Governed by Whimsy (Songs of the Amaranthine Book 4) Read online

  Lulu’s eyes flashed challengingly. “At least until a mare can be arranged.”

  “If you’ll accept it, we’ve a herdless colt acting as our healer.” With a small shrug, he added, “We attract ramblers and vagabonds alike.”

  “I will need to see for myself.” Lulu’s lips thinned anew. “I will not neglect my responsibility.”

  “Nor we ours,” Canarian assured.

  Greta settled back into her chair, hands restlessly empty as she awaited the play’s continuation. The story was a tangle of near misses and conundrums, and she wanted so much for each person to find some piece of happiness. Especially the innkeeper’s daughter, whose kindness to the cursed prince had not gone unnoticed.

  Oh, my.

  “All males?” she asked.

  With a broad wink, Canarian said, “You may compliment Cat on his gown later.”

  The house lights finally dimmed, and Greta moved to the edge of her seat. Now that she knew what to look for, she had no trouble picking out the Amaranthine in need of a pinion.

  Ambrose P. Merriman was all long lines and sharp angles, yet he managed a flowing gait. She couldn’t help wondering if he was naturally regal or if he’d adopted a royal bearing because he’d been cast in the role of a king.

  His hair was dark and straight, draping around his shoulders in a somber veil. From a distance, she couldn’t make out his eyes. Or tell if the arch of his brows was natural or part of his stage makeup. She decided that he was not so much beautiful as striking. But one thing was clarion clear. Mister Merriman had a voice that held his audience captive and convinced them of his truth.

  Greta had long enough to wonder if Canarian had cast him perfectly or written the entire play for his star before the tale reclaimed its hold.

  She cared what happened to the people on this stage.

  Their story was as real as she was.

  And for the moment, nothing else mattered.

  Stride into the Limelight

  Ambrose noticed the difference immediately. A reaver in the audience. Were they being observed again? Tiresome. He refused to allow the quibbling of petty bureaucrats and the worries of cagy recluses to keep him from his rightful place. Let alone distract him from his final performance in this city.

  What cheek.

  He banished the nuisance to the far reaches of his periphery. He had far better things to accomplish this night!

  Only … Ambrose noticed a different difference.

  From those fringes of his attention, little ripples of emotion kept working their way forward, begging for attention.

  He thundered, and they trembled.

  He whispered, and they crept closer.

  He hinted at his inner struggle, and they keened.

  He promised, and they believed in him.

  The small voice—if that was the right term—might have been distracting if each response wasn’t the very one he wanted to evoke. This reaver, whomever they were, was wholly taken in. He commanded them with every nuance of his performance.

  By the end of the first act, he was playing to an audience of one. A soul held captive.

  What power.

  Before his entrance in the second act, he peered out from the wings, scanning the balconies and boxes, seeking that singular soul. But it was as if they’d been warded against him. Or simply gone. Had they abandoned the play without seeing it through?

  But no. When he seized his moment and swept into the unfolding scene, he was welcomed by a quaver of anticipation. Not only was the reaver still here, they’d been waiting for him. And that knowledge drove him to heights that threatened to steal the show. Not that any in the company couldn’t rally. Tonight would be a worthy finale.

  What splendor.

  Only … a fresh difference presented itself.

  The small voice—though it was really more of a song—tuned itself to the play’s scenario. Opening a way. Warbling a willing air. Was the reaver acting consciously? Surely not. For this was a terrible breach of etiquette. Yet threads of power reached out, offering support where none was needed. Absurd as it sounded, the reaver was trying to lend aid to the persona he’d assumed. To the fictional hero who had yet to see his way through the play’s myriad plot twists.

  Ambrose nearly laughed.

  He was the master of this stage, the king of this story. Gently brushing aside the unnecessary offer, he carried on. Watch us, reaver. Trust us to the finish.

  Once more, as ever before, he would faithfully lead them all to a good ending.

  Ambrose vaulted up the back stairs, in a more celebratory mood than usual. Final performances often left him wistful. True, the company offered the occasional reprise, but those opportunities came rarely. In the morning, they’d dismantle this world and stow it away. And he would miss the home it had become for him.

