have treated you.”

  She put her hand
s down and brushed hair from her face, then put her hands upon her hips. “I have told you already. If I do not please, you need only release me. Say it thrice over. ‘I release thee,’ and I shall go. You can get another Handmaiden.”

  “I do not want another Handmaiden.” His voice was low.

  She lifted her chin. “Then might I suggest you explain to me how I might tell crystallized quartz from its neighbor on your table? So that I might be better able to assist you.”

  He stood straight and took his hand away from his heart. “You are not leaving?”

  “Have you achieved absolute solace?”

  “No.” A hint of tilt at the corners of his lips. “It would not appear I have.”

  She swept by him, head held high, back to the table. “Then no. I am not leaving.”

  For the rest of that day, he did not raise his voice to her, and she felt his eyes upon her when she knew he thought she could not see.

  Glad Tidings did indeed have a garden of stone. Quilla knew in the spring the beds would once more bloom with life, but for now all the plants had been cut back to the root, leaving behind little but dry, brown stems. The paths were well kept and of finely crushed white stone, lined with larger red rocks she knew had been imported from another place. Large boulders dotted the garden, too big to have been brought, which meant they’d been there before the garden was planned. Many of them had interesting shapes, carved by weather and wind.

  Today, both were unfavorable; the sky gray and overcast, promising snow, and the wind’s finger pinched her cheeks until they burned. It would likely be one of the last days she’d be able to walk these paths until the springtime sun warmed them, and she intended to take advantage of it. Quilla bent to pick up a stray stone from the grass around the pond and tossed it into the water, watching the ripples and smiling at the sight of several fat copperfish rising to the surface, slow from cold but still as lovely.

  “Care you don’t fall in. The edge is soft there.”

  She turned to see who’d spoken, and ducked her head in acknowledgment. “I will take care, thank you.”

  Jericho grinned and stepped up beside her, pulling out a small bundle from his pocket. He showed her what it was, a napkin filled with crusts of bread. “I come to feed them sometimes.”

  “Don’t let me disturb you, then.” She turned to go.

  “Don’t.” Jericho put a hand on her arm. “I didn’t mean to chase you away. Here. I’ll even share the crumbs.”

  Quilla smiled. “You don’t have to do that.”

  Though his hair and eyes were different, his smile was much like his brother’s. At least in shape. Jericho’s smile was broader. More ready to bloom.

  “Of course I don’t have to.” He held out the bundle. “Here.”

  She took a crust and tossed it into the water. A great, gaping mouth opened beneath it immediately, swallowing the bread whole, and she yelped in surprise. Jericho laughed.

  “Don’t worry, Quilla. I don’t believe he has a taste for Handmaidens.”

  She slanted him a glance. “What on earth is it?”

  Jericho tossed another crust, which disappeared almost as rapidly as the first, though from a dozen tiny mouths rather than the large one. “This pond is much deeper than it appears. Plenty of room in it for eels.”

  Quilla took a step farther back from the edge. “That mouth was enormous.”

  Jericho grinned. “We’ve never seen his entire length, but eels can grow up to twenty arrows long in idyllic conditions.”

  She looked at the pond, which looked as though it could be rowed from end to end in half a chime. “This hardly looks to be idyllic conditions for an eel that size.”

  “Well, you never know what environment is going to cause a creature to thrive, and which is going to cause it to suffer.”

  “No. I suppose not.” She broke her crust into small pieces and tossed them into the water one by one.

  “And what of you, Tranquilla Caden?”

  She frowned, her eyes on the water. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you thriving?”

  “Are you comparing me to an eel?” She gave him her full gaze, a brow lifted.

  Jericho smiled, and again the resemblance to his brother was made more obvious. “I am.”

  Quilla made a small, unamused face. “I’m not an eel, my lord Delessan.”

  “You don’t have to call me that. You made it pretty clear you’re my brother’s. Not mine.”

  Quilla studied him. “Should you need the services of a Handmaiden, I’m certain the Order could provide you with one of your own.”

  Jericho shook his head. “I don’t need a Handmaiden. I’m fairly able to content myself, thanks.”

  That earned him a small smile. “ ’Tis well, then, that the world is not filled with men like you, else I’d be out of a job.”

  “Ah,” he countered swiftly. “But if the world were filled with men—and women—like me, you would have no need of a job, because your purpose would be fulfilled.”

