Heart Search (41 page)
Camellia had shared her talent with him, had spent hours preparing food for him, had created special recipes for him . . . none of which would be used in her tearooms. Nivea never would have done something like that.
For the first time in weeks, he went into his studio with the intention of working. There was a heated pressure infusing his body, not sexual but creative. He
needed
to sculpt. He wanted to give Camellia something of himself. The statue of the Lord had been a standard image, and part of a trade.
needed
to sculpt. He wanted to give Camellia something of himself. The statue of the Lord had been a standard image, and part of a trade.
Last night she had made special Beltane stew for him. Tonight he’d sculpt for her.
Twenty-seven
H
is lost HeartGift ghosted through Laev’s mind. No, he didn’t want
to give Camellia something that important. He couldn’t duplicate those circumstances of creation anyway. Deep in Passage, hardly knowing what he did, he’d carved the Lady and Lord from marble. Through the hours that he’d suffered and sweated, every stroke of his chisel reflected who he was. Flair had created it, was bound up in it.
is lost HeartGift ghosted through Laev’s mind. No, he didn’t want
to give Camellia something that important. He couldn’t duplicate those circumstances of creation anyway. Deep in Passage, hardly knowing what he did, he’d carved the Lady and Lord from marble. Through the hours that he’d suffered and sweated, every stroke of his chisel reflected who he was. Flair had created it, was bound up in it.
He prowled his studio, went to the worktable that held the rough bust of his FatherSire. The man had posed for studies for septhours, and Laev was glad of that. The time they’d spent together was a treasured memory now. He still hadn’t quite gotten the angle of GreatLord Hawthorn’s jaw right. Someday he would. There would be less grief mixed with his love when he worked on the piece again. For now he shrouded it and thought of Camellia.
A statue of the Lady, a goddess, would please him. Standing before shelves of ristal, he selected a jagged block about a meter high and half a meter wide. Ristal was wonderful to work with. Just by using Flair and his hands, he could create a sculpture. This piece was a rosy pink, and he liked it for Camellia. His hands curved on the stone, an image arose, and he began.
Two septhours later he stepped back and studied his creation. He had an image of the Lady, all right. He also had a nude model of Camellia herself. If he knew his lover—and he did—she’d be uncomfortable with the sculpture. It pleased him very much, the line of her thigh, buttocks, spine. No, he couldn’t give this to her, but he wanted something special. What?
Taking a dinner and some caff from the no-time, he ate and let his gaze wander over the room. He wanted to give her something
now.
Tomorrow at the latest. He was willing to work all night if he found the right idea.
now.
Tomorrow at the latest. He was willing to work all night if he found the right idea.
Think. A sculpture that was just right. Not too intimate like the one he’d just finished of her. Nothing standard. Something that showed he cared, that he appreciated her. That she was unique.
Absently he wiped his mouth on a softleaf, sent the dish and cutlery and mug to the cleanser, and walked over to view the slight gleam of jade that had caught his eye. That thing.
One of the final assignments the master sculptor had given him years ago. Which he’d never finished, never had the urge to finish, until now. Mentally he called up the objects Camellia had decorated her house with and knew that this would be a cherished objet d’art.
He lifted the fussy sphere of jade down. The bottom fit in the curve of his fingers. Then he went to a different corner of the room and called up the brightest spellglobes, opened the drawer of his small worktable for equally small tools. Now was finally the time to finish the puzzle ball—a series of balls carved within each other that moved freely. He had six layers. The outer ball was to be ornately carved with sinuous mythical creatures, and needed to be finished. The second, third, and fourth balls were done, also carved with creatures as well as fancy latticework. He’d never figured out a pattern for the innermost balls, the fifth and sixth, but now he knew. They would be the twinmoons, first Cymru, then the tiniest, innermost would be Eire.
“ResidenceLibrary, project three-dimensional models of the twinmoons on the wall before me.”
“Yes, Laev.”
Once again he got to work, manipulating tiny tools to chip away stone, smooth it, whispered words to polish as he went along. Now and then he glanced up at the models, grunted, ordered them to be rotated.
Finally as dawn was breaking, he laid down his tools and examined the carved spheres. Satisfaction surged through him. He’d done it! Always before he’d been too impatient to work on the puzzle ball, not interested in the thing for himself.
