“We’ve spent the past two days discussing my love life.”
“Which is of some interest to the realm. Mine is not. Besides, I have already produced two fine heirs. I appreciate your concern. But I’ve no wish to discuss it.”
Jared hesitated, shrugged, and finished his meal. “How quickly can you get me the copies?” he said at last. “I’d like to leave today if possible.”
“Within the hour. You will let me know as soon as you discover anything—or anyone?”
Jared patted his hip and grinned. Christian had devised a waist sling for carrying the communications device, and Jared had made a point of wearing his around the merchant’s house all morning. “I’ll contact you immediately. Good enough?”
“Good enough. Good luck.”
In the afternoon, Jared left for Monteverde, though it was impossible to reach the hold before dark. Still, he was impatient to get back, and he actually enjoyed flying at night. He liked the way the ground slowly disintegrated beneath him and the blackness of the night intensified around him; he especially liked the sensation of being suspended in a net of starlight, cold and brilliant. Some angels complained that they grew dizzy or lost their way when they attempted to fly after sundown, but Jared always felt his mind hone down to a diamond-hard clarity; his bones were suffused with exhilaration. It was like breathing the god’s air, clean and intoxicating. Jared loved it.
It was past midnight when he arrived at Monteverde, so it was late the next day before he was up and making the rounds. His mother greeted him with her usual affectionate sarcasm— “Is that my son? Have you remembered my existence?”—and Catherine more helpfully filled him in on events that had transpired in his absence. But Monteverde had been quiet. No Jansai, no Jacobites, no predatory women. He could use a spell of quiet reflection.
Except all his meditations led him back to Tamar.
Where could she be? Was she in danger? How could he find her?
Why had his Kiss lit once in her presence, and once when she was nowhere nearby?
Or had she been nearby? Had she been in the Berman House? Not that she could have been a guest there, but perhaps she had come to the door while he sat there, selling something or asking for information. Or perhaps—stupid man not to have thought of this before!—she had sought employment there. She had seemed like a woman who would not be afraid of hard work, and she was certainly presentable enough to be hired at a place like the Berman House. He should have investigated. He should not have so cavalierly dismissed the significance of the agitated Kiss.
If she was still at the Berman House, he could have Christian seek her out immediately. His hand went to the cylinder at his waist, and then he paused. But she didn’t know Christian and would be suspicious of any wealthy merchant who came asking after her. Of course, she knew Jared and was suspicious of him, anyway, but somehow he felt this was a task that was supposed to fall to him. He could not redirect it to his friend.
Therefore, two days after his return, he sought out his sister. “I have to go to Semorrah for a day or two,” he told Catherine, who rolled her eyes in resignation.
“Didn’t you tell me yesterday that you would be here until Isabella Cartera’s grand dinner party?”
“I did, but I lied. But I’ll be back in a day or two. Promise. And this time I’ll stay. Well, a few weeks. Until the wedding.”
“I don’t believe you. But go. Go. Have fun disporting with Christian Avalone and the Semorrah girls. We do just fine without you.”
He felt like he should justify himself, but when he opened his mouth to explain, he found that it was too complicated. Therefore, he smiled, shrugged, and let her think what she would.
He left that morning for Semorrah and arrived in the city by early evening. Without even stopping at Christian’s, he made his way to the Berman House and, after a few inquiries, found his way to the steward who oversaw the entire staff.
“I was wondering if you could tell me if you had ever employed this young woman—or seen her anytime this past month,” Jared asked. He unfolded the portrait of Tamar that Christian had given him. Mysteriously, the merchant had been able to produce a copy in minutes but would not explain how that had been possible. “She’s fair, with short, light brown hair and green eyes, and she’s called Tamar.”
The steward had taken the portrait just as Jared pronounced the name, and he started visibly, shaken either by the word or the picture. He studied it for just a few moments before handing it back.
“I know her,” he said quietly. “Is she in trouble?”
