Artemisia’s father chuckled. “Not really a quality that should be encouraged.”
His wife raised her elbow to nudge him in the ribs. “Little lies make life smoother.”
He leaned over to kiss her on the lips. “As always, we will agree to disagree on that point.”
The cocoa that had made it into Artemisia’s mug had cooled and she drank the half cup down. “I’ll scry Guard Captain Winterberry from Danith D’Ash’s office after Randa is checked out. That may give the guards some pause, being called from a FirstFamily Residence.”
“Very true,” Artemisia’s mother said. “A good idea.”
Randa had hurried back to her bowl and was crunching again, as if eating would help her forget the upcoming ordeal.
The Residence made a sound like a clearing of a throat. “I have a scry from Barton Clover, who wishes to invite Artemisia to dinner tonight.”
Artemisia’s mother sat up straight, eyes gleaming. “Oh, today is not without blessings!”
“I hadn’t thought to go out into the city again today. I wanted to spend more time with my Fam,” Artemisia said, even as she knew her mother would insist.
But Artemisia’s battered heart had picked up its beat and determination washed through her. She would find a husband.
Twenty-three
Garrett spent some time at the guardhouse with Winterberry, Berberis, and Milkweed, telling the guards what his informants had relayed. Naturally he protected the secret source of his data.
Suppressed emotions swarmed through the station. Every guard who worked there knew that a smear on their honor—the escape of the last Black Magic Cultist murderer—was finally over. Winterberry, of course, was outwardly calm, but his eyes glittered. He’d been the main investigator at the time. Berberis must have been on the team, also, and maybe even Milkweed, though she was younger than her partner.
When Berberis and Milkweed went to question people at the old airship landing port, Garrett couldn’t resist the itching at the back of his mind to ensure Artemisia was safe.
The guards had offhandedly told him that the Turquoise House had confirmed her alibi, but the team didn’t seem too impressed. Time to talk to the House itself and see what kind of hard data the place had that might clear her.
This he could do for her, easily and right now. He could protect her.
Rusby had stretched out on Garrett’s shoulder to snooze, attached by a “stay” spell. Garrett was taking no chances with his Fam.
He was taking no chances with his woman.
That wisp of thought/emotion twined through him, as if the bond between them had already infiltrated his nerves, wrapped around his bones in tight spirals.
She’d gotten to him. Not just to his body, which would be attracted to her because of the bond, but her quiet serenity, her grace, her compassion.
Her sharp insight into him that made him so uncomfortable.
He left the public carrier before Apollopa Park. As he walked by, he found the gray aura that he associated with the miasma of murder had already dissipated. Near the Temple, he saw the man Artemisia had lunched with, Leger Cinchona, and Garrett’s gut knotted, his shoulder muscles stiffened. Threat.
The man was hunkered down, looking at pink yarrow blossoms. Gawky, intellectual. A priest, so probably even sensitive. And was still a threat to Garrett, taking his woman.
His whole body tensed as he stared at the guy. Who didn’t seem to know he was being watched by an enemy.
Messing around in Apollopa Park looked suspicious to Garrett. He pulled his glare away from the man and shook out his limbs. He needed a good workout in the worst way, would have to take some time at a gym. Or maybe even darken the door of The Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon. His friend Laev T’Hawthorn had put Garrett’s name in as a guest for a temporary membership. Garrett had never followed through on that.
Maybe it was time. Good networking for his business and the best training in fighting and weapons a man could get—if he could afford it. And he could afford it now.
As he could afford to stay at the Turquoise House, no matter what that being charged, something Danith D’Ash had put into his head. Though he wasn’t sure it was a move he should make. Since he’d actually have to ask . . . or hint heavily that he might want to be the House’s tenant. Would the House allow that?
The shells he’d encased around himself since Dinni’s rejection—and especially since the hideous trip to the clinic and the aftermath, the continuing struggle against the sickness—were cracking, letting more emotions in.
Tenderness and love for a kitten.
Yearning and attraction and lust for a woman.
Now an unexpected ambivalence about wanting a special place, a home.
So he thought of home as he approached the Turquoise House. He’d been in the HouseHeart and recalled being amazed and touched, though not at what. Yet he doubted if TQ was the right home for him. Garrett liked MidClass Lodge, but he was worried about Rusby and the nearby ocean, all the threats from people and animals that could harm a youngster.
The Turquoise House would be safer, and Garrett’s band of ferals liked it. He rolled his shoulders. The resonance, the feeling didn’t seem right. And would he ever forget suffering through the Iasc and reliving the worst days of his life there? He didn’t think so. Bound to be memory smudges.
For some reason, the fever dream where he looked through gates at a garden rose. Dream home. Lush garden, serenity, turquoise pools—Healing pools. Didn’t Artemisia live near . . .
Hello, Garrett. Sleek Black paced him.
Rusby awoke, shook himself out, and stared down. Hello, feral Cat.
Sleek Black growled.
“Enough of that.” Garrett glanced at Sleek Black. “You have information?”
I want a treat.
Of course he did.
“All right, once we get to the Turquoise House.” As far as Garrett knew, the House still had someone delivering food for the ferals it fed. And if there wasn’t a stash of treats, he could translocate them from his office or his home.
