“A good thing we made it sturdy, since you came to tea with us,” Margaret answered, forcing a cheerfulness into her voice that she was far from feeling. How could her father bear it? Her new-found respect for her estranged father increased as she watched him behave as if everything were quite normal. She bit her lip, then continued. “I was so startled when you hiked your skirts up and climbed up to the platform as if you had done it a hundred times. And the Weevus children thought you were wonderful, and one of them, Daren, wanted to come and live with us and have you for a mother. He had a perfectly nice mother, but she wasn’t the sort who climbed trees.”
“What else has been going on behind my back?” Lew asked, sounding very amused, though she caught an undercurrent of pain in his voice.
“Lots of things. We didn’t want to bother you with them.” Dio gave her husband a feeble smile. “You’ve filled out nicely since you left us, chiya. You were such a slender girl, all legs and eyes, and now you are a woman.” This speech seemed to exhaust her, and her hand in Margaret’s felt limp.
“Next time you build a tree house, Marja, you’d better invite me for tea as well. I can manage the climb, I believe.” I should have prepared her better for Dio—what a selfish fool I can be! But I couldn’t! Still, she is handling herself wonderfully. How the gods have favored me in my child. How could I have let her leave me—set herself apart for all these years?
Stop whipping yourself Father. The past is past—we have to deal with the present! “Absolutely, Father. I saw a tree at Armida that would be perfect, and I can’t imagine why there isn’t one there already.”
He gave a sharp snort of laughter. “I cannot wait to see the expression on Javanne’s face. Now—how are you today, dearest?”
“Much the same, though one of Regis’ Healers gave me something that eased the spasms, and I have been able to rest a little. They wish me to get strong enough to be moved to Arilinn for treatment.”
“Then that is what we will do, Dio. We will get you strong.”
“You always think that you can make things right, and that is why I love you.”
Margaret was embarrassed at this open display of deep affection, and felt excluded by its intimacy. She wondered if she would ever say such tender words to any man, and found that she wanted to more than she could have imagined. “I think I’d like to have a bath,” she said, to conceal her feelings, “and get ready for dinner. Regis has asked us to dine with him, which sounds terribly formal.” She made a gesture at her rather worn clothing.
“It is as formal as anything gets on Darkover, but don’t worry, Marja.” Lew nodded as he spoke. “Your rooms are through that door. One of the servants should have brought your things by now.”
Margaret could not think of anything to say, so she withdrew. What was wrong with Dio, she wondered, and why hadn’t she been treated with Terran medical technology? Or perhaps she had, and it had not worked. She needed to ask someone, but she didn’t want to disturb her father.
After several frustrating minutes, she remembered Regis Hastur’s consort, who had been so kind and friendly on her previous visit. Lady Linnea?
You needn’t shout! There was no anger in the answering thought, just good humor and with it welcome! What is it, Marguerida? The calm and serenity in Linnea’s thoughts eased her fears a little.
My mother, Dio, is so very ill, and I wondered what can be done here on Darkover that can’t be done by Terranan medicine. It will just kill Father if she doesn’t get better!
A good question. The Terrans are very good with their machines and all, but a trained leronis can work what you might think were miracles.
How?
Remember when you were monitored?
How did Linnea know that? It didn’t matter. Yes.
Dio is being monitored in the same way, right down to her cells. And what can be perceived can be affected, you see?
Sort of. It’s rather hard to believe.
You don’t have to believe, Marguerida. Now, don’t worry. Diotima is in the best hands, and everything that can be done will be.
The mental contact was withdrawn gently, and Margaret took several shaky breaths and tried to ignore the sense of despair that filled her. Looking around the room, she noticed her still-packed bags, and started to undo the clasps when a plump maid came in. The girl moved to help her, but Margaret waved her back, eager to have something to do to keep her mind and hands busy.