But for Camellia . . . yes, she’d love this. Instead of mythical beasts on the outer sphere, there was a carving of cats chasing fishes, full of a graceful limb here, a flowing tail there. Mica would like it, too.
His gift was finished, and he’d used plenty of Flair in getting it done.
“Residence, please cancel any appointments this morning and request a luncheon date with GraceMistrys Darjeeling at the Acorn Cup, the café near the Green Knight, at NoonBell.”
“Done, Laev. Camellia confirms.”
“Right.” Laev stood and stretched, cracked his back, looked around for a proper box for the puzzle ball, found one of the right size though it was Yule red. He wrapped the puzzle ball and its pedestal in softleaves, placed them into the box.
A good gift, although not his HeartGift. He needed to tell her what happened to that gift, too.
L
aev had always liked the Acorn Cup. It catered to the business crowd
who worked in CityCenter and to those who trained at the Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon. The dark brown furrabeast-leather booths were all deeply cushioned, easy on strained muscles. The wooden tables were functional and showed carved initials of important patrons.
aev had always liked the Acorn Cup. It catered to the business crowd
who worked in CityCenter and to those who trained at the Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon. The dark brown furrabeast-leather booths were all deeply cushioned, easy on strained muscles. The wooden tables were functional and showed carved initials of important patrons.
Due to the feud between his Family and the Hollys, he’d started training at the Green Knight late, a few months before his Passage at seventeen. He hadn’t come to this eatery until then, either, and had been too self-conscious to carve his initials in a table.
Impulsively, he took out a folding knife and whisked it around in a few deft motions. A heart, and inside it L.T’H. + C.D. It was foolish, and heat wrapped around his neck, rushed up into his face, but it was done.
Since the carving looked too new and raw—as raw as his feelings—he rubbed a thumb over it and drew tint from the whole surface of the table to darken it until it appeared to be a couple of months old. Still new, but getting accustomed to the fact. Like he was.
But this restaurant no longer pleased him as much as before. It lacked the atmosphere so carefully tended in Camellia’s teahouses—the casual cheer of Darjeeling’s Teahouse and the serene but mysterious Darjeeling’s HouseHeart. He realized that the ambience fluctuated here. Testing his Flair, he sent his senses out around him, found the common problems of working folk, stains of ambition, failure, distress. He shut down his psi but could now smell an undertone of mostly masculine sweat, spilt ale, and whiskey. The Acorn Cup was clean, but the smells still lingered.
Then the door opened and there came a feminine fragrance—fresh water and herbal cleansers, and the scent of his woman. Camellia had arrived.
She nearly bounced toward him, running on endorphins from her session. Laev heard heavier steps approach the bar, Lemongrass order a steak sandwich.
And Camellia was there. Dazzling. More beautiful than Nivea had ever been, the glow of her aura, her natural honest vibrancy filling the booth as she slid in opposite him.
“Greetyou, Laev.”
“Blessings, Camellia.”
She grinned at that.
“Good workout?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. I took Lemongrass down, and in the melee I got a blow in on Tinne!”
“Excellent progress.”
“We all think so.”
She wrinkled her nose, a common habit of hers that he’d noticed here, when they’d been here before with other fighters. Now he knew why. She said nothing about the atmosphere, though. The Acorn Cup had its menu against the wall and she ordered a cup of vegetable noodle soup and tea.
Laev was pretty sure that the tea here wasn’t up to her standards, either. He wished he’d asked her to a more elegant dining room.
“I need to tell you about my HeartGift.” He put the box containing the puzzle sphere, the token that was so much less than what he wanted to give her—everything, all—on the table.
She flinched back, withdrew even her hands from the table. “I don’t want your HeartGift.” Words coming from her so fast that he could barely understand them. She stared at the gaily wrapped box as if it carried the plague. “I don’t want—” She stopped, horror in her eyes, but he’d felt all the repudiation of him as the bond between them narrowed to a thread.
“You don’t want me.” After a knife-thrust of hurt to the chest, he was stunned, numb, but knew that was just a receding wave. Agony would flow back.
“I—yes!”
“Not enough to be public with me. To show all that we are a couple . . . a progression of our relationship.”
She opened her mouth, shut it, swallowed, looked aside.
“You won’t take my gift?”
Biting her lips, she shook her head.
He slid from the booth. Stood. He didn’t want the puzzle balls, either. How many times would he be giving gifts that weren’t valued?
