Heart Secret

by Robin D. Owens

  “Residences are uniquely suited to do that,” Lark Holly soothed. “Only one had the sickness within.”

  “T’Hawthorn Residence,” Primross said. He leaned an elbow on the mantel as if he were already at home within the spare and sterile walls.

  The emptiness would take Artemisia some getting used to. Her home was the most comfortable place she’d ever lived, including the Family estate they’d lost when she was a teen.

  “Yes, T’Hawthorn Residence had a death,” Lark said.

  “I have spoken at length with T’Hawthorn Residence,” said the House. “I need all records of the sickness from the Healers and HealingHalls transmitted to my Library.”

  Heather gasped. “We don’t share confidential—”

  “You want me for an experiment.” Turquoise House’s tone was harder. Artemisia was amazed at its range of expression. “I will not accept this project without sufficient data. Change the venue to a HealingHall, or your father’s home, T’Heather Residence. Your Residence is interested in the sickness. We all are. Or use the starship Nuada’s Sword. I know it has laboratories, sick bays, and sterile rooms.”

  “Not the starship,” Artemisia said. “I don’t work well there, not where Flair is diminished or suppressed.” She couldn’t offer her own home, BalmHeal Residence, the original HealingHall of the colonists, now a hidden sanctuary for the desperate of Celta.

  Not many of those suffering from the sickness had made it to the old BalmHeal estate in time. She and her mother had had only two cases during the epidemic. Both casualties were buried in one of the sacred groves. Artemisia was sure the Turquoise House knew everything that BalmHeal Residence did. Their Residence had taken the deaths very hard.

  “I’ll transfer the information,” Lark Holly said.

  Ura Heather walked out.

  “Thank you both.” Lark Holly curtsied to them and swept from the room, leaving Artemisia with a man who still hadn’t met her eyes. Awkward.

  If she’d had regular clothes on, she’d have tucked her hands in the wide opposite sleeves, but she was wearing a work tunic with tight cuffs. She stood by the open door, but he didn’t move.

  “You aren’t going to refuse our request?” she asked him.

  “It’s mostly the Heathers’ request, isn’t it? FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather and Lark Holly, whose mother was a Heather.”

  “The Heathers have always been the best Healers.”

  “That doesn’t bother you? That no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be their equal?”

  Artemisia blinked. “Why should it? The Heathers are from the FirstFamilies, are descended from people who had psi power on ancient Earth. My Family isn’t so old, our Flair isn’t as evolved.” She lifted her chin, held out her hands, and flexed her fingers. “I’m sure you’ve practiced your sleight of hand for a long time. If I began now, would I ever reach your level of competence? I doubt it.” A corner of her mouth quirked. “Even if I had the natural dexterity you do.”

  He nodded. “I’m good with my hands.” Then he swayed back, bumping against the mantel as if surprised at his own words. His heavy brows lowered. “I have a problem with the power of the entrenched Nobility. I also happen to agree with the Turquoise House. This situation is about saving lives, but with Heather it’s all about status. The first epidemic happened on her watch as the highest Healer of Celta. Her father had to come out of retirement. I don’t think she’ll ever forget. If she could eradicate the disease, she’d be redeemed and go down in history as the savior.”

  Artemisia stared at him. Now that she looked more closely, an element of his natural intensity was anger. Another reason to be wary. “I get the impression that you don’t want me to be with you in this project.”

  “I want you,” said the Turquoise House.

  “Thanks,” she replied but didn’t take her gaze off Primross.

  He shook his head; his wide mouth thinned. “I don’t, but I don’t dare refuse you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Vinni T’Vine, the prophet, visited me this morning and insisted I follow all the wishes of the FirstLevel Healers.”

  Her chest went tight. No one liked hearing a prophecy featuring himself or herself. She focused on what Primross previously said. “I don’t agree that the Nobles are too powerful. I think they’re doing their best.”

