Heart Choice (39 page)

 
 
Drina stayed near Mitchella the whole day, and
Mitchella found the little cat unexpectedly good company. She worked until she was exhausted, testing her bond with Antenn and Straif every few minutes.

In the evening she ate what Gwine fed her, took a long, hot bath in the mineral spring, and went to bed. But Mitchella tossed and turned. She was all too aware that Antenn was alone with only a delicate creature of a horse, that Straif was hurrying after the boy. She could only pray that neither of them were taking risks, but to her, any expedition outside the city walls was fraught with danger. It didn't matter that Antenn was tough from his Downwind years, a survivor. It didn't matter that Straif had spent more time in untamed Celta than in the city of Druida. She feared for them both.

The first night she slept on Antenn's bedsponge, surrounded by his treasures, the drawings and models of his vocation, the rush of water from the sea, and the scent of boy.

The next day she labored like a fiend, personally restoring every marble square in the Great Hall floor. She hadn't planned on doing that, since it was a delicate, concentration-demanding, time-consuming job—examining the marble, bringing the underlying essence of beauty once more to the surface, shining each vein of silver or gold from the inside with her Flair, then polishing the black or white square. But it was just the labor she needed to keep herself from going mad with worry.

The second night she hauled her exhausted self into the MasterSuite and the ancient T'Blackthorn generational bed. The bed had probably been the place of conception for many a Blackthorn, perhaps even Straif himself, and she had no right sleeping in it when she was sterile, when she was not the man's HeartMate, never could even be his wife. But beaten down by anxiety, she crawled into its soft comfort anyway.

And dreamed.

A deep chasm opened between herself and Straif. She stood on the edge, behind her lay well-kept verdant gardens. She held out her arms and shrieked for him, gulping with tears, and he donned his most expressionless face, picked up his travel pack, and walked away across a dry and barren plain.

She called out, “Straif, Straif, my love!” and woke with tears on her face. She couldn't bear being in the T'Blackthorn bed. She shot out from under the covers, hopped to the floor. She was a Common Celtan woman, she should stick to bed-sponges. With a few muttered Words, she cleansed the sheets, made the bed, initiated a housekeeping spell for the room, and took herself off to her own suite. But she was all too aware that it wasn't
her
suite. It was the guest suite in the T'Blackthorn estate that she'd made minimal changes to. The suite was lovely as it was, though a little outdated. She could, of course, make it unique if she moved antique Blackthorn objects d'art into the rooms, changed the holos and paintings.

Sleep eluded her, so she decided to go to the attic storerooms. She hadn't finished her inventory of everything. Sighing, she stretched and donned brown work tunic and trous.

“Residence,” she said, “please provide soft lighting for me to attic room five.”

“Yes, Mitchella,” it said. “I will also heat attic room five. Are you going to inventory the room now?”

“Yes.” She picked up her note flexistrip.

“Attic room five contains many pieces of the Head of Household two and a half centuries ago, GrandLady T'Blackthorn. As was the style of the times, her taste ran to the florid. She was a Lady of great intensity and Flair.”

The Residence's voice comforted Mitchella. She'd miss the sentient house when she left. Right now it calmed her to know she wasn't entirely alone. Of course, Gwine Honey was in the cook's apartments, but she couldn't imagine engaging the young, nervous man in any conversation that didn't focus on food.

She'd reached the stairs to the attic, mounted them, and passed down the narrow hall to the last storeroom. “What was the name of the GrandLady?”

“Straif, of course,” the Residence answered.

“Of course.” The brass handle gleamed in the dim light, pleasing Mitchella. Everything in the hallway looked in good order. She entered the room and closed the door after her. The room was crowded with furniture under preservative-spell sheets of a pristine white. The air smelled of lavender—the type of molecular cleaning that Mitchella favored always left that scent. She smiled in satisfaction.

“Bright light,” she ordered, and the room lit up like a summer's day.

“You usually like music,” the Residence said.