Jared considered. “She could be in danger,” he said. “But not from me. Please believe I mean her no harm. I could have Christian Avalone vouch for me if that would reassure you.”
The older man made a brief, quickly repressed gesture of negation. No, no, I need no character references. “I could not betray her to you even if I would,” he said. “She left two days ago, somewhat abruptly.”
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“To her sister, who had fallen ill. She did not leave an address or anything personal behind. My own opinion was that something had frightened her and she felt the need to run away. I was sorry she did not trust me enough to confide in me.”
Jared refolded the paper and slipped it back in his vest pocket. He was cursing himself for failing to heed the pressure of his Kiss that night he had dined here with Christian and Mercy. She had been here, not fifty feet away, and he had sensed it somehow…. “Do you think she might come back someday?”
“I hope so. But I doubt it.”
“Would you get word to me if she does?”
The steward considered. Jared had to like him for it, though his was the soul being weighed; but he was glad to see Tamar had won at least one friend during her sojourn in Semorrah. “I would be willing to tell her you want to speak to her,” the old man temporized.
“Fair enough. Tell her that I think she is in danger, and that Christian Avalone will give her sanctuary. She won’t believe you, but tell her anyway. I appreciate your willingness to help.”
The steward inclined his head. He had a certain majestic dignity; he probably led a much more productive, demanding existence than Jared had even contemplated. The thought was somewhat lowering. “It is a privilege to serve the angels.”
“And you don’t have a clue where she might have gone? You don’t know this sister’s name or what province she lives in?”
“I believe the sister was fabricated. Had she given a direction, I suspect it would have been false.”
All too likely. “Thank you again for your assistance,” Jared said. He added impulsively, “And for your kindness to her. I will look for her elsewhere.”
But as he left the Berman House, feeling completely dejected, the question remained: where? It seemed unlikely she could have made it from Semorrah back through Jordana to Breven and thence to safety in Ysral, particularly if Jansai were looking for her and knew her face. So she was probably in Bethel somewhere, taking odd jobs and trying to avoid drawing attention to herself. There were any number of places to hide in Bethel— small towns or farming communities, for instance, and there were literally hundreds of those—and he did not know how he would begin to comb through them all.
Well; it was back to Monteverde now, because he had promised. But he would leave early for Isabella Cartera’s and make a few unscheduled stops on the way. Maybe he would get lucky. Maybe he would find the Jacobite where he least expected her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lucinda had never known time to pass so slowly. During the first three weeks after The Way-ward‘s departure, every day seemed a thousand hours long; the sun seemed to crawl toward its unreachable zenith of noon, then descend hesitantly, reluctantly, toward the indifferent bed of the sea. Night was interminable, rubbery, each minute stretched to accommodate ten. No dreams could speed the passage of the hours, and sleep, of course, was unattainable. When—impossible to delay any longer—the next dawn ma
de its unwilling debut, there was no need to look forward to any hope of relief. There was no diversion, no employment, engrossing enough to nudge a single hour into a faster pace.
Well. If this was how it felt to be in love, Lucinda could not imagine why the poets praised the state so exultantly. She found it a wretched business all in all.
She did not speak a word of her unhappiness to Gretchen, who most assuredly would not approve of romances conducted with Edori sailors. Nonetheless, the older woman sensed that something was wrong, and eyed her niece often with a measuring glance. Several times during those three dreary weeks, her aunt would surprise her with a quick, pouncing question: “Do you have a headache?” “Are you suffering your monthly distress?” “Is your stomach bothering you? I have a potion you could try.” To all inquiries Lucinda answered firmly, “I’m fine.” She was fine. She was just heartsick. And lonely. And terrified of never seeing Reuben again.
And more terrified of having him sail back into the harbor at Angel Rock.