Then he was there, and gleaming, recently tinted greeniron gates opened. He glanced up at the scrystone embedded in the pillar. “Good control, TQ.”
The green blue crystal pulsed in response, but TQ didn’t have the power to talk much outside its walls and Garrett saw no front speaker.
It was probably contrary of Garrett to prefer the rusty gates he’d seen in his dream, and a tangled green garden, to TQ’s tended grassyard and flower beds and, now, polished flagstones in the glider courtyard before the House.
Neither the shiny walls of the House itself nor the pristine door appeared any different than when he’d walked through a few days ago. But all was different, for Garrett himself, Artemisia, TQ—whose HouseHeart had changed—and the fliggering bastard who’d been killed.
Who’d deserved to be killed after his own actions with the Black Magic Cult torture murders. Garrett was pretty sure that everyone on Celta would think of the death as justice.
Sleek Black gave a small throaty whine and Rusby sniffed in Garrett’s ear and he turned aside from the front and walked around to the back grassyard.
The flowers exploded with even more color and abandon. He eyed them. No doubt TQ was very proud of them, as he was with everything that pertained to himself. Garrett didn’t think he could live with such a summer view. Too darn groomed . . . and there wasn’t as much land as he liked—a nice-sized yard for a middle-class Noble, but the courtyard in MidClass Lodge was larger and close to the beach.
Garrett stretched. Yeah, he wanted more room. Who could have known? He wouldn’t be asking TQ about renter’s rates. Garrett’s tight breathing eased. No, he wasn’t ready to have TQ as a home. A blessing, he supposed.
But they were in the back a
rea where the bowls for ferals were. He lounged on a bench, letting Rusby hop down to sit on his thigh, and petted his kitten as Sleek Black munched a few bites. Just for form, Garrett thought.
The cat came and sat in front of Garrett, slicked his whiskers, and wrapped his tail around his paws. He gave a small belch and lifted his gaze to Garrett’s. The raccoons from the park have definitely moved. They have not returned. His back gave a ripple cat shrug. But raccoons usually move very often.
Garrett crossed his ankles, let his lids droop over his eyes. Bright with flowers, the garden smelled really great, and even in the shade, the heat was settling into his bones. Nice to be able to take a break and not worry about a case or gilt or responsibility or . . . personal problems. “I don’t think that’s enough information for a treat.”
Rusby snorted and smiled, showing baby teeth. Garrett tapped his small head with his forefinger. “Don’t tease. You’re with me now, you’re a Fam. You have more dignity.”
The tip of Rusby’s tail twitched and he wriggled on Garrett’s leg, then subsided.
Sleek Black’s ears angled, nearly flattened. His eyes narrowed. I am sure that at least one of the raccoons would have seen the big red anger well. You just must find them.
“Um-hmm.” Garrett rubbed his chin, put Rusby back on his shoulder with a “stay” spell, and stood, popping his joints. Felt good. “Come on inside and I’ll get you a treat.”
Sleek Black hissed. Do not want to go into bad-smelling House.
Garrett thought of all the House’s plans. He supposed he was surprised that there weren’t workmen or furniture movers or something, that the yard and House seemed empty.
“So, Sleek Black, how many winters have you lived through?”
The cat shuddered. One. Icy paws.
“Maybe you should consider an inside job.”
He lifted his muzzle, wrinkled his nose. Do not want to be a tame FamCat.
Rusby snorted. I will have pets and food and warms all of My life. And love.
Garrett swallowed as emotion rose through him. That’s right.
As he approached the back door, it opened. There was a very small room with a bench and hooks. One of the shelves—new oak shelves on a sage-tinted wall—held several bags of dry pet food in various flavors. And a couple of small bags of moist treats.
“How’d you like some fishy moist treats?”
Sleek Black’s tongue came out and licked his muzzle. “Yesss,” he vocalized.
“You’ve gotta come in,” Garrett said, stooping down to pour out some of the fish-shaped bits into a little bowl.
“Welcome back, Garrett,” TQ said. “It is good to see you and Rusby. You must have a tour!”
Garrett supposed so. Sleek Black inched through the open door, sniffed. Smells much better.
“Yes,” Garrett answered. He could only pick up traces of herbal housekeeping spells but knew the cats’ noses were more sensitive.
While Sleek Black ate, Garrett said to him, “Tell all the others that I want a background check on a man.” When he’d first started gathering his little troupe, he’d explained the term. As new ferals joined, they got the info from the others. Garrett had never asked his informants to trace a priest before, wasn’t sure how to describe him, fell back on location. “He ate lunch with Artemisia Mugwort this afternoon at Darjeeling’s HouseHeart and left with her. He was just in the park.”
The altar man from the biggest round, Sleek Black said mentally, licking the bowl clean. I saw him. He glanced up at Garrett, and Garrett made sure from his expression that the cat knew begging for more was useless.
“Tell everyone to keep an eye, ear, and nose out for the raccoons.”
I will go now, Sleek Black said and flipped his tail, running from the House and back toward Apollopa Park.
“Altar man?”
