The baby wailed and lunged for Venture. “Gotta eat,” he said. “Be good, Tory.”
Grace tried to shush her, then gave up and set her down on the rug and took her seat across from Venture. “She’s awful today,” she said with a sigh.
Venture ignored Tory’s screaming. “It’s Sixth Day, right?” he said groggily.
“Umm-hmm.”
“I’m at the Big House this morning.”
“I don’t know where you get the energy.”
He shrugged and took a bite of his egg.
“Take it easy today, okay? I know you’re hurt.”
Venture stuffed the last of his bread in his mouth so that he wouldn’t have to respond. She sipped her coffee and didn’t press him.
“Thanks for breakfast,” he said as he got up to leave.
She lifted her head and regarded him seriously. “You didn’t get in a fight, did you?”
He shook his head. “Everything’s fine.” Except that I’m wasting my life. And I’ve lost my best friend, too. But not for long—he was going to make sure of that, no matter what Justice thought. He just had to be careful, that was all.
He rummaged under his bed until he found what he was looking for, then stuffed the book under his arm and his feet into his boots. When he opened the door, there was Lightning, a limp, bloody rabbit at her feet. It was a pitiful little rabbit, but a gift just the same. Lightning looked up at him with expectant brown eyes. Her tail thumped on the hard-packed earth outside the door and she scratched a paw crusted with blood and dirt back and forth before the offering. Venture took the rabbit up by the ears and looked it over as though he were very impressed. He patted Lightning and thanked her, and gave her a good hug in spite of her filthy coat.
“Grant Fieldstone’s your master, you know.” He walked briskly, rabbit in hand, and she ran gleeful circles around him. “Anything you catch rightfully belongs to him, unless it’s one of the chickens from our coop, and if you ever do that we’ll both will be in trouble like you won’t believe. Still, it’s a good catch. You’ll be snagging good fat ones before long.”
Venture spent the morning in the service courtyard picking the burrs from Lightning’s paws, and washing the dried blood from her muzzle, and giving her short coat a good brushing. It was what his master would’ve wanted him to do. Grant Fieldstone took good care of all of his animals.
Thinking it would make a good addition to their noontime stew, Venture then dressed the rabbit for Mrs. Bright. His soiled sleeves were rolled up and he wore a bloodstained apron as he carried it into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Venture.” Rose paused in her supervision of the kitchen to greet him.
“Good morning, Mistress.” He bowed.
“Mrs. Bright tells me our dog brought you something this morning.” She nodded at the skinned rabbit in his hand.
“Yes, Mistress. She’s practicing for the big ones.”
“I imagine if you took her with you hunting on your own time, she’d make Grant a fine hunting dog in no time at all.”
“For myself, Mistress?”
Grant was already unusually generous; in the evenings and on his days off, Venture was allowed to hunt and fish on his master’s land and to keep the catch for himself. But to use one of Grant’s dogs, that was another thing entirely. It would mean not only getting meat through the use of his master’s dog, but that there would be much more of it. The law prohibited him, a bonded servant, from owning a weapon, including a spear or bow; without a dog he was limited to what he could catch with homemade traps, and to fishing with hooks and nets.
“Of course for yourself. Whatever she brings to you, whatever she catches hunting with you—apart from when Grant sends you out himself, of course—you keep. You will be doing him a favor.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
Won’t Justice be happy, he thought momentarily; though they were well fed, the addition of more meat and more variety would be welcome. But, no, Justice would see this as yet another blurring of the lines between master and servant, even though it came from Rose, who sought more than her son to keep the distinction clear. Well, I can just cook it up for me and Grace then, while he eats cold bread and cheese.
By mid-afternoon, Venture was dismissed for the day. He cleaned up, but then, rather than head straight home, he made his way upstairs to Mistress Rose’s study. He knocked, although the dark, polished wooden door stood open.
“Venture, come in, come in.” Rose stepped out from behind her delicately carved writing table, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled. “What is it you need?”
“Mistress, I was wondering,” he fumbled nervously, fearing she’d see right through him, “if you have the time sometime soon, Jade gave me this book she’s done with, and I’m having trouble understanding some of it. Do you think you could help me with it?”
“I wasn’t aware you were still in the habit of reading books, now that you’ve begun preparing for a career that doesn’t require them,” she said with a wry smile. She would have liked to see him pursue something more intellectual, if not for his status.
“I plan to be a guard, Mistress, but as much as I’m able, I plan to try not to be a stupid one.”
“Of course, Venture. I don’t imagine you could be stupid if you tried.”
Sometimes he thought Rose actually missed those days of trying to get him to stop squirming through his lessons. Of giving in and letting him pace the room while he read instead.
“Thank you, Mistress.”
“Well, I’m a bit busy here, but Miss Jade should be able to help you.”
That was exactly what he’d hoped she’d say.
“She’s in the garden, I think.” Rose glided over to the window, pulled back the drapes, and placed her hands on the polished sill. “Yes, there she is, just there.”
She pointed out Jade, reclining on a long stone bench in her favorite corner of the rose garden. Jade’s open book lay over her face; her arms hung down, so that her fingertips brushed the carefully trimmed grass below.
