Chapter 35
Viv rode on the back of the coach as it rumbled over the dirt road heading north along low sea-cliffs.
She felt like Tamora from Heart’s Blade, with one hand gripping a bar along the roof and one foot on the backboard.
Satchel’s bag hung over one shoulder, slapping at her hip.
Neither she nor Fern had been comfortable leaving him alone, not after the symbol on the bluff.
Besides, he seemed delighted at the mere prospect of hearing Greatstrider’s voice.
Her arm stretched and flexed, absorbing every shock of the road, and she found herself grinning at the wind in her curls. She breathed deep the fresh salt air.
Fern poked her head out the coach door. “Are you sure you don’t want to ride in here? Or on the buckboard?” Potroast’s head followed hers out, squawking in agreement.
“I’m fine,” she hollered back. “Too small in there, and horses hate me anyway.”
The rattkin shot a glance between Viv’s hand on the hilt of her sword and the grin on her face. “Heart’s Blade, huh?” she called.
“What? Um. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Fern laughed and disappeared back inside. The coachman spared a look over his shoulder at Viv but didn’t slow the horses.
In the distance, on the back of a series of ascending hills, Zelia Greatstrider’s estate came into view within a girdle of trees that definitely weren’t native to the area. As they drew nearer, Viv spied manicured hedges and a fountain ringed by a groomed drive.
“Fancy,” she said to herself, and started to have a few misgivings about the worthiness of the gift she’d brought.
When the coach came to a stop, Viv hopped down and skirted widely around the blinkered horses. The coachman opened the door and folded out a step for Fern and the gryphet to climb down, then reached inside and withdrew a basket covered with muslin and passed it to Viv.
“Just wait here for a bit, all right?” she said, pressing a handful of extra coins into his rough palm.
Fern and Viv both stared along the length of the edifice before them with frank amazement.
It was two stories tall, fronted with dozens of arched windows and a set of marble stairs that spread out wider than Maylee’s bakery.
The roof was armored in blue tiles, the eaves braced with extravagant scrollwork, the doors massive and tangled with a profusion of delicate iron leaves.
Water from the fountain behind them pattered into a glassy pond.
Viv whistled. “Pays to write, I guess?”
Fern chuckled. “I don’t think any writer sells this many books. There’s a quote in one of Tensiger’s books about elves. ‘If you live a thousand years and haven’t made yourself wealthy, you’re either a fool or a monk.’ I don’t think Zelia is a monk.”
“She’s a thousand years old?”
Fern shrugged. “No clue. Maybe it’s inherited? Anyway, I’m not going to ask.” She narrowed her eyes at Viv. “We aren’t going to ask. Right?”
“Couldn’t imagine it,” said Viv, who had, in fact, imagined it.
Potroast was already up the stairs, squatting next to the door, while his stubby tail switched back and forth across the marble.
“Somebody’s eager,” said Viv, mounting the steps. Without hesitation, she banged one of the enormous iron knockers set on a plate on the doorframe.
They didn’t have to wait long for the door to open, but when it did, it wasn’t Zelia Greatstrider.
He wasn’t as tall as Viv, but he was big and powerfully built.
Gone to gray, but not gone to seed, with a neat silver goatee and a handsome jaw.
He wore a simple shirt and plain, functional trousers, and didn’t look much like Viv’s idea of a butler or footman.
From the size of his shoulders, the way he held his hand at his hip, and the loose curl of his fingers, she would’ve bet anything he’d spent more time with a blade belted there than not.
“Can I help you?” he asked, tone mild. From the way his eyes flicked over her and lingered on the saber, Viv wasn’t the only one sizing somebody up.
She nodded at him with the most guileless smile she could muster. “Hi. I’m Viv, and this is Fern. She owns Thistleburr down by the sea. The bookseller. We were hoping Miss Great-strider was in?”
His mouth quirked, and he eyed the basket. “Bread and a blade? You know, we don’t see a lot of armed visitors around these parts.”
“I’ll hand it over, if that helps.” Viv tapped the pommel of the saber. “Just wary of trouble on the road, and no offense intended.”
“Trouble in Murk?” Without waiting for an answer or asking for her weapon, he squatted in front of the gryphet and ruffled the feathers between its ears, not coincidentally baring his neck to her. “Surprising. Iridia must be furious. And who’s this little soldier?”