Every night before she went to bed, she softly sang the notes that unlocked the silver box, and she took out the emerald ring Reuben had given her. She wore it while she slept (on the rare occasions she actually slept), and it gave her a peculiar, bitter comfort to wake in the middle of the night and feel its weight around her finger. Each morning, she replaced it in its case and sang the measures in reverse, and then she hid the box under a pile of clothes in the bottom drawer of her dresser.
But still she wondered if she would ever see him again, and what she would say to him, and if he would remember what he had said to her.
But it was stupid to brood over an absent Edori lover. There was much to do here, and she threw herself into work with a desperate frenzy. Fortunately, this was the beginning of their busiest season, and all the innkeepers were preparing for the influx of summer visitors. Every room had to be cleaned from top to bottom, curtains washed and repaired, bed quilts changed from winter wools to summer cottons, every window washed, every floor waxed. The garden needed to be planted, the cellar needed to be cleaned of last year’s dried potatoes and jars of old fruit preserves. There was enough work that no one’s hands needed to be idle, and no one’s brain needed to be set in the same miserable, unproductive whirr.
During the middle of that third week, the inn began to fill up, and Lucinda became the most attentive hostess imaginable. She could not do enough to feed the guests, prepare them special meals, show them around the island, entertain them in the evening. She was perfectly willing to play cards, learn board games, sing, engage in charades or any other activity someone might dream up. And when the guests retired for the evening, she instantly returned to the kitchen to help Emmie finish the night’s dishes and organize for the morrow’s breakfast.
And still the days dragged by.
She tried to avoid gazing out toward the harbor more than twenty times a day, looking for familiar sails. Every day, driven by a restless energy, at some point she flung herself aloft and flew as far as she dared from the safety of the island. But inevitably, as she circled back, she made one pass over the open sea that stretched between Angel Rock and Yrsal, counting the ships she could see plowing through the dense lavender waves. There were more this time of year than any other time, and some of the ships were Edori-built, but none of them was The Way-ward.
While she flew she sang, for she was practicing new music and did not particularly want Gretchen to hear it. She had spent a good portion of her free time scoring the prayer for thunderbolts from the god—note for note, in reverse of the proper order. She had selected it because it was the most complex of the prayers and she had figured it would be the most challenging, swallow up the biggest chunk of her time. She was surprised to find that, performed backward, it was an eerie, haunting piece, with its own distinct melody that lingered in her mind. She scored the reverse harmony for it as well, though she had no one to perform it with, and learned the descant once she had memorized the notes to the prayer itself.
But even singing could not take up whole days, even flying could not. She could take every prayer in the angels’ hymnal and write it backward, forward, medley and fugue, and still the days would idle by like lovers on their way home from a dance. There was no joy in the world anymore. And every day was a hundred years long.
But at the end of that third week she got a letter from Reuben. He sent it with an Edori sailor, who approached her one afternoon with a broad smile on his face.
“I’m an observant man, I am, and it looks to me like you’re the only angel living on this little island,” he greeted her, and the familiar, lilting Edori accent made her welcome him with a smile. “So it occurs to me your name must be Lucinda.”
“It is,” she said. “Can I help you?”
“I’ve all I need, thank you kindly,” was the prompt response. “But I’ve brought something for you that I’m hoping you’ll be glad to see. It was sent with many instructions to guard it carefully and make sure it was delivered safely, and I cannot help but think the sender was most anxious that it come to your hand as soon as might be possible.”
“Oh! Is it—did Reuben send it?” she stammered, feeling her face wash over with heat. “I mean—is it from another Edori?”
“Aye, Reuben sia Havita himself. He’ll be sorry to hear that you were not more pleased to be receiving news of him.”
“No, I am! Don’t you say that!” she exclaimed, before she realized he was teasing her. She felt her blush intensify. Tentatively, she smiled at him. “Please, may I have the letter?”
So he handed it over, still laughing, and she hurried down to the edge of the harbor, where Aunt Gretchen was least likely to see her. Then she carefully snapped the seal, unfolded the single page, and devoured its contents.
