- Chapter 26






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Chapter Twenty-Six
It was, Becca thought, as Nancy returned with the comb and began to dress her hair, an altogether confusing dress.
The color was old gold, which set off her brown skin beautifully, with a demure square neckline that barely revealed the swell of her breasts. The sleeves were wide, banded tightly at the wrist; the silver-bound slashes in the left sleeve alternately revealing and concealing her ruined arm.
The bodice that Nancy had laced so tightly was a fantasy webwork of silver, drawing the eye to her waist, and from there, following the sparkle of dangling cords, down to her belly and to her legs, faithfully outlined by the clinging fabric.
In short, it was a puzzling mixture of the demure and the hoydenish and she wondered what was meant by it.
Perhaps, she thought, wincing as Nancy pulled a knot, it was a comment on her—her base treatment of Elyd? But, no—he had been pleased. Therefore, the dress was not a punishment.
Was it—could it conceivably be—a reward?
Nancy pulled another knot, so hard that tears flooded Becca's eyes.
"Oh!" she cried. "Nancy that—"
"That is quite enough," a quiet voice overrode hers smoothly. Altimere's reflection appeared behind her shoulder, dressed for dinner in cream and sable. He took the comb from Nancy. "Go to the workroom," he said coolly.
The little creature hung in the air for a moment, wings vibrating, her hands lifted in what might have been supplication.
"To the workroom," Altimere repeated, pulling the comb softly through Becca's hair. "Shall I say it a third time?"
An explosion of silver, a poof of displaced air and Nancy was gone. Altimere smiled at Becca in the mirror.
"There, this is better, is it not?"
"Yes . . ." Becca said hesitantly. It was better; she adored it when Altimere brushed her hair, but—
"You won't . . . discipline Nancy too harshly, will you, dear sir? It's true that she's—peevish—sometimes, but she's a magician with my clothes and hair." She smiled at him in the mirror. "You can't dress me every day, after all."
"As much as I might wish to . . ." he murmured, amber eyes downcast, as he watched the comb glide through her hair. After a moment, he looked up and met her gaze in the mirror.
"I will not deprive you of your dresser, zinchessa. Merely, I will perform an adjustment, so that you are not subjected to these petty tyrannies. You are a treasure of my house and you will be honored as such. Nothing shall harm you—certainly not your own servant. Stand a moment and let me finish this."
In a trice he had her hair coiled atop her head. Diamond pins came to his fingers and he set them with casual artistry; they sparkled slyly when Becca moved her head.
"It feels—a little loose, sir," she said tentatively.
His hands cupping her shoulders, Altimere bent and brushed a kiss along her earlobe. "I think it will hold as long as it must," he murmured, and looked at her in the mirror, his cheek against hers.
"Excellent," Altimere murmured. "You are exquisite."
"It is a . . . very fine dress," Becca said slowly.
"It becomes you perfectly," he said. "Yes, you will captivate. I doubt it not."
Becca rubbed her cheek against his softly. "Captivate whom, sir? Yourself?"
"But I am already in your thrall," he said, straightening and turning her to face him. He slid a cool finger under her chin and looked down into her eyes, his hooded and amused.
"Tonight we will have a guest with us at dinner. By the end of the meal, I am confident that you will have added another slave to your retinue, cruel child."
"A guest? Who?"
"Do you recall in Selkethe, we met a Fey at the market? He was much taken with you."
"Jandain," she said, remembering masses of copper ringlets and gypsy silks beneath a brilliant orange canopy.
"Precisely Jandain! He has taken up my invitation to visit. I imagine that we will have him for . . . some days. His entertainment will fall largely to you, I fear, for my work has reached a point where vigilance is imperative. Indeed, now I think on't, this visit is timed well! You need not grow pale and listless for lack of company while I tend my tedious experiments."