Viv decided she liked him.
“I’m afraid his name is Potroast,” said Fern with an apologetic shrug. “And of course I’m a great admirer of Miss Greatstrider’s work.”
The man laughed and straightened, while the gryphet sniffed around his boots and cooed in clear adoration. “I’ll let her know you called her ‘miss.’ It might soften her up a bit. Are you a reader too?” he asked Viv.
She colored some. “I’ve read one or two.”
He marked her blush and winked at her before gesturing at the basket. “Smells mighty fine. I’ll have to see if she’s up for visitors. I’m Berk. I take care of this and that for Lady Zee. Wait here for a moment, would you?”
Leaving the massive door ajar, he strode back into the depths of the mansion without another word.
He might as well have told Viv to her face that he’d dismissed her as a threat.
It was a strange feeling, and she would’ve felt insulted if she didn’t suspect that he was even more capable than he looked.
When she was sure Berk was out of earshot, Viv looked at Fern and said, “Lady Zee, huh? So, do you think he … and she … ?” She made a suggestive motion with her hands which could’ve meant several inappropriate things. “I mean, given what she writes, I have to wonder if—”
“Wonder what?” asked Fern archly.
“You know.”
“Don’t ask that, either.”
Viv feigned offense. “For somebody who was terrified to do this, you’re real brave about handing out rules.”
Fern opened her mouth to respond, and then Berk was back, one hand on the door, crinkles at the edges of his eyes.
“You’re in luck. She’s not writing, so she’s in a good mood.
Follow me.” Then he tucked the gryphet under his arm as though he’d done it a thousand times before and motioned them inside.
The foyer was massive, featuring an elaborate wooden floor with detailed circular inlays.
A grand stair ascended to the second story, and the paneled walls were fairly crammed with paintings in a bewildering array of sizes, all puzzled together with barely any wood between them.
Potted trees flanked the staircase—thin, silvery things with graceful, twining branches.
A long corridor extended to the left but had a clear feeling of disuse. Not dusty, but sparely decorated, with closed doors along its length.
Berk led them to the right, into a warmer, shorter, carpeted hall, illuminated by hissing flick-lanterns.
Another turn through a narrow passage led into an enormous kitchen, clean and light, with a huge marble counter in the center and a pair of stoves substantial enough to feed a garrison.
Fresh herbs hung in fragrant bunches along one wall, and a few saucepans and platters were clustered on one small corner of the counter, part of some interrupted preparation.
From the look of the cookware, Viv got the distinct impression that only a fraction of the estate was used. She wondered how many people actually lived in the Greatstrider household, because the number in her imagination was steadily dwindling.
Another few turns took them to a long office with a solarium at the other end.
The walls featured built-in bookshelves from floor to ceiling, absolutely stuffed with books.
The ottomans, chairs, and side tables held tottering towers of them as well, and since that hadn’t been sufficient storage, they were piled higgledy-piggledy on the floor, too.
It put Thistleburr’s stock of books to shame and made Highlark’s home library seem miniscule by comparison.
Flick-lanterns on the columns between the shelves provided a steady golden glow.
At the far end, a small table squatted in the solarium’s light, topped with a metal machine Viv didn’t recognize.
It was scaled with bronze keys like some misshapen mechanical reptile.
A limp tongue of paper unspooled from the top, and piles of regularly sized parchment waited on either side of it.
A very old-looking chair crammed with squashy pillows lurked behind the table.
On a long divan behind it, with an open book propped on her bosom, reclined Zelia Greatstrider.
She looked up at their approach, snapped the book closed, and rose to her feet.
Like most elves Viv had encountered, she was possessed of a regal beauty.
Unlike them, however, she was nearly as tall as Viv herself, and willowy was not a word you would use to describe her.
Her hair fell silver around her shoulders in unbound waves, and her skin glowed a dusky bronze.
She wore comfortable-looking riding trousers and a flowing, open-throated shirt.
Her feet were bare, and she occupied all the space she deserved.
“Here they are,” said Berk. “Viv and Fern.” He seemed to remember his burden. “Ah, and Potroast.” He deposited the gryphet on the carpet, whereupon the creature immediately lay across his boots and huffed a huge sigh.