Mitchella chuckled. “That would be great. Some dance music, please, to keep my mind off—”

The dance music started low, and the Residence spoke over it, “I have a copy of the map in my ResidenceLibrary memory, and by my calculations, if the boy gets all the way to the mine and T'Blackthorn finds him there, and they return, they should be back in two more days.”

“Thank you,” Mitchella said and went to work.

A septhour later, she'd noted all the large pieces of furniture and marked a large mirror to be sent to the guest suite, as well as a series of colorful china vases. She could tint one wall of the sitting room a dark, brick red. With the vases on a low table and the gilded mirror on the opposite wall, the room would be dramatic and give the feel of rich elegance.

She took a little break and sat on a soft twoseat, letting her head fall back on the wing. Though the piece was delightfully cushy, the fabric was too shabby to use.

The room was warm, the twoseat comfortable, and Mitchella was worn out from worry and work. She drew a stained, exquisitely soft llamawoolweave cover over herself and dozed. A little later she bent her legs and scooted down to snuggle into the welcoming cushions.

As she rested in the pleasant state of half-sleep, half-wakefulness, she became aware of a deep hum that later separated into a pattern of long, slow, rhythmic beats. Just listening to it caused a mixture of yearning and delight to twist inside her.

It
pulled
at her.

First a little tug, every twenty beats or so. She shifted, but felt too comfy to stir. She wanted to sink deeper into sleep.

But color was added to the sound, a fascinating rainbow wash, fluctuating with the rhythm. And the sound became
beyond
sound, something more or less, something that began to prickle Mitchella's nerves, even under the soft cover.

She shifted, but was no longer dozing, more aware than ever of the sound, the colors. Opening her eyes, she found that the colors pulsed through the room, tinting the white walls, spreading like circles from one far corner of the room. She watched, enchanted, admiring the slight variations of colors—not only the primary colors of a prism, but shade upon shade of green slightly changing into shade upon shade of yellow until it reached the bright white of Bel's sunlight. Then it darkened to black, pulsed into indigo.

The beat was louder, like a drum reverberating inside her, compelling her. She almost thought she could hear syllables, but couldn't understand the words.

Drawn by the colors and the pulse, she wove her way through the crammed space to the corner of the room and the object that hummed.

The chest in the corner was was intricately carved reddwood and about two-thirds of a meter long by half a meter wide, with a rounded top. As soon as she touched it, her pulse picked up pace and anticipation thrilled through her. She felt as if she was going to discover her heart's desire, and she laughed at the absurdity.

She sat down and raised the lid. The strong scent of sage set her mind spinning, and a few even more exotic fragrances issued from the chest—musky amber, jasmine, wild nicotine. The headiness of the odors filled her nostrils, sifted inside her to curl like smoke, caressing her lungs, making her feel as if this was
the
scent. The most perfect smell she'd ever know.

The contents were hidden by a dark blue, coarsely woven blanket. Atop the blanket, affixed by a small sticky-spell, was a piece of rich papyrus with elegant writing. “Chest of Straif Blackthorn, T'Blackthorn, left with the Hollys after his third Passage, deliver to T'Blackthorn Residence. Passiflora D'Holly.”

Mitchella stilled. She should not lift the blanket. She should leave the chest in peace. She should not—

A wave of fierce desire inundated her, rolling over her like a riptide.

She couldn't stop her hands from untucking the blanket, even as her dull mind thought that it was good Straif had sought out his relatives to experience his third Passage. Passages that freed the Flair were nothing to take lightly. Psychic storms could kill a person.

Mitchella lifted the blanket, fingers running over it to stroke the rough texture, as rough as Straif's manners could be. She smoothed its folds and set it aside to see old travel garments. Her throat closed as she noted the nasty rips and tears in the almost indestructible celtaroon. Straif didn't have that many scars on himself, so he'd been lucky, the garments had saved his hide.