It was all very well to be told not to worry, but she could not help it. Ivor’s death was still too fresh in her mind, in her heart, and the idea that Dio might perish was more than she could bear. She could not stop thinking about it, no matter how hard she tried. While they had been traveling, she had managed to deny her fears, but now she had actually seen Dio, it was quite impossible. And duty demanded she do exactly that. It was, she decided, the hardest thing she had ever had to do, and her admiration for her father, who had probably had to do many things that he hadn’t wished to, increased again. He really was not the man she remembered, and she was eager, she discovered, to know the Lew Alton he now was. But he did not really know her either. They would have to start all over, fresh but still burdened by the past. In her present mood, that was enough to blurr her eyes with tears.
She blinked away the wetness, angry at herself, and concentrated on her unpacking again. Beneath her precious recording equipment Margaret found the green spider-silk dress which Manuella had sent as a gift, quite crushed but still beautiful. She had completely forgotten about it during her journey, and now she shook it out and wondered if it was appropriate for a formal dinner.
“Can you get the wrinkles out of this?” she asked the maid.
“Certainly, domna. It would be my pleasure. How lovely it is.” The maid held it up. “MacEwan’s work?”
“How did you know?”
“No one has his hand with the cloth. He is the finest master tailor in Thendara. I will make it right while you bathe.”
When she undressed, Margaret spent a few minutes looking at her left hand. For the most part, she ignored it, and the glove which concealed the peculiar lines on it, but she tried to see if the lines were different. Was she going to have to wear a leather glove on her hand for the rest of her life?
The lines did look a little different today, and she wondered if it was something to do with her second foray into the overworld. A matrix stone was a focus for innate talents, from what Liriel and Istvana had told her. Kept in a silken bag, it did not function except when taken out and used. So it was different, very different from having the shadow of a matrix stone engraved in the flesh. And it was not quite like anything anyone knew about.
If her father were not so distracted with Dio, she might like to talk to him about it. But she really didn’t want to bother him now. Well, she couldn’t do anything about it right then anyway. She let it go with difficulty, found herself thinking about Mikhail instead, and decided that this subject was even more hazardous to her peace of mind than trying to figure out telepathy with insufficient information.
A steaming, scented bath did a great deal toward restoring her energy and settling Margaret’s mind. It was with great reluctance that she quitted the tub, dried her body carefully, slipped on a soft robe that was hanging, ready for her, and put the glove back on. It was so stiff now that she hated having it against her skin, but she dared not risk touching someone without its protective covering.
When she got back to her bedroom, she found the maid singing quietly to herself as she smoothed the bedding and patted the pillow into shape. The song distracted her from worrying about Dio, thinking about Mikhail, or the other things her ever-active mind seemed determined to bother her with. “What’s that you are singing . . . I am sorry, I did not even ask your name.”
“I am Piedra, domna. It’s not much—just an old lullaby my mother always sang to me. I always sing it when I make the bed. It is quite foolish, but I believe that people sleep more soundly when I leave a lullaby on their pi
llow.”
“That sounds very sensible to me,” Margaret answered. “Will you sing it all the way through for me? I’d like to hear all the words.” She reached down and picked up her recorder, checked to make sure the batteries had not failed, and turned it on. She wanted something safe around her, and music was the surest thing she knew. Music did not lie or die; it simply was.
The maid looked mildly startled, then amused. “If you like, domna.” She began to sing, a very slight soprano with no training, but sweet and simple, like the song itself. The words were charming, all about various birds and animals going to sleep, and Margaret suspected it had an endless number of verses. She had heard similar things on other worlds, but none, she decided, was prettier than this.
When Piedra was finished, Margaret thanked her. She got out her Terran underwear, which was clean, and put on the soft cotton things. Then she pulled the spider-silk dress over her head and let it settle across her shoulders. It fit nicely, and Piedra’s nimble fingers fastened the many buttons that ran along the spine. She sat Margaret down and undid her hair from the knot she had put it in for bathing, and gave it a long, careful brushing, so that Margaret relaxed with the gentle movements and almost forgot about her worries for a time.
