“Yeah.” Lucivar rubbed the back of his neck. “The exercise didn’t run that long, but Father said it was useful. I think it was more useful for him than the coven and boyos, although the girls did have fun with Lady Dumm.”
“Something to look forward to.”
When it came to meals, the Hall kept “country hours,” a practical measure that allowed everyone to tuck in early. Not that all the youngsters valued sleep at that age. Still, it gave Daemon quiet evenings and time to fulfill adult social obligations.
Tonight his evening wasn’t quiet or an obligation. Social? Maybe.
Daemon knocked on the door of Tersa’s cottage and waited for someone to answer. He sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be Keely, the Sceltie Black Widow who was learning the Hourglass’s Craft from his mother. Keely had been known to slam the door in his face if on his previous visit he’d done something that she thought had upset Tersa. Most of the time he had no idea what he’d done, and the Sceltie didn’t feel the need to explain—even to the High Lord of Hell.
Mikal opened the door. “Good evening, sir. You’re just in time for coffee.”
“Late dinner?”
“A little. Lady Jhett and Lady Grizande stopped by this afternoon. They delivered a basket of treats to the Sisters of the Hourglass who are living in Surreal’s house, and dropped off a smaller basket for Tersa and me. Plus treats for all the Scelties living in both places.”
Daemon followed Mikal into the kitchen. “Jhett and Grizande?”
“It’s an interesting friendship. And as far as I’ve heard, Jhett is the only young Black Widow living at the Hall who has gone to visit the recovering Sisters, and Grizande displays a practical sympathy and patience when the world . . . becomes veiled.”
Something he would keep in mind.
Tersa set the mugs on the table with a clatter. “It’s my boy.” She started to smile, but the smile faded as she moved toward him and placed a hand on his chest. “Twinges. Troubles.”
“Troubles,” he agreed, refusing to acknowledge the other part of what she said, since the twinges were over in a moment and likely didn’t mean anything. Not yet, anyway.
“Sit,” Tersa ordered. “We have treats.”
“Would you like me . . . ?” Mikal began.
“Please stay,” Daemon replied. “I’d like your wisdom as well as Tersa’s.”
“I have wisdom?”
“In this case, yes.”
As they drank coffee, Daemon told Tersa and Mikal about the proposed scenarios to be used as active lessons. He admitted he wasn’t sure the exercises had sufficient value.
Then Mikal let out a hoot. “Are you bringing back Lady Dumm? I don’t remember much because I was considered too young to participate, but I remember the times when she rode through the village in one of the Hall’s open carriages. And the time she attended a play that Beron had a part in and critiqued his performance while he was onstage. Beron had been warned that she was going to do that so he wouldn’t be upset, but no one had told Mother. If Uncle Saetan hadn’t held on to her, she would have climbed over the seats and killed Dumm flatter than dead.”
“Perhaps I can persuade Beron to give me a day or two as a guest,” Daemon said.
“If you tell him he can bring a few friends, they can put on a small production for you.”
“Interesting thought.” At the Hall there was a room with a stage. He’d have to check with Beale and make sure it was still intact. He turned to his mother. “Tersa? What do you think?”
“Skin stripped away, revealing the truth beneath.” Her gold eyes held the clarity of madness. “Shuffle the cards; roll the dice. See who stands and who falls.”
“Will the children be in danger?” he asked softly.
“Sometimes pain is a necessary teacher.”
Not a comforting answer.
He changed the subject and they talked about books and about the village.
Late that night, while Breen slept, Daemon spun a tangled web of dreams and visions.
See who stands and who falls. The web didn’t give him an answer to that, but the web revealed the whisper that Tersa had left unsaid: While you can.
FORTY-ONE
Daemon stared at the object surrounded by people who worked for him—people he had mistakenly thought were sensible. And they had been sensible until one Green-Jeweled witch from Scelt had taken up residence at the Hall.
“What is it?” he asked. Better to know the nature of an enemy than to ignore a threat inside your own walls.
Brenda gave him a terrifyingly bright smile, but it was Helene who said with undisguised glee, “This is the new Lady Dumm.”
Hell’s fire.
“We used a dressmaker’s dummy for the torso,” Brenda said. “Then we padded it.”
“I can see that,” he murmured as he eyed the bust and waist and everything else.
“The girls from Scelt, as well as some of Helene’s staff, are fair hands with a needle and thread, so they made up proper arms and legs,” Brenda continued. “And look.” She pressed on Lady Dumm’s shoulder, which somehow bent the thing’s hips. “Tarl and his lads came up with the idea to make bones out of lengths of wood and attach them in a way that allows her joints to bend.”
Daemon stared at Tarl, who held his eyes for a moment before deciding to study the carpet.
Carpets at the Hall received a great deal of study.
Lady Dumm now sat in a chair, dressed for afternoon visits. Maybe. “No face or hair?” he asked. The hat wouldn’t have left much hair visible in any case, but wearing anything that had that many plumes was asking for trouble with a tiger in residence.
“We thought the Scelties might get confused if they saw something with an actual face,” Brenda said. “This way they can see it’s just a pretend human that we’re using for the young humans’ lessons. But we did add this.”
He wasn’t sure what Brenda touched, but he felt a spell engage before Dumm sneezed, then said in a stentorian voice, “I need a hanky!”
Daemon clenched his teeth.
Helene and Brenda looked at him expectantly.
He called in a handkerchief and held it out—to Brenda. The sun would shine in Hell before he willingly approached Dumm.
“When will our guest—who is an aristo from a prominent family but not a Queen—arrive?” He’d draw that line and hold it. This version of Dumm would be trouble enough without belonging to the caste that was the Blood’s moral center.
“In a couple of days,” Brenda said. “We’re still working on some of her wardrobe. But we’re thinking that you should start the exercises ahead of that, give the children a couple of days to get used to how this all works before we add Dumm to the mix.”
“Very well. I’ll explain this new set of exercises to the children, and we’ll start tomorrow.”
Daemon walked out of the guest room. He ignored everyone’s effort to catch his attention. He simply kept going until he reached his study. Once inside, he secured all the locks on the door. Then he contacted Lucivar on an Ebon-gray psychic thread.
*Prick?*
*Bastard? Something wrong?*
*I’ve just met Lady Dumm. The next time I see you I am going to kill you flatter than dead.*
*I thought the dummy was destroyed.*
*People who work for me created a new one. This one talks.* Apparently, so did the previous version, but that was beside the point.
Silence filled the link between them.
*Prick?*
*I’ll check with Marian and find out if she’s made any commitments for us. If we’re available, we’ll come to the Hall for an overnight visit. Soon.*