But it would take time.
Which was the main reason he had decided to have an early night—he was horny as a herd of giraffes, and urgency always blunted finesse.
“There you are, darling!” said a seductive voice. A slender hand came to rest on his shoulder.
He looked up inquiringly. Oh, yes! Delicious. “Darling?” “I beg your pardon, my lord! I mistook you for someone else.”
Ylo clasped her hand and rose smoothly to his feet. “You found the right man for your needs!” He turned on his handsomest smile.
2
The next day a spring storm came roaring in off Cenmere to rattle the casements of Yewdark.
The following morning the weather was even worse, stripping all the petals off the daffodils.
By midafternoon the God of Spring had repented of Their juvenile tantrum. The rain stopped, the wind dropped, and the clouds rolled away to uncover the sun. That evening Eshiala saw swallows swooping over the gables, the first outriders of summer. Tulips were coming into bloom, but the daffodils had definitely gone.
Dinner was a quiet affair, as always, although the Great Hall would have seated hundreds. Proconsul Ionfeu presided—bent and silver-haired, an Imperial aristocrat in the finest tradition, a truly gentle gentleman. Tonight he talked of noteworthy elvish poets he had. met in his time, quoting their more memorable lines.
His wife was fat and apparently as scatter-brained as the hares that danced their mad spring rituals in the meadow outside. Not so!—her wits were much sharper than she normally allowed them to seem, and a large heart beat within her copious bosom. Three months ago Countess Eigaze had taken a very fragile impress into her care and cherished her with affection, concern, and good common sense. Eshiala had developed an enormous respect for Countess Eigaze, and real gratitude.
Centurion Hardgraa was his normal gruff self, perpetually uncomfortable in such exalted company. In that respect he had Eshiala’s most sincere sympathy. He contributed little to the conversation, but he listened and she knew that he understood. He was as fanatical as the count, after his fashion, but his loyalty was to Shandie and Shandie’s heir, not to the Impire itself.
Maya was asleep upstairs, tended by a nursemaid.
And the impress? The grocer’s daughter? Here she was merely the wife of the fictitious Lord Eshern, but she suspected that even the servants knew she was both more and less than that. She was an exile, an outlaw, a fraud, but yet also a much healthier, happier woman than she had been at court. Of them all, only she was totally happy at Yewdark.
Three months at Yewdark? Nearer four! Where had the time gone? And the daffodils gone, also! Ever since the first green buds had opened their golden hearts, Eshiala had been haunted by thoughts of Ylo and the prophecy he claimed to have seen in the preflecting pool. Now the moment had passed. Did that mean she had another year to wait, or had the prophecy been disproved? Or else that dark-eyed libertine had been lying his head off to her, which was far more likely.
“May I suggest that we move over to the fireplace for coffee?” the count inquired. Receiving no argument, he ordered candles and the coffee. The sun was just setting. The fire smoldered, an unnecessary token. In a few more weeks the evenings would be warm enough for sitting outdoors.
As she settled in her favorite chair by the fieldstone hearth, Eshiala saw that more than coffee was brewing. The count was distracted, and even Eigaze showed less than her usual good humor. If the centurion was aware of the problem, his leathery features would never reveal the fact. He brought a stool forward and sat stiff-backed as always. He distrusted comfort.
The coffee tray was brought by little Mistress Ukka herself. Warmer weather had done nothing to improve her choice of apparel. She still seemed more clothes than person, a shapeless sack of threadbare, well-patched garments. Even indoors, she wore three overcoats and cloaks, with several gowns under them, showing at hems, cuffs, and collars. Her eyes peered out blearily between innumerable sagging wrinkles, just as her face itself peered out under a shabby wool cap and numerous woolen shawls. She muttered and mumbled to herself as she bustled around like a runaway laundry hamper.
But she departed at last, still speaking to anyone except the people actually present.