The maid pinned and dressed her hair, slipped the butterfly clasp into place, and grinned broadly. “You have lovely hair, domna.”
“Really? I never thought so—it’s so fine and flyaway.” She studied the woman in the mirror, and saw a stranger. Margaret was not vain, and rarely looked at herself more than to be sure she hadn’t left toothpaste on her lips or that there were no dust marks on her cheeks. She had hated mirrors for as long as she could remember. Even though Ashara was no longer there to haunt her, she still felt somewhat uneasy looking at her own image.
The person in the mirror was very pale, with golden eyes which seemed enormous and lambent. She realized that her resemblance to Thyra Darriell was very strong, though Thyra’s hair was a little darker, and her eyes were amber, not golden like Margaret’s. But the delicate bones beneath her fair skin were like her long dead mother’s, and she could only be grateful she had not inherited her frightening instability.
She did not know the beautiful, aristocratic woman in the mirror at all. Margaret looked at her gloved hand against the soft silk of the gown and down at her stockinged feet peeking out from beneath the embroidered hem. She was going to look very odd, wearing a leather glove and one of her two pairs of boots to a formal dinner. Well, there were her beloved bedroom slippers, so worn and disgusting that she should have replaced them ages ago. Boots had been acceptable at Armida, but this was Comyn Castle. Odd—she wanted so much to reflect well on her father. She had never wanted that before, and after a second, she decided she liked it. “I don’t have anything for my feet.”
Piedra looked pleased. “I noticed you didn’t have anything proper when I put your clothes away, so I went and borrowed something for you. I hope you do not mind.”
“Mind? Certainly not. But where did you find any shoes?”
Piedra shook her head, and her cheeks turned rosy. “Comyn Castle is full of things—like an attic, domna—that are left and forgotten or just plain discarded. It is shocking! The staff has to keep it all clean and dusted, so I know more about closets than I wish to. And in the Aillard Suite there is an entire cabinet full of old shoes and slippers. Jerana Aillard left them. She was said to have been very vain, and to have loved fancy shoes. I think they will fit.”
Like a conjurer, the maid produced a pair of silvery slippers adorned with a pattern of feathers. They fit well enough, being of a soft leather that gave. “She must have been a very tall woman for her shoes to fit me.”
“I don’t know, domna. All I have heard is that she drove the staff mad with her demands when she was here, which was a great deal of the time, since she was married to Aran Elhalyn, who was keeping the throne warm just then. It was all long before my time. Pardon, domna, are you going to wear that glove? It doesn’t quite go with the dress.”
It was tactfully said, but it confirmed all her doubts. “Well, I have to keep my hand covered, and I just don’t have anything else with me. If I had known that I would be attending state dinners, I would have made arrangements, of course.” She envisioned herself with baggage filled with pretty gowns and fine slippers and all the rest. The image was so ridiculous that she laughed out loud.
“I’ll go find you something nicer, then. I confess that I rather enjoy an excuse to rummage about in the closets—it is ever so much more fun than just dusting things. And sweeping carpets! Ugh. Just thinking about it makes me sneeze!”
Piedra left the room, and Margaret wriggled her toes in the shoes of a long-dead woman. A queen, it seemed. She wondered if she would ever be able to keep the intricacies of Darkovan families straight. The Elhalyns. Mikhail had mentioned them as the real kings of Darkover. But she really didn’t want to think about Darkovan history just then, so she put her recorder back in its case to keep busy.
The maid returned with several long boxes in her arms. She was grinning, and was clearly enjoying herself immensely helping Margaret get ready for dinner. She put the boxes down and started to take out sets of gloves—long ones and short ones, leather ones and cloth ones. There must have been three dozen pairs.
“More loot from the Aillard Suite?”
