NINE
The boarhound lay motionless on the floor of his mistress’ bedroom. His eyes were closed, his body limp. A threadbare blanket had been spread beneath him; no other covering softened the bare boards. A few feet away a generous blaze crackled on the grate, another rare concession to comfort in that ascetic space. The dog’s external wounds had been bathed and dressed. A bowl of chopped meat sat inches from his nose, but the aroma did not wake him. Nor did the sound of his mistress’ voice, although she called his name often.
Yvenza Belandor sat cross-legged on the floor beside the injured hound. She wore her usual plain dark gown, and her marbled hair was twisted into its usual knot. But her expression, comprising grief and anger, was uncharacteristic. Beside her knelt Nissi, colorless and insubstantial as fog, her face expressing nothing beyond trepidation.
“Please,” Nissi whispered. “Please, Magnifica.”
“No.” Yvenza’s eyes did not stray from the still canine form.
“Only today.”
“No.” Yvenza stretched forth a hand to scratch lightly behind the dog’s ear. Grumper never stirred.
“Please. Please let me.”
“I said no. Don’t try my patience. In any case, it’s too late. He’s done.”
“No.” Nissi bent low and pressed her cheek to Grumper’s skull. She remained so for some seconds, eyes shut and hands pressing the dog’s muzzle, then sat up to announce almost inaudibly, “He is still here.”
“Your fancy.”
“His time is almost gone. The connection is like the ghost of a cobweb. But there is still something.”
“If so, my voice will bring him back.”
“He has strayed too far to hear. But he will hear me and perhaps he will come. If you let me call through the spaces that are not.”
“You won’t. I give you no leave.” The other stared at her with enormous eyes, and Yvenza added sharply, “Don’t speak of this again. The arcane ways are not for you.”
There was a long silence during which Nissi’s eyes sought the motionless canine form and remained there. At last, she ventured in the smallest of whispers, “But. I. Can.”
“You will not.” Yvenza’s eyes and voice went steely. “You haven’t the right. Do you understand me?”
The pale head bobbed. The pale eyes remained downcast.
“The talent resides in House Belandor. So it has always been. But you are not a true Belandor, not the product of any union recognized by law. You have no right to the name, the wealth, the power, or the talent. Your use of the arcane skills is presumptuous. It is impertinent.”
“It is natural to me.” Nissi’s response was barely audible.
“And an insult to me. A reminder of something best forgotten. I do not suffer insults tamely, girl. You ought to know that by now.” No response was forthcoming, and Yvenza pressed on. “You will respect my wishes. You will abstain from all practice of the art so long as you reside beneath my roof. You will give me your word on this.”
Nissi replied with a seemingly unconscious, almost invisible shake of the head.
“In charity I have sheltered and fed you throughout the years. In return I am entitled at the very least to your respect and obedience. Should I fail to receive my due, I can’t be faulted for turning you out to fend for yourself. How far, I wonder, would your talents carry you on your own in the cold world? Would you like to find out?”
Another tiny, voiceless negative.
“Then you will renounce the arcane art and its practice. I want your promise.”
A couple of large tears spilled from Nissi’s eyes.
“I don’t hear you,” Yvenza observed.
“Roof.” The syllable seemed to fight its way past huge barriers.
“What?”
“Beneath your roof. Promise.”
“I hope you aren’t trying to be clever.” The implied threat seemed almost an afterthought. Yvenza’s attention had returned to the boarhound. Grumper lay limp and inert as ever. His mistress laid a hand upon him. “Are you still here?” she asked in a softened voice that few human listeners ever heard. “Grumper, lad?”
“No,” Nissi said. “I felt him leave a moment ago. He is gone now.”
“So I’ve known for the past half hour.” Yvenza straightened. “That girl will smart for it.”
“With … black eyebrows.”
“Aureste’s daughter, yes. When they bring her back, I’ll hamstring her. That should discourage future excursions.”
“She … likes cheese.”
“Does she? Perhaps I’ll ram three or four pounds of Westmarch Blue down her throat.”