Eigaze sighed as she poured from the silver coffeepot. “Two more chambermaids tendered their notice this morning.” Eigaze almost never complained about anything. Seeing bright sides was her specialty. If the world came to an end, she would applaud the welcome reduction in petty crime, or something. Was Ukka this evening’s problem?
The count’s permanent stoop made him lean forward even when sitting, conveying the impression that he was desperate for his coffee. “It’s not just her meddling, is it?”
His wife passed his cup over. “Not at all. She nags and pesters them all the time, but she’s very good at her job, and they appreciate that. They can make allowances for her age, or at least the older ones can. No, it’s her constant nattering about voices.”
Eshiala decided that there was more to worry about than Ukka. This was just preliminary chatter.
Ionfeu shook his head sadly. “She’s convinced them the place is haunted?”
“Or that she’s mad. Half of each, I think. Cake?”
“I have heard no supernatural voices. Thank you. I have seen no wraiths. Has anyone?”
Everyone murmured denials. The great house was a spooky place, but there had been no reports of hauntings, except from Ukka herself.
“I don’t know what we can do about her, my dear. Excellent coffee! She’s been here half a lifetime. We can hardly throw her out in the hedgerows.”
“I have tried to retire her,” Eigaze agreed. “Three times now. She pays no attention at all, just goes on running everything.”
A brief silence was broken by one of Hardgraa’s rare flashes of humor, delivered poker-faced as always. “The army would transfer her to Guwush.”
Ionfeu smiled thinly. “I don’t know that even the gnomes deserve that! You must just continue to pray, my dear, that one day she will collapse completely under the weight of her wardrobe. Where does she find all those garments?”
“I pray for the patience not to brain her with a warming pan,” Eigaze remarked mildly. “In the attic. More cream, anyone? Honey?”
No one wanted more cream, or honey. The count twisted his head around stiffly, inspecting the hall to confirm that the domestics had withdrawn. Now he was going to get down to business.
“Ma’am,” he said to Eshiala. “Centurion.” Evidently his wife already knew what was coming. “We have been here almost four months. So far Yewdark has served us well as a sanctuary. The Covin has not discovered us, the neighbors have been discouraged.”
He meant that Maya was safe, of course. This lonely exile they had all accepted so willingly had no purpose except to protect the child upstairs.
“However, I foresee a problem.” Hardgraa nodded. “The grounds?”
Ionfeu raised his silvery eyebrows to acknowledge the hit. “Indeed! They are a jungle, as you know. Years of neglect. And spring is coming. Were we what we pretend to be, we should have done something about them already.”
With a steely glance, the centurion deferred to the impress. She did not see any difficulty. “Can we not just hire gardeners?”
“That would be the logical procedure, ma’am. But it will require a small army of them, at least at first.”
“Oh. Money?”
“Money,” the old man agreed uncomfortably. “We did as we were instructed. We hired servants and set out to live the normal life of country gentry. We live modestly and try not to attract attention. It was what his Majesty wanted. Unfortunately, this establishment is draining our resources at a very alarming rate.”
Eshiala had never had to worry about money in her life. Her parents had lived simply, within their means. Her mother had been a frugal homemaker, her father a practical merchant. They had never hankered after luxuries they could not afford. They would not have regarded Yewdark as modest, although now they might. Ever since the prince imperial had wooed and won their daughter, gold had poured into their lives like a spring flood.
The count’s embarrassment was mirrored in his wife’s face. These two would never have had to fret over money, either. An odd glint showed in the centurion’s eye, but he did not comment.
“More coffee, ma’am?” Eigaze said. “The real problem is not money as such, you understand. Everything we possess is at your service. The problem is getting money. Honey? We could write to Tiffy and he would bring us gold in a wagon.”
Now Eshiala understood. “And bring the Covin also?”
“We fear so,” the count said, squirming to ease his crooked back. “We must assume that our household is watched—all our houses, for we have several—and our relatives, also. We can think of no safe way to tap our resources, my lady, much as we are eager to do so.”