It fliggering hurt.
She didn’t trust him. She didn’t think that he was any better than her thieving father or her evil uncle or her worthless brother or any other man close to her that abandoned her.
She believed he was undependable, too. Dishonorable.
He felt the ice of generations of pride slide through his veins, coat his skin, cover his outer expression.
Her eyes went wide, dilated, as if she were surprised at his reaction, might be hurting, too. Tough. He could be tough. Easily. An ancestor didn’t scrape and fight to fund a starship if he wasn’t tough. A GreatLord didn’t remain part of the FirstFamilies if he wasn’t tough.
The ice was flexible enough for him to bow most formally. He wanted to curse—her, life, the Lady and Lord. Instead he said, “Bless you on your journey. Now and on the wheel of stars between lives, your next life and forever.”
She paled. Yes, this was definitely the end of things between them; how could she believe it would not be?
He pivoted and walked away, and as he did so, the last whiff of her came to his nostrils and everything inside him clenched, ached, scraped with every breath.
He
hurt.
Nothing in his life hurt as much as this. Not the fear he’d felt as a teen that he’d be executed for killing a GreatLady. Not his father’s death, or his FatherSire’s. Not even understanding he’d been played a fool by Nivea, that she wasn’t his HeartMate. He’d still had illusions then, about love.
hurt.
Nothing in his life hurt as much as this. Not the fear he’d felt as a teen that he’d be executed for killing a GreatLady. Not his father’s death, or his FatherSire’s. Not even understanding he’d been played a fool by Nivea, that she wasn’t his HeartMate. He’d still had illusions then, about love.
Now he had none.
Once again, he had nothing but pride, and honor and duty.
“Laev . . .” He thought he heard her whisper in a clogged voice. He ignored it. Even in the depths of this agony, he knew he had his Family, and his Residence, and his friends. He strode into the future, unpaired but not alone.
C
amellia was doubled over the table when her order came. The scent
of vegetable soup made bile pool in her mouth. She knew she’d been foolish, but she couldn’t call him back. Couldn’t take back the words that had revealed her fear even though the pain of hurting him, hurting herself, was more than the fear, now.
amellia was doubled over the table when her order came. The scent
of vegetable soup made bile pool in her mouth. She knew she’d been foolish, but she couldn’t call him back. Couldn’t take back the words that had revealed her fear even though the pain of hurting him, hurting herself, was more than the fear, now.
“What’s wrong?” asked a light and lilting voice of a female server.
“I’ll take care’a her,” said Lemongrass, and his shadow fell over her, no longer as bulky as her father’s would be, and she’d never been so glad to see him.
“So which’a you ended it this time?” he asked.
She just mewled.
“Eat your soup.”
“Can’t.”
“All right.” There was the noise of Lemongrass paying, then his big hand wrapped around her arm and she noted dimly that she had no reaction to him.
No, she’d saved all her fear for emotional threat this time.
“Come on. We’ll walk to the teleportation pad and I’ll take you somewhere. Where do you want to go?”
Somewhere to die. No. Of course she wouldn’t die. A few ideas lightninged through her mind, blazing bright and fading fast as she discarded them. Not her house. It didn’t seem like home anymore. Not to Tiana’s Temple or Glyssa’s Library. They would yammer at her or try and make her talk and she didn’t want to.
“Darjeeling’s Teahouse, can you do that?”
“Of course.” He was calming. He pulled on her and she walked blindly with him, smears of color blurring in her sight. She wasn’t sure why she couldn’t see, except she felt as if she’d fallen into a pit and been impaled on a stake of her own making.
Then there was some blackness and the beloved scent of the teahouse.
“What’s happened?” Aquilaria’s voice was concerned, and Camellia knew she was scaring this friend, too, and Lemongrass, and her heart ripped a little more.
“Where do you want to go?” Lemongrass asked.
“Office,” Camellia whispered at the same time that Aquilaria said it.
Other books
Darkman by Randall Boyll
Stiltsville: A Novel by Susanna Daniel
Two Days in Biarritz by Jackson, Michelle
A Winter of Ghosts by Christopher Golden, Thomas Randall
That New York Minute by Abby Gaines
Crash by Silver,Eve
Fluency by Jennifer Foehner Wells
Playing With Fire by Gail Anderson-Dargatz
Winter Jacket: Finding Home by Eliza Lentzski