Mitchella lifted out the shirt and held it to her nose, inhaling the scent of untamed Celta and a younger Straif, then set the shirt aside, the trous, several pair of tattered gloves. Beneath the clothes was an old knapsack, and when Mitchella touched it, pure emotion flooded her—raw grief at the loss of his Family, the need to leave Druida, the obsession to make sure he'd never be left alone again—to find a cure for his flawed heritage. Later came wonder at the beauty to be found outside the city, excitement as he overcame his own death time and again.

She jerked her fingers away. She didn't want to think of Straif fighting for his life against nature, or wild animals, or other men. Especially when he was outside Druida. Since the pack was Straif's first, the one he'd carried at seventeen, it underscored the danger her own Antenn was in. She shivered, but could not turn away. The power of the thing would not free her.

Trembling, she took out the pack and put it aside. D'Holly had saved it for him, but Mitchella didn't think he'd care to see it again, or the garments. But it wasn't her decision to make.

More clothes, cotton and silkeen, a hat, scarf, cloak were placed on the stack beside her. Faster now, her fingers scrabbled in the chest, stirring the contents, until her hand closed over something in the corner, something hard that her fingers curled partially around, wrapped in silkeen.

Lust flooded her. She fell back, cushioned against the side of an old sofa, and the images came, the remembrance of her last, fast loving with Straif, how his hands had felt on her body, how his sex had filled her. The hard pumping of him, the sweat on his back, the scent of sex, the striving and ultimate release. She gasped as her climax ripped through her. Her fingers loosened and the silkeen stuck to her sweaty palm, but the object unrolled from the cloth to land on the stack of Straif's clothes and sat in the middle of them, glowing like a jewel.

It was a small heart-shaped box intricately carved of dark reddwood. Though she'd never seen a whittling knife in his hand, she knew Straif had carved it. Trying to be objective, she still thought it was one of the most delicate and beautiful things she'd ever seen. The detail was clear—flower blossoms. Tiny vines of An'Alcha, passion flowers, twined around the outside of the box. Carved in three dimensions on the front were interlocking hearts, symbol of the HeartBond.

Heart-shaped boxes had been popular for centuries, though styles changed. Almost everyone wanted to believe they'd have a HeartMate. Mitchella had seen innumerable heart boxes. She'd even purchased one a few months before she'd caught Macha's disease and become sterile. It was packed away with some of her old things in her parents' house, part of her past, just as this one had been hidden away in a chest.

But hers had been an inexpensive red sateen and pink lace, attractive to a young girl.

This one was far too attractive to the woman. Dangerously attractive. Mitchella wondered what visions Straif had seen during his psi Passage that caused him to carve such a delicate piece. She turned it over. Down on the very point of the back was a four leaf clover. She swallowed hard.

She knew what it was.

A HeartGift.

The way it called to her meant only one thing. She was Straif's HeartMate.

And she was sterile.

She didn't want Straif to come to her because of some biological imperative. It was still all very impossible. HeartMate or not, he simply wouldn't marry a sterile woman.

If he ever triumphed in his quest and had the perfect life he wanted, and came looking for his HeartMate, then he would know. But she wasn't going to tell him. It nearly broke her to know that she had a HeartMate but could not bond with him. She could not inflict that pain on him.

She stared at the beautiful, innocuous box. Her own heart thumped hard. She couldn't ignore it, all the laws and mysteries of Celtan culture that focused on it. If she claimed it, it automatically made her Straif's woman. Forever.

If
he
claimed her.

So far he'd shown no interest in the HeartGift; perhaps he'd forgotten it, perhaps he thought it was still at T'Holly Residence.

Her fingers closed fiercely around it, letting passion swamp her. For a moment she teetered between laughing and crying, then a wild sob tore from her. She clenched the little box to her breasts, close to her heart. This HeartGift was
hers
.

Only he who had made it and his HeartMate—her—could sense it, feel the waves of emotion and sensuality from the gift. She'd take it.

It meant nothing to Straif, since he was fixated on his personal quest, but the HeartGift meant everything to her.

She rocked back and forth. She had a HeartMate, and he was wonderful, and exciting and
hers.