Heart Secret

by Robin D. Owens

  Just because she smelled pylor on the man, knew he’d been drugged with it, probably after the blow to his head, didn’t mean that her Family would be persecuted or the scandal would be raked up again. No. Breathe easier, steadier, relax muscles. Look concerned—and she was!—but don’t appear afraid.

  No one could touch her mother and father now. They were safe in the secret sanctuary. They’d already lost their titles and the respect of their peers and their careers. They’d moved on and made a good life for themselves.

  That dreadful time was over. As Garrett’s was. She’d survived and she wouldn’t have to live through it again.

  She opened her mouth to tell him of the pylor, what she thought might have happened, but couldn’t. Couldn’t force the words out.

  The Mugworts had been driven from their home during a hideously cold and snowy winter. They’d hung on in lodgings for a year before they’d been hounded from the city, then had been offered the benediction of being caretakers for the old FirstGrove, BalmHeal estate.

  She shivered in remembered cold and despair. Garrett wasn’t the only one who equated cold with despair.

  He signed off of his scry and pocketed the pebble, then glanced upward and frowned. “Clouds are rolling in. TQ should have told us the weather report.”

  Artemisia looked. The sun was shrouded by gray clouds with bruised bellies. Good enough reason to shiver.

  Garrett squatted by the body. Obviously his ordeal had been wiped from his mind by this new situation. His frown grooved his forehead. “I don’t know this smell.”

  Artemisia wet her lips. She should force her conclusion into the open, into the freshening breeze that spun the scent of pylor around them.

  There were a couple of slight pops and two guards, one male and one female, strode from the Temple and up to them, moving together like longtime partners.

  The female guard scrutinized her. Her brows came down and her mouth formed “Mugwort,” and Artemisia trembled.

  The guards joined Garrett and only then Artemisia realized she’d drawn away from the body and the scent of devastation.

  Her perscry in her sleeve pocket lilted a tune. “That’s Primary HealingHall,” she said. “I work there.”

  “We know,” the male guard said. “All guards are treated at Primary HealingHall and we recognize your tunic and insignia.”

  She cupped her marble and Ura Heather’s irritated face looked out at her. “Well, where are you?”

  “I was told not to report today,” she said.

  “T’Heather wants you here for a debriefing. Come now.” She signed off.

  Garrett grimaced. “I can inform the guards of our discovery.”

  She grabbed at the chance to get away, flexed a smile at the guards. “Artemisia Panax. You can reach me at Primary HealingHall. I must catch the next public carrier.” She gestured to it a few blocks away.

  “Fine,” the male guard said. “We’ll contact you later.”

  With a last inclination of her head, she walked at an even pace to the public carrier plinth. She wanted one last, long glance at Garrett but she didn’t want to see the body.

  She didn’t turn and welcomed the carrier’s cool air as she stepped into it and rode away from the past—recent and long-ago—and to her career that would ground her in the present.

  The time with the other Healers, FirstLevel Heather and Holly and the great T’Heather himself, and their discussion of the experiment eased Artemisia until she was as involved as they in the final conclusions. Garrett’s blood should provide them with excellent information to use against Iasc sickness.

  * * *

  The guards contemplated the body, then the guy held out his hand to Garrett. “Fol Berberis.”

  Garrett clasped arms with him. “Garrett Primross.”

  The guard smiled. “I know.”

  Garrett turned to the woman, who offered her arm. “Rosa Milkweed,” she said.

  He clasped her arm.

  When they finished recording the scene and had sent the body to Druida Guards’ Death Grove, he accompanied Berberis and Milkweed to the main guard station, under the command of Black Ilex Winterberry, Captain of all the Druida guardsmen.

  While Garrett waited for Winterberry to end a scry, he rolled a couple of new coins on the backs of his fingers. The guards were intrigued at the sleight of hand.

  “Can you do something with a softleaf? I love softleaf tricks,” Rosa said.

