“It is a sad failing,” Miche agreed, which made Madam Sanai smile, Ophele giggle, Lady Verr roll her eyes, and Juste stab him with a quill once no one was looking.
There was a great deal of work before them. Stacks of candidates for key positions in the manor, all of whose qualifications, connections, and convictions had to be investigated. But though Miche and Juste were accustomed to working in the chaos of a war camp, they both turned again as Sim and Jaose appeared, grunting with effort as they hauled Grandfather Tree through the door.
“Yes, by this window, please. Careful of your fingers!” Ophele said anxiously, dancing out of the way as the two footmen maneuvered the immense planter pot into place. The ancestor tree was taller than the diminutive Duchess of Andelin. “It really is lovely. Why is it called an ancestor tree?”
“It may only be a decorative tree, if you wish,” Madam Sanai said carefully. “But for us, it is the memory of the Great Tree, that was once Mother to us all. And so we shape these treeswith the growing of our own families, ourtali—I think that is your word for House?”
A pair of pale blue eyes were pressing dagger-like into the back of his head. Miche bent obediently to his letters. They still needed a housekeeper and head laundress, and now that Tresingale had survived its first year with the devils, it seemed everyone had decided that Remin’s generous terms of employment were worth the risk.
But the wider pool of candidates didn’t make it any easier tofillthese posts. They hardly needed more spies and assassins in Tresingale, and Remin and Ophele both had difficult temperaments. It would be a challenge to find a housekeeper with the spine to stand up to His Grace who wouldn’t also trample all over the inexperienced duchess. Miche had written dozens of letters that were polite variations of,thank you very much for inquiring, but…
The musical chorus of female voices was far more interesting. Ophele, chirping questions. Madam Sanai’s liquid accent rolled in answer, and every so often there was Lady Verr’s aristocratic tones, carefully cultivated and perfectly shaped syllables that tolled like bells.
Glancing up, Miche was amused to find that Juste’s head was subtly angled toward the conversation. Well, what might he be looking at?
It was Juste. It was possible he was admiring Grandfather Tree. But Lady Verr and Madam Sanai were both in that direction, like two wildly different species of flower, and much to appreciate in both. Lady Verr was a classic Imperial beauty, from the oval of her face to the perfect drape of her skirts, and Madam Sanai was an arresting sight for a man of the Empire, especially with those trousers clinging to her lean hips. There was a hunting grace about her as she crouched, her long hairfalling loose past her thighs, explaining some point of lichen to a spellbound Ophele.
Women were so marvelous.
“Juste,” Miche repeated, measuring the angle of Juste’s pale blue eyes and tucking this delightful bit of gossip away. “This one. Look, I know she’s from the capital, but she was in charge of the household livery—”
“We are hoping to avoid filling His Grace’s household with people from Segoile.” Juste took the page, inscrutable.
“It might be worth having Edemir interview her, if she knows what she’s about.”
“The matter of livery is pressing,” Juste acknowledged. It wasn’t just a question of aesthetics. The reason servants wore uniforms was to make it easier to tell if someone—an assassin, for example—was somewhere they ought not to be.
“If we’re going to go to the trouble and expense, we ought to do it right,” Miche shrugged. “Have Tiffen design something in the new Andelin style to please His Grace and a Mistress of Wardrobe to manage it properly.”
“I’ll speak to him about it.” Painstakingly, Juste scrawled the addition on his to-do list with his left hand, waving Miche away. “I can do it. Request references and have Edemir speak to her.”
Miche did not envy Edemir the task. Burrowing back into his papers, he made a fair bit of headway by the time the women were content with the placement of the ancestor tree, and Madam Sanai began making her farewells.
“Madam,” said Juste, without looking up from his letter. “I have heard that Huvara Mahit was denied custom by the chandler. I hope you will be comfortable to inform us, if it happens again.”
Madam Sanai turned back from the door in surprise, and behind her, Ophele instantly swelled with indignation.
“I hope it will not be necessary,” Madam Sanai replied, her brows lifting. “Will the chandler expect us?”
“He has been informed of His Grace’s expectations,” Juste replied, glancing up at her. “While he is the only chandler in town, he will trade with everyone. Or he will leave.”
“We have thanks for your aid. And—forgive me, if it is impolite to say, but your injury looks most uncomfortable, noble knight,” she added, her dark violet eyes flicking to his sling. “There may be help for it, if you wish.”
“That is kind of you.”
“It is our task to mend the way, when it is fractured,” she replied, and departed with Ophele at her side to see her to the door, filled with outrage over the chandler.
“She will insist on playing the servant,” Lady Verr remarked, sitting down to take up her embroidery. This was not muttered. She meant for Miche and Juste to hear it.
“It is unlikely she will find anyone in Segoile that she likes well enough to walk out,” Juste replied, practical and cutting. “But I have been hoping for an opportunity to seek your opinion, my lady, if you will indulge me.”
“Oh?”
“You spent last season in the capital, did you not?” asked Juste. “After your absence.”
Miche would never tire of listening to Juste remind people that he knew their secrets.
“Yes, I did,” Lady Verr replied serenely.