“She did not hit Grumper.”
“What did you say?”
“She did not hit him.”
“How do you know?”
Nissi studied the dead dog in silence.
“Look at me.”
Nissi’s lower lip quivered. Her small hands began to shake. Her ordeal was cut short by arrival of a servant bearing the news of Master Onartino’s return, accompanied by Falaste Rione, with the kneeser’s daughter in tow.
* * *
The rain ended well before they reached Ironheart, but Jianna remained soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone. The chill deepened as she beheld the stronghouse rising in all its solidity before her. Once again the urge to flee swept through her and she eyed the reins, wondering if she might snatch them from the doctor’s hand. But even as she watched, his grasp tightened, almost as if he felt or read her thought. The inexorable progress continued, bearing her to the side gate in the outer wall, through the gate and into the courtyard, across the courtyard and around the house to the front entrance, before which they halted.
There had to be something she could do. Impossible that she, the daughter of Aureste Belandor, could sit there so passive, so acquiescent.
The doctor helped her down from the horse. At least she did not have to suffer Onartino’s touch. Falaste’s assistance in climbing the low stone steps to the front door was actually welcome. Then they were through and she was back inside Ironheart, in the grim entry hall that was always dim even on the brightest of days, which this day conspicuously was not. And there was Yvenza advancing to meet them.
She had attempted escape. The boarhound was dead. There would be consequences, possibly horrific. Jianna’s innards knotted, and she wondered if criminals facing death by torsion felt the same. The criminals were comparatively fortunate, however; they were not obliged to face Yvenza Belandor’s wrath.
But Yvenza did not appear wrathful; quite the contrary, in fact. She was smiling as she approached, her eyes filled with hitherto unrevealed light and warmth. Never before had Jianna seen this woman display such natural maternal affection, nor dreamed that it was there at all. Then she saw that Yvenza was not looking at her son, had barely noticed his presence. Her radiant regard was fixed on the doctor.
“Falaste, lad. Welcome home.” She extended both hands, which he took in his own, pressed lightly, and released.
“Magnifica.” He addressed her with a mixture of warmth and deep respect.
“How long shall we have you here with us?”
“Several days at the very least.”
“The more the better. You are needed. They’re clamoring for you in the infirmary. No one else will do.”
“Any new admissions?”
“Three within the past two weeks. Our Ghostly friends grow reckless and unlucky.”
“Through anger, I think. I’ll look in on them at once.”
“No, you won’t. Not before you’ve eaten and rested.”
“Magnifica, that can wait.”
“Ah, Falaste, that foolish large heart will be your ruin, one day.”
There was something in Yvenza’s expression, her smile and her eyes, that struck Jianna as extraordinarily familiar, something that she had seen countless times. Familiarity notwithstanding, it took her a moment to place the memory. The look in Yvenza’s eyes as they rested upon the doctor was just the same expression that shone in her father’s eyes when he looked at her. A pang shot through her then, but even as she watched, Yvenza’s eyes shifted from Falaste to her biological son, and changed.
“Well, boy,” the matriarch observed with a congratulatory air, “I see you’ve recovered the little runaway bride. Good work.”
“Too easy,” replied Onartino.
“Perhaps next time she’ll offer more of a challenge.”
“I doubt it.”
“I suspect you underestimate your sweet soul mate here. Does he not, girl?” Doubling her fist, Yvenza struck suddenly and strongly.
Taken off guard, Jianna made no move to block or evade the blow, which stretched her full length on the floor. Shocked and dizzy, she sat up slowly, cradling her jaw.
“That’s for Grumper,” Yvenza informed her.
“Magnifica!” the doctor remonstrated. He took a step forward as if to intervene.
“You stay where you are, Falaste, lad,” Onartino advised. Turning to his mother, he suggested, “Grumper deserves more. He was worth ten of her.”
“No doubt. And he was worth ten of you into the bargain, so hold your tongue,” she returned, then met Jianna’s eyes and commanded, “Get up.”