  Agreeable, Garrett asked, “Do you have a softleaf?” He had a scarlet silkeen one precisely folded and tucked in a front belt pocket for an impressive appearance, but the trick he was thinking of could be done with any.

  Fol grunted and pulled a large square softleaf from his pocket and handed it to Garrett. He folded the thing into a little dancing-lady poppet, sang a jingle as he made her perform, and ended with a final “Hey!” as she did a high kick.

  Rosa laughed—she’d watched every movement intently—and the men chuckled. Garrett presented the softleaf back to Fol with a flourish. The man’s brows came down as he looked at the unfurling folds as if trying to see the pattern.

  “Poppets were a way I used to track and find the Black Magic Cultists,” Winterberry said. “But poppets made with and infused with Flair.” He smiled but the topic had returned to the serious study of murder.

  It wasn’t a hardship to spend time at the guard station discussing a mystery. A whole lot better than suffering through sickness and nightmares and at the mercy of a bunch of female Healers. Now Garrett was in control and part of a project with like-minded men and women. Relief swept through him with enough force to nearly blow the top of his head off.

  Nothing he liked more than a puzzle, and no one seemed to recognize the dead man. None of the local guards near Apollopa Park knew him. From the labels on his clothes, they were made in Gael City, and the man looked as if he’d done hard work for most of his life.

  The Death Grove Healer stated that he’d been struck on his head and drugged with pylor, then his wrists had been slit so he’d bleed out. Things that almost made sense. It looked like the killing was almost part of a ritual. The man’s features were almost like someone Garrett—and others—recalled.

  After a couple of septhours, Garrett got an exasperated scry from Danith D’Ash to come pick up his new Fam, and waved a hand at the guards as he left. The case wasn’t his, but he’d found the body and made himself agreeable and had a good enough rep as an investigator that they’d keep him informed.

  When he hopped on one of the infrequent public carriers to Noble Country, his muscles felt looser, he had more energy, and he resented only a little that he’d lost weight and was out of shape.

  He’d never appreciated a day more. The streets of Druida widened and the trees lining them grew larger, the buildings opened to vistas. The sky was deep blue, and the dark clouds had transformed into high, white crystal-glitter scarves. The sun was the usual tiny blue white.

  He was alive.

  Some poor guy was dead.

  Garrett was more interested in the mystery than in the man himself, accepted that and said an absent blessing for the dead. He, himself, was alive and life was fine. As he exited the carrier, he stretched and popped some muscles. Yeah, he felt good. He jogged past the sign “Danith and A. Gwydion Ash, Animal Healers” and through the arched stone tunnel. The corridor was pretty, with climbing plants, but Garrett wasn’t fooled, it was a security measure—and for Commoners who took the public carrier. He let the annoyance burn off.

  The door was open when he reached it, a small woman with brown hair standing on the threshold, arms crossed: GreatLady Danith D’Ash. “Garrett Primross!”

  He winced.

  She turned and he followed. She had such an aura of nobility, it was hard for him to recall she’d been born a Commoner. She
led him past her office reception rooms to a small white room reminding him of TQ’s sterile walls, then pointed to a cage behind the examination table.

  His Fam sat in it, looking pitiful.

  Sixteen

  Jail for you, huh? Poor cat,” Garrett said.

  “He’s too young to be away from his mother,” Danith D’Ash said.

  Am NOT! Rusby shouted telepathically.

  “His choice,” Garrett said.

  Danith D’Ash narrowed her eyes. “He’s small. He got into the housefluff burrows and scared some mothers and kits.”

  Housefluffs hop fast! Rusby said gleefully. They ran and ran!

  Garrett bit the inside of his cheek, hoping he looked properly serious.

  Danith showed her teeth in a smile. “That’s two hundred gilt.”

  That sobered him up. Garrett nearly yipped in pain.

  “For all the time I’ll need to soothe the housefluffs and their babies, make sure they took no harm physically or emotionally. I must keep them longer and ensure they’ll go to homes that won’t make them nervous after this incident—place them in homes without cats.”