"But I will miss you, sir!" Becca cried, panic suddenly roiling in her stomach. "I do not know this Jandain—and you said he was no friend of yours! What if he—"
"He will not harm you," Altimere said with a cool assurance that was at once terrifying and infinitely comforting. However, that answered but half of the question.
Becca looked down, biting her lip. "But how if I harm him, sir?"
"What is this?" Altimere sounded frankly surprised. He raised her head again, the touch of his fingers sending a thrill along her nerves. "How do you imagine that you might harm Jandain?"
She wanted to fall to the floor and hide her face. Instead, she licked her lips and forced herself to meet his eyes firmly.
"In the same way in which I . . . harmed Elyd," she said steadily.
Altimere's face clouded, and Becca felt her courage fail.
"Did I not tell you that Elyd Chonlauf died because he was weak?" he asked sternly.
"Yes, but—"
"Jandain is High Fey. He is an upstart and a heathen, as is the Queen he supports in Xandurana, but he is not a weakling. It is not possible for you to harm him, nor do I expect that you will attempt to do so." Altimere smiled. "After all, he is a guest in our house, and blessed."
"Yes . . ." Becca whispered.
"Poor child!" He bent and brushed her lips with his. "Come! Allow yourself to be pleased with him. If you recall, he named himself your most ardent admirer."
"He did," Becca her spirits rallying, "but I would not have it."
"Indeed you did not." Altimere laughed softly. "Perhaps you will be kinder this time." He took her left hand and placed it on his sleeve, pressing gently with cool fingers.
"Shall we go down and greet our guest? I am certain that he is eager to renew your acquaintance."
 
The flowing sleeves, tousled ringlets, and bright colors were gone. In their stead was a sober man in a sapphire velvet coat, and silver lace at throat and wrists. The copper colored hair was confined in a tail that flowed to the small of his back. There were rings on his fine, pale hands, stones flashing azure and orange. He smiled when Becca came in on Altimere's arm, and met her eyes boldly. His were the precise sapphire blue of his coat.
Becca lowered her eyes modestly and curtsied.
"Jandain. How good it is to see you again."
He bowed, with a fanciful flourish that seemed to make mock of the courtesy.
"Rebecca Beauvelley, I am entirely enchanted to see you again."
He straightened, and gave his host what seemed an almost insultingly casual nod.
However, Altimere did not react as if he had been insulted, merely nodding in return. "I am pleased that you grasped the opportunity extended to you," he murmured, stepping forward and bringing Becca with him.
"Will you accept Miss Beauvelley's escort to dinner?"
Jandain bent slightly, and smiled down into Becca's face as he offered his arm. "I will be in all ways delighted to accept Miss Beauvelley's escort," he said, his tone uncomfortably warm.
She thought to frown at him, but instead found that she had cast her eyes down, as if in maidenly confusion.
Altimere raised his arm, and Jandain received her hand as if it were a treasure, and placed it gently on his sleeve.
"Lead on, Miss Beauvelley," he said lightly. She glanced at him out of the side of her eye and saw him smiling widely.
"Of course," she murmured, her fingers pressing into his sleeve as if drawing courage from the contact. Eyes still averted, she stepped forward, leading the guest in to dinner.
 
Through the sorbet, soup and cracker Jandain regaled them with tales of his late travels. He was droll enough to draw laughter from Altimere, which made Becca happy. For herself, she smiled politely, though she did not always understand the jest, and watched the guest from beneath her lashes. The wine which accompanied the cheese course was the peppery red; she sipped, tears starting to her eyes, and sipped again before replacing the glass.
"How do matters stand at Xandurana?" Altimere asked into the pause. He chose a sliver of cheese from the platter and held it out, as if he would pass a tit-bit to a favorite hound. Becca leaned forward, lips parted to accept the offering, her gaze held by Altimere's amber eyes.
She swallowed the cheese and leaned back on her pillow, reaching again for her wine glass. A glance beneath her lashes showed Jandain watching, lips parted, as if entranced. He reached for his own glass and forcibly moved his attention to Altimere.