If she got up, Yvenza would probably hit her again. If she cowered on the floor, she would look craven. Before she had reached a decision, the doctor spoke again.
“Magnifica, you should know that this maidenlady has been injured. She’s twisted her ankle and can scarcely walk.”
“That’s convenient. Maybe I needn’t hamstring her after all. Perhaps a good whipping and a few days without food will do.”
“You should also know”—Jianna ventured to enter the discussion—“that I did not beat your dog.”
“Indeed.” Yvenza considered. “In that case, how did you get away from him?”
In her eagerness to proclaim her innocence, she had failed to anticipate that inevitable question. Jianna felt her face flush. Her imagination churned uselessly. No remotely convincing lie or evasion suggested itself, and at last she replied, “I won’t tell you that.”
“I urge you to reconsider.” Yvenza kicked her in the stomach.
Jianna gasped and doubled, clutching herself. When her distressed breathing eased, Yvenza repeated the question. “How did you get away from him?”
Jianna stared at the floor.
“That first kick was scarcely a nudge. The next one takes out your front teeth,” Yvenza remarked conversationally. “A pity to spoil such pretty pearly whites, but I’ll force myself.”
“She’s mine, I’ll handle it. With a good leather strap,” Onartino offered.
“Maidenlady,” the doctor appealed, and his voice owned the power to draw her eyes from the floor to his face. “It is best by far to answer the magnifica’s questions and to tell her the truth. For your own sake, believe this.”
She did believe it. Yvenza would not kill her at present, but the woman was certainly willing and able to inflict serious injury. And what good would it do to escape and return to Belandor House, maimed for life? In such circumstances as these, Aureste Belandor would surely counsel compliance or at least the appearance thereof. Tossing the hair back from her face, Jianna shifted her gaze to Yvenza’s eyes and answered coldly, “Very well. I drugged the dog with a sleeping potion.”
“Kalkriole?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get him to drink it?”
“I gave him doctored food pellets.”
“ ‘She … likes cheese.’ ” Yvenza nodded to herself. “And then, when he was helpless, you picked up a rock and beat him to death.”
“Then, when he was helpless, I ran for the woods.” Jianna arose with care. Her jaw and her midsection ached; her ankle throbbed. “If you won’t credit me with common decency, at least credit me with common sense. When I had the chance to get away, and every second counted, do you really think that I’d have tarried to beat an unconscious dog? Within a few yards of the household sentry, whose attention might easily have been caught by the sound of the blows? I’m not that stupid. As for the escape attempt itself, you can punish me if you will, but you can scarcely blame me. If you were in my position, Yvenza Belandor, you’d have done exactly the same.”
They were all staring at her and Jianna wondered if she would be struck to the floor again or worse. At last, Yvenza inquired, with a certain sinister mildness, “And if you did not kill Grumper yourself, then whom do you accuse?”
Your murderous brute of a son, most likely. Jianna’s eyes jumped to Onartino’s face, which was empty and blank as unused paper. He probably lost his filthy temper. Aloud she replied, “I wasn’t there, I didn’t see. I accuse no one.”
“Not directly, at any rate.” For a glittering instant Yvenza’s eyes shifted to Onartino. He sustained the scrutiny unmoved, and her attention returned to Jianna. “Let us give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you tell the truth. Indeed, I suspect that you do. There remains the matter of your flight. The attempted desertion of your own betrothed, my poor devoted son. Did you mean to break his sensitive heart? We must see to it that such an act of cruelty is never repeated. My own thoughts lean toward your permanent disablement. Would that do the trick, I wonder? What do you think, niece?”
My father will tear the flesh off your bones if you hurt me. The threat rose automatically to her lips, but she held it in, for Aureste Belandor’s name, a formidable charm throughout her life, held no power here.
“Look at those eyes,” Yvenza suggested with a smile. “Her father’s eyes, to the life. Notice the fire there. She’d burn me to cinders with those eyes—if only she could. In the interest of self-preservation, we’d best extinguish that blaze.”
