He wrote a quick reply, informing her that he was in Amdarh and would be available to talk later in the afternoon when she was done with her classes. He folded the paper and applied his personal seal in red wax before opening Titian’s and Zoey’s notes—and felt a stone of sorrow press on his heart.
They had heard about Tersa, and the brief notes expressed concern for Tersa and the hope of a swift recovery. Zoey’s note included a restrained sympathy for him and the hope that his mother would find her way back to him just as Zoey’s mother had found the way home to her own family.
It was possible that Jaenelle Saetien had spoken to Daemonar and now wanted to speak to him about Tersa, but somehow he didn’t think so. The girl she’d been before she’d entered this difficult transitional age would have cared. The girl she was now? He wasn’t sure.
The letter from Lady Zhara requested a meeting at his earliest convenience and, in a postscript, expressed concern for Tersa and an offer to him of any assistance she could provide. Clearly she’d been just about to seal her letter when the news had arrived.
He invited Zhara to join him for dinner and have time afterward to discuss her concerns. He hesitated, then added that his daughter might need his attention that evening. If so, he would reschedule the meeting as soon as he returned to Amdarh.
One way or another, he needed a night at the Keep.
Jaenelle Saetien tried to consider all her father’s possible responses to her request, but realized everything depended on the degree of Tersa being “not well.” Her last encounter with her grandmother had made her uneasy. Tersa didn’t live at the Hall, but if she was slipping into a mental decline, Father might not want to deal with overnight guests. Of course, he wouldn’t have to do anything. She’d make the arrangements with Beale and Helene for the guest rooms that would be needed and present suggestions to Mrs. Beale for the food to be served.
Better if she took care of the arrangements. Then she could put off telling him that Delora was one of the guests until the girls showed up on his doorstep. He wouldn’t mortally embarrass his daughter by refusing to allow some of her guests to enter the Hall.
If he was too preoccupied with Tersa, would Father want that woman to chaperone the party like she’d done at Titian’s Winsol party? That would be humiliating, especially when everyone knew what she’d been. Well, Jaenelle Saetien would warn everyone to be civil to Father’s wife or they’d all be returned to the school before they could take the next breath.
With luck, that woman . . . No, the other girls would follow her lead there, so better to think of Father’s wife as Lady Surreal than slip up and call her something that might spark Father’s anger.
When the horse-drawn cab pulled up in front of the town house, a footman was waiting at the curb to assist her from the cab. She paid the driver—and gave the man a generous tip, knowing her father would hear about the amount and that might influence his decision for the party in her favor, especially since she’d used her own money for the cab fare as well as the tip.
Her father was in his study, as usual, reading reports and making notes on correspondence of things Lord Holt or Lord Marcus would need to deal with. As she entered the room, he capped his pen and came around the desk to greet her.
He’d never done anything to make her uneasy, not in that way. In fact, the sexual heat all the girls couldn’t stop talking about didn’t seem to affect her most of the time. Zoey had speculated that being directly related to Prince Sadi, his daughter might somehow be protected from the heat. Even if she noticed it to some degree, it wouldn’t create the same response as it did in other women.
No, he’d never done anything, but girls her age did not hug and kiss their fathers. She wasn’t sure why, but everyone knew they didn’t. So when her father approached her, she braced for the hug she didn’t want—and resented that he didn’t even try. He just kissed her cheek in the same way he kissed Titian or Aunt Marian or any other female he considered family.
“Do you want anything to eat?” he asked. “Or a cup of hot chocolate?”
That was tempting, but then they would sit in the social area of the study, and she’d prefer having the desk between them.
“No, that’s all right.” Ignoring his light attempt to guide her, she headed for one of the chairs in front of his desk—and heard him sigh.
He resumed his seat behind the desk. “What’s on your mind, witch-child?”
“How is Tersa?”
His surprise that she would think to ask stung a little. Stung a lot.
“She’s recovering,” he replied. “We have some help looking after her, including a journeymaid Black Widow.”
“That’s good.”
“We’ll adjust.”
An odd thing to say, but since it sounded like Tersa would be all right, she leaped into her own agenda. “It’s about Zoey and Titian and some of the other girls at school.” She’d decided on the way here that Delora was right and being vague about who else was coming to the party would be best.
The room chilled. “Is someone causing trouble for them?” he asked too softly.
“No! Not at all. But there are some girls who would like to get to know them better but feel awkward about doing that at the school.” She waited a moment. Thank the Darkness, he didn’t ask why the girls would feel awkward. “So I thought we could have a house party at the Hall. Everyone could stay overnight, so we could go riding or maybe skate on the pond if the ice is thick enough.”
He gave her a dry smile. “I can make sure the ice is thick enough.”
Of course he could. Using Craft, he could freeze the water to make ice as thick as a man’s leg was long—and smooth out the surface for good measure.
She smiled at him. “And maybe we could put on that play again—the one Titian and Zoey found in the trunks in the attic here.”
“There are probably more plays like that stored at the Hall, along with props,” he said, his mouth curving in a warm smile. “The coven used to create what they called fragmented plays. They’d choose a type of story—romance, mystery, something else—and each of them would select a piece from that genre. Then they selected a handful of characters from those stories and lifted the dialogue without changing anything, added a narrator to fill in bits, and then reassembled the whole thing as a play.
“My father was always the narrator because he was the only one who managed to keep a straight face and read his part as if it made sense. Lucivar was always assigned a special guest role. He had one line, which was what he said in response to every interaction with the other characters. Everyone else who was at the Hall to celebrate Winsol had to pick from a hat to see if they were playing a part. We had an afternoon to read through the play and select whatever props or costumes we wanted for our character.”
“That would be a fun activity if it turned out to be too cold or snowy to do things outside,” Jaenelle Saetien said. A part of her burned with resentment. She’d liked doing that play at the Winsol party, but she didn’t like knowing the Queen had done it first.
Another comparison. Another thing that wasn’t really her own.
She ignored the fact that there wouldn’t be any of those plays if the Queen and her coven hadn’t done them first.
“All right,” he said, taking a fresh piece of paper from the stack on his desk. “You can have an overnight house party at the Hall for a maximum of twenty girls.”
“Well, there are some . . .”