Heart Choice (17 page)

With luck and Mitchella's aid, he could groom the Grove of the Dark Goddess for a GreatRitual. He'd never fashioned a GreatRitual, but the Family annals must detail some. He'd brave the ResidenceDen and read them. His lip curled. He had no time to be sensitive about the Residence or his memories. Avoiding the pain of certain rooms was a luxury he could no longer afford.

“Say it three and the spell will be,” T'Ash had said. Whispering, Straif vowed, “I will fight for and hold my estate,” and repeated it two more times. When the final word faded, a potent mantle of power enveloped him, from the T'Blackthorn land itself, strengthening him.

Mitchella and Antenn had rooms on the second floor, Mitchella in the guest suite, Antenn in Straif's sister's room. That idea had bothered him just about as long as the glider ride from Primary Healing Hall to the Residence.

A smile tugged at Straif's lips. At least one aspect of his life proceeded well. He had the woman he wanted under his roof.

Drina pushed open the door and stalked in.
You did not tell Me that that little, miserable tomCat was staying here, in My Residence.

“You are much superior to him,” Straif soothed. “Consider living with him in peace a challenge.”

Lashing her tail, Drina stared at him with narrowed blue eyes. Would she be convinced?

She sniffed.

Probably not.

“Right.” He foresaw cat fights and frowned.

She yowled in his face. He jumped from his bedroll.
The Cat and his human boy are in My kitchen, eating My food!

“We can't have that. Where is Mitchella?”

Drina sniffed.
She is there, too. She tried to feed Me, but you are My FamMan.

He sighed. He'd have been happy to delegate fulfilling Drina's every whim to Mitchella. “I thought you liked Mitchella.” Straif dressed.

“She and Antenn and Pinky will be staying until the project is done.”

Drina whipped her tail.
Then you must work fast.

“Working fast isn't as important as doing good work, and I'll need your help readying the Grove of the Dark Goddess for a GreatRitual.”

“Ggrrrrrr.”
Dirty paws work.

“Right. But as my Fam, I expect you to help. You didn't think you'd do nothing for that blue diamond collar, did you?”

Drina cast a big-eyed gaze at him.
I still get the blue diamond collar?

“That should wait until I am reconfirmed as T'Blackthorn.”

She whined.

“Or do you plan on deserting me?”

We had a probation period,
she said.

“That was my request, I never heard you agree.”

“You might want to consider the new claimant.”

Drina said,
The land and the Residence support you.

“How do you know?”

“What!” But it made sense that the other had visited, even entered the Residence. A sour taste coated Straif's mouth, but he was thinking hard. He could walk the estate, looking for his distant relative's tracks, discover who the other claimant was.

The thought of the many tasks he must accomplish gave some satisfaction. He was settling into his new life. He'd review his personal accounts to ensure he could afford the renovations—and hoped he didn't have to trade many favors with other Lords and Ladies. He'd continue on his quest—in Druida—for a fix for his defective gene by consulting the great Healer, GrandLord T'Heather. Straif would set an appointment with the new GreatLord T'Vine—the prophet with the greatest Flair.

Without another word to Drina, he headed for the kitchen.

Mitchella wasn't there. The only sign of her was a sheaf of papyrus. A glance at them froze him. All were inscribed with the Blackthorn coat of arms. As he reached for them, he knew that he'd face more memories every day. Probably a good thing. The time for running had long passed. Escape from guilt and pain and loneliness was acceptable in a seventeen-year-old boy, not in a thirty-two-year-old man.

He sat at a table and flipped through the papyrus, scrutinizing Mitchella's plans for renovating the kitchen. A couple of the sheets had finger-imprints. When he touched them, holomodels sprang into being. His suspicions of the day before were right. The Flair appliances were far out of date. At the end were two budgets—one titled “Good” and one titled “No Expense Spared.” Straif winced. He could no longer restore the Residence in the manner he'd anticipated—or was that true?

He crossed the room, took the scrybowl from a shelf, and carried it to the table. “Scry T'Reed,” he said.

A moment passed. “Here,” said T'Reed as the scrybowl showed his old, wrinkled face.

“Greetyou, T'Reed,” Straif said.

The man hesitated. “Straif,” he said, in an informality that Straif had never heard from him. “I trust you received my updated accounting in your collection box.”

Straif smiled coolly. “Probably. I'm sure you were meticulous in separating my personal funds from the T'Blackthorn gilt.” He paused to adjust his attitude. He wanted this man as an ally. “I assure you that since I have known you all my life I will
of course
leave all Blackthorn funds with your financial establishment.” That should get the man thinking of what another claimant might do—where the other Blackthorn might bank.

T'Reed blinked, then frowned. “Of course the FirstFamilies tend to do business with each other. We prefer our affairs in the hands of those greatly Flaired.” He paused. The other Blackthorn
wasn't
as Flaired as Straif.

“I'd like to ask your advice. Do you think the Councils might allow me to use the T'Blackthorn fortune to restore the Residence? After all, the Residence is an extremely valuable asset to the Family, and it does need some renovation.”

T'Reed looked thoughtful. “You would have to keep detailed and accurate accounts.”

“Of course.” Mitchella must always do so.

The older GreatLord mulled over the problem. Straif knew T'Reed's younger son belonged to the Noble Council. As did the new claimant. Perhaps the other Blackthorn already banked with T'Reed. Would that one have tried to influence the FirstFamily Lords and Ladies by doing business with them?