“Don’t do anything to make her ugly, or I won’t have her,” Onartino warned.
“You’ll have her with her face turned inside out, if you’re told to,” Yvenza informed him. “But now that you mention it, I perceive the difficulty. You are required to sire an heir upon this girl, and it wouldn’t do to demand performance beyond your capabilities, my son. Very well, we shall not mar her beauty—today, at any rate. How best to damp a fire, then?” Yvenza affected to ponder. “Water usually serves. Yes. Our little runaway shall spend the next week cooling her heels in the subcellar, where the water on the floor rarely exceeds an inch in depth, except when the cesspit overflows.”
“I’m not afraid of your subcellar.” Jianna lifted her chin. She knew that she ought to hold her tongue, but could not. “As for the cesspit, I feel that I’ve been living in one since the day I was brought here.”
“Take care, maidenlady.” Yvenza’s face was unreadable. “I find myself in danger of coming to like you.” She turned to her son. “Onartino, ring for someone to take her down below. And don’t let me hear you offer to do it yourself.”
“Magnifica, this won’t do.” The doctor spoke up with great courtesy and great firmness. “The maidenlady has been injured, soaked, and chilled. She must not suffer further abuse.”
“Did you say ‘must not’ to me, Falaste?” Yvenza inquired gently.
“I speak as a physician. I trust you don’t mean to kill her?”
“Correct.”
“Then keep her out of that death trap of a subcellar or she’ll take a fever within hours. Be certain of that.”
“You seem much concerned for her welfare. Do you know who and what she is?”
“I do.”
“Then you must also know that she won’t escape punishment.”
“Allow me to offer a suggestion. Punish her by setting her to work in the infirmary for the next week. I can use the assistance.”
“Nonsense. That is a holiday.”
“I don’t speak of ladling soup and rolling bandages. She would do the real work—emptying bedpans, mopping up the vomit, changing soiled dressings, bathing infected wounds—all of it. For a gently reared young woman, that will be punishment indeed. And it would be of great help to me.”
“If it’s help you need or want, then you’re welcome to borrow the servant of your choice. Any or all of them will prove more useful to you than this reluctant princess here. She’ll take her lessons in the subcellar, and if she should happen to contract an ague, it will serve to drive the point home.”
“Magnifica, indulge me,” the doctor persisted. “I ask you in the name of my loyalty to grant me this personal favor.”
“Do you, lad?” Yvenza hesitated. “Ah, you know me too well. When you ask so, I can’t deny you. Very well, you may take charge of the girl, but mind you work her hard. She is not to enjoy it.”
“I don’t think it likely that she will.”
“Then she’s yours for the duration of your stay.” Turning to Jianna, Yvenza observed, “Within the confines of the infirmary, you will obey Dr. Rione’s commands without question or argument. You understand me?”
Jianna inclined her head, too relieved by her avoidance of the subcellar to resent this newest form of servitude. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed Onartino’s face, which for once had lost its impassivity. He was eyeing the doctor with a look of sullen antipathy.
One of the cold drafts of Ironheart swept the hall, raising gooseflesh beneath her sodden garments. Jianna shivered. Her teeth started to chatter and she clamped her jaw, but saw that her reaction had not gone unnoticed by Dr. Rione.
“Magnifica, I’ve reconsidered,” announced the doctor. “I’ll have that meal after all. Is there soup in the kitchen?”
“There is always soup in the kitchen.”
“Lentil onion?”
“See for yourself. After you’ve eaten and attended to your patients, come to me and we will talk.”
“I’ll look forward to that, Magnifica.”
He looked and sounded as if he meant it, Jianna noted with wonder. And Yvenza’s maternal smile had reappeared.
“Maidenlady, come with me.” The doctor’s courteous tone turned the command into a request.
