“I’m in the mood for fish,” Kate said. “That Lassaferan snailfish you people have—I wonder if we could import some eggs or larvae or whatever a snailfish has.”
“No fish for me,” Brun said. “I’m thinking rabbit fillets stuffed with herbed cheese.”
They were in the hall. She could see the front door, and light spilling into the hall from the front rooms. No odd shadows. She glanced back toward the service door. Shut. Quiet. The wide carpeted hall, with its umbrella stand, where her father’s walking stick still stood . . . Brun slid it out of the stand as she passed, without missing a stride, as if she always took a man’s walking stick out to dinner.
Nobody lunged at them as they walked past the open door of the study, the front room. They paused before the door; Kate’s eyebrows went up and she shrugged. “How cold was it out?” Brun asked. “Are you going to need a wrap?”
“I might,” Kate conceded. “Your so-called spring is colder than ours, but you’d probably call it balmy.” She reached for the door of the cloakroom; Brun held the walking stick poised.
The door opened and the interior light came on, revealing nothing more sinister than a rack of hangers, mostly empty. Her father’s old smoking jacket, which she’d looked for at Appledale and not found, her mother’s moss-green cashmere scarf, a tweed jacket of her own, an assortment of raincoats, dark blue and tan and gray. Kate chose a dark blue raincoat and wrapped the green scarf around her throat. Brun took another like it.
Still nothing. She flicked off the lights in the front of the house, waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, and opened the front door. Cool damp air washed in.
Kate moved past her, staying close to the entrance; Brun left the door slightly ajar, in case they needed to bolt back inside, though she didn’t think that was a good idea anyway.
“Leave it wide open and come on,” Kate murmured, close again. Brun jumped. Then she pushed the door open, and followed Kate along the house wall to the corner. Outside, the distant streetlights gave enough glow that she could see rough shapes. A light in the study shone out and gilded the top of the hedge she had heard the gardener trimming that morning. At the back of the house, another bar of light lay dimly on the lawn. “Let’s go,” Kate said.
They struck out across the lawn; Brun had remembered to bring the lockout, so the perimeter security—if whoever had removed her staff hadn’t disabled it already—wouldn’t start the alarms and let the bad guys know where they were. Of course, if they had the right gear, none of this sneaking around would work . . . she sidled through a row of camellia bushes, then peered through the shoulder-high evergreen hedge beyond . . . nothing but the gleam of pavement reflecting distant streetlights. Not that she could see anything to either side. Brun pulled the raincoat up over her head to keep the needly foliage from catching in her hair and pushed the branches of one bush aside with the cane. Kate was right behind her.
Still nothing. There they were, on the sidewalk, with no obvious threat anywhere. Brun jammed her hands in the pocket of the coat and found an old scarf, which she tied over her head as they walked along.
“That was interesting,” Kate said. “I think I’ll report a house with an open front door when we get a little away from here.”
“Mmm. I was thinking of calling the security agency and mentioning that their employees had disappeared.”
“Two strings to your bow. Are you going to carry that cane all the way into town?”
“I think so,” Brun said, shifting it in her hand. “Since everything else I might carry is upstairs in the bedroom.”
As they came to a busier street, they joined a stream of pedestrians headed for a transit stop, and paused in the sheltered kiosk where the public comunits were. Brun called the security company, then Kevil to report where she was so he wouldn’t panic. Kate called the police. They boarded a tram, got off at the next stop, dove down a subway entrance, and—three transfers and a call for reservations later—were ushered into the ladies’ retiring room at Celeste. They grinned at each other in the mirrors, handed over the raincoats and scarves to the attendant, and strolled out to be seated in one of the bay-window alcoves overlooking the stone garden. This early the restaurant wasn’t crowded.
“You people go in for strange gardens,” Kate said. She turned her attention to the menu. “Ah . . . they do have Lassaferan snailfish. Now why is the fin twice as expensive as the whole fish?”
“You complain about everything,” Brun said. “And it’s because it’s decorative, and nobody’s been able to fake one yet. Also there’s a piquant flavor to the spine of the fin. Not worth it, though, if you ask me.”
“I’ll have the whole fish, then. Baked, or broiled?”
“Broiled is better, and ask for a garnish of roast garlic. Some people say lemongrass, but I think garlic. Or both. Drat. They don’t have rabbit—many apologies, supplier failed to deliver. If I’d known I’d have told the people at Appledale to send in some of the nuisances that ravage the kitchen garden out there.”
“So what are you going to have?”
“Mmmm . . . I don’t know; my mouth was really set on rabbit. Lamb maybe. Cattlelope is just too . . . too.”
“Start with soup,” Kate said. “So will I. We both need it.”
They were most of the way through the soup, when a stir near the entrance caught Brun’s attention. Someone was talking urgently to the maitre d’, trying to get past him.
“She’s my niece, dammit!” Uncle Harlis. Brun swallowed. Uncle Harlis was supposed to be under detention or surveillance or something—she hadn’t paid much attention, beyond being assured he wouldn’t bother her—pending investigation of his felonious actions in the various family businesses, and his attempt on Bunny’s inheritance. “I have a right to see her; I’m worried . . .” At that, Kate turned around.
“The wicked uncle returns?”
“Something like that,” Brun said. A colored light had come on at their table, discreetly signalling that someone wanted to speak with her. She pressed the response. Kate raised an eyebrow. “Might as well,” Brun said. “He’ll just make more of a scene if we don’t, and he’s not likely to try a physical assault here, in public.” Now the maitre d’ was leading Harlis over to their table.
“Brun, I’ve been so worried,” Harlis said. He looked more flustered than worried, Brun thought, but she didn’t argue the point. “After all, your mother—and I tried to call you but no one answered, and when I went by, there were police all over the house.”
“Really?” Brun said. “Why?”
“They wouldn’t say. Are you all right?”
“Fine,” Brun said. “Is that all you wanted? Or is there something else?” She couldn’t imagine he’d come to the restaurant just to find out if she was all right.
“Look . . . Brun . . . I know this may be a bad time, but . . . I want to go to Sirialis.”
“Sirialis? Why on earth—you know the court upheld Dad’s bequests.”
“Yes, I know. But there’re things of mine there—you know, my room in the east wing—and I want them.”
“I can have them sent to you,” Brun offered.
“I need to go there myself,” Harlis said. His voice was louder again; Brun could see others giving them sidelong glances. Was he drunk?
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Brun said. “There’s no one in the family in residence—”
“I’m in the family!” Harlis said. “It’s as much my home as yours—it should be—it’s not fair—” He faltered.
“Harlis, you would have had the same access you always had, if you hadn’t tried to cheat us. That wasn’t fair.”
“Neither is making the daughter of a murderer the Barraclough heir,” Harlis snarled. Brun could almost feel the tense fascination of the other diners.