* * *
The Scottish room had a crown molding of thistles. The Swiss room was clad in wood and had a large tiled object that might have been a wood stove. The Yugoslav room had ornate, carved wood wainscoting. All the rooms were beautiful in their rich decorations. They were, however, stark and uncomfortable. Most of the rooms had only old-fashioned, wooden chairs with desk armrests.
Olivia felt like Goldilocks, trying out rooms, looking for a perfect fit. She was dragging the bears along with her to witness her attempts at finding a comfortable bed. At last they found the Syria-Lebanon room, which had satin sofa pillows on top of marble benches.
She sank down onto the cushions. Forest Moss settled beside her, seeking the comfort of her touch. The Wyverns stood waiting to see if she approved the room, or like the others, rejected it and moved on.
It was the most beautiful room she’d ever been in. The walls were elaborately gilded with silver and gold leaf. The floors were white marble inlaid with red stone. The gold-and-white-striped pillows were soft and shimmering. Every square inch of the ceiling was carved, inlaid, painted and gilded. “Lush” only began to describe the room. The deep U-shaped sofa, however, lined the walls, leaving only a small square of floor space free. The addition of six tall male elves made the room claustrophobic.
It was starting to freak her out that the Wyverns just stood there. They’d followed her around without speaking among themselves except occasional hand signals. They showed no surprise or dismay or even interest on their faces. It reminded her of when she was being shunned. She hated their silence but their disapproval might be worse.
She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see them. She decided it was a good thing that they were so patient. Troy would be shouting at her by now. Next step would be grabbing hold of her so hard it would leave bruises and dragging her to where he wanted her. Certainly, in her Bible, a holy being was patient. “With patience a ruler may be persuaded, and a soft tongue will break a bone.”
She would believe that the Wyverns were just until she had evidence otherwise.
* * *
She woke up hours later with no memory of falling asleep. She simply failed to open her eyes after closing them. Sometime during the night, the number of elves standing around watching over her multiplied. Ten of the laedin-caste royal marines had joined the party. They brought with them blankets, food and news that since it was pouring down rain, Forest Moss wasn’t needed by Prince True Flame.
Breakfast came in little wooden baskets; warm to the touch and fragrant with hot food. Her stomach, however, roiled at the smell. She cautiously opened the basket that Forest Moss handed her. It contained a thick oatmeal-like substance that tasted like walnuts and honey.
“Do you like it?” he asked anxiously.
“Yes. It’s good.” One less thing she needed to worry about. The only food they’d managed to save from her house were keva beans and potatoes; both needed cooking.
He opened his basket, revealing smoked eggs and dark rye bread. “This is Fire Clan cooking. The royal marines have their own field kitchens. Battle rations are plain but filling. They’ll be good for your baby.”
She tried not to feel upset by the fact that he called it that: her baby. She was barely able to think of her baby as more than an upset stomach. She knew that her feelings would change once she could feel it kicking and moving. Right now “it” was like the tail end of a bad case of food poisoning. She couldn’t expect him to see her baby as his. The moment it was born, it would be obvious that Troy was the father. Her baby would probably be blond or red-haired, freckle easily, and have round ears. In a single glance, people would know that nut-brown Forest Moss had nothing to do with producing the baby.
She’d hoped that he would consider it “their” baby. Certainly she always thought of the man that raised her as her father. The lack of blood ties only mattered when he tried to keep custody of her when her mother married her stepfather. She never considered her stepfather as her parent; he was a narcissistic dictator who saw her as a rebellious piece of property.
What type of father would Forest Moss be to her baby?
There was a sudden shift among the elves as someone came walking quickly down the hallway. The janitor’s late night phone call was finally bearing fruit.
The woman had her gray hair pulled back into a long braid, and wore a chocolate brown silk damask dress not as long as an elfin gown but certainly just as elegant. Aoife had told Olivia about the head of her college enough times that Olivia recognized the woman by description alone. She had to be Agnes Fisher, Dean of Elvish Studies.
