"Why?"
Sylvia, lost in her own thoughts, stared at him, puzzled.
"Why is she the catalyst?" Saetan repeated.
"Oh." The vertical line between Sylvia's eyebrows reappeared as she concentrated. "She's . . . different."
Don't lash out at her,Saetan reminded himself.Just listen.
"Beron, my older son, has some classes with her, and we've talked. Not that your household is fodder for gossip, but she puzzles him so he asks me things."
"Why does she puzzle him?"
She nibbled on a sandwich, considering. "Beron says she's very shy, but if you can get her to talk, she says the most amazing things."
"I can believe that," Saetan said dryly.
"Sometimes when she's talking to someone or giving an answer in class, she'll stop in mid-sentence and cock her head, as if she's listening intensely to something no one else can hear. Sometimes when that happens, she'll pick up the sentence where she left off. Sometimes she'll withdraw into herself and won't speak for the rest of the day."
What voices did Jaenelle hear? Who—or what—called to her?
"Sometimes during a rest break, she'll walk away from the other children and not return until the next morning," Sylvia said.
She didn't return to the Hall, or he would have known about this before now. And she wasn't riding the Winds. He would have felt her absence if she had travelled beyond easy awareness. Mother Night, where did she go? Back into the abyss?
The possibility terrified him.
Sylvia took a deep breath. Took another. "Yesterday, the older students went on a trip to Marasten Gardens. Do you know it?"
"It's a large estate near the border of Dhemlan and Little Terreille. It has some of the finest gardens in Dhemlan."
"Yes." Sylvia had trouble swallowing the last bite of her sandwich. She carefully wiped her fingers on the linen napkin. "According to Beron, Jaenelle got separated from the others, although no one noticed until it was time to leave. He went back to look for her and ... he found her kneeling beside a tree, weeping. She'd been digging, and her hands were scratched and bleeding." Sylvia stared at the teapot, breathing quickly. "Beron helped her up and reminded her that they weren't supposed to dig up the plants. And she said, 'I was planting it.' When he asked her why, she said, 'For remembrance.' "
The cold made Saetan's muscles ache, made his blood
sluggish. This wasn't the searing, cleansing cold of rage. This was fear. "Did Beron recognize the plant?"
"Yes. I had shown it to him only last year and explained what it was. None of it, thank the Darkness, grows in Halaway." Sylvia looked at him, deeply troubled. "High Lord, she was planting witch blood."
Why hadn't Jaenelle told him? "If the witch blood blooms ..."
Sylvia looked horrified. "It won't unless. ... It mustn't!"
Saetan spaced his words carefully, feeling too fragile to have even words collide. "I'll have that area investigated. Discreetly. And I'll take care of the problem in Halaway."
"Thank you." Sylvia fussed with the folds of her dress.
Saetan waited, forcing himself to be patient. He wanted to be alone, wanted time to think. But Sylvia obviously had something else on her mind. "What?"
"It's trivial in comparison."
"But?"
In one swift glance, Sylvia examined him from head to toe. "You have very good taste in clothes, High Lord."
Saetan rubbed his forehead, trying to find a connection. "Thank you." Hell's fire! How did women make these mental jumps so easily?Why did they make them?
"But you're probably not aware of what is considered fashionable for a young woman these days." It wasn't quite a question.
"If that's your way of telling me that Jaenelle looks like she got her wardrobe from an attic, then you're right. I think the Seneschal of the Keep opened every old trunk that was left there and let my wayward child pick and choose." It was a small subject, a safe subject. He became happily grumpy. "I wouldn't mind so much if any of them fit—that's not true, Iwould mind. She should have new clothes."
"Then why don't you take her shopping in Amdarh, or one of the nearby towns, or even Halaway?"
"Do you think I haven't tried?" he growled.
Sylvia made no comment for several moments. "I have two sons. They're very good boys—for boys—but they're not much fun to go shopping with." She gave him a twin-
cling little smile. "Perhaps if it was just two women having lunch and then looking around ..."
Saetan called in a leather wallet and handed it to Sylvia. "Is that enough?"
Sylvia opened the wallet, riffled through the gold marks, and laughed. "I think we can get a decent wardrobe or three out of this."
