Living With Ghosts (20 page)

Somehow, she could not make the feeling stick with her. Even in the midst of their lovemaking, the fear and the worry had not deserted her. They hovered on the fringes of her mind, taunting, tormenting. Valdarrien was dead. Firomelle was dying. And Thiercelin . . . She did not want to think of it, yet the thought would not leave her. He had called on Iareth Yscoithi without telling her; he had involved himself in a duel. There was something between him and Gracielis, something he would neither explain nor forgo. Everyone she loved was leaving her alone. She dug her fingers into his shoulder, and he made a sleepy noise of surprise.

She swallowed. He said, “What is it?”

She did not want to ask. She did not want to know. She wanted—oh, how she wanted—to be safe. He shifted against her, half-turning so that her head rested on the pillow. He frowned. He said, “Talk to me, Yviane.”

She did not want to talk. She wanted comfort and silence, if her thoughts would only let her be. Thiercelin said, “I know I don’t know much about politics, but I can listen. And I won’t tell anyone.”

“I know.” Rolling over on to her back, Yvelliane stared up at the canopy of the bed. She said, “It wouldn’t help.”

“It might.”

It would not. Once she opened this topic with him, once she spoke of Iareth and Valdarrien and Gracielis . . . She said, “Leave it, Thierry.”

“If that’s what you want.” He sounded hurt.

“It’s just better that way.”

There was a silence. She could hear his breathing, regular and steady. For six years, he had been there, quiet and undemanding. She had never questioned that. She had never asked him why, she had just assumed . . . Perhaps Firomelle and Laurens were right; perhaps she had neglected him.

There had always been so many other things that seemed important—trade agreements and budgets, negotiations and diplomatic correspondence. Valdarrien had never wanted to know about any of that, yawning when she mentioned it. She had always assumed that Thiercelin felt the same. And now . . . She inhaled and made herself turn to look at him. “Have I been hard on you lately?”

“Not really.” But he would not meet her eyes. “I know you’re busy. It doesn’t matter.”

“It should. Forgive me?” She reached out, touched his face.

“Always.” He kissed her palm. “You know that.”

“I wonder.” She bit her lip. She was embarking on dangerous waters. “Sometimes I can’t see why you stay with me.”

“You know why. I’ve loved you since the first time we met. You ignored me completely.”

“I didn’t mean to. And I still do it, don’t I?”

“Don’t, love. It’s all right.”

“I just can’t help it.” She sighed. “Even today. I didn’t come to you to make love. Only to ask questions. And

I keep wondering how far I can go before you stop loving me. I drove Valdin to his death.”

Something changed in his face. Despite the warmth of the bed, she went cold. He said, “That wasn’t your fault. Valdin never could keep hold of his blasted temper. It was his responsibility. It was nothing to do with you.”

“Valdin’s fault? He’d stopped all that—stopped dueling. Until . . .”

“Let it go, Yviane.” Thiercelin spoke sharply, turning his face away from her.

There was something here she did not understand, did not want to understand. There was something he was hiding from her.

He had seen Iareth Yscoithi. He had been in contact with Gracielis. She could not face it, not now. She did not want to be hurt any more. She pulled away from him and began to grope on the floor for a petticoat.

Thiercelin said. “Yviane . . . there’s something I should . . . That is, I . . .” He sounded anxious, almost afraid. This was it. This was what she did not want to know . . .

She sat up, pushing the covers away. “Iareth Yscoithi,” she said bitterly. “You’ve seen her. I know all about it.”

“You do?” His voice was alarmed. “Listen, I . . .” She cut him short. “Valdin loved her. He’d have done anything for her. And she abandoned him.” Fear caught in her throat. She pushed it down, counted her breaths.

“She had a duty to her family. Valdin understood.”

“Did he?” She stood. “Not to my recollection. The only thing he understood was that he was hurting.”

“Iareth was hurt, too.”

“I doubt it.” Anger. That was easier by far than fear. She reached out to it, let it warm and sustain her.

He said, “Be fair, Yviane.”

“Why? She wasn’t fair. Valdin adored her, and she broke him.”

“Valdin dramatized everything. He had no sense of proportion. He was getting over it.”

“Really?” Yvelliane finished putting on the petticoat. She reached for her skirt and began to fasten it. “That’s easy to say.”

“It’s true.”

“I’m happy you can think so. It must be a great comfort to you.”