Olivia was sure that the dean was the one interceding on the University’s behalf because she was an expert on Elvish culture. The woman, however, ignored Olivia and the Wyverns and tried to interact solely with Forest Moss. The dean spoke rapid fire High Elvish, which Olivia didn’t understand. Forest Moss stared at the woman, confusion growing on his face.
All her life Olivia had people tell her to shut up and stay invisible. Her mother had told her “be a little ghost” until Olivia cut eyeholes in a bed sheet and wore it around the house, moaning. Her experience last night at The O and later with the janitor had taught her that the male elves all expected her to lead. It was at once frightening and intoxicating. It made sense why Forest Moss deferred to her, but why the Wyverns? Were they waiting for her to make a mistake so huge that they could rightfully kill her for it? Certainly that level of pettiness was what she’d learn to expect from “holy” people.
The dean carried on at length in High Elvish, which Olivia didn’t know.
“Oh, please, stop that,” Olivia finally snapped in Low Elvish.
The dean glanced at Olivia for the first time. “Forgiveness?”
“I’m Forest Moss’ domi. He doesn’t understand human customs and technology so you’re going to have to deal with me and I don’t speak High Elvish.”
The dean glanced at her forehead where Forest Moss had marked her with the dau. Her gaze dropped down, taking all of Olivia in. Her dismay was clear on her face. “How old are you? Do your parents know what you’re doing?”
Olivia couldn’t lie with the elves listening in so she ignored the question. “Our house collapsed. We need temporary shelter.”
The dean opened her mouth and then reconsidered whatever she was going to say and closed it. She studied Olivia for a silent minute. “Until the middle of June, I had no idea who Tinker was,” the dean said in English. “I’m told that she was quite well known with the hoverbike racing fans. The last two months has been an education on how much the elves hold that teenage girl in esteem. The entire tengu race has gone from hated enemies to trusted allies by her word alone. It is compelling evidence that any young inexperienced female who gains the position of domi can be a power to be reckoned with. That said, Tinker is domi for the head of the Wind Clan, deep in their territory. I believe it would be a mistake for you to assume that you wield similar level of command among the elves.”
“I assume nothing.” Olivia was very aware of her ignorance. “But it’s kind of rude to come busting into here, getting all high and mighty, when you haven’t even told me who you are.”
“I’m Dr. Agnes Fisher, Dean of Elvish Studies. And I’m sorry, but I need to ask you to leave. I heard what Forest Moss did at Kaufmann’s; blowing up all those child mannequins. We’re responsible for the safety of our students. We can’t…”
“What students?” Anger made Olivia raise her voice. “You went on summer break just before the gate failed and you delayed fall registration because of the war.” She flung out her hand to point at the empty Commons Room behind Fisher. “There’s no one here!”
“What is wrong?” Forest Moss raised his hand, cocking his fingers. “What did she say?”
“Nothing is wrong.” Olivia hugged him. “Hush. Everything is fine. I’m still exhausted from last night and it makes me short tempered.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. Pregnancy was making it
feel like she’d spent the night wading through quicksand. She’d gotten up with the sun out of habit; she hadn’t had the luxury of sleeping in since she was a little girl.
“You should rest.” He swept Olivia up into his arms. “She needs to rest; she is with child.”
Olivia blushed, knowing that the dean would jump to the wrong conclusion as to who the father of her child was. Why did it matter what the woman believed? If the rumors were true, there were half-elf children scattered all over the city. They were kept hidden away so the elves couldn’t take them from their mothers. The hookers on Liberty Avenue could talk of nothing but how Blue Sky Montana had been forcibly taken from his older half brother. Olivia hadn’t thought the problem would ever be applied to her. She realized that one day it might.
Suddenly the dean was a welcome distraction. “I should finish talking to her.” Olivia wished she hadn’t exaggerated how tired she felt to excuse her anger. It would be nice to be good and angry instead of lost and confused.
“You can do it tomorrow,” Forest Moss said. He’d lived for hundreds of years; tomorrow probably seemed only minutes away.
