Ferran's Map (32 page)

He glanced over them, taking in their
appearance. Within seconds, Sora knew he had already decided their
wealth and status. His eyes lingered on her dress, by far the most
obviously out of place. Women’s clothing of the First Tier was far
more intricate than what she wore.

“May I help you?” he asked stiffly. Or
perhaps he was being polite? Sora didn’t know.

“Please inform Lord Martin Ebonaire that his
brother has come to visit,” Ferran said directly.

Sora glanced at him. To her ears, his words
sounds rushed and a little tense, but perhaps the butler didn’t
notice.

The butler gave them a formidable frown.
“Hmph,” he said hotly. “A brother? And am I to presume you are Lord
Simeon Ebonaire? He is on holiday with his new wife. You must take
me for a fool, to think I wouldn’t recognize Lord Martin’s own
brother!”

Ferran hesitated. “Not that brother,” he
corrected. “The elder brother. Ferran Ebonaire.”

The butler’s scowl deepened. “I’ve heard of
no such person.”

“Then perhaps you should ask Lord Martin
before you turn us away,” Ferran said bluntly, a hard edge to his
voice. “I assure you, he’ll be most displeased if you do not
announce us at once.”

Sora had to suppress a smile. Yes, she
recognized that tone—spoken like a true noble.

“Hmph!” the butler grunted again, stepping
aside for them to enter. “Do wait in the foyer while I announce
you.” He followed them inside and headed up a wide staircase to the
upper floors.

Ferran seemed less nervous inside the door.
A familiar slouch entered his walk. He thrust his hands into his
pockets. Despite his casual posture, he looked tall and impressive,
in his deep red greatcoat and shining black boots. Despite twenty
years of absence, he seemed immediately familiar with this place.
He glanced around the foyer as though gazing at an old portrait on
the wall.

Sora took in the sight as well: mahogany
floors and wood-paneled walls, two sweeping staircases that led to
the higher levels, and magnificent archways to her left and right.
Through one, she caught a glimpse of a library, or perhaps a very
grand study for entertaining guests. A grand piano stood in one
corner, a recent invention she had seen once before. Through the
other archway, she saw a richly decorated sitting room complete
with stuffed leather couches, polished wooden shelves and a large
liquor cabinet. She imagined many more rooms like this throughout
the entire house. The Ebonaire manor could have engulfed her own
country estate several times over.

Crash remained silently by her side. She
found it hard to look at him. He was too clean. Too well-composed.
Every time she looked over at him, she felt a rush of heat to her
face and lost her train of thought.

“Where are the servants?” Sora finally
asked, her voice soft and subdued.

Ferran shrugged. “They keep to the servant
halls,” he said. “It’s bad etiquette for servants to walk openly
about during the day.”

Sora was surprised at that. Life in the
country was much more lax. Servants, particularly the higher staff,
were treated like family in her manor. Or at least, she had treated
them as such. Her stepfather had not, but he had rarely been
there.

Finally the butler returned for them. He
gave Ferran a deep bow, then nodded to Sora. He ignored Crash,
which was proper, as he was dressed as a footman and played the
part well; he stood slightly behind them, a short distance away.
She remembered him practicing a few basic protocols with Ferran
yesterday, just enough to get by without arousing suspicion.

“Lord Ebonaire will see you now,” the butler
said, leading them up the staircase.

Ferran let out a slow breath, and
followed.

The second level of the manor seemed covered
by a maze of intersecting halls. Sora caught a few brief glimpses
of the staff: maids in uniform airing out rooms or whisking laundry
away down the hall. Several maids passed by them quickly, hardly
stopping to bob a curtsy before continuing on with basins of water
and stacks of cloths. Sora frowned, recognizing a jar of herbs in
one girl’s hands: a mixture of yarrow, valerian root and mint
leaves—common fever remedies. She wondered where she was off
to.

“Is someone sick?” she asked.

Ferran shot her a
be quiet
look, but
she ignored him.

The butler seemed uncomfortable. “Lady
Danica is ill. Her condition has worsened over the past week….” He
paused. “We are all praying for her swift recovery.”

Lady Danica? Sora wondered if that was Lord
Ebonaire’s wife. Or daughter? Perhaps a visiting cousin? She wanted
to ask, but Ferran’s warning look stilled her tongue.

