Ferran's Map (40 page)

A portly butler opened the door and, after
reading her summons, welcomed her inside. A maid whisked away her
cloak. The manor seemed subdued and quiet, more like a mausoleum
than a house, and she noticed that all the servants wear wearing
black. That sight left her unsettled; there must have been a death
recently. She wondered who had passed.

A half-minute later, Ferran bounded easily
down the wide staircase, taking three steps at a time. Lori sucked
in a short breath when she saw him. He looked tall and dashing in
his noble attire: a vest of gray and silver brocade fastened over a
white tunic with billowing white sleeves. His brown hair fell
across his brow in a slight wave. He looked younger, somehow, his
face clear, his features less worn by living on the road.

Reaching her side with a wide grin, he
looked unusually relieved to see her, took her hand and quickly
kissed it. “My dear,” he said. “Welcome to the Ebonaire
estate.”

The kiss took her aback. Lori wasn’t sure
what to say.

“Why, she is the spitting image of Sora!”
another voice interrupted. “Or rather, Sora is the spitting image
of her mother. Hello, Lorianne.”

A dark-haired man entered the hall, dressed
in a long black coat and green vest. He walked with an
ramrod-straight, regal air. Lori thought the two brothers looked
alike. Ferran’s younger brother Martin had a clean-cut,
aristocratic look about him, where Ferran was decidedly more
roguish. Still, their mouths and eyes both tilted when they smiled,
and they both seemed to habitually thrust their hands into their
pockets.

Ferran introduced them properly, and Lori
curtsied before asking about Lady Danica. She would rather skip the
First Tier formalities. “Thank you for the warm invitation,” she
said, her tone polite and professional. “Is your daughter very
sick? I should see her immediately.”

“Come this way,” Martin said. “She has been
sick for almost a week. Her mother came down with the same illness
several months ago….”

Lori looked at Martin gravely. “Did she
survive?”

“No,” he replied shortly. Then, in a softer
tone, “It has been difficult for us.”

That explained the somber attire of the
staff, and the general sense of malaise in the house. Lori allowed
Martin to lead her upstairs to Lady Danica’s grand bedroom on the
second floor. She looked about the magnificent room with a bit of
awe. It was large enough to encompass her entire house; the ceiling
was so high, she couldn’t imagine how the maids dusted the
corners.

She had never understood the nobility’s need
for immense indoor space, which she had always found quite
wasteful. Yet as a work of art, the room was immaculate, decorated
in hand-woven tapestries, oil paintings, deep burgundy curtains and
a polished dark wood floor. Plump sofas and large armchairs
surrounded an ornate fireplace. The furniture and mantel were
gilded in gold leaf; or perhaps it was truly made of gold, she
couldn’t tell. Danica’s bed stood on the opposite side of the room
near a row of tall windows. The bed was large enough for four
people to lie there side-by-side.

Lady Danica rested silently and completely
still, surrounded by a mountain of pillows. Two maids attended her
with a bowl of warm water. One swept a damp cloth across the girl’s
brow.

Lori immediately went to Lady Danica's side
and dismissed the two maids. First, she checked the young girl’s
vitals—the patient looked to be around fifteen years old. Her pulse
was weak and fluttery. She forgot Ferran's and Martin’s presence in
the room as she went to work.

Her first assessment of the patient was
unexpectedly positive. Fever blisters, yes, and a heavy cough. But
no blackened nails.

“She had chills,” one of the maids said, “so
we heated the room as best we could….”

“You should move her to a smaller room,”
Lori said absently as she listened to Danica’s breathing. “Less
drafty, with a fireplace closer to the bed.”

The maid nodded.

“Is it the plague?” Ferran asked softly. She
hadn’t noticed him by her side.

“No,” she said as she straightened. Her eyes
traveled to Lord Martin, who hovered at the foot of the bed. “A
very bad case of pneumonia.”

Ferran barely hid his surprise.

Martin stared at her. His hand clutched the
bed frame. He seemed staggered by the news.

“Pneumonia?” he echoed. “The other Healers
said it was incurable….”

Lori snorted. “They probably mistook it for
the plague,” she said, “but I’ve seen both. She will recover with
proper care.” Then her tone changed, becoming gentler. “Tell me,
has your daughter always suffered from poor health? Fainting
spells? Is she easily bruised?” She glanced at Danica’s sleeping
form. The girl looked as white as the bedsheets.

