Heart Search

by Robin D. Owens

  “Uh-oh.” Glyssa was there, putting an arm around Camellia, stroking her back, helping her to a bench. “It’s all right. The horse is fine.” Then Glyssa tsked. “She doesn’t do well with blood.”

  Yes, that had to be the reason Camellia felt so bad. Not the shadows of the men near the door. One of the men.

  She would ignore them. Had to.

  Camellia dropped her face in her hands, hiding from the sight. Hiding from her friend and the GreatLady, hiding from the men.

  Hiding from herself.

  “Give us a few minutes,” D’Ash said to the men.

  “We’ll wait right here,” her husband said.

  The lady shut the door gently. Camellia lifted her arm and wiped her forehead with her sleeve.

  D’Ash gestured and a spell whisked through the small room, leaving the scent of fresh and soothing herbs, banishing the faint tang of blood that had layered on Camellia’s tongue.

  “Cat,” Camellia said.

  “Yes, of course. Your Fam will be quite helpful in calming you, Camellia,” D’Ash said.

  Maybe, maybe not. Camellia just wanted everything done and to be out of here.

  Three

  Long time and I have been VERY good, came a small mental voice.

  D’Ash said, “Yes, you’ve been a very good FamCat.” D’Ash went into a back room and came back with a little calico cat who had large splotches of orange and black, not much white except on her belly.

  “Oooooh!” Glyssa leaned over the exam table. “Pretty.”

  “Yes. Isn’t she, Camellia?”

  “Beautiful.” Her hands itched to hold the cat, young, charming, with the last hint of baby fat. Camellia rose and went to the table.

  The FamCat tilted her head, opened her mouth, and used that extra sense cats had. My FamWoman is beautiful, too. Smellstastes verrry interesting.

  “Thank you,” Camellia reached out.

  The cat leapt from D’Ash’s loose hold to land in Camellia’s arms.

  “There!” D’Ash put her hands on her rounded hips. “A very good job.”

  “D’Ash . . .” Glyssa sent the GreatLady an appeal.

  “I think you’d bond best with a fox kit,” D’Ash said. “The next one I get with good intelligence is yours.”

  “Thank you.” Glyssa shook her head, pulled at a rusty-colored lock of hair that had fallen from the knot at the back of her head. “We’ll match in coloring.”

  The door opened. “It’s been a few minutes. T’Hawthorn is here to have his new cat checked,” T’Ash said.

  Camellia didn’t want the men to come in. Too bad, they’d already crowded into the room, as well as a long-haired black cat. She didn’t look at the younger man who was as tall as T’Ash and moved with a prowling grace. Instead she smoothed out her frown, cuddled her cat closer; the soft rumble of her Fam’s purr vibrated against her arms.

  She felt better holding her FamCat, a symbol of the life she had now, not teenaged dreams that she refused to remember.

  It’s Black! Camellia’s cat squealed. Wriggling away, she jumped onto the bedsponge and hopped a couple of times. Greetyou, Black!

  A young black tom stretched before Camellia in a long leap, landed several centimeters before her smaller calico.

  Camellia made a noise of protest.

  But the larger cat didn’t pounce, just gathered himself into an upright sitting position, leaned over, and bumped noses with the calico—who squeaked and jumped high, alighting on Camellia’s shoulder, which was just big enough for the kit to balance on. You smell. Smell, smell, smell. AWFUL.

  Now that the little cat mentioned it, a new odor had entered the room.

  Camellia found herself stiffening, met Glyssa’s eyes. They recognized the perfume the late Nivea Hawthorn preferred—their old acquaintance, Nivea Sunflower. Who’d scorned them all. That hurt, too. This whole visit was impossible now.

  Did T’Hawthorn need to have a reminder of his dead wife always close? Camellia wouldn’t have thought it, the way that woman had treated him, but men were strange. She found herself breathing too quickly and evened it out.

  “The smell is a problem,” T’Hawthorn said, smoothing a stroke along his cat’s back. More heavy fragrance puffed into the air. “My office has been cleaned, and I took a waterfall and tried to—ah—banish the odor from Brazos, but it didn’t quite work.” His smile was charming. “We need an expert.”

