Section 3/B/A

Well, what did it matter? The front door went into the House just like the back door. In fact, she really ought to get used to the front door if she would soon be using it as the upcoming Lady Domini. Kestrel straightened her back and tossed her head to get the wind-blown strands of hair out of her eyes. When she took a step forward, it felt like a lead weight dropped into her stomach, but she told herself to ignore it. If she was going to become a the wife of a Domini, then she had better start acting like it.

When Greystone answered the door, he looked right through Kestrel. The silence stretched. For one moment, Kestrel almost turned and fled, but she forced herself to tighten everything inside of herself into a solid core that was cold and didn't care about the disdain of butlers.

"I'm here to see Dominison Boron," she informed him at last.

He nodded and paused again. Then he said in a voice as cold as a mausoleum, "I believe that Mrs. Plover can help you. If you would be good enough to go through the garden, you will find her in the back kitchen." There was just enough twist to his tone when he said "back kitchen" to make it feel like a slap in the face.

Kestrel lips pressed into a thin line. She may have come here before with baskets of herbs or her mother's old books to teach from, but her father outranked Greystone by a long way. With a graceful gesture, she slipped her hand into her bag and pulled out the note that the driver had given her. Without a word, she handed it to Greystone and folded her arms. Inside, she was shouting, "Take that, you pompous, stuck-up, ugly, rude, bald, little man!"

Greystone folded the note, added an extra layer of frosty formality to his attitude, and tipped his head to her ever so slightly. "If you will come this way," he said.

Inside, Kestrel was jumping up and down and shouting insults about how she had won. Outside, she nodded back and stepped after him as if she had been doing it her whole life. Greystone lead her through the passageway that was lined with waist-high pedestals. Each one was topped with a glass dome and showcased a small automaton. Kestrel had never seen them before, because she had never been in this part of the house before. There was a life-sized mouse, a miniature dancer, and other animals and people. Kestrel longed to see if they were powered by crystal chips of magic. Some of the simpler ones were powered by a wind-up key, but these would be the highest quality ones. It seemed a shame to keep them frozen and still, as though they were dead. Automatons were meant to move, to come alive.

As she marveled at the creations she slowed down. Greystone almost inaudible clearing of the throat brought her back with a start. She couldn't believe it, beautiful or not, she shouldn't have let him win a point. She had just proven that she was indeed a backwards country girl who was impressed with curiosities. She should have ignored them, should have pretended that she saw pieces every day that each cost more than a horse.

She could have been an automaton herself, she moved with such precision and had a face like a brass mask as she entered the library. "Wait here..." he paused, and she held her breath to see how he would address her. He seemed to search for words for just a fraction of a second too long before he finished, "I will return shortly." He raised one eyebrow fractionally; she narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. And then he was gone.

The door closed on her, and she listened for footsteps and then tried the door. Locked. He had locked her in. "(suitable expletive)" she growled.

From across the room she heard laughter. "I couldn't agree more," said a deep, smooth voice.

Kestrel's scream just managed to dig its fingernails into her throat. But she couldn't help jumping as she turned around. At first, she still couldn't see who was there, but then she realized that the voice was coming from a wing-backed chair in front of the fireplace. "Forgive me for not standing up," the voice told her, "but I'm having a bit of trouble with my foot, which is why I'm here in the first place. Ghastly thing, but there really is nothing to be done about it."

A hand over the back of the chair waved her toward the fireplace. "Well, don't cower in the corner. I'm afraid that I can't chase you down. Come over here where I can see you."

Her feet moved before she had time to think about it and she found herself standing before a man with very black hair and very pale skin. She didn't even remember his asking, but she heard herself tell him her name, where she was from, and why she was there.

"I see," he said when she had finished. "And old Greystone locked you in here. He's a stupid butler, petty too. It really is too bad that I'm trapped here just as much as you are," he said waving a hand toward his bandaged foot. "Otherwise, I'd go take care of him for you. My name is Weatherson, by the way, a house guest here." He smiled a humorless smile. "I was a house guest for a party that ended three days ago, but I can't seem to get well enough to make it home."

"You have gout?"

