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“Well, then, we’ll look forward to seeing you next time you’re here,” Tivol said in his usual blithe way. “Unless—do you have time now? We’re off to have lunch. If you’re free, you could join us.”
For one horrified moment, Madeleine thought Reese was actually considering it, but he finally shook his head. “Not today, thank you,” he said. “Too many other demands on my time.”
Tivol gently pulled Madeleine toward the door, and the three of them finally left the room. The warm brown tiles of the atrium were turned to gold by the afternoon sun pouring down from the skylights overhead. Outside, it was even brighter and warmer, but Madeleine was so glad to get out of the charged atmosphere of the house that she didn’t even care.
Tivol’s small, sporty gridcar was pulled up outside in the semicircular drive that accommodated visitors. Tivol owned a larger and more formal vehicle that he used when he was entertaining business contacts or escorting Madeleine to fancy events, but this model was his favorite. It was lightweight enough that Madeleine sometimes felt she could bend the edges of the doors with her bare hands, but Tivol explained that this feature made it twice as fast as any ordinary car. Of course, the main thoroughfares of the city were so clogged with traffic that it scarcely mattered how fast a vehicle could go—but she had heard tales of less crowded, less savory neighborhoods where young men raced their cars down adjacent alleys so fast that sparks flew from the frayed wires overhead. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would think such an activity was entertaining.
It took her a moment to realize that there was no second car in the drive. Reese must have walked over, or hopped on one of the big public transports that everyone referred to as chuggers. Tivol seemed to reach the same conclusion, because he said, “Do you need a ride? We’re heading toward the Quatrefoil, but I wouldn’t mind making a detour.”
“Thanks, but I’m going north,” he said. “Enjoy your lunch!” And he marched off without another word.
Tivol didn’t even bother to watch him walk away. “I’m starving,” he said, helping Madeleine into the car and climbing in beside her. “Let’s go.”
Madeleine dropped to the padded bench, braced her feet, and took a tight hold on the slim metal bar that curved out from the panel in front of her. Tivol was in motion almost before she was settled, pulling out from the drive onto the main road, which was unexpectedly clear of traffic. “Ha,” he said and accelerated with alarming speed. On this balmy day, the entire upper half of the carriage was open to the air, and the wind of passage instantly whipped Madeleine’s hair into knots. The light car jounced so feverishly over the road that it seemed about to rip itself from the overhead cable and go tumbling down an alley or crashing into one of the manors that lined the boulevard. A particularly hard bounce caused her to slide into the door so forcefully she thought she bruised her hip.
“Tivol! Could you please slow down?” she exclaimed. “You’re terrifying me!”
He laughed, but instantly slackened his pace. She straightened on her seat and tried to pat her hair back into place, but she was pretty sure she’d need a mirror and a comb to repair the damage. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he said. “It’s just so rare that you even have three or four blocks where you can travel above a slow crawl.”
“I prefer a slow crawl,” she said tartly. “I’m less likely to die.”
He laughed again and slowed even more. Three cars had pulled into the lane ahead of them and were clicking along at a sedate pace that he had no choice but to adopt. To their left, a large chugger passed, going in the other direction. It was connected to the overhead cables by two thick rods and jammed so full of people that some of them were sticking their heads out of the open windows just to breathe the fresher air.
“I should take you racing with me some night,” Tivol said. “Then you’d see how fast some cars can go, the real sprinters. Derrik Bandelo has this little beauty, even smaller than this one, and you’d think it was flying down the road.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but that’s not a sight that’s ever going to interest me.”
He glanced over at her with a quick grin. “You can’t be certain of that until you see it at least once,” he said in a teasing voice. “I’m having a model built that I think will be even faster than Derrik’s. Only holds one person, which keeps the weight down, and uses the lightest thickness of metal that will still stand up to the stress of friction. He knows I’m working on it—and he knows I’m going to beat him, too.”
“So I finally understand,” she said.
“Understand what?”
“Why you don’t want to get married for two years. How could you give up such a diverting pastime for the sober life of the married man?”
He grinned at her again. “What makes you think I’m going to give up racing once I’m married? I’m counting on turning you into a convert!”
She thought he was joking, so she laughed—and then she wondered if he wasn’t, and she had to hide a frown. She had the sudden, brief, treacherous thought that she didn’t want to marry Tivol, she didn’t want to marry anyone. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to go to lunch. She turned her head to watch the great houses come into view and then drop out of sight as they continued down the wide avenue, and she had to keep working at it to smooth away her scowl.
Madeleine was surprised that night when her father sent word that he wanted her to join him for dinner. She and her father could spend days without encountering each other over a meal or in the hallways. On the rare occasions that he expected her to eat with him, he usually let her know several days in advance and listed the various guests that would be in attendance. She always dressed for the occasion and gladly played her part. Eventually she would be hostess for the dinner parties Tivol held for business acquaintances and Council families; she welcomed the chance to acquire experience beforehand.
Ella had told her that she was expected in the smaller dining room, which pleased her. The casual space with its red and ochre mosaics was much more welcoming than the formal room, which was large, drafty, and oddly austere. She always felt as if she was presiding over some legal proceeding whenever she welcomed guests to the table.
The fact that he had chosen the smaller room made her think her father must be alone, but as soon as she walked in, she realized her error. Harlo turned toward the door as she entered, smiling sweetly and extending his arms. “My dear,” he said, and she crossed the room to place her hands in his.
“Harlo! What a treat! It’s been ages since I’ve seen you!” she exclaimed, leaning in so he could kiss her cheek. His lips brushed her skin with the weightlessness of dried rose petals. She pulled back to smile at him, but she was concealing a pulse of alarm. He looked old, she thought—the thin white hair thinner and whiter, the bony face bonier, the dark skin lightening to a faded brown. The hands clasping hers seemed strong as ever, but under the folds of his ivory robe she thought his body seemed more fragile, more bent. It had never occurred to her that Harlo might be mortal. He was known as the high divine because he headed the order of priests that served Cordelan. That made him the most powerful man in the city, and she had just assumed he would live forever.
“Madeleine. How are you?” he asked, releasing her hands. “Although I don’t have to ask—you look radiant as always.”
She laughed and patted her hair. “I think I look unkempt and disarranged,” she said. “Tivol took me out for a drive this afternoon and I feel like I have been buffeted by a windstorm. Had I known you would be here I would have put much more effort into my appearance.”
“Nonsense,” Harlo said in his gentle way. “I prefer an authentic heart.”
Her father had looked over at the mention of Tivol’s name. In contrast to the old priest, Alastair Alayne looked to be bursting with health and vigor. He was a big man anyway, with the stocky build of a Maratan blended with the dark hair and deep mahogany skin of a typical Cordelano. He was not above using his size, and the latent ferocity of his natural expression, to intimidate opponents, supplicants, and rivals.
And children and spouses.
“And how did you find Tivol?” he asked.