Thiercelin sat up. “And just what is
that
meant to mean?”

“What do you think?” She turned. They glared at each other for long moments. “You haven’t exactly been slow to run after her now that she’s back in Merafi. And I doubt she’s discouraging you.”

“Yviane!”

She ignored the outrage in his voice. “Valdin wasn’t enough for her, clearly. And you’re making it easy for her.”

“I made,” he said, “one courtesy call on her. I haven’t seen her since, nor do I expect to.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Your choice.” His voice shook.

Yvelliane drew on her bodice with jerky movements. Her fingers fumbled over the stiff buttons. “And what about Lieutenant Lievrier?”

“Who?” Momentarily, he seemed baffled. Then he blushed. “Oh, that. It’s unimportant. And it’s none of your business.”

“None of my business? When my husband goes fighting duels with an officer assigned to the Lunedithin embassy?” He was silent. “Did you really think you could keep it from me? He called on you here, you know.”

With an effort, he said, “It’s nothing, Yviane. A silly disagreement.”

“Call it off, then.”

He looked away.

She said, “Well?” She made herself hold his gaze. She must not back down. She could not be hurt, not again, not now. She had her anger to hold her, to protect her . . .

He said, “I . . . It’s a matter of honor. However little I may want to fight him, I can’t back down without losing . . .”

It was Valdarrien’s answer. Somewhere, beneath her fury, Yvelliane felt pain creeping up on her. She fought to keep her voice cold. “Losing what? Your life, like Valdin?”

“Please don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I . . .”

She ignored him. “Iareth came here six years ago, and it cost Valdin his life. Now she’s back, and you’re risking yours.”

“It isn’t like that.”

She looked at him. “Prove it. Call off the duel.”

He closed his eyes. “I can’t.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Can’t. Yviane, I . . .”

She cut him off. “You’re right. I don’t understand you
or
Valdin. As if any of the things you fight over actually matter!”

He looked up. “I’m not in the habit of dueling. As you know.”

“Then why now?” He was silent. “Because of Iareth Yscoithi?”

“No.”

“Then why? You have no other reason, have you?” Thiercelin still said nothing. She sighed. “Don’t you care, Thierry? She killed Valdin as surely as if she fired the gun.”

“That is
not
true.”

“It is.”

“River rot it! Is that all you wanted this morning, to play off a jealous scene?” He glared at her.

“I’m not jealous.” She lifted her chin.

“You certainly could’ve fooled me.” She made no reply. “That’s it, isn’t it? Iareth did what you never could. However much you bullied him, Valdin wouldn’t behave. He just went right on quarreling and fighting. But she tamed him.”

“I hardly think . . .”

He interrupted her. “You always have to be in control. Of me, of Firomelle, of Valdin . . . He could never do a drowned thing right for you. You censured everything he did—his friends, his pastimes, his manners. If he was wild, is it any wonder?”

“You tell me! You were fast enough to encourage him in all his games. Almost from the moment he set foot in Merafi, you were there, introducing him to all the rakehells and gamblers, and letting him keep you, half the time. Sometimes I wonder if it really was
me
you were in love with!” She stopped. She had not meant to say that. Had never meant to say it. If it were true . . . Her throat was tight; her eyes threatened tears.

“Indeed?” Thiercelin rose and made her a small bow with offensive precision. “I’m surprised you waste time thinking about it. I’m sure Firomelle has better uses for you.”

“Now who’s jealous?”

“I have no idea.”

“Oh, really?” Her voice was contemptuous. “You begrudge every minute I spend away from you.”

“Well, that would be most of your life, wouldn’t it? Why don’t you tell me something, Yviane? Tell me: why did you bother to marry me, if all you want is a man for an hour or two every couple of months?” he said. “Or is it that I’m cheaper than Gracielis?”

She looked round at him and, despite herself, her eyes were wet. He reached out to her. She ignored him. She said, “Well, you should know
his
current going rate.” And swept from his room, slamming the door behind her. She heard Thiercelin curse, then a crash as he flung something at the wall. Halfway down the corridor outside, she stopped, pressed a hand to her mouth. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her eyes stung.
Why did you bother to marry me?
She had dared not answer that, not when he was so angry, so willing to hurt her.
BecauseI was so alone. Because I felt safe with
you. She half-turned, looking back at his door. She might go back, try to explain. She could still smell him on her skin, dearly familiar. She wanted to go back.