“Yes,” Martin nodded, showing his
surprise.

“She has a blood condition. Something she
was born with. It makes her fragile,” Lori said. “I’ve seen this
before. Red meat will help. And beets. And fresh honey each season
for her allergies.”

Martin looked at Ferran with raised
eyebrows. “She’s very good,” he said, referring to Lori.

“I’ve seen a lot of illness,” Lori replied
with a smile.

Martin gave her a short bow, which Lori
found quite unexpected, coming from an Ebonaire. He caught her eye
when he raised his head again. “Thank you, sister. You are as
intelligent as you are beautiful.” Then he turned to Ferran.
“You’ve done well for yourself.”

Lori noticed Ferran’s flush of pride, then
his silent bristle of annoyance. She wondered at his response. Was
he jealous? Or perhaps simply embarrassed, as they weren’t truly
married?

Martin looked satisfied. “I’ll leave you to
your work, then,” he said. “I have business to attend to upstairs.
Letters to write and ledgers to balance. Shall I see you at
dinner?”

Lori remembered to curtsy again. “Yes. Until
this evening, Lord Ebonaire,” she said.

He winced. “Please, just Martin. We’re
family now.” He turned and left the room. The maids were behind
him, carrying a basket of soiled towels.

Ferran waited until the door was shut. “That
went well,” he said softly, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Martin has been very welcoming so far. I suppose we’re lucky.” His
eyes lingered a bit too long on her. “How are you?” he asked.

Lori hesitated, wondering if he meant her
dagger wound, or her overall reaction to being in the Ebonaire
manor. “Fine,” she replied briefly. “And you?”

“As well as one can expect,” he said
quietly.

Lori sensed he wanted to tell her something.
He shifted his weight, but didn’t speak.

She cleared her throat. “Have you found any
evidence of…?” She glanced cautiously at Danica’s sleeping
figure.

“We’re looking,” he said.

“You should have asked me before deciding to
come here,” Lori chided. “There must be an easier way to track them
down; too much is at stake. And where is Sora?”

“She should be back soon. She went shopping
for dresses,” Ferran explained.

Lori raised an eyebrow. “Shopping?” she
asked. “That sounds
very
productive, Ferran.”

He shrugged. “She’s searching The Regency as
well, looking for signs of the Shade. We just arrived here, Lori.
We’ve barely had time to explore the house, let alone hunt down a
cult—”

“Hush,” she murmured. Danica stirred. Lori
waited until the girl’s breathing became deep and even and then
continued, “We shouldn’t be here. It’s a distraction.”

“Caprion said the leader of the Shade is
staying in The Regency. Now that they have the weapons—”

“Oh, you heard about that already?”

“Caprion arrived an hour ago, then went to
find Sora.”

Lori sighed. She was shocked and dismayed
that morning when she heard the news. She had spoken to Caprion at
length about the weapons theft. He suspected Crash, but she didn’t
know if she agreed. She was more concerned about her daughter.

“It seems we’ve delivered the weapons
straight into the Shade’s hands,” she said grimly. “I think they
planned this, Ferran. I have a sense they are biding their time,
waiting for the ideal moment to strike. They know our faces, but we
are still blind. We fell into a trap by coming to this city.”

Ferran looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps,” he
said, “but what other choice did we have?”

Lori shrugged. "Not much choice at all. The
Regency is a dangerous place for us,” she whispered. “I’m not
welcome among the nobility. I have a past here. Did our encounter
with Cedric at the seminary mean nothing to you?” She absently
touched her bandaged ribs. “If he were to stumble across us
again….”

Ferran frowned. “You have nothing to fear
from Cedric Daniellian,” he said firmly. “That spoiled bastard will
get what’s coming to him. Don’t worry about that.”

His tone of voice concerned her. “What do
you mean?” she asked.

“Cedric deserves retribution,” he said with
dark implication.

“Well, that explains part of it,” she mused,
and fixed him with a discerning stare. “Is that why you were so
ready to come here? To get another shot at Cedric? I won’t have it.
We need to stay focused on our original quest. Cedric Daniellian is
of no consequence.”