  For tonight, though, he wanted to boast to his friends and bid them toast his triumph. Better than swelling ovations or flung flowers, he’d ensnared a soul, ruling over it and reveling in one faceless reaver’s captivation. A fine display. An even finer compliment.

  One he could share.

  Finding the drape parted and the door partially open, Ambrose strode into his friends’ private box. But his thoughts scattered like startled birds at the sight of the people he cared about most fawning over two females.

  Females.

  Here?

  Ambrose drew himself up, eyeing the intruders narrowly. This was unheard of. Untenable. An unabideable breach of conduct. Nay, this was sacrilege. With traces of his kingly role coloring his tone, he leapt to their defense. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Whatever My Lady Wishes

  “Excellent! Here is our Ambrose!” Canary scratched sheepishly, though carefully enough that he didn’t muss his coiffure. Because there were ladies present. In a place that was meant to be safe.

  Ambrose’s attention jumped to Cat, whose attitude was a better guide to Canary’s state of mind. Their director was equally fresh from the stage and also still in costume—full lips stained red and green eyes generously enhanced by kohl.

  “My king,” Cat crooned, using the voice of the innkeeper’s daughter. “We have been graced by gifts from the illustrious House of Evernhold. Will you permit an introduction?”

  Cat and Canary were consummate actors, convincing even offstage. They knew how to bury feelings, but Ambrose understood them better than anyone. He knew how much they chaffed under their inherent weakness. Whether by custom or by some quirk of instinct, males of the feline clans bowed to the whims of their female counterparts.

  An odd pecking order, to Ambrose’s way of thinking. Chivalry was all well and good, but compulsion could be inconvenient.

  In situations like this, Ambrose usually provided Cat and Canary with the out they sometimes needed. It was their pact. A solemn vow that had become the cat clansmen’s safeguard. No social obligation was more important than Ambrose’s expectations. No delicate question required their answer if he silenced them. No lady could bid them stay if Ambrose wished to go.

  Did Cat mean to invoke their pact? Ambrose tipped his head to one side, silently asking how he was supposed to respond.

  “Banish your reservations, my liege. We are neither beset nor besieged.” With a deep curtsy, Cat continued in his own light baritone. “For once, the Mother’s gift doesn’t beggar us.”

  Ambrose cautiously inclined his head.

  And so Canary introduced the interlopers.

  The Dimityblest female was much like every other person from the moth clans he’d met, if a trifle brusque. She clearly didn’t have any designs on Cat or Canary. But that didn’t explain the imposition.

  Despite his pique, Ambrose didn’t stray from the expected script. However, rather than the meeting of palms, he bowed over Lulu’s hand in the manner of nobility. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  Her mouth compressed. “That is no concern of yours.”

  “Untrue, dear lady,” quietly countered Canary, wh
ose arm slipped around the shoulders of the human woman. “He will be concerned.”

  “Though not excessively. Our Ambrose has a history of unconcern, which some have found … disconcerting.” Fondness shone in Cat’s eyes, and his hands traced a form that begged with Ambrose to show a king’s grace.

  To a woman? It was the sort of thing almost any feline would ask and expect. But not Cat and Canary. Not without good reason.

  He spared her a second glance. Shortish. Plumpish. Pleasantish. Thoroughly underdressed for the theater, but not dowdy. And sizing him up just as critically. Ambrose drew his royal robe more closely around his body, and her gaze lifted to his—brown and bright and brimming with understandable admiration.

  Pivoting subtly, he rebuffed her interest. Only to catch an answering shift out of the corner of his eye. She’d taken the standard receptive posture. A reaver, then. Ambrose noted the wardstones sparkling among the loose tendrils of dark hair framing her face. Either they masked her presence, or she had none.

  “This is Reaver Demerara,” announced Canary. “Recently of ….”