Finally they reached a waiting room in the
manor’s west wing. The butler led them through it and opened a pair
of double-doors to a plush office. Ferran entered without pause,
but Sora hesitated for a moment, unsure if she should join him.
Were ladies often included in First Tier business, particularly
between brothers? Was she overstepping her bounds? As a daughter,
she had even less right to intrude….

Crash remained by her side, just as a
footman would.

Finally, she entered through the huge oak
doors.

CHAPTER 18

Martin Ebonaire sat behind one of the
largest desks in the Kingdom. It was almost the size of a dining
table, and his chair could have replaced the royal throne. Behind
him stood a tall, wide window overlooking the manor gardens, which
lay thorny and dormant in the winter sun.

Ferran didn’t expect this room to feel so
familiar. Family portraits adorned the walls; he remembered each
one. He noted a few new bookshelves full of ledgers, land deeds and
reports. The entire left wall was taken up by a massive tapestry,
spanning floor to ceiling. Upon it, all the names of the Ebonaire
line were written in curling, stylized script. A tree connected
them all together, with hundreds of thin branches spiraling out
from a thick trunk.
A map of the family,
his father had
called it. Ferran had been forced to memorize every name of each
generation.
An Ebonaire must know his roots.
He had spent
hours in this room with his father, Lord Rowland Ebonaire, who
taught him to manage the estate.

The room seemed the same, yet the man before
him barely resembled the younger brother of his memories. Martin
Ebonaire faced him across the desk. He wore unusually macabre
colors: a black waistcoat with silver embroidery and a ruffled gray
tunic. Ornate white-gold cufflinks fastened his wide sleeves, and a
pocketwatch fit snugly into his breast pocket. He wore his
dark-brown hair slicked back, tied at the base of his neck in a
short ponytail with a black ribbon. He looked a far cry from the
adolescent boy Ferran remembered—a shy, sensitive lad who had
followed on his heels through the royal court. Martin Ebonaire was
now a sharply handsome man with steel-gray eyes and an inquisitive
nose.

Ferran could only assume Martin had a wife
and family by now, though he hadn’t contacted his brother in many
years.
A sister-in-law, nieces and nephews?
he thought,
wondering how he would fit into the mix. Or
if
he would fit
in. He had written Martin once, shortly after their father died,
but a wayfaring life made it hard to send and receive posts. He
never received a letter back and didn’t even know if his letter had
been delivered.

His brother stared at him quietly over long,
steepled fingers, his expression unreadable. The two regarded each
other in static silence. It felt as though a storm of unspoken
words filled the room.

Ferran fiddled with the cinnamon stick in
his pocket. He had never expected to stand in this office again. He
felt less than presentable—which was absurd, considering the
expensive suit Silas had loaned him. But in this house, even the
servants’ livery was starched and creased to perfection.

Forget about it,
he thought. It
seemed ridiculous to worry about his appearance after his life of
traveling. The First Tier had that effect on people, though. He
cast a look at Sora, who appeared pale, if composed. The young girl
nodded to him, and he was surprised by the steadiness of her
gaze.

“Lord Ebonaire,” Sora said, unexpectedly
leading the introductions. She gave a surprisingly elegant bow to
his brother—reminding Ferran, again, that she was raised as a
noblewoman.

Crash remained silent near the doorway, his
arms by his sides, like a proper footman should.

Lord Martin nodded back to Sora, taking note
of her well-practiced bow. Then he sat back. His scrutinizing gaze
settled again on Ferran. “Well, you look like my brother,” he
finally said. He surveyed them all closely. “Then again, you could
also be a smuggler, thief, or some riffraff pulled out of the
river. You’ll have to wear more than a nice suit if you want to
convince me of your name.”

Ferran blinked. Not the response he
expected. He cleared his throat and asked, “Then what do you
suggest?”

“Prove your claim, or I will have Donwick
throw you out,” Martin said simply.

Ferran felt a bit of his usual fire return.
“You think this is a charade?”

Martin raised a manicured eyebrow. “Last we
heard, my brother drowned on a pirate ship off the Glass Coast, and
not a word since.”

