"I don't know about this," he said.
"You knew there would be a price for our assistance," said Ironfoot. "That someday the bill would come due."
"But what you're asking," said Wenathn. "The repercussions."
"You've read the letter," said Ironfoot. "It's signed by Everess and carries his impress."
Wenathn smoothed the letter on his desk and reread it. "From what I'm told, Lord Everess's stamp may not be worth much in a few days."
"That's a chance you'll just have to take," said Ironfoot. "Though I imagine that if word got out about the means of your rise to power, your own stamp might not press paper soon either."
Wenathn nodded. He was no fool.
"You and I both know that there are many on your council who would back this in an instant, especially with the full, written support of the Seelie government."
"How long do I have to decide?" said Wenathn.
"I can stay at least until lunchtime," said Ironfoot, putting his feet up on the chief high councilor's desk.
Faella was on stage, alone, performing the final movement of "Twine" to a mostly empty house. The troupe had rebelled against her desire to present it earlier in the show, and it had been relegated to the dregs of the performance, the closing act performed after midnight, when most of the patrons had already left for the taverns or their beds.
It was a subtle piece, to be sure, and not what the Bittersweet Wayward Mestina was known for. Their audience wanted grand spectacles: ferocious battles, the machinations of kings, bawdy farces. These were what paid for the theater and the salaries of her employees and the outrageous Glamourists' Guild dues.
But "Twine" was dear to her heart, and she was determined to perform it. For the most part she'd taken herself out of the other pieces, much to the chagrin of the audience. The clashes of swords and noblemen and half-dressed bodies were fine as far as they went, but as time went on, Faella couldn't help but see them as any more than what they were: mirages, fantasies to pass the time. "Twine" was more than that, though she couldn't say what, exactly.
The dozens of red, gold, and orange strands whirled and spun in a ferocious ballet of longing and emotion until Faella, spent, wove them together into a bright braid of emotion and wound it around herself, where it exploded in a shower of sparks.
She bowed to scattered applause and left the stage, sweating. It was time for her to go.
Backstage, the mestines were removing makeup and costumes, lingering over bottles of cheap wine, laughing. She'd never felt more remote from them. It wasn't enough anymore. Nothing was ever enough.
She went to the theater office and went over the documents she'd prepared: assignment of title, bank slips, instructions. She was leaving the Bittersweet Wayward Mestina to the company as a whole. They would now be a self-owned collective. It could be a disaster, but she wouldn't be here to see it. She was moving on.
Over the past few months, her powers had only grown. She now found herself able to maneuver Elements and Motion, to work glamours of astonishing complexity, to do things that didn't seem to match any kind of Gift at all. To be honest, she wasn't sure what others meant by the Gifts. She'd only ever known Glamour, and had never thought of it as "channeling" some raw element through a thing. There was only the thought, the desire, and the deed. She'd always assumed she didn't understand because she had no formal training.
But as her abilities increased she'd begun reading more, sneaking into the university libraries and working her way painfully through textbooks. She was no scholar, and little of what she read made any sense. But there was nothing in her reading that shed any light on her strange new talents. In fact, everything that she'd read seemed to indicate that much of what she was doing was impossible.
She'd even gone so far as to seduce a professor of natural philosophy in order to pick his brain on the subject, but he'd been far more interested in her more mundane talents, and hadn't been any help at all.
And with each passing day, the certainty that she was wasting her life in Estacana grew. That feeling that she was meant for greatness never left her. In her most fanciful moments, she dreamed that she was destined to heal the whole world of Faerie, just as she'd healed Rieger's knife wound.
Whatever it was she was meant to be, it wasn't the owner of a middling mestina in Estacana. She'd already booked passage on the mail coach for the City Emerald in the morning. The City Emerald was the center of the Seelie Kingdom, where every decision of importance was made, and she would find a way to insinuate herself into its movements, just as she'd found a way to do everything else she'd ever done.
And yes, Silverdun was there. But that wasn't why.
There was a knock at the door of her office, and she quickly hid the papers under a blotter. She had no intention of saying good-bye. She intended to simply leave the packet of documents on the stage, with a bound glamour of herself, waving good-bye.
"Someone waiting to see you in the lobby," said Rieger.
Since the incident in his room, when she'd healed him, Rieger hadn't been able to look her in the eye. Something inexplicable had happened to him that night. He was both grateful and at the same time clearly frightened of her now. They hadn't touched each other since that night.
Faella stood and adjusted her hair in the mirror. She'd deal with whoever was waiting in the lobby and then retire back to her office with a bottle of that cheap wine and finish signing the papers, wait for everyone to go home, and then stage her exit.
The lobby was nearly empty; a few stragglers stood at the door: couples prolonging their dates, lonely men and women with no place better to go. She couldn't see anyone who might be looking for her.
"`Twine' was most remarkable," said a voice behind her.
She turned, and there was Perrin Alt, Lord Silverdun, new face and all. He was dressed not as a nobleman but as a merchant from the City Emerald, a hat pulled low over his forehead. He looked her in the eye and smiled wide.
"Lord Silverdun," she said evenly. "What a surprise." Her heart was bolting in her chest, threatening to break out of her and go running off down the avenue.
"It's good to see you again," he said. His voice was plain, honest, not at all vengeful or contemptuous. Either he'd forgiven her, or he was doing an excellent job of faking it.
"You as well," she said. Was her voice shaking? She prayed it wasn't.
"I need to speak with you," he said. He looked around the lobby. "In private, if we might. It's a matter of some importance."
A matter of some importance.
"Of course," she said. "Come with me." She led him through the lobby, behind the ticket counter, backstage, and into her office. He shut the door behind them.
"What is it that I can do for you?" she asked.
He reached out and took her by the shoulders, pulled her to him. He pressed himself up roughly against her, kissing her.
Oh.
All of her fantasies suddenly realized in a moment, Faella's head swam. She wasn't sure at first how her body was responding, her thoughts spinning so wildly that she almost forgot where she was.
But then she felt his hand on the small of her back, and it was clear that her body was responding just fine without her.
She leaned back on the desk, pushing the blotter out of the way, drawing him on top of her. As her carefully prepared documents fluttered to the floor, she considered simply leaving them there and letting the Bittersweet Wayward Mestina work it out on their own.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to find your way back to me," she breathed.
He stopped kissing her neck long enough to whisper, "I was wondering how long I could resist."
It is the rare man who is both foolish enough to make a stupid decision and at the same time wise enough to profit from it.