“Do you think she’s sleeping? Maybe I shouldn’t interrupt her,” he suggested, although he suspected she was really awake. He thought he could see her fingers fiddling with a buttercup—or perhaps it was a dandelion—that stuck up above the grass.
“No, she is just daydreaming, I’m sure. And that I should be glad to see interrupted.”
“Thank you, Mistress. I’ll go see her now.”
But Rose wasn’t ready to let him go yet. Drawing the drapes back in place, she said, “Things have changed considerably for you lately, haven’t they, Venture?”
“Mistress?”
She gave him a look that said she knew that he knew what she was talking about, and she’d rather not play games about it.
“Yes, Mistress, they have.”
“I imagine Grant should have talked to you, to help clarify your duties as well as his expectations for you, now that you’re getting to be a young man.”
Venture tried not to think of Jade. Jade who he had to see. He looked away, and hoped she’d think his discomfort was only caused by her calling his attention to this point of contention between her and Grant.
“Well, we’re fortunate then, that you’re able enough to adapt on your own. Your mother did well, during the short time she had, teaching you not only to take pride in your work, but to have a sense of honor.”
“Thank you, Mistress,” Venture replied again, though this time her words burned him to the heart in a way she couldn’t know. And though he knew they were well-intentioned, he also knew that they were just as much a warning as they were a compliment.
“You may go now.”
He nodded a little bow and departed. He wound his way through the house, through the hot kitchen and the shadowy washroom, out the servants’ door, and through the cluttered service courtyard, around the vegetable garden, down an old stone path, to the rose garden’s entrance.
With the book
tucked under his arm, he opened the cast iron gate, taking care not to let it bang against the worn stone of the garden wall, not to make the slightest sound at all. He paused, one hand still holding the handle, the other toying with his mother’s pendant under his shirt. Maybe he shouldn’t sneak up on her. He ought to let the gate go, let it clatter, let her know someone was coming. No, he wanted to surprise her, like he used to.
He closed the gate silently and crept through the garden, until he was standing just at the threshold of the flower-laden little nook. There was Jade, reclining just as she’d been when he’d looked down on her from the window of her grandmother’s study. All around the bench, the roses were enjoying the end of summer, their branches loaded with pink-tinged yellow blooms that seemed to be reaching out for Jade.
What if she wasn’t glad to see him? The book had been nothing but a ruse to see if he could gain permission to talk to Jade, alone. The two of them had read that book together last year; he’d had it ever since. He considered turning around and making his way out of the rose garden as quietly as he’d come in.
No. He took a step inside and gathered his courage, recalling what he had resolved the night before—to take back their friendship, and to hold onto it for as long as he could.
“Jade, what’re you reading?”
She jolted upright, snagging her dress on a rosebush. Her book tumbled from her face, into her lap, then to the grass below.
“Venture!”
She swung her legs around, reached down to pick up the book, and, with a look of mock outrage, flung it at him. He allowed it to hit him in the stomach with a flap-thud before it fell to the ground. Her aim was good and hard, but her satisfied smile was worth it.
“What are you doing here?” She disentangled her dress and her hair from the thorns behind her and combed it back with her fingers.
“I came to see my friend. If she’s not too busy reading.”
“Sit down,” she said, with a pleased twinkle in her eyes.
She made room for him on the stone bench. It was already a hot day, and the stone had been warmed by the sun. He sat beside her, still holding the book he’d brought.
“What’s that for? Are you reading that again?”
“No, this is my excuse for seeing you.”
He told her about his talk with her grandmother, and as he spoke, she gently lifted his nearest hand from the book. She placed it in her lap and turned it over, and began to examine his blisters, shaking her head.
“Jade, your grandmother could be watching.” He glanced up at the window of Rose’s study.
“Good. Then I’ll have to explain to her what’s wrong with your hands and she’ll talk to father and—”
“Jade, don’t.” He lifted her chin up with his other hand, looking straight into her defiant green eyes. “Don’t. I didn’t come here to fight with you.”
She fell silent, lowered her head, and gingerly found her way around his bandages to intertwine her fingers with his.
“Jade, you’re holding my hand,” slowly, softly, uncertainly, he stated the obvious.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
It hurt no more than it had before, but—it had been so long since she’d held his hand. She used to do it all the time, but this was different. So different. He wished it weren’t so hot, wished his hand weren’t sweating in hers.
“Vent?”
When he looked at her, her eyes held onto his, as gently and as powerfully as her hold on his hand, and they searched him, questioningly, longingly. Not like a little girl. Not like a friend. She was looking for something. Something more. And that something wanted to leap right out of him.
He pulled his hand away. “No,” he said hoarsely, his throat gone dry. He jumped up from the bench, and without daring to look at her, said, “I have to go.”