He was still angry. She might only make things worse. He had seen Iareth; he was seeing Gracielis . . . She had pushed and argued with Valdarrien all his life, and it had made no difference at all. He had never heeded her. She did not know how to deal with those she loved, only with numbers and intrigues and dry papers. Swallowing hard, she rubbed her hand over her eyes and made herself go down the stairs to her office and its piles of work.

Alone in his room, Thiercelin buried his face in his trembling hands. “Drown you, Valdin,” he said, very softly. “Oh, drown you.”

Miraude smoothed out the folds of her gooseberry silk afternoon gown, and contemplated herself in her longest mirror. The dress was new, but she had horrified her
modiste
by requiring it to be made in a countrified style.

The round neckline was cut high, and the plain sleeves fitted tightly to just below her elbow, without ribbon or frill. On another woman, it might have been dowdy. On Miraude . . . She looked charmingly serious, a modest jewel in the casket of her suite. Her acquaintances would wonder at her for a day or two: she could afford that. In a week, at least a third of them would be wearing garments in the same mode.

It paid, she had learned, always to appear completely confident. Inside, however, she felt uncertain. Kenan Orcandros was a different kind of challenge. She had always been able to rely on her charm and her beauty to steer her to her goals. Kenan was unlikely to be so easy. She frowned at herself. Today, she must be quiet and modest, careful and scholarly, and hope that the simple fact of her nationality would not prove an insurmountable barrier. She wished Thiercelin were coming to her salon. But he had stalked from the house at lunchtime, face set and shoulders rigid. Yvelliane was locked away in her study and refusing to answer her door. Miraude’s frown deepened. Something was wrong in her home, and she had no idea why.

She had no time to find out right now. However much she disliked it, it would have to wait. Giving her gown a final pat, she went through into the drawing room attached to her boudoir. Chairs had been arranged in a series of small, intimate circles about tables or before the hearth. A long white sideboard bore a selection of cold refreshments; on a square table close to the door were set decanters of wine and goblets. Maids would be ready in the kitchens to bring in tea and chocolate. The air was scented with fresh flowers and with pinewood. Books of prints, of poetry, of philosophy were on hand for debate or diversion. Atop another table was a ready supply of paper, quills, and ink.

It was not necessary to be well-born or wealthy or even well-mannered to be admitted to Miraude’s salon. She had realized early on that one might meet one’s social peers anywhere. Interesting conversation was much rarer. From the first day she had set up the salon, that had been her goal. Her regulars included indigent writers, wealthy dilettantes, priests and scientists, philosophers and painters, aristocrats and musicians and travelers, actors, mathematicians, scholars, and anyone who intrigued or amused the hostess. Yvelliane was an occasional visitor; Thiercelin had always refused to attend. “I don’t mind listening, Mimi, but someone might expect me to say something clever.”

“Mal comes,” Miraude had pointed out.

“Yes, but Mal never minds looking like an idiot,” Thiercelin had said, and retreated to the stables.

Today’s program included a recital of several new poems, a piece performed by a shy young harpsichordist, and a discussion of a treatise upon the nature and meaning of the Five Domains written by a skeptical university doctor. She had chosen them with care, seeking to engage the attention of her most particular guest, Kenan.

He was among the last to arrive, accompanied by the Lunedithin ambassador, Ceretic. She met them at the door and dropped a neat curtsy. “Your Highness. Thank you for coming.”

“We do not use titles in Lunedith.” He looked over her head as he spoke.

“That must create an admirable informality of conversation.”

“We find,” said Kenan, “that individuals know their place without constant reminders.”

Miraude lowered her eyes and introduced him to the deputy priest of the temple of the flame.

She made it a principle to talk little at her gatherings. She found she learned more that way. She passed among the guests, listening a little here, smoothing over an irritation there, smiling and gracious and demure. By the time she made her way back to Kenan, he had been joined by a scholar from the university, a priest, a satirical writer and a merchant-chemist who made it a point never to believe in anything he had not seen or measured or tested for himself. She paused beside them, leaning gracefully against the back of the writer’s chair, opposite Kenan. She knew she made a charming picture, the eggshell walls setting off the fragile color of her gown and the creamy gold of her skin, the late afternoon light striking deep blue notes in her hair, one long ringlet falling forward to kiss her cheek.