Finally, T'Reed said, “The Councils might allow you to use T'Blackthorn gilt for the refurbishment of the Residence.” His gaze sharpened. “I'm sure they would put a limit on spending.”

Straif nodded. “Reasonable.” He didn't want to be reasonable in restoring the Residence. He wanted it to be perfect. If he had to, he'd use his own gilt.

“I'll speak to members of the Councils, their decision may take a couple of days.” T'Reed made a note on a piece of papyrus in front of him. “Straif . . .”

“Yes?”

T'Reed leaned forward. “I am acquainted with the claimant. I'll tell you that—the claimant—is genuinely concerned about how you let the estate deteriorate and ignored your duties. H—the claimant's sincerity is not in question. This is not a frivolous claim by a fortune hunter.”

Straif swallowed hard, inclined his head. “I understand. Is this person the type to use a firebombspell to eliminate someone who'll help me prove my claim?”

“No!” T'Reed spit the word out in shock, then his face changed from horror to rapid calculation. “I don't think so. I would say h—the Blackthorn is honorable.”

“Do you know for sure?”

“I had heard of a firebombspell detonating. You think this is connected to your situation?”

“It destroyed Mitchella Clover's house. She is in charge of renovating the Residence.”

T'Reed shook his head. “I can't think it of the other Blackthorn.”

“Make sure the Noble Council is alerted to the incident and how it relates to T'Blackthorn.”

“I will.” T'Reed tapped his writestick. “T'Holly sent a message this morning that you will have an open house for representatives of the Councils on summer solstice and the restoration of the Residence could be proof of your dedication to your name and title. The Councils agreed.”

“Right,” Straif said.

“I think we all understand each other. At the moment. Merry meet,” said T'Reed.

“And merry part,”

“And merry meet again,” ended T'Reed, then he splashed his scrybowl, cutting the call.

Relief eased a constriction in his chest at T'Reed's use of the ancient words. It was a subtle indication that the man approved of Straif's claim. Sweat prickled at the small of his back.

He recalled he hadn't bathed under a waterfall yet. Glancing around the kitchen, he realized he hadn't eaten either. Still no breakfasts in the no-time, and he didn't want to eat in the GardenShed. He rasped a hand over his beard. Yes, he should clean up before he met Mitchella.

Little slurping noises impinged on his hearing. He circled the counter to see that Drina had been single-minded in getting and eating her breakfast. It looked like shredded furrabeast. Even though he didn't want such a meal, his mouth watered.

“A cook arrived this morning. He said T'Holly sent him,” the Residence said.

“Yes?” The day looked better.

“The cook has been cleaning and settling into his apartments. I will tell him you wish to see him.”

“Right.” Straif had wanted to use those rooms. Too bad.

He looked around, wondering if he should stand or sit. He didn't have experience in being an employer, none in working with household staff. Anything he might have remembered from his boyhood would play him false because then everyone had been Blackthorns. He shrugged renewed pain aside.

The door at the far end of the kitchen opened, and a gangly young man entered. Straif stared. “You're my new cook? How old are you?”

“Twenty,” the youngster flushed. “I'm Gwine Honey, and I'm good. I'm the Holly cook's nephew. He's been adopted into the Holly Family.”

“I don't do adoptions.” Bloodline was paramount to Straif.

Gwine reddened more, jerked his head up. “That's fine. But I cook well, and I want to learn and practice fancy dishes. This would be a good place for that. And I work cheap.”

Straif ground his teeth. “I don't think—”

“Pride!” Mitchella scolded from the door behind him. “I think you have a bit too much pride right now,
T'Blackthorn.
” She passed him, and her fragrance set him to thinking of other pleasures than food. She held out a hand to Gwine. “I'm Mitchella Clover, overseeing the Residence restoration. Since T'Holly sent you, you must be qualified. Lady and Lord knows, we need all the staff we can get.” She smiled at the young man.

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

Twelve

Straif smiled—with teeth—at his new cook, Gwine Honey.
The young man hastily dropped Mitchella's hand.

Straif said, “I'm particularly fond of breakfast. Why don't we start with that meal?”

Without a word, Gwine disappeared into the cook's apartments. Straif scowled, feeling rumpled, and glanced down. He
was
rumpled. His clothes looked as if he'd slept in them. He hadn't, but he hadn't put them in the cleanser either. They were a good sturdy shirt and trous, bespelled for toughness as opposed to cleanliness or to be wrinkle-free.

Mitchella watched him with raised eyebrows. “I think the Residence has enough energy to cleanse our garments.” Her chin wobbled. “Several of my cuzes will be sending me clothes. There are plenty of Clover boys who can outfit Antenn. My family will be delivering things for us”—she shot Straif a look—“along with some top-of-their-line furniture.” Her spine straightened. “The Clovers don't often furnish FirstFamily Residences, but I promise you, the pieces I have chosen will be exactly what is needed for the Heir'sSuite and guest rooms.”

“Of course,” Straif said softly. She wore the same elegant evening tunic and trous that she'd worn the night before and looked as fresh as she had then. But there was a shadow in her eyes—the shadow of loss.

He wanted to see her smile. More, make her smile. He said, “I suppose that sexy green onesuit you wore when we met is gone?”

Her lips tipped up a little, sending a spurt of satisfaction through him.

“Yes.”

“I'll pay for a replacement. I'd like to see you in a tight onesuit again.” He'd like to see her happy. Oddly enough, his own grief seemed much less this morning.