Thief of Light (12 page)

The boy shrugged. “Near ’nuff.” He made for the door.

“Wait!”

He paused, caution in every line of him. They stared at each other like duelists at dawn.

“Are you hungry?”

The child shrugged, but his face brightened. “Yah.” His shirt and trews were scruffy and creased in the manner of all small boys, though his face and hands were clean enough.

“Give this”—Prue scribbled a note—“to Katrin in the kitchen.”

He crumpled it in a hard little fist. “Who’s thet?”

“My daughter.” The inevitable smile of pride curved Prue’s lips. “Also the pastry cook, and a very fine one too.”

The boy’s head bent as he scanned the note. His neck was heart breakingly scrawny. “Wot’s it say?”

“Feed this child.”

“Not porridge? Hate t’ fookin’ stuff.”

Prue shut her mouth with a snap, though she was sorely tempted to laugh. “That’s all you’ll get if you don’t watch your language. Tell me . . . do you work for Master Thorensen?”

“Fer Erik?” The boy’s skinny chest expanded. “Yah.” A pause. “Sorta.”

“You know him well?”

A wary look. “Sorta.”

“What did he really say?”

The child shot her such a knowing glance that when she flushed, it felt like they shared a dirty secret. “He sed, ‘Florien, take t’ box t’ t’ lady wit’ t’ brown hair an’ t’ pretty eyes on t’ second floor.’ An’ then he sed, ‘An’ make sure she knows I ’p-poligize.’ But that was more a mumble, yer know?”

Automatically, Prue nodded. “Yes, I know.” She eyed the red box as if a corpsebird had laid its wrigglers in there. Pretty eyes? He thought she had pretty eyes?

When she looked up, the child had disappeared, without either farewell or thanks.

Prue shoved her chair back and rose to pace. The box glowered at her from the desk. She scowled right back. Mess? What mess?

On impulse, she pushed up the window to let in the air. A light breeze whispered past, cooling her heated face, playing with the stray tendrils that had escaped the braid. With it came a thread of music, a lilting soprano singing a country air. Tansy.

The girl started and stopped three times, improving, getting a little farther each time. On the fourth attempt, Erik’s voice slid in beneath hers, a deep, ardent counterpoint that both supported and flattered Tansy’s newly minted talent. Prue leaned against the sill, listening to them soar together, smiling. Beautiful, simply beautiful.

The box.

There’s no one else to do it,
she told herself.
This is what you do, what you’re good at. The gods help those who help themselves. That’s if they even exist. Get it over with.

Prue sat herself down, removed the lid and set it to one side with steady hands. Working quickly and methodically, she began sorting papers into neat piles on the desk—receipts, wages, takings, bills. A crease formed between her brows. In the normal course of business, she found bringing order out of chaos a soothing process. Erik Thorensen’s accounts had exactly the opposite effect.

By the time Rose popped her head around the door, Prue had gone beyond bemused to downright irritated. “What did you say?” She pushed the hair out of her eyes. Gods, her stomach felt hollow! A little more and she’d stop and eat.

Rose flopped into a chair, groaning. “Remind me why we promised Walker he could teach quarterstaff. Ow.” Wincing, she massaged the back of one long thigh. “I’m black and blue. He only let me go when I pleaded starvation. Want to break for lunch?” Her gaze lit upon the desk cluttered with papers, the brand-new ledger open at a pristine page. “Ah,” she said. “I see Erik delivered the Opera’s accounts.”

“No, he didn’t.” Where was the receipt that matched this invoice? Paint, timber, canvas. Must be for scenery. “He sent the oddest child. With an offworld accent and a foul mouth.” Oh, there it was! Pouncing, Prue unpeeled the page from its neighbor. She wrinkled her nose. Someone appeared to have used it for a tablecloth.

Rose said dryly, “At least he succeeded in getting your attention.”

“What?” Prue’s head jerked up. “Oh, love, I’m sorry. I’ve nearly finished this pile. Can you wait another five minutes?”

Rose gave a wry grin. “Never mind. I’ll nip down to the kitchen for a tray if you promise to eat with me when I get back.”

“Of course,” said Prue absently. “Thanks.” For the Sister’s sake, was that a four or a seven? She held the document up to the light, squinting.

She barely heard Rose’s chuckle, or her quiet curse as she rose and limped gracefully to the door.

Prue furrowed her brow, concentrating fiercely. Releasing a gusty sigh, she massaged the back of her neck with her non-inky hand. One more column of figures to total.

A man cleared his throat.

“Sweet Sister!” Prue lifted her head so fast, it spun. Erik was propped up against the door, watching. “What are you doing here?” Though why she was foolish enough to ask she didn’t know. The gods had created Erik the Golden for the sole purpose of tormenting her.

All sweet reason, he nodded at the heavily laden tray he carried. “I ran into Mistress Rose on her way to the kitchen.”

Prue bet he had. Every dish was piled high. Leaning back in the chair, she raised her brows. “I’m not that greedy, Master Thorensen. There’s enough there for a family of six.”

Erik opened his eyes wide. “Hmm. So there is.” He paused for a single beat. Then another.

Perfect timing, she couldn’t fault it.

“A lusty appetite—that’s what you need.” His eyes danced. “For lunch, that is.” Grinning like a boy, he heeled the door shut behind him. “And I’m your man.”

“No,” Prue meant to say, but what came out was an ungracious, “If you wish.” To the seven hells with ingrained courtesy and all the ridiculous habits that went with it.

Erik favored her with another sunny smile. “Why, thank you, Mistress Prue. I do wish.”