She obeyed willingly, glad to remove herself from the dangerous vicinity of the matriarch. Onartino’s gaze pressed her as she went. Through the galleries she followed Falaste to the kitchen, where a clutch of servants greeted him warmly. The doctor seemed a near-universal favorite. Jianna watched with interest as he returned the greetings in kind. As he spoke, he stripped off his hooded rain cloak, tossing it casually across the back of a chair. She saw then that his thick hair was a very dark brown, almost the same color as her own. His lean frame was plainly clad in serviceable garments.
“Good to see you again, boy …”
“What’s happening with the Ghosts?”
“Did you see ’em crunch any Taers?”
“Did you bring any ferret feet?”
“Welcome home, lad.”
“Thanks. Here’s your feet, Skreps.” The doctor handed a small bundle to one of the potboys. “Try to make them last.”
“You’re the flashfire, Rione!”
“Tell that to Celisse and make her believe it.” The doctor, evidently quite at ease, picked up a chair, placed it beside the fireplace, and turned to Jianna. “Sit here, maidenlady. Rest, warm yourself, and dry your clothing as well as you can. You’ll have little leisure for it later on.”
Again she obeyed willingly, removing her wet cloak and spreading it on the hearth, placing her wet shoes and stockings beside it, stretching her icy hands and feet toward the fire. The heat sent the blood coursing through her veins. Her fingers and toes tingled agreeably. An involuntary sigh escaped her and she let her eyes close. For a while she sat motionless, allowing the warmth to work its way clear through her. Her thoughts slowed and her mind emptied itself; she might even have fallen asleep for a moment or two.
The aroma of food recalled her to consciousness. She opened her eyes upon a bowl of thick soup and a heel of bread wordlessly proffered by the doctor.
“Thank you.” She took the food. He started to turn away and Jianna, seized with some inexplicable urge to hold him a little longer, inquired inconsequentially, “Who is Celisse?” Wife? she wondered. Sweetheart?
“My sister.”
“Older or younger?”
“She’s not here at Ironheart?”
“Not these past three years.”
“Everyone here welcomes you home. But you and your sister aren’t—kin to the Belandors?” she probed. Related to Yvenza? Or by-blows like Nissi?
“No.”
She paused, expecting an explanation, but none was offered. The doctor was civil enough but distinctly reserved, and if she pressed him further the conversation would assume the aspect of an interrogation. She nodded and began to spoon her soup. Falaste Rione took a seat at the kitchen table among the servants, with whom he ate and chatted on a basis of apparent equality.
She herself had never taken a meal at table with a menial, not even with Reeni, of whom she had been genuinely fond. The idea would simply not have occurred to her.
Was he a servant himself, then—some sort of privileged, upper-level servant? Surely not; not with that educated speech of his, the excellent quality of his manners, and the medical knowledge. Something in between?
The food was good and filling. As Jianna ate, her energy and optimism returned. The warmth of the fire was likewise comforting. Her skirts were starting to dry. She could gladly have stayed there eating soup and covertly studying the doctor for hours. All too soon, however, he rose from the table and approached her to announce, “Maidenlady, it is time to set to work. There is much to do.”
* * *
Aureste Belandor sat at his desk, blind eyes fixed on the oft-blotted paper sheet before him. For the past half hour he had striven to pen a reply to the Magnifico Tribari’s very courteous inquiry concerning the Maidenlady Jianna Belandor’s delayed arrival, but the right words eluded him. The right words did not exist. For the moment he had given up trying, and his mind wandered the wooded slopes of the Alzira Hills.
The thump of a knock on the study door roused him from his reverie. Aureste blinked. “Come,” he said.
The door opened and a Sishmindri head poked in.
“Woman,” announced the amphibian.
“Woman? What woman?”
“No name.”
“Throw her out. Don’t trouble me again with such nonsense, or you will be whipped.”
Incredibly, the Sishmindri ventured a reply. “You say, let this one in, else be whipped.”
“Ah. That one. Why didn’t you say so? Admit her.”
The Sishmindri’s head withdrew and then a familiar figure wrapped in a cloak of grey-brown frieze stepped over the threshold. Aureste eyed her without interest. “Well, Brivvia,” he said. “Come forward. You may seat yourself.”