  The calico cat burrowed into Camellia’s shoulder-length hair. Black has a name, now?

  I am a FirstFamily Cat. My name is Brazos.

  The calico licked Camilla’s neck. I need a name, too.

  Unlike most Families on Celta, Darjeeling wasn’t a botanically based name but some sort of ancient Earthan place-name. Camellia had run through several ideas. “Mica.”

  That is a very good name. The little cat sniffed, sneezed. Bad smell tickles my nose. And Mica is prettier than Brazos.

  Glyssa chuckled but moved around the table toward the open door. She bobbed a brief curtsey. “Greetyou, GreatLord T’Ash, GreatLord T’Hawthorn. Excuse us, we must be on our way.” She waved a hand. “Business, you know.”

  The men bowed.

  Camellia curtsied, too. “Greetyou and farewell.” She turned to D’Ash. “Thank you for Mica. Let me know how much—”

  “Mica is a gift,” D’Ash said firmly. “Since I don’t know her heritage. She just strolled into the adoption room last week.” The GreatLady handed Camellia a rolled papyrus.

  I was ready for FamWoman, Mica said. Knew Black-Brazos on the street. Told him to go to his Sire. Now we have FamPeople.

  Now I am Brazos Hawthorn, a great noble, the black cat projected.

  Mica’s tail flicked. See you later, when you are unstunk.

  Aiming a false smile at the lords and sliding past them, Camellia was out of D’Ash’s office and into fresh air in two minutes.

  Mica tumbled down Camellia’s front, snagging the cloth of her tunic on the way. Good thing it was only a work tunic, but it was a nice work tunic. Camellia looked at the slubs and shook her head.

  Glyssa held up a small, round sphere. “Instructions from D’Ash. Spells on how to attach your cat to your shoulder in a “safe” and “stay” spell. How to mend cloth and, um, other things.”

  Camellia thought of all the china in her house—cups, porcelain boxes, delicate figurines.

  Who are you? Mica muttered. Her gaze fixed on Glyssa.

  “She’s one of my best friends, GrandMistrys Glyssa Licorice, Heir to the PublicLibrary Licorices.”

  “And we’re going to a round temple so you can meet our other best friend,” Glyssa said, waving her arm toward the end of a small parking area. A big, old, red-black Family glider moved toward them. “Her name is Tiana Mugwort and she is a priestess of the Lady and Lord. I think you should meet her before we do anything else, because you are now another best friend.”

  Mica preened. I am a FamCat friend.

  “Yes,” Camellia said.

  Does Tiana have a Fam?

  “No,” Camellia and Glyssa said together.

  Good, then I am First. Glyssa will get a FamFox kit, but I will always be First. She rubbed against Camellia and smiled sweetly.

  Camellia laughed with Glyssa and let the disturbing memory of meeting T’Hawthorn dissipate. She felt better and would continue to do so. She would not think of T’Hawthorn, had managed to suppress thoughts of him for a long time. With a little spell, she banished him from her mind.

  Danith D’Ash eliminated the perfume clinging to Brazos in under a minute. She spent another ten praising the tom and getting his particulars for her lineage of Fams, then assuring Laev that his FamCat was in excellent health.

  At the same time, T’Ash casually leaned against the examination counter and consulted his HeartMate about his decision to give their daughter a quarter of their capital to invest. After a few cogent questions and a promise to read Laev’s report, D’Ash agreed, humming with pride.

  L
aev had asked about Jasmine’s brother, Nuin, and was told with beaming smiles that he’d weathered the last fever fugue of Second Passage. Laev didn’t ask whether Nuin had linked with his HeartMate.

  In fact, Laev began to feel uncomfortable. When he’d entered the room with the two women a few years younger than he, something about their attitude ruffled his Flair. They certainly left as soon as they could, with as minimal a greeting as he’d ever received. Now the strong and loving bond between T’Ash and D’Ash stirred envy inside him.

  He’d wanted that loving bond, had married a woman thinking he’d gotten it. Even when he’d discovered Nivea wasn’t his HeartMate, he’d done his best to work at a good marriage. He’d always treated her with the courtesy his wife deserved. Never broke his marriage vows, even after they were estranged.

