"Yes, Mitch.e.l.la," it said. "I will also heat attic room five. Are you going to inventory the room now?"

"Yes." She picked up her note flexistrip.

"Attic room five contains many pieces of the Head of Household two and a half centuries ago, GrandLady T'Blackthorn. As was the style of the times, her taste ran to the florid. She was a Lady of great intensity and Flair."

The Residence's voice comforted Mitch.e.l.la. She'd miss the sentient house when she left. Right now it calmed her to know she wasn't entirely alone. Of course, Gwine Honey was in the cook's apartments, but she couldn't imagine engaging the young, nervous man in any conversation that didn't focus on food.

She'd reached the stairs to the attic, mounted them, and pa.s.sed down the narrow hall to the last storeroom. "What was the name of the GrandLady?"

"Straif, of course," the Residence answered.

"Of course." The bra.s.s handle gleamed in the dim light, pleasing Mitch.e.l.la. Everything in the hallway looked in good order. She entered the room and closed the door after her. The room was crowded with furniture under preservative-spell sheets of a pristine white. The air smelled of lavender-the type of molecular cleaning that Mitch.e.l.la favored always left that scent. She smiled in satisfaction.

"Bright light," she ordered, and the room lit up like a summer's day.

"You usually like music," the Residence said.

Mitch.e.l.la chuckled. "That would be great. Some dance music, please, to keep my mind off-"

The dance music started low, and the Residence spoke over it, "I have a copy of the map in my ResidenceLibrary memory, and by my calculations, if the boy gets all the way to the mine and T'Blackthorn finds him there, and they return, they should be back in two more days."

"Thank you," Mitch.e.l.la said and went to work.

A septhour later, she'd noted all the large pieces of furniture and marked a large mirror to be sent to the guest suite, as well as a series of colorful china vases. She could tint one wall of the sitting room a dark, brick red. With the vases on a low table and the gilded mirror on the opposite wall, the room would be dramatic and give the feel of rich elegance.

She took a little break and sat on a soft twoseat, letting her head fall back on the wing. Though the piece was delightfully cushy, the fabric was too shabby to use.

The room was warm, the twoseat comfortable, and Mitch.e.l.la was worn out from worry and work. She drew a stained, exquisitely soft llamawoolweave cover over herself and dozed. A little later she bent her legs and scooted down to snuggle into the welcoming cushions.

As she rested in the pleasant state of half-sleep, half-wakefulness, she became aware of a deep hum that later separated into a pattern of long, slow, rhythmic beats. Just listening to it caused a mixture of yearning and delight to twist inside her.

It pulled at her.

First a little tug, every twenty beats or so. She shifted, but felt too comfy to stir. She wanted to sink deeper into sleep.

But color was added to the sound, a fascinating rainbow wash, fluctuating with the rhythm. And the sound became beyond sound, something more or less, something that began to p.r.i.c.kle Mitch.e.l.la's nerves, even under the soft cover.

She shifted, but was no longer dozing, more aware than ever of the sound, the colors. Opening her eyes, she found that the colors pulsed through the room, tinting the white walls, spreading like circles from one far corner of the room. She watched, enchanted, admiring the slight variations of colors-not only the primary colors of a prism, but shade upon shade of green slightly changing into shade upon shade of yellow until it reached the bright white of Bel's sunlight. Then it darkened to black, pulsed into indigo.

The beat was louder, like a drum reverberating inside her, compelling her. She almost thought she could hear syllables, but couldn't understand the words.

Drawn by the colors and the pulse, she wove her way through the crammed s.p.a.ce to the corner of the room and the object that hummed.

The chest in the corner was was intricately carved reddwood and about two-thirds of a meter long by half a meter wide, with a rounded top. As soon as she touched it, her pulse picked up pace and antic.i.p.ation thrilled through her. She felt as if she was going to discover her heart's desire, and she laughed at the absurdity.

She sat down and raised the lid. The strong scent of sage set her mind spinning, and a few even more exotic fragrances issued from the chest-musky amber, jasmine, wild nicotine. The headiness of the odors filled her nostrils, sifted inside her to curl like smoke, caressing her lungs, making her feel as if this was the scent. The most perfect smell she'd ever know.

The contents were hidden by a dark blue, coa.r.s.ely woven blanket. Atop the blanket, affixed by a small sticky-spell, was a piece of rich papyrus with elegant writing. "Chest of Straif Blackthorn, T'Blackthorn, left with the Hollys after his third Pa.s.sage, deliver to T'Blackthorn Residence. Pa.s.siflora D'Holly."

Mitch.e.l.la stilled. She should not lift the blanket. She should leave the chest in peace. She should not- A wave of fierce desire inundated her, rolling over her like a riptide.

She couldn't stop her hands from untucking the blanket, even as her dull mind thought that it was good Straif had sought out his relatives to experience his third Pa.s.sage. Pa.s.sages that freed the Flair were nothing to take lightly. Psychic storms could kill a person.