Behind them, she heard Glaive telling the dean to return the next day. The woman didn’t argue. Olivia was torn. They had no right to squat in the university’s building, even as temporary shelter. If she insisted on talking with the woman, Olivia could possibly lose the argument with her. That would mean they’d end up out in the rain, trying to find someplace safe to live. The woman had already conceded for the day and was walking away. Forest Moss laid Olivia down on the sofa cushions that were newly covered with lavender-scented sheets.
“You must not wear yourself out or you’ll become sick.” He covered her with a soft blanket that felt like angora. “There is no place we need to be. Rest.”
There was no place for them to go, so he was right that there was no place they needed to be.
* * *
Confrontation with authority: round two.
The dean’s gown was Wind Clan blue and she had with her a thick book titled United Nations Elfhome Peace Treaty. Twenty-four hours had given the woman time to prepare. The dean tried for “friendly, nonthreatening meeting” by taking a seat on the sofa across the room from Olivia and Forest Moss. It was difficult for Olivia to judge the dean’s age. The skin on her hands was tissue-paper thin; her veins mapped their way over delicate bones. They were grandmother hands. Olivia’s mother looked older but life on the ranch had been hard on her mother.
At one time Dean Fisher had been stunning; she was now merely regal-looking with black hair that aged to a lush dark silver. Her eyebrows were still dark bold wings, although that might be due to makeup. She silently studied Olivia with rich amber brown eyes.
In Olivia’s experience, silence was a weapon.
Olivia focused on braiding Forest Moss’ hair. It calmed him when she fussed over him. Forest Moss sat at her feet, threading pieces of black silk ribbon through his fingers, humming happily. She wove the three strands of his white hair. Over. Under. Over. Under. She ignored Dean Fisher, stealing the power of the woman’s silence.
“I’ve checked the treaty,” the dean finally stated quietly in Elvish. “Pittsburgh, including these buildings, will be considered Wind Clan when and if the treaty is declared null and void.”
Forest Moss’ humming faltered slightly but he gave no other indication that he was listening to the conversation. He hadn’t even looked up when the woman entered the room.
“I believe Prince True Flame—” Olivia paused, not sure how to say “trumps” in Elvish, “—is of higher power than the viceroy. He wants Forest Moss close at hand, ready to fight.”
“I understand. What I don’t understand is why you haven’t sought out shelter elsewhere. The enclaves are better suited at hosting domana and sekasha.”
Olivia blushed and focused back on braiding. No one had suggested that to her and she hadn’t thought of it herself. If it was an option, why hadn’t the Wyverns said something sooner? She peeked up at Glaive who was standing quietly within striking range of the dean.
Amazingly, the male took her glance as a demand for information. “Ginger Wine’s is uninhabitable until the support walls are repaired. The viceroy is using Poppymeadow’s. Forge will be staying with his grandson; Iron Mace will also be guarding over the children. The distant voices say that three more Stone Clan domana will arrive shortly with their households. They will be housed at two of the Wind Clan enclaves and that requires all their current guests to be shifted. Forest Moss on Stone and his domi must find other lodgings.”
Olivia hadn’t heard that more domana had arrived in Pittsburgh. She wondered if Forge and Iron Mace were Stone Clan or Wind Clan. She didn’t want to detour the conversation. “Forest Moss needs to be in Oakland but there’s very little in the way of empty houses. It will take time to find something suitable. In the meantime, we need access to restrooms and shelter from the rain.”
“I understand.” The dean’s response annoyed Olivia because it seemed by her tone that she was actually saying “You can’t stay.”
“Your school currently isn’t holding classes,” Olivia snapped.
“The chancellor has decided that we will start fall term on Monday. We have to assume that Tinker domi will not be able to reestablish a connection with Earth. It isn’t even clear how she severed it. To continue as a school, the university must hold classes and give our students the education that they were promised.”
