“Master Flattery, what are you doing?” Cat cried out with fright.
“What do you care? Curse him. Curse them all. May their homes burn while they dream inside.”
“This place is too useful for private meetings,” Cat argued, rushing toward the fire, her meekness now forgotten.
“Then you preserve it,” Flattery snapped. He flung his arms out from his body and snarled a chant of arcane words. His voice became hoarse and sharp, and his form small and feathered. He cawed raucously in his raven shape, then hurtled out the open window and into the gloom.
Cursing, Cat grabbed the burro’s oat bucket and used it to dredge water from the beast’s trough to throw on the fire. By the time she had doused the last flame and spark, the mage was as sodden as the straw around her.
Cat picked the portrait up from the ground, but the paint was too blackened for her to make out what there was about it that had so angered Flattery. She leaned the charred frame and canvas against the wall and turned to the next stall to calm Daisyeye. The mare accepted her caresses and reassurances and could not find the heart to refuse another handful of oats from the mage.
Stupid horse, Olive thought.
It was then that Cat noticed the missing burro.
“Birdie?” she whispered. “Little one?”
Olive froze.
“Birdie, I know you’re in here. Come out, you silly ass.”
Olive held her breath.
Cat rustled her hand in the oat bag. “Want a treat, Birdie?”
Olive felt her nose twitch from the smell of smoke.
“Have it your way,” Cat said into the darkness. “Giogioni can think you caused this mess for all I care.” After giving Daisyeye a last pat on the rear, the mage returned to the outer door, joined the lower half to the upper, slipped outside, and closed the door behind her.
Olive remained still, hidden in the shadows of the carriage house, until long after the sound of Cat’s footsteps faded from her hearing.
She crept back into her blackened stall, keeping a sharp eye out for any telltale sparks Cat might have missed. The mage seemed to have done an adequate job keeping the carriage house from destruction. Too bad she hasn’t got the same concern for Giogi, the halfling thought.
Even if she was concerned for the young Wyvernspur noble, Olive couldn’t picture Cat standing in Flattery’s way should he decide to destroy Giogi the way he murdered Jade.
It was beyond Olive’s capacity to understand how Cat could transform from a clever and confident mage, able to manipulate foolish young men into taking her home, to a humble and frightened slave, who watched in silence while someone wrecked carriages and burned down horse stalls. What kind of power did Flattery have over her that he could bully her like a whipped child and had even coerced her into marriage?
Somehow, Olive realized, she had to keep Cat from double-crossing Giogi. Olive snorted derisively at herself. I have as much chance at that, the halfling thought, as I do at convincing her to help me destroy Flattery to avenge Jade.
She would be the perfect choice, though, Olive mused. Flattery trusts her as much as his insanity will allow. It would be so fitting if he were destroyed by someone with the same face as the woman he murdered.
Olive pondered the idea while she munched on hay in the smoky carriage house.
Giogi reached out and stroked his new cousin’s tiny left hand. Her delicate fingers opened at his touch, like a moss rose in the sun.
“She’s just perfect, Freffie,” Giogi whispered. “As pretty as her mother.”
“Well, she gets some of her good looks from me, don’t you think?” Frefford asked.
Giogi looked up at his Cousin Frefford and back down at the baby girl sleeping in the maple cradle. Then he looked up again at Frefford, then back down at the baby. “Not if she’s lucky,” he said with a grin.
Frefford chuckled.
“It’s so exciting, Freffie,” Giogi said. “You’re a father now, and I’m an uncle. Wait. I’m not really, am I? Just a second cousin once removed.”
“You can be an uncle if you want, Giogi,” Frefford said. “Lady Amber Leona Wyvernspur,” Frefford whispered to the sleeping baby, “this is your rich Uncle JoJo. Learn to say his name, and he’ll buy you all the ponies you want.”
Giogi grinned.
“I’m going to check to see if Gaylyn’s awake yet,” Frefford said. “You can stay here if you like.”
Giogi nodded. “Give Gaylyn my regards,” he said.
“I will,” Frefford whispered. He tiptoed from the nursery, where his daughter lay on display for well-wishers to view while his wife slept undisturbed in the next room.
Giogi had the baby all to himself now, since the well-wishers had been few so far. Some, no doubt, had been discouraged by the awkwardness of having to deliver congratulations and condolences in the same breath. The majority, Giogi assumed, had been put off by the awful weather.
The sleet had wrapped everything in a thick coating of ice, and Immersea looked like it had been encased in glass. Unwilling to risk Daisyeye on the slick roads, Giogi had once again hiked up the path to Redstone. It had been rough going, but the fields and marshes had offered his feet far more traction than the cobblestone roads would have. This latest exertion, combined with having risen at dawn after a late night of drinking, followed by walking miles through the catacombs, had left the nobleman exhausted.
Giogi slid a rocking chair up beside the cradle and collapsed into it. “There’s nothing I’d rather do than just sit here with you, Amberry,” he whispered to the baby. “It’s so snug and peaceful here, I could almost forget all the bad things that have happened.”
Giogi closed his eyes and lay his head back. His breathing slowed and grew more shallow. Giogi felt himself beginning to soar. He was dreaming again. He opened his eyes in his dream and found the field he soared over covered in ice, like the fields surrounding Immersea. A little burro trotted into view.
Giogi gasped. Not Birdie! he thought. Unable to speak in the dream, the nobleman urged the burro mentally, Run, Birdie! Birdie needed no warning. She began to gallop downhill, but her hooves slid on the ice, and she ended up on her front knees with her back legs splayed out behind her. Giogi swooped down. Birdie brayed pitifully.
“Giogioni Wyvernspur! Just what do you think you’re doing here?” a female voice barked.
Giogi started awake. He had no idea how long he’d slept, but if Aunt Dorath caught him napping, a minute would be as bad as an hour. Aunt Dorath was of the opinion that a healthy young person did not need to sleep in the day, and Giogi could hardly offer her the excuse that he was tired because he’d been out late drinking with Samtavan Sudacar.
The young nobleman leaped to his feet. “Good afternoon, Aunt Dorath. I was just having a peek at Amber. Freffie said it was all right if I sat with her a few minutes.”
“He did, did he? He would,” Aunt Dorath said with a sniff. “Did he also give you permission to slough off your duties? Or have you forgotten that this family is in the middle of a crisis of unimaginable proportions? The curse of the wyvern’s spur has already claimed Cousin Drone and nearly took Steele as well, yet here I find you napping.”
Giogi meant to point out to his aunt that Steele had brought his injuries on himself by his horrendous behavior, and that he, Giogi, had played no small part in rescuing Steele from the jaws of death, as it were, but he was never given the opportunity. Not even magic could stop the avalanche of Aunt Dorath’s harangue.
“Yet, despite his brush with the hereafter,” she continued, “Steele went off immediately after lunch in search of a discreet high priest or mage who might help us locate the spur. Of course, you’ve made discretion rather unnecessary, haven’t you? I’ve just learned that our family’s tragedy was the talk of every tavern in Immersea last night. No wonder you can’t stay awake—you were carousing in town all night, discussing family business, both of which I specifically forbade you to do.”