It was relatively short, for, as he noted, he had learned just five minutes ago that Horizon was heading for Angel Rock and so he had little time to put pen to paper. “In the future I’ll be smarter! I’ll start my next letter the instant I hand this over to Marcus, and by the time I find a ship to take it to you, it will be a thousand pages long. At least that is how I feel—that if I wrote a few words every time you crossed my mind, I would fill about a hundred pages a day.
“I know I told you it could be as little as three weeks before I saw you again, but now I think it will be three weeks more than that, for we have set sail directly for Breven without a pause at Angel Rock. Yet we will not tarry on the mainland, and Maurice has already promised me that we will pause a day or so on your island, and so you see I will be able to keep my word to you. Maurice is nicely recovered, by the way, though he has made dreadful demands on our sympathy and hopes to receive more coddling from your kind aunt when we make our way back to the island. I tell him that he must reinjure himself if he hopes to get any special attention, for I was there four days and never got more than a reproving glance….
“I miss you more than I can put into words. Strange, is it not? For if you count the hours we spent together, they were not so many. But I remember each one. And I tell myself that I did not delude myself and that you remember them as well, each hour, each minute. Well, I shall find out soon enough. Look for us before another three weeks are out. Reuben.”
She read the letter five times before she even looked up. Then she closed her eyes, touched the letter to her heart, opened her eyes again, and read it a sixth time. Three weeks. She would see him again in three weeks. Such a short period of time, after all! The days would fly by!
As it happened, the days were filled with enough incident that they did hurry by—but they left Lucinda feeling uneasy and a little bewildered. And they left Aunt Gretchen in a most peculiar state of anxiety.
For they had a distinguished guest come to the island: Omar, the Archangel’s son.
He arrived a week after Reuben’s letter, and he made his way immediately to the Manor. Lucinda was on the front stoop sweeping away debris when he walked up, his baggage in his hand.
“Lucinda?” h
e called when he was still a few yards away, and she looked up inquiringly. When she recognized him, she dropped the broom and hurried forward, her hands outstretched.
“Omar! What brings you to Angel Rock?”
He set his suitcase hastily on the road so he could take both her hands in his, and he smiled down at her intently. “Part vacation, part investigation,” he said lightly. “It has been a hectic few weeks since you left, and since I have heard such restful things about your island, I thought I would give myself a little respite and check it out. And when my father heard where I was going, he told me that he has considered coming here for a week or two of relaxation, but he would await my report before making any plans. So you see I come as emissary for the Archangel, and you had best treat me well if you want the chance to entertain so august a personage.”
It was wonderful to see someone from Samaria, even someone she scarcely knew, and the light, teasing note in his voice chased away her ever-present melancholy. Lucinda felt herself grow giddy with pleasure. “Well, I like to think we would treat you kindly for your own sake, and not your father’s,” she said gaily. “But now you put us on our mettle.”
“I did not write ahead for a room,” he said. “And the sea captain told me these are busy days on the island. Is there room for me here? Or must I look elsewhere?”
“You’re in luck, because we have only one room open—and it’s my favorite,” she replied. “How long do you plan to stay? Do you know?”
“Not more than a week, I think,” he said, picking up his suitcase again. “But I am on no particular schedule.”
“So how is everyone in Samaria?” Lucinda asked over her shoulder as she led him into the inn. “Your father? Mariah? Mercy?”
“I haven’t been to Cedar Hills, but when I stopped at the Eyrie everyone there was well and expressly told me to give you their good wishes.”
They were inside now, and Lucinda began pointing to doors and stairways. “That’s the parlor. Many of the guests gather here in the evenings, and we sing or play games. There’s the dining room. We serve meals promptly at eight, noon, and six, but you can generally convince Emmie to feed you at any time of the day. That door leads to the back where the water rooms are. Up here,” she continued, starting up the stairwell, “are the guest rooms. Yours—should you find it satisfactory, sir—is the one at the very end of the hall. We have guests in all the other rooms, so I do hope you like this one!”