Olivia breathed out her anger. She’d slept an alarming amount yesterday. She didn’t want to be bullied out of a place with electricity and running water when she wasn’t sure of her own health. “I know that there are multiple floors in this building standing empty. There are subjects that you no longer teach, so they are no longer used.”
The dean glanced at Forest Moss. “This is a delicate, historic, iconic building…”
“Then one of your dormitories. They’re probably half empty as it is. You used to be bigger than University of Kansas. Your student population is a fraction of what it used to be and you were on summer break.”
“You have to understand, long before the first Startup, we stopped being able to house our entire student population. The university decided that instead of trying to build more dormitories in an increasingly crowded area that it would guarantee housing only to incoming freshmen. For decades, our upper-level students have lived off campus in apartments. To save costs, they’ve recently started to take over abandoned buildings to operate households modeled after the enclaves. We do not oversee those structures.”
“So you’re saying you don’t have empty buildings?”
The dean controlled a glance to the listening Wyverns. It was nearly unnoticeable, just a flick of the eyes and then her face going tight. The woman wanted to lie but couldn’t. “We might. I am unaware of any but housing is not my responsibility. I would have to look into it.”
“Until then, we could move upstairs to one of the empty floors.”
The dean sat still and poised while considering her options. Finally she accepted defeat with, “I’ll call buildings and grounds. They’ll turn on the lights on one of the empty floors.”
* * *
The Wyverns did not like the elevators. There were several, each dedicated to different levels of the tall building. The cars were large and clad in feather-pattern bronze and polished until they gleamed.
The holy warriors eyed the elevator to the twentieth floor like it was a great gaping mouth that was going to swallow them whole.
“Death trap,” one of them murmured.
“It’s like the lift on the gossamers.” Forest Moss walked into the gleaming car. Olivia stepped in after him.
The warriors exchanged glances, sighed, and boarded.
They rode up in silence.
The janitor waited in the twentieth-floor lobby, wiping his greasy hands on a rag. He bobbed, doing a quick bow, and started to edge nervously toward the elevator. “I got all the lights wo
rking. Had to fiddle a bit since some of the bulbs were older than I am.”
The dean blocked his escape. “Go downstairs and make sure the rest of their party know how to work the elevators.” When his eyes went wide, she sighed. “No, the others aren’t Wyverns, they’re laedin-caste. Just tell them you’re their escort and don’t let them get off on other floors.”
He got onto the elevator, muttering quietly, “Sure. Sure. Just tell a bunch of sword-happy elves to behave like they’re a bunch of stateside freshmen.”
The dean ignored him and waved a hand toward a big wooden desk that reminded Olivia of the checkout counter of her childhood library. “You can use this floor; it’s been empty since shortly after the first Startup.”
“Is the elevator the only way up?” Olivia didn’t want to be trapped this high if the power gave out.
“There are stairs.” Dean Fisher motioned toward double doors at the end of the hallway. “Students sometimes use the thirty-six flights of stairs for exercise, so don’t be alarmed if you hear someone in the stairway.”
“Exercise?” Olivia couldn’t imagine what the students would be doing on the steps. Surely they didn’t walk up thirty-six floors. Weren’t there machines that let you climb stairs without leaving one spot?
“It’s safer than many of the side streets and alleyways,” the dean said. “We’re close to the Rim even with the enclaves to buffer the city. Our security routinely sweeps all the floors to make sure we don’t get any stray plants or animals.”
The dean indicated the hallway behind the imposing reception desk. “Elvish Studies was going to expand into these offices next year. The restrooms on this floor have been updated, but not much else. I’m afraid that the mass exodus during the first year on Elfhome meant that anything that could be bought easily on Earth was left behind. Feel free to use whatever you find here.”
Dean Fisher moved down the hallway, flipping on lights, opening blinds, and pointing out the restrooms. All of the rooms looked like the occupants had fled in the middle of the night. Papers covered the desktops and floors. Drawers hung open, some empty, others half-full. A cup of coffee sat on one desk, a layer of mold growing on the surface of an ancient pool of liquid.