  Garrett looked at his Fam behind bars. The kitten tried to appear pitiful, but there was still a gleam in Rusby’s eyes; the tip of his tail flicked with joy.

  “You cost me more than three months’ worth of feral animal injuries,” Garrett grumbled to Rusby. Concentrating, he translocated two one-hundred gilt pieces from his home safe, plunked them into Danith’s outstretched palm.

  She slipped the gilt into her tunic pocket, opened the cage, and set Rusby on the firm permamoss bedsponge on the table. “He’s small for his age, and will remain a small cat.” She placed a holo orb next to the kitten and sheets of papyrus with instructions. “The care and feeding of a kitten,” she said, plopping large tubes of milk on the table. “Some initial feedings. Every two septhours.”

  An appalled expression stretched Garrett’s face. He’d been anticipating a good, long, and uninterrupted night’s sleep. He looked at his kitten with a jaundiced eye.

  Rusby drooped, curled into a small ball.

  Danith was right: The kitten ball was too small. But Garrett was stuck with the little guy. He picked Rusby up and held the softness of him, the fur caressing his palm. Soft as Artemisia’s hair.

  No, he wasn’t thinking of her.

  He put the kitten on his shoulder, attached him with a spell. “That will keep you out of trouble.” As he thought of Rusby tearing through the housefluff burrows, he had to keep a straight face again. “Good to see you again, Danith.”

  She gave an exasperated sigh. “Males.”

  Garrett grinned.

  “Also, I’m handing over your regular account—your stream of feral informants who get sick or wounded—to Gwydion. He’ll be Healing them.” She put her hands on her hips. “And if they want to become adopted Fams, they stay with us.”

  “Always the deal,” Garrett muttered.

  “I expect you to get more of them off the streets.”

  “Some like the freedom of the parks and the estates . . . and the streets.” He smiled his slow and charming smile that he knew she liked. “I might have a raccoon for you.”

  Her eyes widened. “A raccoon! They’re almost extinct.”

  “One’s been hanging around MidClass Lodge. It might want to be a Fam.”

  “They always had the potential,” she agreed.

  Garrett stroked Rusby. “I’ll need a recall collar for this guy.”

  “Of course.” She turned and opened a drawer, displaying collars of all sizes.

  I want the sparkly one! Rusby demanded.

  “Sparkly is for girls,” Garrett said.

  “This is a temporary collar,” Danith said, whisking out the white one with bits of glitter. “A recall collar if you get in trouble. It will activate to bring you here.”

  Garrett sucked in a breath between his teeth and eyed Rusby. Surely soon he’d grow so he couldn’t fit into housefluff burrows. Garrett would stuff the little one with food.

  Every two septhours.

  Danith addressed Rusby. “As all Fams know, a real collar is given to the Fam in three months if the Fam is good.”

  Garrett figured Danith meant if the kitten didn’t chase housefluffs. “The Fam’s companion decides whether the Fam is good. That means no adventures on the beach,” he said.

  “Oh.” Danith pursed her lips. “I’d forgotten you lived in MidClass Lodge.” Her gaze slid toward him. “I’d heard you spent some time in the Turquoise House.”

  “Didn’t agree with me,” he said. Then, reluctantly, “I wasn’t asked to stay.”

  “Maybe you should have asked the Turquoise House. Mitchella D’Blackthorn will start redecorating tomorrow and TQ should be ready for occupancy the day after.”

  He wondered what the rent would be. TQ was in a middle-Noble-class neighborhood. Probably too rich for his blood and his gilt.

  “TQ is farther from my office than MidClass Lodge.”

  “Can’t lose anything if you don’t ask to stay.” Danith muttered cleansing spells and a slight wind picked up . . . and carried the fragrance of disinfectant herbs that made Garrett’s stomach squeeze hard. He took the three paces to the door and opened it to regular animal smells in the hall. The walls of the examination room swirled with color and Rusby squealed, hid his head in Garrett’s neck, and dug his claws into his shoulder.

  Garrett yelped.

  Danith snorted. “Your Fam has only been within white walls of a House. He demanded white.”