Mitch.e.l.la lifted the blanket, fingers running over it to stroke the rough texture, as rough as Straif's manners could be. She smoothed its folds and set it aside to see old travel garments. Her throat closed as she noted the nasty rips and tears in the almost indestructible celtaroon. Straif didn't have that many scars on himself, so he'd been lucky, the garments had saved his hide.

Mitch.e.l.la lifted out the shirt and held it to her nose, inhaling the scent of untamed Celta and a younger Straif, then set the shirt aside, the trous, several pair of tattered gloves. Beneath the clothes was an old knapsack, and when Mitch.e.l.la touched it, pure emotion flooded her-raw grief at the loss of his Family, the need to leave Druida, the obsession to make sure he'd never be left alone again-to find a cure for his flawed heritage. Later came wonder at the beauty to be found outside the city, excitement as he overcame his own death time and again.

She jerked her fingers away. She didn't want to think of Straif fighting for his life against nature, or wild animals, or other men. Especially when he was outside Druida. Since the pack was Straif's first, the one he'd carried at seventeen, it underscored the danger her own Antenn was in. She shivered, but could not turn away. The power of the thing would not free her.

Trembling, she took out the pack and put it aside. D'Holly had saved it for him, but Mitch.e.l.la didn't think he'd care to see it again, or the garments. But it wasn't her decision to make.

More clothes, cotton and silkeen, a hat, scarf, cloak were placed on the stack beside her. Faster now, her fingers scrabbled in the chest, stirring the contents, until her hand closed over something in the corner, something hard that her fingers curled partially around, wrapped in silkeen.

l.u.s.t flooded her. She fell back, cushioned against the side of an old sofa, and the images came, the remembrance of her last, fast loving with Straif, how his hands had felt on her body, how his s.e.x had filled her. The hard pumping of him, the sweat on his back, the scent of s.e.x, the striving and ultimate release. She gasped as her climax ripped through her. Her fingers loosened and the silkeen stuck to her sweaty palm, but the object unrolled from the cloth to land on the stack of Straif's clothes and sat in the middle of them, glowing like a jewel.

It was a small heart-shaped box intricately carved of dark reddwood. Though she'd never seen a whittling knife in his hand, she knew Straif had carved it. Trying to be objective, she still thought it was one of the most delicate and beautiful things she'd ever seen. The detail was clear-flower blossoms. Tiny vines of An'Alcha, pa.s.sion flowers, twined around the outside of the box. Carved in three dimensions on the front were interlocking hearts, symbol of the HeartBond.

Heart-shaped boxes had been popular for centuries, though styles changed. Almost everyone wanted to believe they'd have a HeartMate. Mitch.e.l.la had seen innumerable heart boxes. She'd even purchased one a few months before she'd caught Macha's disease and become sterile. It was packed away with some of her old things in her parents' house, part of her past, just as this one had been hidden away in a chest.

But hers had been an inexpensive red sateen and pink lace, attractive to a young girl.

This one was far too attractive to the woman. Dangerously attractive. Mitch.e.l.la wondered what visions Straif had seen during his psi Pa.s.sage that caused him to carve such a delicate piece. She turned it over. Down on the very point of the back was a four leaf clover. She swallowed hard.

She knew what it was.

A HeartGift.

The way it called to her meant only one thing. She was Straif's HeartMate.

And she was sterile.

She didn't want Straif to come to her because of some biological imperative. It was still all very impossible. HeartMate or not, he simply wouldn't marry a sterile woman.

If he ever triumphed in his quest and had the perfect life he wanted, and came looking for his HeartMate, then he would know. But she wasn't going to tell him. It nearly broke her to know that she had a HeartMate but could not bond with him. She could not inflict that pain on him.

She stared at the beautiful, innocuous box. Her own heart thumped hard. She couldn't ignore it, all the laws and mysteries of Celtan culture that focused on it. If she claimed it, it automatically made her Straif's woman. Forever.

If he claimed her.

So far he'd shown no interest in the HeartGift; perhaps he'd forgotten it, perhaps he thought it was still at T'Holly Residence.

Her fingers closed fiercely around it, letting pa.s.sion swamp her. For a moment she teetered between laughing and crying, then a wild sob tore from her. She clenched the little box to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, close to her heart. This HeartGift was hers.

Only he who had made it and his HeartMate-her-could sense it, feel the waves of emotion and sensuality from the gift. She'd take it.

It meant nothing to Straif, since he was fixated on his personal quest, but the HeartGift meant everything to her.

She rocked back and forth. She had a HeartMate, and he was wonderful, and exciting and hers.

For the moment.

Hers. By all Celtan law, this object was hers. He'd made it for her, then discarded it.

He wouldn't want her any more than he wanted the box-not someone who was sterile.

She wanted it.

Her fingers traced the lovely texture of the carving. What if she showed it to him-proving her status? She shuddered at the revulsion she might see in his eyes. He wasn't interested in finding his HeartMate, all his focus was on his quest.

He wouldn't want her, and if she insisted on binding him to her by law and honor, he'd come to hate her-and she him.

She'd keep it.

When she and Antenn moved into their own place, she'd take it with her.