He strode past her and into the sitting room. By the time she caught up with him, he’d unloaded a delicate tisane pot and cups on the low table. Rose kept that set for only the most exalted clients. Prue gritted her teeth. Her so-called friend would be smiling with glee, undoubtedly surrounded by reliable witnesses. Boiling in oil was too slow.

Prue watched Erik lay out the dishes one by one. This was a gourmet picnic, everything of the very finest, nothing like the mundane lunch she and Rose would have shared. There were small, savory quiches, golden three-cornered spicepuffs, a plate of Katrin’s exquisite pastries, including a couple of individual curdle pies made to Meg’s recipe and piped with meanders of clotted cream. Even a bowl of summer fruits on ice, manda segments bursting with juice and a selection of fat, ripe berries, ranging from purple to crimson to blush pink, all dusted with powdered sugar.

“There.” Carefully, Erik placed a crystal bud vase in the center of the arrangement. It contained a single perfect dark rose, the satiny, near-black petals half-open.

Prue regarded it with misgiving. The Garden of Nocturnal Delights was a small, self-contained world, worse than a village for gossip. The rumor mill would have her bedded and Bonded with the singer before he’d brushed the crumbs from his stubborn chin.

Gods, what would Katrin be thinking?

She hadn’t realized her eyes were shut tight until a big hand enveloped hers.

“Are you all right? You’re very pale.” A firm grasp on her elbow, a gentle tug. “Sit down, Prue.”

Gathering her wits, Prue sank into the armchair near the fireplace.

Erik poured tisane into one of the elegant cups. “Drink.” He molded his warm palm over her fingers until she had the cup securely in her grasp.

Gratefully, she sipped. “Have you had good houses this week?” she asked stiffly.

Erik had been piling delicacies onto a pretty dish. “Eat and I’ll tell you.”

Prue looked at it blankly. “That’s too much for me. You have it.” She leaned forward to hand the plate back. “I’m not very hungry.”

“I’d lay odds you haven’t eaten since early morning.”

“I was busy.”

“With my account books, I know. But for now, you’re going to eat every scrap. If you don’t”—his teeth gleamed very white—“I will sit you on my lap and feed you with my own hands.” He refused to let her look away. “I trust you believe me?”

Her mouth dropping open, Prue stared, a vision flashing before her mind’s eye, clear in every devastating detail.

Herself, curled up like a happy child, safe in Erik Thorensen’s arms, smiling as he popped a delicious morsel into her mouth. The tender, lustful gleam in his eye as he nuzzled her neck. Her lashes drooping with pleasure, her body boneless, buttressed by all that easy strength.

Oh, gods! A few, precious moments of utter relaxation. Nothing else to do, nowhere else to be.

If she defied him . . .

For a split second of insanity, the temptation was so great her whole body trembled, flushing with heat. Then she came to her senses.

“That won’t be necessary.” She took one of the spicepuffs.

“Pity.”

Caught midbite, Prue choked on an unwilling huff of amusement. Erik chuckled as he refilled her cup. With perfect self-possession, he began talking about the Unearthly Opera Company, his voice deep and unhurried, strangely soothing. Slowly, she allowed herself to settle back in the chair.

If he gave up music, he could make a living as a storyteller, she thought dreamily, her lips twitching as he described missed cues, wardrobe malfunctions, triumphs and disasters. Worlds and people she’d never seen and never would see. A life she found difficult to imagine but all too easy to envy—sailing across the cold reaches of space in a Technomage starship, watching the gossamer-thin slingshot sails deploy, their star-shine the faintest gleam in the endless dark.

His voice gave her the same feeling of sensuous comfort as a dark blanket made of soft, plushy velvet.

Rising, he removed the plate from her unresisting grasp. “Well done, love,” he murmured.

Prue sat up straight. “Are you, by any chance,
patronizing
me, Master Thorensen?”

“Erik,” he said, unperturbed. “And no, you’ve done very well.” With a grin, he waved the empty plate about under her nose.

So she had. Prue took a moment to tilt her head back against the back of the big chair. On a sigh, she said, “I should get back to work.” Even to her own ears, she sounded reluctant.

“Not just yet.” A fleeting touch on her arm. “Mistress Prue, I—” Erik broke off to clear his throat. “I owe you an apology. The Opera’s accounts are in a terrible state. I knew that when I asked you to look at them.”

Prue snorted. “You made the right decision—either your bookkeeper’s cheating you or he’s not right in the head. I haven’t decided which yet.”

“True enough.” Erik’s lips curved as though at some secret joke. “The man’s a fool, that’s for sure.” Slipping a hand inside his shirt, he withdrew a small, flat package wrapped in a square of unbleached linen and laid it on her knee. “I want you to have this—by way of apology.” The charming smile reappeared.

“If it’s a gift, I can’t accept it.”

A brow rose. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Both.”

Erik dropped to one knee on the rug and unfolded the linen covering himself. A flick of his fingers and a cascade of shimmering jade silk flowed over her lap.

Oh.
Oh
.

“It’s a ring shawl,” he murmured. “I chose the color for your eyes.”

Unable to resist, Prue lifted the fabric to her cheek, the weave so fine the whole length of it could be threaded through a woman’s ring. It smelled like a cool, soft kiss with a strange, spicy scent, citrus mixed with something musky.

She’d never had anything so lovely, presented so charmingly.
Never would have again
. To her fury, tears prickled behind her eyes. Blindly, Prue shoved two handfuls of fabric toward him. “No,” she said. “I can’t.”