  His eyes widened. He shook his head. “You are naive.”

  “You’re cynical. All the FirstFamily Nobles I’ve met have been decent people.” It hadn’t been the FirstFamilies who’d demanded the Mugworts’ title be stripped from them, but other Nobles of their own rank, at the instigation of the newssheets.

  He jutted his chin at the window facing the courtyard where the HealingHall glider was pulling away. “You think FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather is decent?”

  Artemisia flushed. She’d had unkind thoughts about the lady but wouldn’t admit them. “She’s doing the best she can. If we’re in this together, I don’t want to talk politics.”

  He nodded slowly. “Done.”

  “I suggest you take a tour of my premises,” the Turquoise House said. “SecondLevel Healer Panax can determine how things should be arranged best for this experiment.”

  “Fine,” Artemisia said.

  Primross’s mouth twisted, but he said, “Sure.”

  “This is the mainspace,” the House repeated. “I have a MasterSuite and MistrysSuite and several bedrooms and waterfall rooms, a kitchen as well as many no-time food and drink storage units. I have a playspace and a den and a library.”

  “Give us the tour.” Garrett’s half bow to Artemisia held a mocking quality. “After you.”

  She sniffed and went into the hall, followed the House’s instructions, and studied the rooms. Lovely proportions but all were set up to contain and destroy the sickness with sticky white walls and no furniture. Bare, bare, bare.

  The more time she spent with Primross, the more it seemed as if she became sensitized to him. Her skin felt hot, and it wasn’t the sickness. She was all too aware of his size, the way he moved, and his deeper and rougher tones that contrasted so well with the House’s actor voice.

  Time and again she had to yank her focus from the virile man to the stark House.

  Garrett was too aware of the woman he didn’t want to replace his lost love and tried to concentrate on his conversation with the slyly knowing Turquoise House. That entity hinted at more than one secret regarding itself, the woman, and Garrett.

  The Turquoise House had figured out that riddles itched Garrett like a bad rash. The House dropped innuendos, ensuring Garrett was intrigued. Why, Garrett didn’t know, but the House had an agenda.

  So the obligatory tour wasn’t over when a data stream came from Primary HealingHall, officially approving the project. Garrett’s last trickle of hope that he’d be spared the whole terrible thing was squashed.

  He and the SecondLevel Healer stood in a small bedroom that connected through a dressing and waterfall room to the bedroom of the MasterSuite. The view out the undraped windows was the only thing that made the place tolerable. The Healer had decided the chambers were right for the experiment. This would be her room.

  Garrett glanced at his wrist timer. “I need to make arrangements for my business.”

  “You are a private investigator.” The Turquoise House rolled the sentence. “A fascinating business.”

  Garrett grunted. “I like it well enough.”

  The Healer’s delicately curving brows arched. “You wouldn’t pursue a vocation if you didn’t enjoy it.”

  She already sensed too much about him. Every instant he was with her, the innate bond between them grew from the wispy tendril they’d always had to a thin thread. It would only get worse.

  “You will tell us of some of your cases?” the House asked. “Though
that business with the Hawthorn jewels earlier this year was well publicized—a triumph for you!”

  The woman blinked as if she didn’t recall his greatest case, the juicy events of kidnapping, attempted murder, accidental death, jewel theft, and a goddess’s curse. Garrett shouldn’t have been irritated in the slightest, but he was. People were contrary.

  “Maybe I’ll tell some general stories. Nothing confidential.” He wanted the woman to ask. But she stared around the place, frowning. She wasn’t comfortable in the House and he wondered why.

  No. He would not wonder about her. She presented no intriguing puzzle. “I’ll go to Primary HealingHall and let them take my blood for the boy. Then pack my stuff,” he said.

  She sighed. “I must, too.”

  “Do you teleport?” he asked. She should be able to at her level of Flair.

  “Yes,” she said, not sounding offended as he would’ve been if she’d asked him. She didn’t appear to be easily offended. Easygoing. Soft.