"I'm afraid so. Laid low by a bandaged foot. I was once skewered right through the shoulder, and I was up and riding the very next day. To think it's come to this," he said rubbing a finger between his eyebrows. His forehead wrinkled for a moment, as if he suddenly had a headache, and then he looked up at her again.

"Well, how long have you been on an adjusted diet?" Kestrel asked. Then she looked around. "And I don't see any tea. How many cups have you had today? You can't get better if you don't drink it."

"Diet? Tea?" Weatherson asked. "How can tea help my foot?"

Kestrel shook her head. "What kind of medicion or green woman has been to see you?" she demanded. "Even I know what to do for gout."

"Indeed?" asked the man. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case and extracted one, white cigarette. He closed the case with a little click and tucked it neatly away.

"Well, to begin with, you would have to stop smoking," she told him as he took an ornate silver lighter from another inside pocket. He flipped open the lid to reveal a magic crystal. The shiny crystal grew brighter until Kestrel had to blink. Weatherson seemed oblivious to the brightness.  He touched the tip of his cigarette to the crystal for a moment, snapped the lighter shut, and then put the cigarette to his lips and pulled in a breath, enough to make the tip glow red.

"Smoking really isn't good for you," she said, "though you must know that much."

The man gave a his head a little tip sideways that seemed to mean the same thing as a shrug. Then he gave a little wave with his hand to indicate that she should continue. "Well, if you really want to get better," she said, suddenly self-conscious. What kind of man would be a house guest of Boron's father? He was obviously very rich, and she would be very surprised if he didn't have status as well. He must have color status, and not just a yellow like her father. Weatherson must be an orange or even a red. She cleared her throat. "You would have to make a lot of changes. The first things to go are alcohol and," she tried not to look at the glowing tip of his cigarette, "smoking. That's why so few people get rid of their gout," she told him. "They have to give up everything that they like and eat everything that they don't like. No red meat, no fatty foods of any kind. And you have to drink tea made with herbs all day long. Nettles, dandelion, ginger--they all make good tea for gout as long as you drink enough of it. Vegetables are the main food, especially green vegetables." She stopped and looked at his impassive face as he blew out a stream of smoke. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Who are your parents?" he asked.

"My father is Grant Ambergris," she told him. "And my mother's name is Zephyr."

"Is your mother a greenwoman?"

"No. She dries herbs and makes a few potions for this House and the village. Not magical ones, but healing herbs. My grandmother was a greenwoman though," she said, trying to keep her voice from giving her away. "She died not too long ago."

"Really?" Weatherson said, sounding more interested. "And what was her name?"

"Anen."

"Ah." His eyes grew wider for a moment and then half closed like those of a sleepy cat. "I have heard of her."

Kestrel nodded. She didn't trust herself to talk about her grandmother right now.

"And she taught you a lot about being a greenwoman?"

Kestrel shrugged, "Not much, really. I'm better at sewing."

Weatherson closed his eyes all the way. "Oh," he said. His voice sounded suddenly tired. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

After standing for a moment, Kestrel swallowed. "I'm sorry. You should rest. I'd leave if I could."

He didn't say anything, so Kestrel took small steps and gradually moved herself over to the other side of the room. She didn't know how long she would be trapped there, but Greystone wasn't likely to rush back to get her. If only Boron would come. She looked around. The walls were covered with bookshelves. The room was accented with reading chairs, little tables, rugs, and a couple of desks. All of it was very muted and dark, if it weren't for the long wall that was nearly all windows and glass doors opening on to the patio, then the room would be too dark to read in. Kestrel's eye was drawn to a single splash of color in a corner of the room. Rather than a map or a painting or even a shadowbox filled with gears from some old bit of machinery, this was cloth. Kestrel thought it was an unusual choice for the Domini, especially to put in his library. Maybe the Lady Domini had left it.

She moved over to what turned out to be an embroidered shirt in a frame. The shirt was square in shape, with embroidery around the neck and sleeves: flowers and vines woven around geometric patterns and lines. The stitches were invisible in the thread picture; it was beautiful. Kestrel touched the glass that covered it. It looked like, she wasn't sure, but it reminded her of the handkerchief. Kestrel opened her bag and took out her letter. She pulled out the carefully-folded square of fabric and touched her finger to the border. It looked the same. Could her grandmother have made this piece as well? Why did the Domini have it? Why was it hanging in his library?