“Loot? Well, I never thought about it like that, but, yes, I suppose it is. Hmm. These silk ones are a good color match, if they will fit you.”
Margaret took the offered gloves and tried on the right one, to see if they fit. The gloves were long, almost elbow high, and were made of the same fine silk as her gown, but in some other weave, so they stretched over her fingers. There was fine embroidery, tiny silver feathers, around the open end, and she was almost sorry that the sleeve of her gown would hide it. But the glove fit perfectly, and she was happy to remove the leather one on her left hand, and replace it with the lighter one.
As soon as the silk slipped over the lines in her palm, Margaret felt something change. The sense of energy moving back and forth across her skin lessened, and she realized that this material was a better shield than leather. She noticed she had been unconsciously resisting the energy, and that now she no longer needed to. It was such a relief that she nearly cried, but instead she pulled herself together, thanked Piedra again and went back to the sitting room to find her father.
Lew’s hair was still a little damp from bathing, and he had put on a bronze-colored tunic and brown trousers.
The fabric was old, she thought. The clothes must have been waiting for him all those years. And they still fit perfectly! Margaret thought he looked very handsome, except for the worry lines between his eyebrows. He looked at her, in her unaccustomed finery, and nodded his approval. “You look quite wonderful in that gown. Where did you get it—in one of the closets?”
“I feel pretty wonderful, too, which is strange. I’ve felt a lot of things since I got here, but wonderful was not one of them. And this dress is funny—it was a gift from Manuella MacEwan when I left Thendara what seems like ages ago. She insisted I would need something dressy, and that I would end up at the Castle, and I thought she was crazy. But, then, I’ve been thinking everyone on Darkover was crazy from time to time.”
“Who is Manuella?”
“She is the wife of master tailor Aaron MacEwan, in Threadneedle Street. She was very kind to me, and I intend to take them all my business from now on. Even if the Altons have patronized some other tailor since time immemorial!
Lew chuckled. “That’s the spirit! Fly in the face of tradition. I always wanted to, and I had so few opportunities. I believe that my father Kennard frequented some other tailor, for anything that was not made on the estate, but damn if I can recall the name just now.”
The couch where Diotima had been resting was vacant now. “Where is Dio?”
“The Healer and I got her into bed and she is sleeping.”
“What exactly is w
rong with her, Father?” Margaret didn’t want to ask the question, but she could not help herself.
“That is a good question, Marja. She has a disease which in the past was called ‘cancer,’ and which used to kill millions of people every year on old Terra. But genetic engineering fixed that, and now no one really knows how to treat the condition. In the past they used radiation, and even some things that were poison, in very small amounts, which could at times be worse than the disease itself. Today, there is hardly anyone who has a clue how to use such methods, though they did try. Dio said that if she were going to die, she wanted to do it under the sun of Darkover and nowhere else. So, I brought her home. What else could I do?” She must not die! Not yet. I need her so much!
“I am glad you did, even though I suspect you think you should have remained in the Senate or something else self-sacrificing.”
Lew stared at her, then gave a little laugh. “You always could see right through me, just like . . . I have something for you.” He turned to a table and picked up a small box. “This belonged to my mother, Yllana Aldaran. Dio has never worn it, for she does not wear much jewelry. But I think it was meant for you.” He held the box out and Margaret took it.
It was a jeweler’s box, old velvet rubbed and worn. Inside there was an enormous pearl in the shape of a single drop, a black tear resting on the pale satin which lined the box. It hung from a slender silver chain, and it was beautiful. Margaret held her breath for a moment, then took it out. “Why is it supposed to be mine?”
“Well, your name means ‘pearl,’ you know. Here, let me help you. You will ruin that fine hairdo otherwise.” He stood behind her, and drew the chain over her shoulders, shifted her hair aside gently, and fixed the clasp. She could feel his breath against her hair, and she began to understand why Darkovan women kept the napes of their necks well covered.