“To you, mayhap,” Ferran muttered.

“I won’t discuss it,” Lori said brusquely,
and wiped her hands on a clean towel. “Seven years have passed.
I’ve made my peace. I just want to avoid him, especially while I
stay in this house. Can we manage that?”

Ferran nodded and passed her a jar of salve
for the fever blisters on Danica’s lips.

“If he visits, I’ll make myself scarce,” she
added, and applied the salve with a light touch, then pressed a
damp cloth to Danica’s head. The girl’s fever seemed to be calming
now that she wasn’t under so many blankets.

An uneasy silence fell between them. Ferran
cracked the knuckles on his left hand. His Cat’s Eye gleamed at his
wrist. She wondered what he was thinking.

“The Shade will show themselves eventually,”
he finally said.

“Hopefully sooner rather than later,” she
muttered.

He frowned. “I wouldn’t have returned to
this house if I didn’t think our plan would work. I didn’t come
here for Daniellian. I know what’s important, Lori. I’m not an
ignorant pirate. I’m not some drunken fool.”

“You were when I met you.”

“For a stage of my life, yes. But that’s not
who I am.”

Lori remained silent. She didn’t want to
delve into this conversation. It was too late to argue about their
predicament. They were staying at the Ebonaire house and she would
have to put up with it. She wondered how her daughter was holding
up, and hoped Sora would stay out of trouble.

“When you’re finished here, I want to show
you something,” Ferran said abruptly.

Lori glanced up. “Oh?”

“Meet me in my room,” he said mysteriously.
“It won’t take long. I found something of note.” He strode
leisurely out the door.

Lori watched him go. She wondered what he
was referring to. Perhaps old family memorabilia…or gold? Rumor had
it the Ebonaires hid bags of gold in the walls of their estate.
Silas had made several comments about that.

She wondered how Ferran felt, being in this
house after so many years away. His brother Martin was not what she
expected—better, in fact, than she had imagined. He seemed a good
man, although still a businessman; he played his role well.

Unspoken tension was obvious between the two
brothers. She wondered if Martin would invite Ferran to the
upcoming winter festival. The Ebonaire family always hosted First
Winter’s Ball. Would Ferran be allowed to make a public appearance?
It would be quite the "coming-out." Despite twenty years having
passed, many of the nobility would remember his exile, and his
rumored double-life as the notorious Redhanded Ferran. Perhaps it
was time for the truth to "come out."

For now, Ferran seemed surprisingly
well-adjusted. But she still noticed his anxious passage through
each room, and the way his eyes lingered on family portraits,
particularly along the first-story hallway. He didn’t appear in any
of them. In some ways, he stood out like a misplaced vase. He
belonged in this house…but where, exactly? How did he fit?

Danica coughed. Lori lay a soothing hand on
the girl’s chest. Only fifteen, she already looked like a young
woman, with long, dark curls and porcelain skin. She could tell
Danica’s height by her length on the bed. Tall, like the Ebonaires.
Long-boned. Elegant. Their bloodline was strong, and Danica looked
far more like Martin or Ferran than Sora did.

Perhaps Ferran had made a mistake. Perhaps
Sora
wasn’t
his daughter. Perhaps he and Lori’s encounter
meant nothing, and she could move past it.

Yes,
Lori thought to herself.
Nothing’s changed.
Sora’s parentage was of no consequence.
Lori had her daughter, and of their own relationship, she could be
certain.

She patted Danica’s hand gently. “Your
mother worries about you very much,” she said, thinking of her
portrait downstairs. Lady Ebonaire had kind brown eyes and a sweet,
dimpled smile. Lori felt certain her spirit sat in this very room,
watching over her sick daughter. She could almost feel the woman’s
imprint on the bed. This house seemed filled with ghosts.

The maids returned and set a simmering pot
of water over the fire, then left again. Lori waited until the
water boiled and released a cloud of minty steam into the room. It
would clear the girl’s lungs and draw out the infection. Lori
expected significant results by morning.

She stood up. Her back ached, and her wound
pulled with each breath. She took a moment to gather herself.
Thirty-six could not be called young, and her age was beginning to
catch up with her.

She shut Danica’s bedroom door softly behind
her, and headed for Ferran’s room.