The thought of Antenn steadied her, as always, and she blessed the boy. He wouldn't be with her forever, either, he'd follow his own path. But he'd be family forever. The child of her heart, her son.

And if Straif ever discovered the HeartGift missing, thought that she might know where it went-she'd deal with that later. Surely their affair would be well over by then and she'd have gotten some perspective on it.

Sniffling, she took a rag from the chest, wiped her eyes and nose. There were mages who made strong spell boxes. She'd need to find one to put the HeartGift in. She couldn't afford to look at it, stroke it, pretend she made love to Straif by yielding to its s.e.xual power. The thought revolted her. Her lip curled. No, she wouldn't allow an obsession into her life. It had been too well balanced, would be too balanced, to let something that potent skew it. She would not focus on a love she could never have. That way lay madness.

Yes, she'd keep it, but as a lovely treasure, out of sight and in the back of her mind. Blowing her nose one last time, she efficiently straightened the items in the chest, then repacked the ones she'd taken out of the box.

She decided to work and stay awake, then she'd eat breakfast and ask Danith D'Ash to come by. Danith would help her with the HeartGift, shield the little box so it wouldn't affect Mitch.e.l.la. Just as she'd helped Danith with T'Ash's. Her lips curved. Odd how events circled around.

Twenty-six.

On the third morning of the trip, they located the mine. Antenn's track had been clear and easy to follow, the weather had been fine and the previous days uneventful.

It had been the nights that had troubled Straif. He'd ached for Mitch.e.l.la, and dreamed. Last night was the worst-he awoke from a dream where he'd watched her open a door. Her face showed despair, shock, incredulity, resolution, and again despair. He'd called out to her, but she hadn't heard him.

He prayed he wouldn't return to find she'd decided their affair should end. He yearned to feel her close and soft and warm, didn't know how he'd slept alone so long. His whittling and good conversation with Winterberry kept him sane.

As soon as they saw the mine, Straif stopped. Winterberry continued on, and Vertic the fox disappeared quickly, exploring.

Straif's heart thumped hard as he stared at the black hole in the small hillock. The mine. He shouldn't be so affected-after all, some of the depictions of the traditional Blackthorn symbol-the Dark G.o.ddess-showed the same thing, a black hole in a hill, a dark square between standing stones or pillars.

Had that been why his ancestors had thought that they could tear the living lambenthysts from the mine without harmful consequences? Or had they just been too insensitive to know the lambenthysts were living? Lord and Lady knew, but if T'Ash said the stones lived, then he'd be right. But Straif wasn't certain that anyone except T'Ash would have known.

He dismounted and tied his stridebeast where it could feed on fresh spring gra.s.s, then approached the mine. If he went down into it, would he sense the living stones?

If he apologized, conducted a Ritual Healing for the stones, would his flaw be Healed, too? Why hadn't he considered these questions before the trip, when he could ask T'Ash?

But he shuffled the thoughts away as he circled the hill to find Antenn's horse grazing in a gra.s.sy meadow.

"He's here," Straif called to Winterberry. "Antenn's definitely here. Probably in the mine."

A stunning blow of Flair hit the back of Straif's head. He crumpled.

When he awoke, he was sitting against a boulder at the top of a sloping incline with his wrists and waist attached to a big rock by Flaired restraints, surrounded by a spherical forcefield.

Winterberry sat on a sunny rock watching him.

Straif found his tongue and said, "Do you always attack men from behind?"

"Always when they're FirstFamily Lords with great Flair." Winterberry showed no remorse. He stood and dusted off his trous, spending Flair on a Word to keep his clothes clean.

Straif snorted. "Always elegant, as usual."

Winterberry tipped his head. "Thank you." He looked at the black opening of the mine and sighed. "I suppose I'll have to go after the boy."

"You could let me loose, and I'd do that for you."

"I promised T'Ash that I wouldn't let you go into the mine, if the boy got that far."

Straif snorted again.

Winterberry lifted his eyebrows. "So, tell me that you would cross T'Ash."

They held stares for a moment. Straif shrugged and looked away. "Man's a blacksmith."

"And a GreatLord with great Flair and a Downwind background. Any one of those is a quality to be wary of."

"I'd cross T'Ash if I had to," Straif muttered.

"So would I, but neither of us would go against him lightly. This situation is not so desperate as to thwart T'Ash."

"If the boy isn't in trouble-" Straif said.

"He isn't. I've heard him in the mine, taking samples, I think."

Winterberry rose and walked to his stridebeast, stroked the long-legged animal, then rummaged in his saddlebag and pulled out his own sampling kit.

"Aren't you going to release me?" called Straif.

"Surely, as soon as you give me your word of honor that you won't go into the mine."

Straif was silent.

"I thought so." Winterberry waved and returned to his task. Without another word, he entered the mine.

The acoustics of the mineshafts brought the sound of voices, Antenn truculent, Winterberry mild, as usual. Once again Straif strained against his bonds and failed to free himself. Then he set his teeth and waited impatiently for the two to return. Half a septhour later he heard them approach.