When he reached the meadow he veered north, toward the brook, rather than west toward his brother’s house. He lay along a fallen log, dangling his hot hands in the cool water. Why couldn’t he have just left Jade alone? Why did she have to change everything? How could he have just left her there? And why couldn’t he stop wanting her hands back in his?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Autumn’s First Month, 655 After the Founding
Venture threw his bag of dirty workout clothes down on the washroom floor under his hook and said, “Hey,” to Mrs. Bright, who was busy drying a stack of dishes, and to Connie, who was kneeling on the floor nearby, bent over a tub of steaming, sudsy water.
“There you are, Vent.” Mrs. Bright threw her dishtowel over her shoulder and straightened her back until it gave a little pop. “Are you all clean?”
“I think so. Why?”
“Master’s got a Crested visitor. What was that he called him, Connie?”
She tucked a damp lock of light brown hair behind her ear and said, with exaggerated dignity, “A potential investor.”
“Yes, that’s it. He’s got his son, a boy about your age, with him, and he’s bored silly with all their business talk. Master wants your help entertaining him.”
Venture had been wondering which project the Crested man was considering investing in, but this latest bit of information prompted him to ask instead, “A Crested boy? What’s he going to want to do with me?”
He’d much rather spend this beautiful autumn day shoveling manure than entertaining some Crested boy.
“Hush!” Mrs. Bright waved him off. “Better comb that hair.”
“Huh,” Venture said indignantly. He turned to the shelf above the water pump, grabbed the wooden comb, and gave his hair a quick run-through. “I don’t stink, do I?”
“No worse than usual,” Connie said under her breath.
“I heard that.”
She flung a handful of suds in his direction and he raised the comb threateningly; his weapon of choice wouldn’t miss its mark as the suds had, nor would it be painless. But her anticipatory flinch, both genuine and comical, was gratifying enough, so he lowered it.
“You smell just fine,” Mrs. Bright said. “They’re in the den. Go on.”
The Crested pair were striking in their dignified manner, their near-matching faces, and their identical tailored jackets and scabbards. Their dark coloring and distinctively handsome features were evidence of the many immigrants who’d risen to prominence back in the Wartimes.
The Crested man’s eyes didn’t seem to register Venture’s silent entrance at all, but then he rose slightly from the couch, briskly removed his deep blue woolen jacket, and sat back down, holding it out in Venture’s direction.
Venture strode over to him and took it without a word, but Grant rose and, ignoring his guest’s annoyance, put a hand on Venture’s shoulder.
“Mr. Wood, this is Venture Delving. And this is Mr. Wood’s son, Iron.”
With the coat draped over one arm, Venture kept the other hand at his side, knowing that neither of them would rise and shake it. Instead he bowed politely and said to each of them, “Sir.”
After Venture had hung up the coat, Grant said, “Venture, perhaps the younger Mr. Wood would like you to show him around outdoors.”
“Yes, sir.”
The boy rose, politely thanked Grant Fieldstone, but said nothing to Venture. Still, he followed Venture out of the den, down the hall, and into the banquet room, whose double doors opened onto a patio in the gardens. Venture shut the back patio doors behind them, and he took a good look at his master’s guest and tried to think of what to do with him. He couldn’t help noticing that he was favoring one leg.
“Are you all right, sir?” he dared to ask.
“I twisted my knee fighting. It’s not too bad.”
His words had come out so casually, so much like his friends from Beamer’s, that Venture said, “I’ve done that before—sir.”
“Iron straightened his jacket, then looked at Venture thoughtfully. “You fight?”
“I used to, sir,” Venture said, trying not to appear
the way he felt—scrutinized, judged. “Just for sport.” But at the same time he wished he could say he did fight, even now. He wanted it more than ever after that day he’d spent with the elites over a month ago. His combat training was utterly, achingly boring now.
“Oh, you are the one who’s training to be a guard. My cousin Hunter told me about you.”
His cousin Hunter?
Iron smiled. “It’s all right. I cannot stand the Longlakes, and neither can my father. But my mother’s sister married Prowess.” His smile faded. “I heard what he did to Grant Fieldstone.”
“Sir?”
“The deal with the Sunnyside resort. Acting as though he wanted to invest, then pulling out, just to make a point about you. My father is no Longlake, meddling in Uncrested affairs. And he never allows politics to get in the way of his business decisions. He hardly cares what a man decides to do with his own bondsman. And he is serious about the Sunnyside project.”
Venture might have been relieved, if he weren’t so busy trying to come to terms with the news that this thing with Border and the Longlakes wasn’t over and Grant hadn’t said a word about it—as well as trying to suppress the urge to bash the obliviously superior attitude right out of Iron.
“That’s good, sir,” he managed to say.
“Hunter did this for me just the day before yesterday.” Iron held out a crooked, swollen pinky for him to admire.
Regardless of the rules against manipulating fingers, it was a common enough reaction to getting stuck in a good choke—to grab an opponent’s finger and tear it away. Venture’s own finger had been broken the same way. Did the Cresteds have such rules? Perhaps they didn’t even have the option to tap out.
“That’s a nice one, sir. Did you get the choke anyway?”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Venture remembered who he was talking to. His question was way out of line for anyone, let alone a bondsman. There was a time when such an inquiry could get a man killed. It was a matter of honor for Cresteds to protect their secrets.
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