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

  Ambrose narrowed his eyes. “I’m a duty, then?”

  “Nay, a destiny,” countered Canary. “Come, birdie mine. I’ve been lonesome for your company, and we have future triumphs to discuss.”

  Which was true. Planning a new production was a distinct pleasure. But Ambrose wasn’t entirely ready to end his boycott. He slumped deeper into his chair. “You say come, but where are you going?”

  “Into the city. Our tardy passengers will be in the shopping district.” With a canny gleam in his eye, he asked, “Didn’t you want to visit that haberdashers once more before we move along? I could escort you there first.”

  Ambrose sighed. “In what role?”

  Canary pretended to consider. As if he didn’t always know how best to cast his star. Ambrose awaited direction with a curious sort of resignation. Their playwright was full of surprises. Ones that kept audiences flocking to every performance. But even when Canary was playing at plays, his roles were demanding.

  “Let’s cast you as … disapproving manservant. Polite, because you know your place, but with a superior sort of dignity that’ll put the mistress in hers.”

  Relieved to be a side character in the grand scheme of things—and a contrary one at that—Ambrose murmured, “Please tell me you’re not stepping into the role of romantic hero.”

  “Muscle, I should think. A groom or footman. Unless we bring Fairlee. Which may not be a bad idea, given the accumulation of parcels the ladies jumbled home yesternoon.” With a small shake of his head, he said, “I’d rather not have to unload the oxcart.”

  Ambrose gave in. “The sooner they’re found, the sooner Cat can sleep.”

  “Very true.” Canary radiated weary gratitude. “And you?”

  “I shall disapprove.” Extricating himself from his friend, he searched his closet for a suit with an appropriate degree of restrained dignity.

  “Even if she can offer superlative tending?”

  But Ambrose was already immersed in his role. And what use did a disapproving manservant have for a reaver’s tending?

  Wasn’t His Hair Black?

  Greta poked through jumbled trays—mismatched buttons, cast-off lockets, gaudy hatpins. In a place like this, patience could lead to discovery, minutes turned into hours, and a thousand pretty daydreams fueled plans she hadn’t realized she’d be making.

  “Has Catalan talked to the costumer yet?”

  Lulu bent over an array of half-spent spools. “Monsieur Leclerc has been exceptionally busy. I am certain he will come to your request in due course.”

  Crossing to a battered bureau, Greta eased open the topmost drawer and gasped over the quantity of costume jewelry inside. She picked through the higgledy-piggledy tangle with an eye toward usable stones. “Have you seen our room?”

  “The compartment will be adequate, if a bit crowded.” In a tone that meant Lulu was probably repeating something she’d mentioned earlier, she added, “That young Longbrawn promised to have your trunks moved in yet this morning.”

  A cuckoo clock on the wall bonged and wheezed.

  Lulu sharply addressed the shop owner. “Is that the correct time?”

  Reaching into a display case filled with pocket watches, the old man ruminated over one or two, then nodded. “Near ’nough, miss. You fancy a timepiece?”

  Suddenly, Lulu was at Greta’s side. “Oh, my darling. I fear we are late. Again.”

  She hummed and nodded, even as she pulled out the bottommost drawer in the shopkeeper’s bureau. And heard the whisper of crystals. Sinking to her knees on the dusty floor, she tuned out all but the hints of a remnant song.

  In what seemed like no time at all, a hand was at her elbow, a voice in her ear. “What a state you are in. Come, young mistress, do not grovel in the dust and dirty your hands. It is unbecoming a lady.”

  Greta glanced up in utter confusion. A stranger bent over her, radiating disapproval. “I’m sorry?” she managed.

  “And well you should be. Now, if you will permit.”

  She couldn’t ignore the hand at her elbow, nor the strength that steadied her to her feet. But neither could she fathom why this person was keeping her from the drawer and its treasures.