"Interesting," said a voice behind her.

Kestrel jumped, dropping everything. How could a man with a gouty foot sneak up behind her? He was supposed to be an old man asleep in his chair. Except that now that he was standing in the light, Kestrel could see that he wasn't old, not at all. He might be ten years older than she was, but not more than that. She had assumed that he was infirm because of his foot, but he wasn't, not at all, and he smelled like cologne rather than medicine. He was standing too close to her, so Kestrel took a step away from him.

"That's an interesting handkerchief," he said. "The pattern is of course the symud style, quite old, and rare. Where did you get it?"

"I...my grandmother gave it to me," she managed, snatching it off the floor and stuffing it into her bag. "It's an old family trinket," she lied without knowing why. He had scared her for one thing. That word symud. Her grandmother had taught her that word. She just didn't know that anyone else knew about it.

He nodded at her.

"I...you know, I really should go. Greystone really is taking a very long time. Do you think that he has forgotten me? I'm really here to see Boron--he sent for me." As soon as she said it, heat rushed up her cheeks. Why had she said that? "I tutor him in (language)."

"Really? You speak it?"

"Not very well. My mother lived in Terrence Hill when she was young. She taught all of us some so that she could remember it."

He looked at her for a long time. Kestrel took one little step back, and then another.

"Forgive me," he said suddenly, "for having extemporaneous thoughts. I'm afraid that you've come all this way and endured being shut up in the library with me for nothing."

She looked at him, confused.

"Boron took his leave of me just a few minutes before you came in. He had one or two little things to finish up, but I believe that the car was already out front and waiting for him."

She continued to stare.

"He's quite gone."

"Oh," she finally managed to say. "I see." She finally broke away from his stare and tuned away to think for a moment before turning back to say, "Did he say where he was going?"

"Some business in Gordian's Knoll," apparently. His father is friends with the Domini there."

She nodded.

"He's not expected back any time soon."

She nodded again.

"I'll just ring for Greystone then, should I?

Suddenly, Kestrel realized that she couldn't face seeing Greystone, not now that Boron's note had been so important that he left without seeing her. She was an idiot to think that someone as important as he was could put off sudden travel plans just to...or even to...talk to her. Maybe she had been wrong about what he had asked her there for. Maybe she was just an idiot in general. "I think I should just go," she said, and then realized how that sounded considering that the door was locked. She went to the terrace doors. One of them had to be unlocked--but they weren't. She looked back at him. He had his cane in one hand, and the other was pressed to his mouth, doing a very poor job at containing a smile. If she could have fallen over dead, it was a very good time for it. She had to get away.

"You know," she said. "I really am in a rush. I don't know what could be keeping Greystone. I really do need to get home." There were plenty of windows open, and they were only knee-high from the floor. She sat on an open sill, swung her feet around to the other side and managed to hop down without tripping. A small struggle through peony bushes did not help her mood, but she could only hope that he wasn't watching. Even though of course he was.

The important thing, she told herself as she ran down the hill and across the grounds, was that she was away, that Greystone wouldn't have the chance to look smug or leave her locked in for half the day. The visiting rich guy was someone she would never see again, so he didn't matter. She told herself that eight or ten times on the way home, and she nearly believed it.

It wasn't until after she made it home and up to her room that she opened her bag and realized that she had dropped the letter from her grandmother.

1) Kestrel sat down on her bed and dug the fingers of both hands deep into her hair. She should be crying, but she wasn't. She felt flat, tired. lost. Boron was gone. Anen was gone. She couldn't go back to the house, not today. In a little while, when she'd had some rest, she would write a letter to Mrs. Plover asking her to look out for it. If she did it now, she would make a mistake, say or do something wrong. She could afford that, not when she had already made such a large mistake already.

http://kestrelbook.blogspot.com/2012/03/chapter-1-baa.html

2) Kestrel paced back and forth. She couldn't lose that letter. She just couldn't. The bed creaked as she sank down onto the coverlet, but she immediately stood up again. If she stopped now, if she let herself sag in any way, then she might never get up again. Now, before she could change her mind, she had to go back and get that letter.

http://kestrelbook.blogspot.com/2012/03/chapter-1bab.html