Fern and Viv both stared along the length of the edifice before them with frank amazement. It was two stories tall, fronted with dozens of arched windows and a set of marble stairs that spread out wider than Maylee’s bakery. The roof was armored in blue tiles, the eaves braced with extravagant scrollwork, the doors massive and tangled with a profusion of delicate iron leaves. Water from the fountain behind them pattered into a glassy pond.
Viv whistled. “Pays to write, I guess?”
Fern chuckled. “I don’t think any writer sells this many books. There’s a quote in one of Tensiger’s books about elves. ‘If you live a thousand years and haven’t made yourself wealthy, you’re either a fool or a monk.’ I don’t think Zelia is a monk.”
“She’s a thousand years old?”
Fern shrugged. “No clue. Maybe it’s inherited? Anyway, I’m not going to ask.” She narrowed her eyes at Viv. “We aren’t going to ask. Right?”
“Couldn’t imagine it,” said Viv, who had, in fact, imagined it.
Potroast was already up the stairs, squatting next to the door, while his stubby tail switched back and forth across the marble.
“Somebody’s eager,” said Viv, mounting the steps. Without hesitation, she banged one of the enormous iron knockers set on a plate on the doorframe.
They didn’t have to wait long for the door to open, but when it did, it wasn’t Zelia Greatstrider.
He wasn’t as tall as Viv, but he was big and powerfully built. Gone to gray, but not gone to seed, with a neat silver goatee and a handsome jaw. He wore a simple shirt and plain, functional trousers, and didn’t look much like Viv’s idea of a butler or footman. From the size of his shoulders, the way he held his hand at his hip, and the loose curl of his fingers, she would’ve bet anything he’d spent more time with a blade belted there than not.
“Can I help you?” he asked, tone mild. From the way his eyes flicked over her and lingered on the saber, Viv wasn’t the only one sizing somebody up.
She nodded at him with the most guileless smile she could muster. “Hi. I’m Viv, and this is Fern. She owns Thistleburr down by the sea. The bookseller. We were hoping Miss Greatstrider was in?”
His mouth quirked, and he eyed the basket. “Bread and a blade? You know, we don’t see a lot of armed visitors around these parts.”
“I’ll hand it over, if that helps.” Viv tapped the pommel of the saber. “Just wary of trouble on the road, and no offense intended.”
“Trouble in Murk?” Without waiting for an answer or asking for her weapon, he squatted in front of the gryphet and ruffled the feathers between its ears, not coincidentally baring his neck to her. “Surprising. Iridia must be furious. And who’s this little soldier?”
Viv decided she liked him.
“I’m afraid his name is Potroast,” said Fern with an apologetic shrug. “And of course I’m a great admirer of Miss Greatstrider’s work.”
The man laughed and straightened, while the gryphet sniffed around his boots and cooed in clear adoration. “I’ll let her know you called her ‘miss.’ It might soften her up a bit. Are you a reader too?” he asked Viv.
She colored some. “I’ve read one or two.”
He marked her blush and winked at her before gesturing at the basket. “Smells mighty fine. I’ll have to see if she’s up for visitors. I’m Berk. I take care of this and that for Lady Zee. Wait here for a moment, would you?”
Leaving the massive door ajar, he strode back into the depths of the mansion without another word. He might as well have told Viv to her face that he’d dismissed her as a threat. It was a strange feeling, and she would’ve felt insulted if she didn’t suspect that he was even more capable than he looked.
When she was sure Berk was out of earshot, Viv looked at Fern and said, “Lady Zee, huh? So, do you think he … and she … ?” She made a suggestive motion with her hands which could’ve meant several inappropriate things. “I mean, given what she writes, I have to wonder if—”
“Wonder what?” asked Fern archly.
“You know.”
“Don’t ask that, either.”
Viv feigned offense. “For somebody who was terrified to do this, you’re real brave about handing out rules.”
Fern opened her mouth to respond, and then Berk was back, one hand on the door, crinkles at the edges of his eyes. “You’re in luck. She’s not writing, so she’s in a good mood. Follow me.” Then he tucked the gryphet under his arm as though he’d done it a thousand times before and motioned them inside.
* * *
The foyer was massive, featuring an elaborate wooden floor with detailed circular inlays. A grand stair ascended to the second story, and the paneled walls were fairly crammed with paintings in a bewildering array of sizes, all puzzled together with barely any wood between them. Potted trees flanked the staircase—thin, silvery things with graceful, twining branches.
A long corridor extended to the left but had a clear feeling of disuse. Not dusty, but sparely decorated, with closed doors along its length.
Berk led them to the right, into a warmer, shorter, carpeted hall, illuminated by hissing flick-lanterns. Another turn through a narrow passage led into an enormous kitchen, clean and light, with a huge marble counter in the center and a pair of stoves substantial enough to feed a garrison. Fresh herbs hung in fragrant bunches along one wall, and a few saucepans and platters were clustered on one small corner of the counter, part of some interrupted preparation.
From the look of the cookware, Viv got the distinct impression that only a fraction of the estate was used. She wondered how many people actually lived in the Greatstrider household, because the number in her imagination was steadily dwindling.
Another few turns took them to a long office with a solarium at the other end. The walls featured built-in bookshelves from floor to ceiling, absolutely stuffed with books. The ottomans, chairs, and side tables held tottering towers of them as well, and since that hadn’t been sufficient storage, they were piled higgledy-piggledy on the floor, too.
It put Thistleburr’s stock of books to shame and made Highlark’s home library seem miniscule by comparison.
Flick-lanterns on the columns between the shelves provided a steady golden glow. At the far end, a small table squatted in the solarium’s light, topped with a metal machine Viv didn’t recognize. It was scaled with bronze keys like some misshapen mechanical reptile. A limp tongue of paper unspooled from the top, and piles of regularly sized parchment waited on either side of it. A very old-looking chair crammed with squashy pillows lurked behind the table.
On a long divan behind it, with an open book propped on her bosom, reclined Zelia Greatstrider.
She looked up at their approach, snapped the book closed, and rose to her feet. Like most elves Viv had encountered, she was possessed of a regal beauty. Unlike them, however, she was nearly as tall as Viv herself, and willowy was not a word you would use to describe her. Her hair fell silver around her shoulders in unbound waves, and her skin glowed a dusky bronze. She wore comfortable-looking riding trousers and a flowing, open-throated shirt. Her feet were bare, and she occupied all the space she deserved.
“Here they are,” said Berk. “Viv and Fern.” He seemed to remember his burden. “Ah, and Potroast.” He deposited the gryphet on the carpet, whereupon the creature immediately lay across his boots and huffed a huge sigh.
There was a beat of silence during which Zelia Greatstrider regarded them both, tapping her book against her leg.
Viv had considered several opening gambits on the ride up, but they all flew out of her head at once, and all she could manage was, “Uh, this is a lot … of books. Have you … read them all?”
Fern might have whimpered beside her.
“Never trust a writer who doesn’t have too many books to read. Or a reader, for that matter,” said Zelia. She approached the desk, shuffling through papers and knickknacks until she produced a quill and inkwell. With some resignation, she said, “So, I assume you’ve got something you’d like signed?”