"The Queen is beset, which will perhaps amuse you," he answered, leaning back on one elbow and twirling the glass between his fingers. "Indeed, it seemed that Zaldore was very close indeed to calling the question. Certainly, she has pledges enough."
"But how many of those pledges will stand with her to see the thing through, should she prevail?" Altimere murmured, half of his attention seemingly on choosing another bit of cheese. He found one and once more held it out. Once more, Becca leaned forward, head tipped back, to receive the treat from his fingers. He brushed her cheek, and looked over to their guest, who appeared to be studying the contents of his wineglass.
Becca reached for her own wine. She drank deeply, the peppery taste burning her throat, and lay back, raising the glass, and watching in dismay as the Gossamers refilled it.
"Your pardon," Altimere said to Jandain. "You had said Zaldore had been close to calling the question. As I have received no word that the Constant is called to attend the Queen, I must suppose that she was forestalled." He sipped his wine and chose yet another piece of cheese—this one, happily, for his own consumption, as he relaxed in boneless elegance into the pillows.
"I trust that Zaldore enjoys her accustomed good health?" he murmured.
Jandain laughed, short and sharp.
"Oh, she's healthy enough! As to what stayed her hand—" He glanced at Becca and inclined his head politely—"it is, I feel, the sudden interest of some parties in trade and intercourse—with those on the far side."
Altimere raised a languid brow. "Ah. Are we grown bold enough as a race to try the keleigh? You encourage me."
The guest laughed lightly. "Nay, nay. There's a move afoot to cast the keleigh down, and unite the races."
Altimere tipped his head to one side, elegant brows pulled slightly together. Becca raised her glass, realized what she was about and tried to set the thing aside. Despite her will to the contrary, her hand continued to rise, the glass came to her lips, and she drank deeply, head thrown back as she drained the glass. She leaned forward with a toss of her head to replace it upon the table.
Her hair, too loosely confined by the pins, shifted as she did so, and tumbled willy-nilly around her shoulders.
"Oh!" she cried, snatching at the fall too late. She felt a blush flame into her cheeks, and struggled upright, the dress suddenly clinging in all the wrong places, tying her to the couch more surely than—
"Peace." Altimere leaned over and touched her lightly on the forehead. A feeling more like languor than peace filled her, drowning her dismay in honeyed waves. "Gently, child. How many times have I said to you that the customs of your homeland are not the same as we observe here in the Vaitura?"
Becca looked down, swallowing hard in her abraded throat. "Many times, sir," she said humbly, her voice husky and subdued.
"Indeed. Why should we not admire your lovely hair—unless—" He looked to Jandain.
"But perhaps this display disgusts the guest?"
Jandain leaned forward, extending a hand across the table. "Miss Beauvelley," he said softly. Becca drew in herself, wishing she might dissolve into the pillows, as her head rose and she met his eyes shyly.
"It is inconceivable that you could offend any of my sensibilities," Jandain said. "It is as Altimere has taught you—our customs are different—perhaps very different than those you have known. Your hair is lovely, and I am pleased to see it thus."
Becca felt her lips shape a tentative smile. Her left hand rose laboriously, pain shooting like flame through the damaged muscles. Tears started to her eyes, but she did not—could not—cry out, and still her hand rose, until she placed it in his.
He smiled, and ran his thumb lightly over her knuckles. Becca felt a shudder of longing pass over her skin—and then it was gone, leaving only warmth.
"If we are all finished here," Altimere murmured, reaching over to take Becca's hand from Jandain. He kissed it, lingeringly, and placed it on her lap before looking up to the guest. "Let us repair to the terrace for another glass of wine. I would be grateful, Jandain, if you would honor me with your opinion of my evening garden."
 
As always, she curled next to Altimere's chair and leaned her head on his knee. His fingers stroked her hair lazily. They sat quiet for a time, overlooking the garden as dusk fell and the flowers began to shine, giving back, so Altimere had told her, the light they had taken in from the sun all day. Everything was precisely as it always was, with the exception of the man sitting on the chair at Altimere's right hand.