There was a beat of silence during which Zelia Greatstrider regarded them both, tapping her book against her leg.
Viv had considered several opening gambits on the ride up, but they all flew out of her head at once, and all she could manage was, “Uh, this is a lot … of books. Have you … read them all?”
Fern might have whimpered beside her.
“Never trust a writer who doesn’t have too many books to read. Or a reader, for that matter,” said Zelia. She approached the desk, shuffling through papers and knickknacks until she produced a quill and inkwell. With some resignation, she said, “So, I assume you’ve got something you’d like signed?”
Fern nudged Viv in the leg, and she started, remembering the basket hanging over her arm.
“Oh! Oh, no. Uh, I—we—had a sort of proposal. Actually, I guess it’s a favor?
Well, also it would probably be good for—” She realized she was rambling and thrust the basket out instead.
“You know what, let me start over. We brought a gift.”
Zelia shrugged at Berk, who gently disengaged his feet from Potroast and cleared a space on a side table. Viv set the basket down and flipped back the muslin. “My, uh, good friend Maylee owns the bakery on the beach. She packed up a few things for you.”
“Sea-Song?” The first note of real interest entered Zelia’s voice.
“Oh, you know it?” Viv asked.
The elf peered with interest into the basket, which was stuffed with scones, lassy buns, and long, gleaming sticky cakes wrapped in paper that smelled strongly of lemon.
Berk laughed, a deep, easy sound. He clapped Viv on the shoulder. “If I’d known that basket was from Sea-Song, I would’ve sent you straight in.”
Plucking a lassy bun from the assortment, Zelia withdrew to her throne of squashy pillows and gestured to two book-stacked chairs opposite her desk. She broke off a large piece, popped it into her mouth, and chewed with obvious pleasure.
As Viv and Fern cleared their seats, the elf swallowed and said, “All right, you’ve earned a few minutes. You’re the owner, aren’t you?” she inquired, tilting the bun toward Fern. “Your father opened that shop, if I recall. An ‘R’ name, I believe … Rowan?”
“Uh, yes, ma’am.”
Zelia flashed Berk an amused expression. “I thought you told me they called me ‘miss’?”
Berk looked up from where he was rubbing the gryphet’s belly and offered a vague shrug.
“And you …” Zelia narrowed her eyes thoughtfully at Viv. “You, I don’t believe I know. I haven’t puzzled out what you’re doing in her company yet. Those aren’t bookselling arms.”
“Oh, I’m just around for a few weeks. A friend of Fern’s, I guess. Helping out here and there. Which is what I wanted to talk to—”
“Actually,” said Zelia, a sly smile spreading across her lips, “I do know you. You’re that orc who was dragged into town a few weeks back. Highlark is lucky he made it out alive.”
“Um, yeah,” said Viv, face flushing hot and honestly feeling a little persecuted. “Yeah, that was me, but I felt real bad about it. I wasn’t in my right mind at the time, because of the fever, and—”
Fern put her face in her paws.
Zelia burst into full-throated laughter and slapped the arm of her chair. Wiping away a tear, she rolled a hand at them. “All right, I’m more intrigued by the moment. If nothing else, I’ll work this all into a book. Do go on. Your proposal?”
Viv decided she’d better bull ahead as fast as possible if she was going to get anywhere. “We’ve done a lot of work on the bookshop and wanted to see if you would come and visit when Fern reopens.”
“Visit?” The elf frowned. “You want me to shop there?”
“Oh, no! No, we want people to meet you. People who love your books.”
Zelia studied Viv. “My dear, why do you imagine I live this far out of the city?”
Viv knew the answer the elf wanted but took a gamble, and said, “Because you inherited a lot of money and a huge estate in the country?”
Fern gasped and slowly turned her head to stare at Viv with huge, disbelieving eyes.
Greatstrider considered her, mouth drawn into a thin line, until it slowly curved back into that sly smile. “You’re an interesting person, Viv.”
“I think that’s the first time anybody has ever said that to me.”
“Sometimes, it’s even a compliment,” said Zelia, and took a satisfied bite of her bun.
“What is happening?” asked Fern helplessly.
Berk patted the rattkin gently on the shoulder, Potroast purring in his other arm. “It means she’ll come.”
The satchel at Viv’s side rustled in anticipation.