  Just then, a light tap sounded. The felines exchanged a look, and Canary held up a hand to forestall any further interchange. He opened the door to Fairlee Longbrawn, one of their porters.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sirs.” The young bovine clansman kept his gaze firmly on the toes of his boots. “Problem at the station, sirs. Seems it’s about the baggage. Dekel’s in a right fit.”

  A conference of undertones continued. Some discrepancy between the number of trunks and the space available.

  Fairlee murmured, “It’s not fitting. No way, no how.”

  Canary sighed. “Can’t be helped. I’ll find the space they’ll need.”

  “Not much to spare.”

  “Don’t underestimate my creativity,” countered Canary. “Warn Dekel. Set change. Three days should do it. Reserve the siding.”

  The porter hesitated. “He won’t like it.”

  Canary laughed. “I’ll appease him somehow. Give us an hour, there’s a good lad.”

  The moment the door closed on Fairlee’s retreat, Ambrose grimly repeated his earlier query. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Cat dropped all pretense and wearily stated, “Our company has company. These ladies will be traveling with us.”

  What drivel. What a disaster. Ambrose struggled to control his tone. “What for?”

  “For you,” said Canary, returning to the woman and pulling her against his side. “Greta is your new pinion.”

  Are We Almost Home?

  Greta barely recognized Catalan when he returned a short while later in a natty suit that banished any trace of feminine allure. Without all the paint and powder of the stage, his complexion proved to be several shades darker, which lent his eyes even greater brilliance. She studied him closely, intrigued by the transformation.

  “Looking for someone?” he asked lightly.

  Encouraged by his smile, Greta admitted, “Your father.”

  Catalan toyed with the handle of his walking stick. “I am the image of my mother. Jaguar clan.”

  Traditionally, feline matriarchs looked to the future of their house, bearing children to carry on its name, each according to their kind. Indeed, a lady mistress’s first and second consorts—like Rand and Petros—were selected with an eye toward breeding. But after that, anything was possible.

  Fickle tastes. Changing fashions. Temporary dalliances. Tangled bloodlines.

  Housecats—more rightly hearthcats—spoke for the feline clans. They were prolific and powerful, having long cooperated with reavers. Outnumbering their wilder cousins—lion and panther, cheetah and tiger—hearthcats were the elite. And therefore desirable.

  Himeko Evernhold had exotic tastes and an adventurous streak, so Greta had grown up with the comings and goings of her lady mistress’s passing fancies. But a lady’s chambers were one thing; her hearth was another matter, closely guarded by her consorts. Greta had trouble imagining Lady Evernhold ever letting Rand go to another.

  Then again, she remembered hearing something about Petros having seniority, even though he wasn’t Himeko’s favorite. So perhaps Rand had been wooed away from a previous mistress? Far from uncommon, given feline proclivities. But still hard to imagine, given Evernhold’s current stability.

  In the privacy of her home, Himeko showed her consorts every consideration. They loved her for it, each in their own way. And they cherished one another. Evernhold was strong because its protectors nurtured the bonds that kept conflict at bay.

  Rand, their lady’s best-beloved, with his infectious smile and attentive manner.

  Petros, brimming with confidence and competence, who ordered their household.

  Mnemba, a musician whose heavy leonine gaze invariably intimidated outsiders.

  Rhaymus, a sultry panther clansman procured for his technique with massage.

  Chiilu, a cloud leopard who employed sigilcraft and seduction with equal facility.

  The five consorts had always been part of Greta’s home, although not in a familial or fatherly capacity. Because she was tasked with their tending, they teasingly called her their other lady mistress. To them, she was someone trusted, someone lovely, someone dear. And Greta knew that they loved her, each in their own way. Just as she loved them.

  “No, no, no, dear lady.” Catalan kissed a tear from her cheek and searched her gaze. “I shall be better to you than all my fathers before me. Canary’s heart is set on the matter, so you may depend upon my devotion.”

  “That’s cute.” Greta managed a small laugh at his obvious confusion. “Your nicknames. You call him Canary, and he calls you Cat.”

  His shoulders tensed, then sagged. “I’m being quite serious.”