  Not like Dinni, who’d been adamant in her refusal of him.

  The Healer wet her lips and his reluctant gaze went to her wide, tender mouth. She said, “I must plan procedures with the FirstLevel Healers. We probably won’t start the project until tomorrow morning. You’ll be scried with the information.”

  “Fine.” He gave her his briefest nod. Again no reaction from her at the slight. Garrett teleported away from the disturbing female and to Intake at Primary HealingHall.

  Four

  The irritating Garrett Primross was gone. Artemisia relaxed her shoulders.

  “My HouseHeart is quiet and serene if you wish to rest,” the Turquoise House said.

  The offer to visit its most secret room surprised Artemisia so much that she stretched out a hand to steady herself. Her skin cringed at the tacky feel of the wall.

  “All organisms deposited by human contact have been destroyed,” said a flat voice.

  The House rushed into speech. “My apologies, Healer. The decontamination and sterilization system came with med announcements that I have not yet programmed into my own voice.”

  Artemisia never recalled an apology from her own sentient home. “It’s very brave of you to host us, Turquoise House.”

  “Please call me TQ. T’Hawthorn Residence said it took no harm. I want to be able to offer my humans the very best.” Strong, solid, and determined tones.

  “I can’t understand why you’d let me in your HouseHeart.” If the inner sanctum of the HouseHeart was destroyed, the Residence died.

  “I trust you,” said TQ. “BalmHeal Residence and I talk a lot.” There came a cacklelike sound Artemisia couldn’t place, but she knew it as punctuation. “He is very old and I am very young, but I was there when he stirred from sleep. My inhabitants at the time were with us both. BalmHeal Residence speaks of you a lot.” A short silence hung. “My HouseHeart needs maintenance,” TQ said, embarrassed.

  “You don’t have permanent caregivers?”

  “No. FirstFamily GrandLady Mitchella D’Blackthorn decorated me, and will help me later. Others who have helped have agreed to have their memories bespelled so they forget details.”

  Artemisia rocked toward the wall again, moved to the middle of the room. “No one knows how to reach your HouseHeart?”

  “Not at this time,” TQ whispered.

  She wouldn’t say that was foolish. “I’m extremely honored.”

  “I believe I need a failsafe human.”

  She let out a held breath. “So another Residence has information on how to reach your HouseHeart and about your HouseStones?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be glad to help you, and agree to memory blurring.”

  “Would keeping your memory be acceptable until my true person comes?”

  “Your true person?”

  “I have had tenants, but am waiting for my Family.”

  She didn’t suppress her curiosity. “Are you waiting for a destined person?”

  “Like humans wait for HeartMates?” His voice lilted. “No, I know the Family I want.”

  “Oh.”

  A long creak came from a distant room. “My HouseHeart is very restful and you have had a difficult morning. I am sorry I mentioned your surname.”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem.” Though Garrett Primross seemed an observant man. But she hadn’t hidden information about herself. If he checked, he’d know who she was and of the Family’s scandal.

  “And I am sorry about Opul Cranberry’s illness,” TQ said.

  “How do you know of Opul?”

  “T’Heather Residence heard Ura Heather speaking to her father about the child. The GrandLord cautiously approved the experiment. T’Heather Residence told me.”

  “Ah.”

  “Incoming scry from Lark Holly at Primary HealingHall. Visual on your bedroom wall.”

  A second later the whole wall rippled, then showed a huge image of Lark Holly.

  “Greetyou, Artemisia. Opul Cranberry is being prepared for the blood transfusion from GentleSir Primross. We anticipate all will be well, but Opul is upset I’ll be his primary Healer.” Lark smiled. She probably wasn’t often considered secondary to anyone else. Artemisia was glad Lark was amused. “Can you come say good-bye to Opul? It’s essential he remains calm.”

  “Of course.”