He liked her laugh, liked the finely etched lines around her eyes. "You'll spend some of that on yourself, of course."
Sylvia gave him her best Queen stare. "I didn't suggest this with the expectation of being paid for helping a young Sister."
"I didn't offer it as payment, but if you feel uncomfortable about using some of it to please yourself, then do it to please me." He watched her expression change from anger to uneasiness, and he wondered who the fool had been who had made her unhappy. "Besides," he added gently, "you should set a proper example."
Sylvia vanished the wallet and stood up. "I will, naturally, provide you with receipts for all of the purchases."
"Naturally."
Saetan escorted her to the great hall. Taking her cape from Beale, he settled it carefully over her shoulders.
As they slowly walked to the door, Sylvia studied the carved wooden moldings that ran along the top of each wall. "I've only been here half a dozen times, if that. I never noticed the carvings before.
"Whoever carved these was very talented," she said. "Did he also make the sketches for all these creatures?"
"No." He heard the defensiveness in his voice and winced.
"You made the sketches." She studied the carvings with more interest, then muffled a laugh. "I think the wood-carver played a little with one of your sketches, High Lord. That little beastie has his eyes crossed and is sticking his tongue out—and he's placed just about where someone would stop after walking in. Apparently the beastie doesn't think much of your guests." She paused and studied him with as much interest as she'd just given the carving. "The woodcarver didn't play with your sketch, did he?"
Saetan felt his face heat. He bit back a growl. "No."
"I see," Sylvia said after a long moment. "It's been an interesting evening, High Lord."
Not sure how to interpret that remark, he escorted her into her carriage with a bit more haste than was proper.
When he could no longer hear the carriage wheels, he turned toward the open front door, wishing he could postpone the next conversation. But Jaenelle was more attuned to him during the dark hours, more revealing when hidden in shadows, more—
The sound snapped his thoughts. Holding his breath, Saetan looked toward the north woods that bordered the Hall's lawns and formal gardens. He waited, but the sound didn't come again.
"Did you hear it?" he asked Beale when he reached the door.
"Hear what, High Lord?"
Saetan shook his head. "Nothing. Probably a village dog strayed too far from home."
She was still awake, walking in the garden below her rooms.
Saetan drifted toward the waterfall and small pool in the center of the garden, letting her feel his presence without intruding on her silence. It was a good place to talk because the lights from her rooms on the second floor didn't quite reach the pool.
He settled comfortably on the edge of the pool and let the peace of a soft, early summer night and the murmur of water soothe him. While he waited for her, he idly stirred the water with his fingers and smiled.
He'd told her to landscape this inner garden for her own pleasure. The formal fountain had been the first thing to go. As he studied the water lilies, water celery, and dwarf cattails she'd planted in the pool and the ferns she'd planted around it, he wondered again if she had just wanted something that looked more natural or if she had been trying to re-create a place she had known.
"Do you think it's inappropriate?" Jaenelle asked, her voice drifting out of the shadows.
Saetan dipped his hand into the pool and raised the cupped palm, watching the water trickle through his fingers. "No, I was wishing I'd thought of it myself." He flicked drops of water from his fingers and finally looked at her.
The dark-colored dress she was wearing faded into the surrounding shadows, giving him the impression that her face, one bare shoulder, and the golden hair were rising up out of the night itself.
He looked away, focusing on a water lily but intensely aware of her.
"I like the sound of water singing over stone," Jaenelle said, coming a little closer. "It's restful."
But not restful enough. How many things haunt you, witch-child?
Saetan listened to the water. He pitched his voice to blend with it. "Have you planted witch blood before?"
She was silent so long he didn't think she would answer, but when she did, her voice had that midnight, sepulchral quality that always produced a shiver up his spine. "I've planted it before."
Sensing her brittleness, he knew he was getting too close to a soul-wound—and secrets. "Will it bloom in Marasten Gardens?" he asked quietly, once more moving his fingers slowly through the water.
Another long silence. "It will bloom."
Which meant a witch who had died violently was buried there.
Tread softly, he cautioned himself. This was dangerous ground. He looked at her, needing to see what those ancient, haunted eyes would tell him. "Will we have to plant it in Halaway?"