  He was quite tall, and his somber suit was neatly tailored to his frame. Ash blond hair had been combed away from lean features, and silver-rimmed spectacles partially obscured eyes of such a pale gray, they were nearly white.

  With a small shake of his head, he took a handkerchief from an inside pocket and wiped his palms, as if touching her had somehow soiled them.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated, aghast.

  Only when he turned his shoulder to her, offering a solidly Amaranthine rebuff—and a glimpse of his nose in profile—did she make any kind of connection. “Mister … Merriman?” she whispered.

  “If you are quite finished …?” he inquired, making it very clear that he expected an answer in the affirmative. “I know you would not want to cause any further delay.”

  Greta cast a longing look at the bureau drawer.

  He followed her gaze, then turned to the proprietor. “How much for the lot?”

  The old man, whose bafflement matched Greta’s own, was equally apologetic. “I sell the odds and bobs, sir, not the furnishin’.”

  With exaggerated patience, Ambrose asked, “How much do you want for the contents of that drawer?”

  “W-well,” hedged the man. “What’d you be willing to give?”

  Canary, who’d apparently been lounging—and laughing—beside the entrance this whole time, named a price that caused the old fellow to brighten considerably.

  “Have you a bag?” asked Ambrose.

  After a hasty rummage, Canary came up with a musty carpetbag. And without any care or ceremony, Ambrose jerked free the drawer and upended it over the raggedy sack.

  “Satisfied?” he asked in an aggrieved tone.

  Greta nodded and held out her hands to take the trove.

  Holding it away from her, Ambrose purred, “Do you think me so inconsiderate? Leave your things to me.”

  “Are you sure?” She gestured apologetically to the small mountain of bags and bundles heaped in front of the counter. “This was our … last stop.”

  With a withering smile, he addressed himself to Canary. “Perhaps we should have brought the oxcart after all.”

  “I’ll get these.” Canarian gave a wink and cheerfully urged, “Be a gentleman and lend her your arm, Ambrose. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  To Greta’s great astonishment, Ambrose changed both his posture and his attitude. The thin veil of servility dropped with the pocketing of spectacles, and exuding the regal bearing she’d seen on stage, Ambrose adopted a more chivalrous air and bowed over her hand.

  Had his previous rudeness been an act? Was he taking direction from Canarian? Maybe the two were playing some game known only to actors.

  Used to the mercurial moods of the feline courts, Greta gave the matter no more thought. Better to accept what was given with gratitude. And to ponder something even more baffling. Hadn’t Mister Merriman’s hair been black?

  The Objectification of Males

  Ambrose offered his arm like the gentleman Canary expected him to be, but the woman didn’t even notice the jut of his elbow. Half a step ahead of him, she’d raised her palm to the level of her shoulder, her posture expectant.

  He shot a look at Canary, who rolled his eyes and mouthed something indistinct.

  With a small shake of his head, Ambrose begged for further direction.

  In an undertone that carried well enough for Amaranthine ears, Canary said, “Think like a cat. She does.”

  What absurdity.

  Lulu naturally overheard, and she did try to help, tucking her arm through Canary’s in the manner of human society. Unfortunately, Greta failed to notice. She was too busy scrutinizing an array of tarnished junk in a glass-fronted case that she must have overlooked.

  As much to get the woman outside before he was forced to
part with any more pocket money, Ambrose grudgingly tailored his response to her expectation.

  Coming up close behind and a little to one side, he placed his hand atop hers, then settled his other at her waist. This was a game Cat sometimes played with Canary, for theirs was a toying kind of affection. Otherwise, Ambrose mightn’t have known the proper form, which was brazenly possessive by avian standards.

  Think like a cat, Canary had said. So Ambrose did. But he found he didn’t care for the implications of this role. Because this position was both submissive and … ornamental. Ladies of the feline clans treated their males like accessories, changing them out to suit their mood, the occasion, or a moment’s whim.

  Him, a consort?