  And in his attentiveness, she saw a little of Rand, which intensified her longing for Evernhold. But also her acceptance of Catalan as someone to trust. Greta quietly asked, “Are we almost home?”

  “Nearly.” Lips quirking, he added, “We’ll have you aboard and abed soon.”

  “Aboard?” she echoed, glancing guiltily at Lulu. This had probably been covered earlier.

  “Our travels on this continent are accomplished by train.” Cat’s smile widened. “The Leclerc Company makes its home aboard the Cat’s Canary.”

  Destiny Leads to Duty

  Ambrose refused to have anything to do with the pinion who’d been foisted on the company by Evernhold’s matriarch, including the mad scramble to find space for two females. To avoid the whole fiasco, he kept to his private carriage, forcing Canary and his crew to rearrange the train around him.

  On the third morning, Canary knocked lightly. “Are you awake?”

  Ambrose flicked open the latch and stalked away.

  Letting himself in, Canary jauntily proffered a tray. “Have a good sleep? You must be ravenous.”

  “I have not slept,” he replied stiffly.

  “But we thought ….” His friend’s smile floundered. “Naturally, we assumed … after the final performance, most of the cast needs the respite.”

  Ambrose dropped into the room’s only chair and crossed his legs. “So you did spare me a thought?”

  Canary carefully countered, “One or two. I apologize for not checking on you sooner. We’ve all been … ah … preoccupied.”

  “By the females.”

  With a gusty sigh, Canary set aside his tray and came to kneel before Ambrose. “I should have come sooner. Please, forgive my lapse.”

  He sniffed.

  “Now, Ambrose.” Canary studied him over the top of his spectacles. “Don’t sulk.”

  “I do not sulk.”

  But before he could complain in full, the affectionate buffoon had him thoroughly enfolded, as if he could make up for rude absence with an excess of kneading and purring. Sly fingers found their way into his hair, and Ambrose’s resolve weakened. He never could resist a preening. Feline though he may be, Canary was as good as a nestmate to him, considerate of his avian q
uirks and requirements.

  “You’ve been avoiding us.” Canary managed to make it sound as if he were the injured party.

  Ambrose sighed. “Not you.”

  “Colt will have my whiskers if he sees you like this. Why haven’t you slept?”

  “Clearly, I’ve been too busy sulking,” he grumbled.

  “This won’t do, birdie mine.” Canary favored him with an exasperated smile. “Don’t punish us by punishing yourself. It’s doubly cruel.”

  He lowered his gaze. “I couldn’t get comfortable, knowing you must be … preoccupied.”

  “Jealous?”

  Ambrose shrugged. “Concerned.”

  Canary caught his hands and kissed them. “Just as I’m concerned for you. We should tuck you in with Greta. Boost your vim and double your vigor!”

  “You cannot mean …!” Ambrose wavered. “You sleep with her?”

  “Well, no. But she slept in our bed while we reorganized. We had to put her somewhere during the shuffle.”

  Granted, felines had different notions about closeness and companionship, but after all those two had done to extricate themselves from the obligations of cat and clan … what nonsense. “Send her away.”

  “I cannot.” Holding up a hand, Canary added, “I wouldn’t, even if I could. Mother always did have excellent taste.”

  Ambrose grumbled peevishly. Feline tastes rarely kept to any discernable standard.

  “Greta is descended from cossets.” Canary was clearly giddy with the news. “She is exquisite.”

  “You are indulging? Are you mad?”

  Her control is excellent. As—may I remind you—is mine.” All gossip, he continued, “A ward for a father, hence the rise to pinion status. As savvy as she is sweet. Most of the crew is already smitten.”

  Meaning Ambrose’s opinion mattered less than lint.

  “Once we’re away from the station, I’ll see Cat to sleep.” A gentle tug. A pleading tone. “Join us. Take what you need.”

  “Will she be there?”

  “Naturally.” His unconcern never wavered. “Eventually. While I don’t like to criticize a lady, it’s becoming increasingly clear that she lacks a certain something. In a word: punctuality. Truth be told, my next duty is to find her and fetch her home.”