  Looking at the sweeps of pastel, Garrett didn’t blame him.

  The animal Healer’s lips compressed. “Already at five weeks, he’s set in his ways.” Her gaze drilled Garrett. “As you are. You should live in more upscale lodgings if you want to grow your business.”

  That flicked a nerve. “I like MidClass Lodge. I do get some business from the residents.”

  Danith grimaced. “You want Noble clients or middle-class clients?”

  Despite his Fam’s fear of pastels, Garrett moved back into the room, leaned closer to Danith. “Both. I don’t want to be exclusive to the Nobles, to only people who can pay me a lot of gilt.” If Dinni had been Noble or had had a lot of gilt, they wouldn’t have turned her away from the clinic. He’d never base his services only on price.

  Danith’s eyes widened.

  “Mama, you all right?” asked a rough voice from the door.

  Garrett turned and saw that Gwydion Ash, at fourteen, had grown since the last time they’d met. He was already centimeters taller than his mother, and Garrett judged he’d be taller than his father, and with as heavy a build as the blacksmith. Still a boy, though.

  “GentleSir Primross and I just disagreed about living with a lot of people.” Her smile was reassuring for Gwydion and the boy relaxed. Garrett noted he was like his mother and didn’t have an up-front killer instinct like his father . . . or Garrett himself. Though there was no doubt that Gwydion would have had the best fighting training possible.

  The youngster was an Animal Healer. No matter how much he grew to look like T’Ash, he’d have a soft spot inside if life didn’t harden him. Gwydion was a second son accepted by his mother into her practice. Blessed and didn’t know it.

  For some reason Garrett wanted the boy-man to keep that soft spot.

  Danith continued, “GentleSir Primross is happy at MidClass Lodge.”

  A dimple creased Gwydion’s cheek as he smiled back at his mother with easy love. “And you wouldn’t be,” he teased.

  Lifting her small nose, Danith said, “That’s what happens when you grow up in Saille House for Orphans.”

  Garrett stiffened. He hadn’t known that part of her past. Both mother and son remained casual, so it wasn’t a
touchy topic. He relaxed with an easy smile. “So if you were in my shoes, GreatLady, you’d ask to stay at the Turquoise House.”

  Gwydion laughed. “She wouldn’t be able to take a step in your shoes.”

  He joined Garrett, measured feet. “Thought so. Mine are almost as big as yours and she can’t walk in mine.”

  Danith sniffed but still smiled. “I told GentleSir—”

  Garrett offered his arm to Gwydion to clasp. “Call me Garrett.”

  Nodding, Gwydion squeezed Garrett’s arm with just enough firmness. “I heard that I’ll be taking over any Healing of your motley ferals.” He beamed.

  “And he might have a raccoon for us!” Danith said.

  “Great.” Gwydion rubbed his hands.

  All this ’coon, ’coon, ’coon, Rusby grumbled, stretched along Garrett’s shoulder. You woke Me and didn’t even admire My collar.

  “Sparkles,” Gwydion said, hiding a grimace.

  Past time for Us to go home! Rusby said.

  “That’s right.”

  Rusby licked Garrett’s ear and he flinched. “Don’t do that. I’ll feed you when we get home.”

  We need glider. The cat twitched whiskers at Danith D’Ash.

  “I’ll arrange that,” Gwydion said.

  “Thanks, Danith,” Garrett said, though he was feeling considerably less flush in the pocket.

  “You’re welcome. And teleport next time!”

  Garrett moved tense shoulders. “Was under orders not to do that.”

  “Oh.” She looked like she wanted to talk about the experiment. He reckoned everyone in the FirstFamilies knew what was going on. But Danith wasn’t as close to the Healers as others. “Scry and we’ll send a glider whenever you need it,” she said.

  He wouldn’t be doing that. Wouldn’t do that now except weariness insidiously seeped through him. “Later.” He walked with careful steps to the office exit and into the sunlight. The adrenaline push he’d gotten with the discovery of the body had definitely crashed.