  The thespian in him could appreciate the challenge. The avian in him couldn’t work out any sensible approach. The only cats who’d ever made any sense to Ambrose were his two friends, who’d run from the vagaries of the feline courts.

  Improvisation then. And a necessary compromise.

  Pressed close, Ambrose treated this like a dance. With firm pressure and subtle dominance, he controlled Greta’s heading and pace. She might be in front of him, but he was in control. To his relief, she didn’t mince, so they more-or-less kept up with Canary’s long strides. But they were also earning their share of odd looks.

  This was not the sort of place humans expected to encounter a promenade. He cleared his throat. “I have never considered myself decorative, and by local custom, this is not decorous.”

  Greta came to a full stop. “You aren’t a cat.”

  “Nor do I usually play the part.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mister Merriman. What would you prefer?”

  He released her and stepped back. “An immediate return to the Cat’s Canary.”

  She glanced around. “Are we close? Oh, look at the trim on that shawl!”

  And she was gone. Along with her attention. Without any apparent care for his preferences. “Canary,” he called.

  His friend was gracious enough to pause, though he was already half a block further along.

  “What am I to do with her?”

  “Get her safely aboard.”

  Ambrose frowned. “In what capacity?”

  “Be yourself.”

  “That rarely goes well,” he protested.

  With a small shake of his head, Canary wearily said, “I doubt she’ll notice.”

  And he walked on with Lulu, leaving Ambrose to his own devices.

  Something for Your Trouble

  “Ms. Pinion,” began Ambrose.

  “Call me Greta,” she replied, not looking away from a clothier’s window display. What was so interesting about tassels?

  “I doubt that will be necessary.”

  “A name isn’t necessary?”

  He had her attention now, even though he didn’t want it. “Calling,” he corrected. “I cannot foresee any need to call on you.”

  Her mouth formed a little ‘o,’ and then she shook her head. “You’re wrong, you know.”

  Ambrose didn’t like this woman. Not one bit.

  “About being decorative.” Her gaze swept over him with the same intensity she’d been giving trinkets and turbans and taffeta. “Someone with your bearing could carry off anything. And in grand style. The costumers must adore you.”

  To his astonishment, she stepped right into his personal space and ran a hand over his lapel, exploring the fabric and stitching. Highly irregular.

  She hummed in a disappointed way. “This is good, if a bit plain.”

  Should he insist she unhand him? It seemed a line more suited to innkeeper’s daughters and damsels in distress.

  His chagrin doubled when she slipped the button holding his coat closed and lifted it away from his body. This particular suit was lined in the traditional colors of the Scatterlight clan.

  Greta clearly approved of her discovery. “I take it back. You’re full of surprises, Mister Merriman.”

  They were drawing attention again. And he couldn’t get away. Because now she’d taken his hand in both of hers. “Ms. Pinion,” he warned.

  “May I beg a favor?” She addressed him with such urgency. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

  What …? He couldn’t even find a word.

  Falling back on the gentleman schtick, Ambrose managed a calm response. “Canary would undoubtedly urge my cooperation.”

  “May I look inside?”

  To his way of thinking, he had already endured a more intimate inspection than someone of his convictions should have to face. But then he realized she was pointing. At the musty bag of drawer-clutter.

  “There are at least two remnants in here. Small and lonely.” Her eyes were soft with sympathy. “I was hoping to rescue them when you came along. Very gallantly, too. Thank you for securing them for me.”

  “Crystals,” he said, not entirely clear how he’d been cast as a savior of pebbles.

  “In the bag. Yes.” Her smile was confident. A woman used to getting her way. “May I?”

  “On one condition.”

  Her brows drew together, as if confused by his rebuttal. “Yes?”

  “We cannot continue blocking the walkway.” Waving a hand at a nearby café with outdoor tables, he said, “That would be slightly more discreet.”

  Ambrose saw her seated and placed the bag in her lap. “Do you drink coffee or tea?” he inquired.

