“Yes?”
He smiled down at me. “I am happy you are here.”
His tone told me that he knew. He knew of my memories and my purpose.
“As am I,” I returned with a faint smile.
He was not handsome. His face was plain, his jaw a bit crooked, his nose a touch too long. And his mop of dark brown hair stood up in all the wrong angles. But there was something very gentle about his gray eyes, and I found the more he smiled, the more endearing he became.
“At long last, I get a passion sister. My father says you are knowledge?”
“Y-yes.” Well, almost a passion of knowledge. But I think he knew that as well, because he didn’t press me further about it. “And you are a master of music, are you not?”
“What gave it away?” he teased. “My clutter or the instruments?”
I smiled, thinking of Merei. She and Luc would get along quite nicely. “Do all of these books belong to you?” I indicated the piles.
“Three-quarters of them do. The rest are my father’s. Which, speaking of him, how was the journey here? I heard there was . . . an altercation of sorts.”
The last thing I wanted was to appear nervous and cowardly among these people. So I brushed the hair away from my eyes and said, “Yes. Your father handled it rather . . . what is the word?”
“Violently?” he provided.
I didn’t want to confirm or oppose, so I let silence fill my mouth.
“I am sorry that was your first impression of him,” Luc said with a little huff, “but he has never had a daughter before. I hear it is far more worrisome than having a son.”
“Worrisome?” I repeated, my voice rising with indignation. Saints, was I really about to fight with Luc Jourdain not ten minutes into knowing him?
“Don’t you know that daughters are far more precious and revered than sons?” he returned, his brows cocked but his eyes still gentle. “That fathers are, yes, content with a son or two, but it is daughters they truly want? And as such, a father would slay any who even dare to think of threatening her?”
I held his stare, questions stirring in my mind. I still wasn’t comfortable, or brave enough, to speak my thoughts. But I dwelled on what he said, knowing this was no Valenian concept. Daughters were loved in the southern kingdom, but it was the sons who inherited everything. Titles, money, estates. So what Luc was expressing happened to be a very old Maevan way of thinking, the desire to have and raise up daughters, to love and esteem them. All because of Liadan Kavanagh’s influence.
“That is, of course,” he rambled on, “until fathers can teach their daughters to defend themselves. Then they do not have to worry so much over them.”
Yet another Maevan sensibility—a woman with a sword.
“Hmm,” I finally hummed, borrowing the sound from Jourdain.
Luc recognized it and his smile broadened. “We are already rubbing off on you, I see.”
“Well, I am your sister now.”
“And again, I am very happy you are here. Now, make yourself at home, Amadine. Any book you want, feel free to enjoy. I’ll see you at breakfast in an hour.” He winked at me before he departed. I heard the stairs creak as he took them, two at a time, up to his room.
I finally selected a book and sat in a chair hidden behind the spinetta, watching dawn’s first light steal into the room. I tried to read, but the house was beginning to come to life. I listened to Agnes’s gait as she opened shutters and swept the floor and set the china on the dining table. I heard Pierre whistle and the clink of pots hitting one another, the aromas of frying eggs and sizzling mutton spreading through the house. I listened as Jean David walked down the hall in his creaking leather boots, sniffing his way into the kitchen as a hound to a bone. And then I heard Jourdain’s tread as he descended the stairs, clearing his throat as he passed the library and entered the dining chamber.
“Is Amadine awake yet?” I heard him ask Agnes.
“I have not checked on her. Should I? The poor girl looked so exhausted last night. . . .” She must be pouring him a cup of coffee. I could smell it—dark, rich sustenance—and it made my stomach rumble so fiercely I don’t know how the entire house didn’t hear it.
“No, leave her be. Thank you, Agnes.”
Next, I heard Luc descend the creaky stairs, light-footed and energetic. I heard him step into the dining chamber, greet his father, and then ask, “Well, where is this new sister of mine?”
“She’ll be along. Have a seat, Luc.”
A chair scraped the floor. I could hear the clink of china, and I watched as my candle ate the last of its wick, finally dying with a trail of smoke. Then I rose, realizing my hair was tangled and my dress hopelessly wrinkled from sleep and travel. I did my best to braid my tresses, hoping I didn’t look like a wraith as I entered the dining room.
Luc stood at the sight of me—one of those noble Valenian customs—but he rattled everything on the table in his haste.
“Ah, there you are,” Jourdain said, placing his hand on the shivering china before something spilled. “Amadine, this is my son, Luc.”
“Pleased to meet you Amadine,” Luc said with an amused smile and a half bow. “I hope you slept well your first night here?”
“Yes, thank you for asking,” I responded, settling in the chair across from his.
Agnes arrived to pour me a cup of coffee. I all but groaned in delight, thanking her as she set a pot of cream and a bowl of sugar cubes by my plate.
“So, Amadine,” Luc said, spreading jam on his toast. “Tell us more about you. Where did you grow up? How long were you at Magnalia?” He had washed and combed his hair back, and it struck me odd how different he appeared in the fullness of light. But I suppose shadows have a way of changing how one remembers a stranger’s face.
I hesitated, glancing to Jourdain.
My patron father’s eyes were already resting on me. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “You can trust everyone in this house.”
So everyone in this house was involved, or would soon be, with whatever plans we made to find the stone.
I took a sip of coffee, to slick away the cobwebs of my exhaustion, and then began to tell them as much as I felt comfortable sharing. Most of this, Jourdain already knew. But he still listened intently as I rummaged through my past. My time in the orphanage, my grandfather’s plea to the Dowager, seven years at Magnalia, each passion attempted but only one nearly mastered . . .
“And who is your master?” Luc asked. “Maybe I know him.”
Most likely not, I thought as I remembered how quiet and reserved Cartier was, how he had spent seven years of his life wholeheartedly serving Magnalia, pouring his knowledge into Ciri and me. “His name is Cartier évariste.”
“Hmm. Never heard of him,” my passion brother said, scraping the last of the eggs from his plate. “But he must be very accomplished, to be an arial at a House as revered as Magnalia.”