  Lord and Lady knew the sexual attraction between them had been great, and the first couple of years of marriage had been . . . good. Until Nivea wanted to move back to the capital city of Druida and take over as mistress of Laev’s FatherSire’s household. Everything deteriorated after that.

  T’Ash was holding his wife’s hand and Brazos was looking on with approval. Laev cleared his throat. “What do I owe you?”

  Breaking the kiss, a flushed D’Ash leaned back in her husband’s encircling arms and chuckled. “I think Brazos has already authorized payment.”

  Laev looked at the bedsponge where the young tom had been a couple of seconds ago. Now he was on a different counter in front of a scry panel that showed T’Hawthorn ResidenceDen. His black paw patted the screen. DONE! Lifting his chin, he smiled gleefully at Laev. Residence likes Me. I like it, too.

  “I didn’t know cats could use scry panels,” Laev said.

  “Oh, yes, all the younger generation,” D’Ash said indulgently.

  T’Ash snorted. “Not only the younger generation. My FamCat, Zanth, can. I’d advise you to set limits on the gilt authorization amounts that your Fam has with your Residence.” He sounded as if he learned from experience. D’Ash giggled.

  “T’Hawthorn Residence?” Laev projected his voice toward the panel.

  “Yes, T’Hawthorn?” the Residence said.

  “Please note that except for medical emergencies, Brazos has an authorization limit of . . .” Laev had no idea.

  “Fams don’t order their own collars,” D’Ash said loudly. “A collar is a gift from their FamPerson.”

  Good point. But what was reasonable? What else would Brazos want that the Residence couldn’t provide?

  T’Ash was muttering, “Pillows, thickly carpeted perches for every room in the Residence, Earthan catnip grown on the starship Nuada’s Sword, specially prepared cocoa mousse bigger than his head . . .”

  Sounded like T’Ash’s FamCat had really done a run on T’Ash’s gilt. That was amusing until Laev recalled how Nivea liked to shop. His smile faded. “Residence, except for medical emergencies, Brazos has an authorization limit of a hundred gilt a month to be given him in weekly installments upon good behavior.”

  There was no protest from Brazos, though he tapped the scry screen with his paw and ordered, End scry to T’Hawthorn Residence.

  “Good thing you got a feral Fam,” T’Ash said. “He doesn’t know everything that he wants.”

  “Yes,” Laev said. “The last thing I need is another—” He stopped himself before he said something less than complimentary about Nivea. He was thinking about her too damn much. That was the past. The future was what mattered.

  D’Ash handed him a loudly purring Brazos. “I’m glad you got a Fam.” Her eyes were full of pity as she slid an arm around her HeartMate’s waist and leaned against him.

  Laev jerked a nod. Everyone knew of his mistake, and he’d learned to live with that. One last mess to clean up—find his Family’s heirlooms and his HeartGift. Then he’d be done with wife problems forever.

  Camellia’s day had been one of ups and downs: the compliment from D’Blackthorn that would boost Darjeeling’s HouseHeart’s popularity, the invitation from the starship, the strange experience at the Ashes, getting a Fam, the pleasure of her friends with Mica. Intense emotions that were all very wearing. A few minutes relaxing in her home before the Salvage party would be welcome.

  Yet her steps dragged as she walked to the door of her small bungalow.

  Is this it? Is this My new home? It looks pretty. Ooh, flowers! Mica purred in Camellia’s ear.

  “This is it.” The small house was of faded redbrick with a large round front window. Colorful summer flowers danced in the breeze, in the beds around the small grassyard. Camellia thought of warning the cat not to squash the blooms but figured that would be a waste of breath and just irritate them both. Of course a cat so young would pounce on the flowers and shred the petals. Find a good spot to lay on them and smash them.

  Camellia sighed.

  Why did you make that sad noise? Mica asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m feeling—” She noticed her door was cracked open and she hurried up the porch, into her mainspace.

  “Darlin’ girl!” a voice boomed. She was crushed in a hug, meaty fingers clenching her ribs too tight, the scent of hated clove smothered her nostrils like the chest she was against. And she knew something , some Flair, some instinct had warned her.