  “You can give me your recommendations for contamination spellshields and such to keep you safe, as well as the rooms you chose for the project in the Turquoise House. We anticipate starting at WorkBell tomorrow morning.”

  Artemisia swallowed and kept her gaze steady. “I’ll be ready.”

  “I know you will.” A warmer smile from Lark. “Primary HealingHall is lucky to have you.”

  They signed off and the scry faded and the wall went back to blank white. Artemisia breathed deeply. “TQ, can you scry BalmHeal Residence, please? I must talk to my parents.” She was sure her younger sister, a priestess of the Lady and Lord, could set up a blessing ritual that evening.

  “Of course,” the House said.

  “I promise I’ll come this afternoon and help you with your HouseHeart.”

  “It can wait.” His voice was soft. “We are patient beings.”

  “Thank you for your support in this endeavor, TQ. It will be a difficult process.”

  “The experiment will be fun and interesting!”

  Artemisia was sure it would be fascinating . . . and terrible.

  * * *

  At the HealingHall, Garrett was met by a worn Lark Holly. “Thank you for returning. Little Opul needs your help. He’s responding very slowly to the new medicine.” Lark’s expression hardened into sheer resolve. “We will save him. We will not have another epidemic.”

  Garrett made a noncommittal noise.

  Her lavender gaze lasered in on his. “I give you my personal word on that.”

  He held up a palm. “This situation is not under your control.”

  Her breath huffed. “You’re right, but we know this sickness now. We will not let it win. Please follow me to the transfusion room.”

  He hardly needed to, he’d been here to donate his blood so often, but he was glad to stop talking and take action.

  He was placed on a bedsponge near the sick child, a young boy who stared at him with bright blue eyes in a pale face. Even his red orange hair seemed subdued.

  “You’re not pretty Artemisia,” the boy whispered, voice rougher than a child’s should be.

  “No, but he will help you.” Lark Holly pulled up a stool between the two beds.

  “He’s big.”

  Garrett managed a smile. “Yeah, I am.”

  The boy turned his head and closed his eyes and Garrett saw pain roll through him. He engulfed Opul’s hand in h
is own. It was small and hot and reminded him of Dinni and her baby. He didn’t know how to avoid the past. How many times would he be expected to relive it?

  Then the child looked at him again and tugged words from him. “I’m here to help. It will be all right.”

  Opul’s chin trembled, his lips compressed, then words tumbled from him. “I was bad and opened the box that came from G’Uncle Hulten before he died.”

  “Sshh.” Lark Holly held out a softleaf to the kid.

  He grabbed it and scrubbed his face. “Now I’m sick and I’ll make everyone else sick and more of my friends will die.” The boy bit his lip bloody. Lark exclaimed and touched it, Healing the small wound.

  “No,” Garrett said and knew he’d make more promises that could be broken by death. He squeezed Opul’s small and sweaty fingers. “I got the sickness and lived and so will you.”

  Slow blinks at him. “Yeah?”

  “Yes.” He struggled to think of something to help the boy. Struggle was right. He’d struggled all through the sickness to get the bus to the clinic. “What do you want to do most?”

  “GentleSir Primross.” Lark Holly’s voice cooled with warning that he was not an expert in this area. Healers generally wanted Iasc patients to stay quiet, relax, and rest.

  He met her eyes. “I survived,” he said. That was the bottom line. He’d lived when others died.

  “I like to run best.” Another chin wobble. “I’m going to miss the southern district race because I did something stupid!”

  An idea came to Garrett, dried his throat. His glance clashed with Holly’s intense stare; she watched him closely, listening hard. For something he hadn’t put on the record? Who knew what worked? He reached for the tube of water and swallowed fresh liquid. “Listen, Opul.”

  The child’s pale blue eyes looked into his own. “When the fever and shakes come again, pretend you’re running a race. Know that you have to reach the finish line, must win.” Like he’d had to get through the mountains.