“Thank you, Honored Magnifico.” The Magnifica Corvestri’s maid obeyed, perching gingerly on the edge of the same chair she had occupied upon the occasion of her previous interview. “Thank you, sir.”
“What have you to tell me?” He made an effort to fix his attention on her.
“Well, firstly that I’m sorry, Honored Magnifico, truly I am, very sorry indeed, sir, and I hope you can forgive me.”
“For what?” His interest remained minimal.
“For taking so long about it. You wanted quick action, you made that plain. But I must say it took some doing. There’s usually guards or servants hanging about the corridor, and then there’s a whopper of a padlock on the door. Getting past all of that was quite a trick, I can tell you.”
Aureste’s mind still sought the Alzira Hills. He controlled its wandering impulse with difficulty. What was the woman jabbering about? He had issued her orders, not long ago, although it now seemed vastly distant. She was to serve as his agent in Corvestri Mansion. It had all seemed important at the time.
“Well, I did it,” Brivvia announced with a certain air of triumphant shame. “I got in.”
“In?”
“The master’s workroom. And truly, ’twasn’t at all what I expected. I thought there’d be dead bodies all cut up and laid out on tables. And hearts and hands and heads and bowels scattered all over. And crystals sending out magic rays that would turn me into a sheep. But there wasn’t none of that. It was just a room, an untidy room at that, stuffed with all kinds of trash, but nothing that scared me. Why, it was only—”
“Brevity, woman.”
“Yessir. I searched, very thorough like you told me, and found nothing of no use to you. But I did the other things, Honored Magnifico,” she added placatingly. “And they went off all right.”
“Other things?” His mind slipped gears. For a moment he did not know what she was talking about.
“That little packet you gave me. I’ve tacked it to the bottom of the top drawer of the master’s desk.” She paused, evidently expecting congratulations.
“Oh. Yes.” The exquisitely forged letters establishing Vinz Corvestri’s connection with the Faerlonnish resistance movement were now in place, awaiting discovery by the first remotely competent investigator authorized to search Corvestri Mansion. Aureste found that he did not care in the slightest.
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it, Honored Magnifico?” She was regarding him with a puzzled frown.
“It was.”
“Went clear against my better nature, it did, but I followed your orders, sir. I’m not lying about this, either.” No reply was forthcoming and she added, “I followed all your orders, if you get my drift.”
“Then I am satisfied.”
She seemed to expect additional commentary or inquiry. Her frown deepened, and at last she prompted cautiously, “Well then, sir—would you like to see it, then?”
“It? What are you talking about?” His patience was beginning to fray, and he wanted to be rid of her.
“Why, you told me that I must bring something of my lady’s, and I could see there was no help for it, so I’ve done what you said. Here it is. Take a look at that, sir.” From some recess beneath her cloak, Brivvia produced a pair of gloves; very elegantly fashioned of the thinnest, palest grey kid, elaborately cut and pierced to display a lining of emerald silk.
Aureste’s recollections stirred at the sight, for he recognized the gloves, although he had not seen them in nearly twenty-five years. The young Sonnetia Steffa strolled across his memory. She walked beside him along a path overlooking the sea. A stiff salt breeze had pulled some of her chestnut hair free of its confining pins. Now the shining strands whipped wildly about her head, and she was laughing, her eyes very bright and her cheeks very pink, her hands lifted to capture the fugitive locks—hands clad in those distinctive gloves. He reached out and caught one of her hands, felt the pressure of his grasp returned, and for a while they stood there blind to the world around them, while her hair streamed free in the wind.
And then, a different picture, a different place—this time, the bare and wintry garden behind Steffa House. Skeletal branches, withered stalks, dry fountains. Lifeless. Sonnetia sat on a small bench of white marble, gloved hands clasped in her lap. Her face was almost as white as the bench, but still the most beautiful face in his world. There was room for two on that bench, but he was not welcome to join her there. And now her voice echoed in his mind across the years, although he did not want to hear it.