He is a man who stands at the altar in outside holiday human circles for other humans, Rusby said.
Though any man could perform the duties of a priest and act as a manifestation of the Lord, a priest would do it more often. Garrett had already figured out the biggest round meant GreatCircle Temple.
He closed the back door and kept Rusby on his shoulder. Since the kitten was sitting up, Garrett touched him to make sure all was well.
Stepping into the main hallway, he found the color of the walls a pale, warm gold, and golden oak molding around the ceiling and for baseboards. “Very nice, TQ,” he said.
“Thank you.”
The more he went through it, the more he was impressed, though his heart was settled now that he knew it wasn’t the home for him. The tinting throughout the House was something either a man or a woman could live with.
“I only have furniture in my MasterSuite,” TQ said.
Garrett’s steps lagged as he approached the place of his suffering. He glanced in. The walls and ceiling were a pale blue. Tinted wisps of clouds drifted across the ceiling. Sort of charming.
The furniture was a deep cherry, with a bedsponge platform in a rounded rectangle and smooth curved sides. The headboard was a simple half circle. There were tables on each side of the bed and simple white lamps.
“Looks great.” Garrett put enthusiasm in his voice.
“Thank you.”
Rusby mewed impatiently. I want to jump on the bedsponge.
“No,” Garrett said. He reached into his pocket and took out a chewy treat that would keep the kitten occupied for a while.
An idea occurred to him. “Say, TQ,” he began casually. “Do you still have that mural on the wall? I liked it.” The only thing besides Artemisia he remembered with fondness. And he felt a buzzing hesitation from TQ.
“No,” the actor’s voice said aloud, with a hint of regret. “It was decommissioned, as requested by the artist and the provider of the images.” A more cheerful tone. “It was made especially for you.”
“And I thank you for it again,” Garrett said, though his ears pricked up at TQ’s wording. “You have the artist’s name?”
“The mural was also an experiment by GreatMistrys Avellana Hazel. Though we did not activate the option, it could have been three-dimensional.”
Garrett grunted, disappointed. No way he could afford a mural by Avellana Hazel, an artist from the FirstFamilies.
“TQ.” Now his own tones were soft. “Did you provide enough data to give Artemisia an alibi for the murder?”
“They question me!” TQ thundered. “If they question me, they will question the honor and verity of every Residence.”
“I guess so.”
“I will speak to my . . . colleagues.”
“They are colleagues, TQ.”
“I am still almost the youngest. But the other Residences will not be pleased. As I understand the time of the death of the Black Magic Cultist, you and Artemisia had been drugged and were sleeping.”
“That’s true.”
“I monitored your sleep patterns because she objected to the soporific.”
“Monitored?”
“I have minute-by-minute graphs of your breathing and REM cycles.”
“That should do it.” His breath eased out. Artemisia was safe. Since he didn’t know where or from what TQ was watching him, Garrett bowed in a circle to the House. “Thank you.”
“Are you going to claim your HeartMate?” TQ asked, again in weighty tones.
“I think so.”
TQ sighed. “It is good that you came to your senses.”
Garrett found his jaw clenching, his contrary nature irritated at all the trouble this whole HeartMate thing had caused him, his own roiling emotions on the subject.
And TQ continued on, “Though I have witnessed the fact that the bond between HeartMates—even before the sexual HeartBond is in place—remains intact despite the av
oidance of one of the participants. You would have all your lives to claim her.”
Garrett’s eyes widened. He wouldn’t. Artemisia had made it clear she wanted a husband and children, and soon.
Made him think—and feel—more. Fear and dread of what he had done mixed confusingly with a hopeful image of making those children with her.
Yes, he’d wanted children. Yes, he’d be terrified for their fates.
“Your respiration has increased and your body is perspiring. Is something wrong?” asked TQ.
“No,” Garrett denied.
“You are not truthful, but I will not press.”
“Thank you for reassuring me about Artemisia’s alibi.” Garrett changed the subject. “I have appointments I must keep. I wish you well.”
Garrett and Rusby had reached the public carrier plinth when he received a scry from the guard station. Since there was no one waiting with them, he took the call.
“We checked out the old airship landing area,” Berberis said.
Milkweed took up the story. “Spoke to a couple of pilots. One recalls bringing a passenger up from Gael City. Guy approached him, saying he was an old guildman and needed a lift. Offered a little gilt, but our pilot was feeling generous, and the man helped him with the checklist and knew what he was doing.”
Berberis said, “So the pilot let the man travel up. Said he’d thought there was something familiar about him, but couldn’t figure it out, and the guy didn’t talk much on the flight.”
Milkweed grimaced. “Turns out the pilot had worked for Eryngo a while back before he started his own courier service. He said that now that he thought about it, the man looked like old Eryngo.”
“And if he’d known it was Modoc, he’d have pushed the fligger out of the ship,” Berberis ended.
“Thank you, that confirms my info.”
Berberis grunted, eyes keen. “You’ve got good informants. I’d heard you had that—but now you’ve proven it.”
“Thanks again,” Garrett said and ended the scry.
Rusby swallowed his chew and said conversationally, I did not see My mother at the Turquoise House.
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