  But she ignored him.

  He stepped indoors to order refreshments. When he returned, Greta had already disgorged half the contents of the bag. The oddments were fanned across the café table, mostly arranged by color. And she was humming. With intent. In the manner of certain reavers, she was calling to the crystals, as if reassuring them that help was on the way.

  Taking the chair opposite hers, Ambrose tried to remember if any of the reaver escorts assigned to him had ever been wards. Most had worn the colors of the assorted diplomatic divisions—liaisons, translators, secretaries. Nondescript entities with a knack for fading into the background. Too polite to interrupt or intrude. Cat insisted they were essential, but Ambrose had always found them extraneous. Dull. Dismissable.

  Not the sort to upend a drawer for a couple of pebbles.

  Ambrose sipped his tea and watched closely as Greta sifted through her haul. Although she had stated her aim, she wasn’t treating any of the other pieces as obstacles. He couldn’t imagine what she saw in the tangled chains and mismatched buttons.

  A quarter of an hour passed, and her beverage cooled before she finally unearthed her remnants. “Oooh, you dears,” she murmured.

  Before she could make a further spectacle of herself, he reached across the table and set his hand over hers, obstructing her view of her found treasures. Inadvertently intercepting the overflow of delight intended for two chips of green no larger than lentils.

  Recognition was instantaneous. This was the reaver who’d been in the theater during his triumphant final performance. What a perverse little plot twist.

  “Aren’t they lovely?” she asked.

  “Passing fair. But this must stop if we’re to reach the station today. You are making me late.” And since it might have more of an influence on her actions, he added, “You’re making Canary wait.”

  She glanced around in confusion. “He’s gone?”

  “Long gone.”

  “Do you know the way back?”

  Ambrose sighed and stood. Propping the carpetbag under the table’s edge, he swept her piles haphazardly back inside.

  “Wait, wait!” she gasped. “One thing!”

  He didn’t see which curiosity she plucked up and folded into her handkerchief, and he didn’t much care. His patience was at an end. Taking her by the arm, he steered her along the streets, ignoring her exclamations over passing window displays.

  Ambrose threatened to blindfold her. Twice.

  Finally, he bustled her past the station platform to the siding where Drexel and his crew were loafing about with not
hing to do. Marching Greta straight into Canary’s hands, Ambrose stalked off in the direction of his private refuge.

  “Wait! Mister Merriman, please wait!”

  Gritting his teeth, he turned and offered a thin smile. “Now what?”

  “You’re wonderful. Please accept this token of my earnest regard.”

  Reaching for his hand, she set the item she’d secured earlier on his palm. A stick pin with a tiny egg mounted on its finial. It had somehow survived the mish-mash of both drawer and carpetbag. He twirled it between his fingers, admiring its delicacy, confirming its authenticity. A hummingbird egg, carefully preserved, neatly mounted, artistically flecked with gold leaf. Quite refined. A statement piece he would have coveted if he’d encountered it in any shop.

  By the time it occurred to Ambrose that he very much needed to refuse this gift, Greta was gone.

  Traditions Are for Keeping

  Ambrose showed the pin to Canary, who studied it closely before offering it back. “A wonderful find. I think it’s genuine.”

  “Yes, it’s gold,” agreed Ambrose.

  “I mean that the artisan was probably Amaranthine.” He radiated approval. “Greta has a good eye. It’s perfect for you.”

  He was missing the point. “I can’t possibly accept.”

  “No?” Canary slouched more deeply into his armchair. “Help me understand why.”

  This was a conversation they’d had often over the past decades. One or the other would run up against some little taboo that was unique to their clan. And Canary found these variances fascinating. He liked to explore the structures and strictures. And to rebel against them.

  “The giving and receiving of items containing eggshell have significance for the avian clans.” Ambrose held out the pin. “She’s given me a courting gift.”

  Canary shook his head. “She probably didn’t know.”

  “I know.”