  She struggled away from the big man, turning her head. Hadn’t this day been emotionally difficult enough? Tears stung hard against the backs of her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “Is that any way to greet your beloved father after nearly two years?” He stepped back, looking far too large in the small room, too clumsy, too dramatic. His face was still square and florid, just beginning to show the excesses of drink and the lines of selfishness. Just as his waist was starting to thicken with belly fat. As always, his eyes were small and sly—and the same gray as her own.

  She calculated how much gilt she might have had in the house, whether he would have found it. He might not have, but she sensed her uncle here, and he would have taken it. “What do you want?”

  “Just to see my darlin’.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  He put on a hurt expression, raised his hands palms out. He still wore blousy sleeves cuffed tight at his wrists but that didn’t mean much. The material would be just stretchy enough to slide paper money under, the sleeves large enough to hide it. “I’m not lying.”

  “How much?”

  “How can you treat me like this?” He flung himself into her favorite cushioned chair, which creaked under the sudden onslaught of his weight. His hurt face morphed into false disappointment. Camellia glanced around the room, didn’t notice any small valuables missing.

  This is the Sire of My FamWoman? Mica’s perky mind-voice projected.

  A gleam came to Camellia’s father’s—T’Darjeeling’s—eyes. He stood and glided forward, reaching a hand large enough to encompass the cat’s head, and stroked her with a thick finger. “A Fam, a real Fam. You found a Fam?” His voice was nearly as smooth as the young cat’s purr.

  I am from D’Ash, Mica said.

  “Oh.” T’Darjeeling dropped his hand.

  “Yes. She is valuable. But you can’t steal her because she is in D’Ash’s records.”

  His brows lifted, his lips curved in an easy smile, but his gaze had hardened. He set a hand on Camellia’s shoulder. He could squeeze there and bring her to her knees, from force and pain and the bludgeoning of his Flair against her.

  She wrapped her own hands around his wrist. “You just do that. I’ve been practicing. I’m strong enough to ’port us to the local guard station.” She cast her mind toward the nearest guardhouse, the emergency teleportation pad was busy, so was the next, but the third in the network she’d studied was free . . .

  His fingers clenched tight, pain bit. She inhaled and he released her, flicked his wrist hard, and broke her grip. “I don’t think so.”

  But he’d shown her the trick he might use in the future. Information gathered. She lifted her chin. �
�I will. I’ll take you to the guards and report assault. I’m a responsible adult.”

  His gaze veiled, his smile grew lopsided. “A responsible adult.” There was an almost mocking lilt in his tones. “A successful businesswoman.” Scorn.

  He didn’t think much of people who worked for a living. One of his brows rose as he looked around her mainspace at the pretty knickknacks. “Nice place. I’m sure you can spare a couple hundred gilt for your father.”

  She took a step back from him but kept her voice level. “I could report you for extortion, too.”

  “Your own father.” He paced forward, crowded her. “You try—”

  “Now, now, Guri, don’t pester the girl,” another genial voice said as a man as large as her father strolled into the room.

  Camellia flinched. “Uncle Takvar.” She glanced at him. His gray eyes were worse than her father’s: cold and flat and deadly, despite the handsomeness of his face. His smile was an incipient threat.

  He half lowered his eyelids, raised a languid hand. “But four hundred gilt should keep the wolves from the door.”

  It would be worth it to get them to go away. No. Bad thinking, old thinking. “No.” She moved back to a corner marked on the rug for teleportation. “I’m leaving, and if I find that you have broken one object, I’ll report you to the guards.”

  Her father’s hand swept out and knocked a china mug from her table with such force that it hit the wall and shattered. He smiled. “Oops.”

  Mica, we ’port on three. Just hold on. One, Mica cat, two . . .

  Her uncle had linked arms with her father, pulled. “You don’t need to go, Cammi-girl. We’ll leave.”

  “Same old song.” Her father’s lip curled, he set his voice at falsetto. “You broke my cup. Boo-hoo.” As they strolled to the door, he glanced over his shoulder, now all fake affability gone from him. “You’re pitiful.”

  “I wonder that you bother to visit, then,” Camellia said thickly as fear-tears coated her throat. She didn’t think they’d heard her as they left, slamming her front door. Her knees weakened and she tottered to the sofa and fell onto it.