  “True.” She nodded in agreement. “But that seems unlikely to happen within my lifetime, at any rate, so I shall be grateful for the chance to work as long as I can.”

  “Is that really all it is to you? A job?”

  Quilla dusted the final crumbs from her hands, and though they were but the tiniest specks, more dust than anything else, the water still rippled with copperfish silent below its surface, feeding upon what she’d dropped.

  “I’m not certain what you mean.”

  He stared at her until she looked up at him, then replied, “Are you happy in my brother’s service?”

  She gave him what she’d learned was often the best answer to an inappropriate question. “Why do you wish to know?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “Ah.” Quilla bent to pick up another stone but hesitated before tossing it, remembering that gaping maw, the glimpse of one elliptical eye. “And are you always so concerned about your brother’s affairs?”

  Jericho laughed and touched a fingertip to his brow in acknowledgment. “Point taken.”

  She stared back at the water. “I am as happy here in this service as I have been in any other.”

  “Really?” Jericho bent to pick up some rocks of his own to plunk into the water. “Why do you sound so underenthused?”

  She looked at him. “I’m not!”

  “You’re happy here. Really.” His tone clearly stated he didn’t believe her.

  Quilla nodded. “As happy—”

  “That does nothing to convince me.” Jericho turned to face her. “My brother is difficult, to describe him kindly.”

  “I know this.” She smiled. “I’ve had worse. Few worse, but some.”

  Jericho rattled the pebbles in his palm. “Don’t you have to say that about him?”

  Quilla began walking along the path. Jericho followed. The eel made ripples in the water and she caught a flash of silver in the pond’s depths. Perhaps her imagination. Or not.

  “No, I don’t have to say it. ’Tis true enough. I’ve had patrons who were worse than your brother.”

  “And you liked them, anyway.”

  Quilla laughed and looked at him. “No, my lord Delessan. I didn’t like them.”

  “Don’t you have to like them?”

  Now she stopped walking and put her hands on her hips. “Sinder’s Arrow, no. I don’t have to like them. I am required to serve. To provide absolute solace. I do not need to like them!”

  Jericho frowned as though pondering. “How on earth can you provide absolute solace to someone you don’t like?”

  “ ’Tis no easy task,” Quilla admitted. “It takes much meditation. An unselfish heart is its own reward.”

  “Do you like most of them?”

  Most people never bothered to ask about her work. On her rare visits home, her family ignored her Calling, preferring to act as though she’d been away on retreat, or to school. Her patrons didn’t seem interested in anyone but themselves, and most
assumed she liked them, even when she didn’t.

  “Most I do. Yes.”

  “And they become your friends?”

  “Many of them. Many I grow to have great fondness for. Yes.”

  “But you have to be their friend.” He sounded very sure of himself. “So are they truly your friends, if you must needs make a friendship with them? When you have no choice, is it real admiration, or necessity?”

  Quilla frowned. “I always have a choice, my lord Delessan.”

  He laughed, tipping his head toward the late harvesttime sky. “So you say. Think you that because I have no need for a Handmaiden I know not their purpose?”

  He looked at her with one eye squinted against the sun that had decided to break through the clouds. “You have to be their friends, their confidantes, their lovers, their nursemaids. Their caretakers and serving girls and cleaning maids.”

  She lifted her chin. “And what of it?”

  “Do you not know the difference between a friend of choice and one of necessity, Quilla Caden? When’s the last time you had one?”

  “I have friends.”

  “Of choice?”

  “Yes!”

  “Can I count myself among them?”

  She gave him a long, level look. “I don’t know.”

  “Fair enough, Quilla, but be warned. I intend to make you know.”

  He touched his fingertips to the base of his throat, his lips, and his forehead in quick succession—the Traveler’s Gesture—and with a smile still on his lips, turned and left her to stare at the water’s black surface. The surface of the pond had gone still again, but Quilla knew she would never forget the way the water had frothed, or the secrets it held beneath the calm surface.

  The last thing Quilla expected to find when she opened the cupboard lift was a face. She let out a yelp, then put her hand over her heart. “Young lord Delessan! You scared half the life out of me!”

  Dane giggled, then looked apologetic. “I plead your mercy. I was playing pirates.”

  By himself. The lad needed playmates beyond his uncle and the houseboys. Quilla smiled. “And the lift is the place to do it?”