“… I did not let myself believe it, but all that they say is true. You have become the friend and the servant of the Taerleezis.”
“I’ve protected my House,” he heard his own voice answer.
“You have protected your own fortune.”
“And yours as well. Do you think that your father would hold Steffa House, were it not for my influence?”
“Did my father ask any favors of you or your Taerleezi friends?”
“He didn’t need to ask. I gladly do all in my power to assist your family. I had assumed—wrongly, it seems—that the preservation of your home would not displease you.”
“The destruction of your honor displeases me.”
Verbal attacks rarely troubled him, but Sonnetia Steffa possessed the power to penetrate his armor. Twenty-five years later, he relived the jolt of pained anger. And he recalled his own response. “Come, this is absurd. You are only a young girl, without experience or knowledge. You prate foolishly of matters beyond your understanding.” In the years that followed, he had often wondered what course his life might have taken had he managed to hold his tongue.
“Certain matters are not beyond the understanding even of so foolish and ignorant a creature as myself.” Her voice had been very quiet. “I understand that you have cut yourself off from your nation, from your home, from your people. I understand that you are no longer one of us. I understand that I no longer know you, if indeed I ever did. And I understand that I cannot and will not join my life with yours.”
“You don’t mean that; you speak in anger. You’ll reconsider, when you are calm.” He had taken a step toward her, and he still recalled the gesture—hand upraised in its grey kid glove—with which she had halted him.
“I am calm.” Her white face and the tears in her eyes belied the claim. “And I will not reconsider.”
“Sonnetia, there has always been strong feeling between us. It is there still, say what you will. You won’t throw all that away on a sudden whim.”
“It is neither a whim nor sudden. The division between us has been widening for months. You have not noticed.”
He had not allowed himself to notice. “We’ve had some few differences over small matters—”
“But nothing to justify the ruin of our betrothal. Your father has consented, remember. Your parents and kin won’t permit you to do this.”
“Aureste, do you not understand? They will applaud me.”
There could be no answer to that. For a while, he had stood searching her face for some sign of weakness or uncertainty, something that he could turn to his own advantage, but there was nothing there to use or control, which was one of the reasons that he so much admired her. Strength of will notwithstanding, her feelings for him ran deep; of this he had no doubt. Sooner or later her own emotions would erode her resolve, and then things would be right again. It was only a matter of time, or so he assured himself. Thus convinced, he had taken his leave, returning to Belandor House to await the retraction and contrition that never came. All that came, in fact, delivered by one of the few remaining Steffa servants, was the great sapphire ring that he had given to her upon her formal acceptance of his proposal. And from that chilly day until the present, he had never again set foot in that garden.
“Just what you asked for, Honored Magnifico.” The voice of Brivvia intruded upon his recollections. “Clean and very nice, but not new. Could it be any better?”
As if from a distance Aureste heard his own voice return. “Is she not likely to miss these?”
“Not she. I found them tucked away at the very bottom of an old chest. She’s never asked for them in all the time I’ve served her. She’s forgotten they exist.”
“Probably.”
“You’re content then, Honored Magnifico?”
“Content?” His lips turned down at the corners. “You’ve done well, Brivvia. Here.” He flipped her a coin, which she caught neatly. “Now leave me.”
“Yessir.” She looked down at the coin and her jaw dropped, for it was gold. “Thank you, Honored Magnifico! Thank you, sir!”
She bowed her way out of the study, and he forgot her existence before the door closed behind her. For a long time he sat motionless, transfixed by the gloves and the memories they awoke. At last he roused himself from his trance, retrieved the casket from the bottom drawer of the desk, and added the newest keepsake to his collection. He locked the casket away again, and his mind was once more free to roam the Alzira Hills in search of his daughter. Sometimes he thought to glimpse her figure at a distance; she wandered among trees whose leaves were elegantly fashioned of grey kid lined with emerald silk. To the packet of incriminating documents hidden in Vinz Corvestri’s desk, he gave no thought at all.