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Authors: Denise Rossetti
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jarring thud, so that it rocked, the seelie thrashing in distress. As he watched, she slumped slowly to the floor and her eyes rolled up in her head.
Huffing with irritation, the Necromancer bent to check her pulse. Fine. The stupid woman was fine. A mild concussion probably and some residual nerve pain.
He straightened, surveying the limp body thoughtfully. The Technomage Primus of Sybaris was a godsbedamned nuisance, not a doubt of it, but no investment came without cost. His gaze traveled from the diagram of the seelie trap on the screen to the little heap of blue misery in the corner of the tank, and he smiled.
What else had his Scientist been doing?
Stepping over her sensibly trousered legs, he crossed to the console and began to rummage.
In her suite on the upper floor of the Main Pavilion, Prue laid the ink brush down with a sigh. Ruefully, she massaged the tight muscles at the back of her neck. Likely she’d transferred at least one smear of ink. She always managed to get the stuff all over her fingers. With considerable satisfaction, she surveyed the big ledger on the scarred surface of her big desk. Done, by the Sister! When the Queen’s Money sent his tax collectors, all would be in perfect order at The Garden of Nocturnal Delights.
And she still had time for a bite of lunch with Rose. Smiling, Prue patted the pocket of her working trousers, cut in the flowing Trinitarian style, loose and sensible. Paper crackled beneath her fingers. They could adjourn to the sitting room, brew a soothing tisane of mothermeknot tea and open Meg’s letter together.
The smile became wistful. How lovely it would be to travel to the country, spend some time with Meg. Together with John Lammas, her childhood sweetheart, their former housekeeper had bought a tavern in the small village of Holdercroft, way out on the Cressy Plains. The Garden still limped along without big Meg’s calm efficiency, but it was churlish to begrudge the woman her happiness. If only it wasn’t so godsbedamned difficult to find someone even half as good.
Her brow furrowed, Prue ran a finger over the battered cover of the ledger, trying to recall which merchant had supplied Meg with the last consignment of top-quality mothermeknot. Every female of child-bearing age on Palimpsest drank the contraceptive tea. The women of The Garden went through bushels of it. With an inward grin, she wondered if Meg still bothered. Somehow, she thought not.
Someone knocked.
Sweet Sister! Now what? If Cook had thrown another tantrum—
“Enter!”
Young Tansy popped her head around the door.
“Mistress Prue?”
Tansy was smiling, her lovely face, pretty as a flower, glowing with ill-concealed delight. It was hard to be angry with the little apprentice, which of course, Tansy knew full well, the imp. Prue rested her head against the high back of the chair and tried to look stern. “What is it?”
“Mistress Rose says she’ll meet you for lunch downstairs, in the courtyard of the Sweet Manda. Fifteen minutes all right?”
Prue’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”
Tansy primmed up her mouth, her doe eyes dancing. “Nothing, Mistress.”
“Tansy . . .”
But the girl shook her head. “Fifteen minutes.” She scampered off down the stairs.
By the time Prue reached the small pavilion known as the Sweet Manda, she was torn between curiosity and irritation. For that very reason, she spent a few moments talking to the luxuriant touchme bush that marked the fork in the path. The fringed silver blossoms chimed a happy greeting, bending to stroke her cheek and gift her with delicate wafts of perfume. Equilibrium restored, she took two steps forward and froze.
Sweet Sister in the sky!
She knew the voices. This was The Garden’s music class; she’d heard them many times before. Every Garden courtesan could play an instrument or sing. But never so assured, so precise, their voices blending in a miraculous four-part harmony that soared and swooped with
Huffing with irritation, the Necromancer bent to check her pulse. Fine. The stupid woman was fine. A mild concussion probably and some residual nerve pain.
He straightened, surveying the limp body thoughtfully. The Technomage Primus of Sybaris was a godsbedamned nuisance, not a doubt of it, but no investment came without cost. His gaze traveled from the diagram of the seelie trap on the screen to the little heap of blue misery in the corner of the tank, and he smiled.
What else had his Scientist been doing?
Stepping over her sensibly trousered legs, he crossed to the console and began to rummage.
In her suite on the upper floor of the Main Pavilion, Prue laid the ink brush down with a sigh. Ruefully, she massaged the tight muscles at the back of her neck. Likely she’d transferred at least one smear of ink. She always managed to get the stuff all over her fingers. With considerable satisfaction, she surveyed the big ledger on the scarred surface of her big desk. Done, by the Sister! When the Queen’s Money sent his tax collectors, all would be in perfect order at The Garden of Nocturnal Delights.
And she still had time for a bite of lunch with Rose. Smiling, Prue patted the pocket of her working trousers, cut in the flowing Trinitarian style, loose and sensible. Paper crackled beneath her fingers. They could adjourn to the sitting room, brew a soothing tisane of mothermeknot tea and open Meg’s letter together.
The smile became wistful. How lovely it would be to travel to the country, spend some time with Meg. Together with John Lammas, her childhood sweetheart, their former housekeeper had bought a tavern in the small village of Holdercroft, way out on the Cressy Plains. The Garden still limped along without big Meg’s calm efficiency, but it was churlish to begrudge the woman her happiness. If only it wasn’t so godsbedamned difficult to find someone even half as good.
Her brow furrowed, Prue ran a finger over the battered cover of the ledger, trying to recall which merchant had supplied Meg with the last consignment of top-quality mothermeknot. Every female of child-bearing age on Palimpsest drank the contraceptive tea. The women of The Garden went through bushels of it. With an inward grin, she wondered if Meg still bothered. Somehow, she thought not.
Someone knocked.
Sweet Sister! Now what? If Cook had thrown another tantrum—
“Enter!”
Young Tansy popped her head around the door.
“Mistress Prue?”
Tansy was smiling, her lovely face, pretty as a flower, glowing with ill-concealed delight. It was hard to be angry with the little apprentice, which of course, Tansy knew full well, the imp. Prue rested her head against the high back of the chair and tried to look stern. “What is it?”
“Mistress Rose says she’ll meet you for lunch downstairs, in the courtyard of the Sweet Manda. Fifteen minutes all right?”
Prue’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”
Tansy primmed up her mouth, her doe eyes dancing. “Nothing, Mistress.”
“Tansy . . .”
But the girl shook her head. “Fifteen minutes.” She scampered off down the stairs.
By the time Prue reached the small pavilion known as the Sweet Manda, she was torn between curiosity and irritation. For that very reason, she spent a few moments talking to the luxuriant touchme bush that marked the fork in the path. The fringed silver blossoms chimed a happy greeting, bending to stroke her cheek and gift her with delicate wafts of perfume. Equilibrium restored, she took two steps forward and froze.
Sweet Sister in the sky!
She knew the voices. This was The Garden’s music class; she’d heard them many times before. Every Garden courtesan could play an instrument or sing. But never so assured, so precise, their voices blending in a miraculous four-part harmony that soared and swooped with
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