It was wrong, she thought rebelliously, that they should have a stranger sharing their special time and place. It was intrusive and distressing. She wished that Jandain would simply go—
The thought faded, and she nestled more closely against Altimere, eyes half-closed as she watched the moonbees flit between the flowers.
"So you tell me," Altimere murmured, "that Zaldore has challenged the Queen outright?"
Jandain laughed. "Indeed not! I tell you that Zaldore failed of asking the question that we were all poised to hear. Instead, she implored we of the Constant to create a new seat among ourselves, as per the Mediation, and that seat to be given to a hero. This was, as you might imagine, diverting, and we all strained to hear the name of the one she would propose. Instead, what should she do but call for an adjournment, to consider this weighty matter, and so we were twice disappointed. "
Altimere's attention was wholly on the merchant; Becca's more distant attention wavered between the two Fey, each with certain admirable qualities of person . . . 
"Such disarray scarcely seems like her," Altimere commented. "I wonder if she had some deep plan which went awry?"
"That would be most like the Zaldore who has been a gadfly amongst us since she took her chair," Jandain answered. "And I believe you may have the right of it. For a moment it seemed as if she expected this hero to appear from smoke and air to be seated at once. When there was no such manifestation, then came the appeal for an adjournment." There was a slight pause, as if Jandain savored his wine. "She has since been calling on everyone, regardless of their known affiliations. I had not yet had the pleasure of a visit before I felt it necessary to take up your invitation, but it scarcely seems likely that all this politicking is aimed at the creation of a single new chair."
"It seems strange in the extreme," Altimere conceded after a time. "But surely all will soon be revealed? The adjournment must swiftly be drawing to a close."
"So it is. There was rumor that Zaldore has another string to her bow, but what that may be, no one I speak to has been able to discover."
Silence, in which Becca floated, the night garden blurred to an agreeable smear of light before her drowsing eyes.
"Well," Altimere murmured, twining his fingers through Becca's hair. "But what are we about, to sit talking of politics! Do tell me what you think of the garden! I know you have an artist's eye, whereas I am merely a technician—"
Becca drowsed, their voices a pleasant rise and fall, like the sound of the wind in the trees. How long she might have dozed, she did not know; but she was roused by Altimere's voice.
". . . poor child is exhausted! Come, there will be an end to our cruelty. Rise, rise and make your goodnights . . ."
She lifted her head as he rose from his chair. He lifted her to her feet and turned her toward Jandain, who had risen to his own tall height. She made an unsteady curtsy.
"Good night, Jandain Sleep well in our house."
He bowed. "Good night, Miss Beauvelley. Please forgive me for having kept you so long from your rest!"
For some reason, she smiled, then turned to Altimere. "Good night, sir," she murmured, and stretched high on her toes, her face turned up to his, lips parted, her right hand on his shoulder.
He laughed lightly, slipping his fingers through her hair and holding her head between his hands. "Greedy child," he whispered, and kissed her, his lips bruising hers; his tongue forcing her mouth wide.
Liquid flame shot up her backbone; she leaned into the kiss, demanding—and then he withdrew, setting her gently on her feet, and slipping his fingers free of her hair.
"Good night, zinchessa," he said. Becca turned and walked in to the house, along the dim hallways, and up to her room.
It was dark in her bedroom. Altimere was busy with his guest and Nancy had been banished. She would never be able to remove the dress herself, and she did not wish to ruin it by sleeping in it.
She was so tired! Becca yawned and stopped by the bed. Hands, or gloves without hands, appeared, casting pale shadows against the darkness. Becca smiled. Of course! Altimere would have thought of her needs, and left orders.
The Gossamers had the dress off in a trice; two took her hands and led her to the bed, tenderly drawing the covers up to her chin.
One stroked her forehead, and it seemed that Becca heard Altimere's voice, murmuring, "Sleep."
 
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