“I sent a letter,” Ferran said. “Though to
my knowledge, you never returned one…” He paused. Perhaps that
wasn’t the best tactic, given the situation. His letter might not
have arrived. “If I’m not who I say I am, then why did I come
here?”

“Why does anyone come to the Ebonaire
estate?” Martin said ironically. “Our coin, perhaps? Do you have a
debt to pay off? May I mortgage some land for you? Or is it an
overseas venture? Come now, let’s have it.”

Ferran truly wasn’t prepared for this. Why
had he assumed his brother would recognize him? “I want nothing,
Martin, more than to give my condolences for our father’s
passing.”

“Tactful,” his brother said flippantly.

Ferran tried again. “I’ll prove it, then,”
he said. He pointed to his face. “I have a scar on my chin.”

Martin regarded him for a moment longer.
Then he stood and circled around his large desk, coming to stand
immediately in front of Ferran. He gave him a measured look. Ferran
stood just an inch taller than he. The two studied one another
closely.

“There is a scar,” Martin acknowledged.

“I don’t suppose you remember how it came
about?”

Martin nodded thoughtfully. “I remember. But
do you?”

Ferran’s face cracked into a grin. “I was
taunting you with a rapier,” he said. “You were ten at the time.
You clocked me in the jaw, and I tripped down the staircase to the
servant’s quarters. Bled something horrible. Mother thought I’d
slit my neck.”

A smile grew on Martin’s lips as well.

“I cussed like a sailor and the governess
fainted,” Ferran added.

Martin grinned, then composed himself
thoughtfully. “There was another scar, on your left hand.”

Ferran raised his hand and displayed the
back of it. A white line ran between his index and middle finger.
“We were fishing on the lake behind our summer cottage,” he said.
He remembered the place well—it was far from a cottage; the villa
resided in a green valley to the south. Many of the First Tier
owned land there because of the plentiful game and fishing. “You
hooked me with your cast and tore out some flesh. I do believe you
caught a steelhead.”

Now Martin laughed—a quick, ironic sound.
“Biggest trout I ever saw…that fish was the size of a dog. Father
mounted it in the cottage.” Martin paused, remembering. “But which
room?”

“The sitting room,” Ferran said dryly. “It
replaced our family portrait.”

Martin regarded him a bit longer. Then his
stoic facade broke. A spark of disbelief kindled his eyes. “Well, a
man can weave a good story, but you can’t fake a scar,” he
murmured. Then, “I must say this is quite unexpected. We haven’t
heard anything about you in eight years. We thought you’d drowned
off the Glass Coast.”

“I’ve drowned many times,” Ferran dismissed
him.

“Ha!” Martin barked. Then his brother
clapped him on the shoulder, and Ferran felt as if a different man
now stood before him. “This is truly a winter solstice blessing. It
seems the Goddess has smiled upon me at last. To think, after so
many years, here you are in the flesh!” Martin gazed at Ferran
again, his eyes clear and focused, as though truly seeing him for
the first time. “My long-lost brother, returned home,” he mused.
“You look like a hard-traveled man—but your coat leads me to
believe you’re doing well?” He flicked the shoulders of Ferran’s
red coat as though admiring it, which was all for show, considering
his own wealth. “You look like a proper Lord.”

Ferran grimaced. “Thank you…but I’m afraid
my station has fallen a bit lower than that,” he said.

“No doubt,” Martin agreed readily. Ferran
felt slightly put off. Then his brother turned and circled around
his desk again, drew a cigar box from a cabinet at the corner of
the room and lit it. “Smoke?” he asked.

Ferran hesitated. His hand twitched. With a
bemused smile, he pulled his cinnamon stick from his pocket. “I’m
sorry to say I no longer partake,” he declined.

Martin shrugged and puffed on his cigar. For
a moment, Ferran thought he looked exactly like their father. That
unnerved him.

“For a while, we didn’t stop hearing about
you,” Martin said as he sat down again. “All sorts of stories and
adventures about your
procurement
service. Father denied any
connection to the Ebonaire line, of course, but….” He paused, and
his mood seemed to shift. He turned solemn, as though remembering a
dark time. “Mother missed you horribly. She would ask the servants
for news of
that dastardly treasure hunter.
Simeon and I
always listened. We enjoyed the stories. Simeon collected some of
the tales in a journal. Said he might write a novel about it.”