Turning the corner onto Bay Crescent
Almost immediately, the door swung open to reveal a tall, slender woman with thick silver hair and bright blue eyes. “Cherie!” she exclaimed. “It’s been too long. Come through to the garden.”
Deianira stretched up on her toes to kiss the other woman’s cheek. “Only a week, Grand-mere,” she murmured.
She sniffed. “Three short visits after three years in the western wilds. But you’re home now. Come through to the garden, ma petite. Tea will be ready soon.” Without waiting for an answer, she sailed down the central hall, confident her granddaughter would follow.
The garden overlooked the river below, the view framed by more of Cecile Sunstorm’s signature flowers. The tea service waited for them on the small garden table for two – intime, Cecile would call it, the accent and the terms an old affectation. Deianira poured, of course; host should serve guest, but as Cecile would no doubt point out, Deianira was both granddaughter and student and not a guest.
For the first cup of tea, the conversation was light, touching on the flowers, the theatre, Deianira’s dress, the impossibility of finding good servants, and Cecile’s last ball. Deianira felt the muscles in her shoulders begin to unknot.
Abruptly, Cecile reached out and ran a finger along the silver streak of hair framing the right side of Deianira’s face. “So, cherie. This is new, and a good sign; you’re a decade late to your inheritance but I told Iloura it would come.” She smiled thinly. “She was so sure the Sunstorm blood had passed you too; silly girl.
“Now that your maman’s starlet has had her child, we can begin your training in earnest. I’ve had Chloe arrange a room for you, and Henri can move your things from the playhouse tonight.”
Deep breaths, Deianira told herself. Aloud, she murmured, “Annabel isn’t back on stage yet, Grand-mere. There’s still rehearsals and the new music to learn. I’ll be performing for the next month, at least, so I’ll be needed at the Two Swans.” And busy making plans to leave. She met Cecile’s eyes, bright-blue twin gazes, imperious facing ersatz innocence, and forced herself to breathe.
Cecile’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot keep putting this off, cherie. You need training. I can hire a carriage to take you back and forth, and I’m sure we can manage to fit these rehearsals around your studies.”
“Rehearsals don’t always run to a clock, Grand-mere. Why don’t you hire the carriage to bring me here for lessons whenever I’m free? Say, twice a week?”
Cecile smacked the table; one delicate teacup tumbled into the grass. “Daily! This is your birthright. This is your priority, not some silly play!”
“It’s waited twenty-three years; surely it can wait another month?”
Her grandmother pointed at the nearest flowering shrub. A streak of flame shot from one to the other; while it burned, she explained, “No. It cannot wait. You are not a wizard, studying books of spells, or a priest, begging for divine power. You are a sorceress, and power is in your blood. You will control it, or it will control you, and one of those choices will be extremely unpleasant.
“Henri will be at the Two Swans every morning after breakfast. Actors sleep late; you will not. I will train you every morning, and Iloura can have you after that.” She waved dismissively.
Taking the hint, Deianira kissed her grandmother’s cheek and left quietly.
Almost immediately, the door swung open to reveal a tall, slender woman with thick silver hair and bright blue eyes. “Cherie!” she exclaimed. “It’s been too long. Come through to the garden.”
Deianira stretched up on her toes to kiss the other woman’s cheek. “Only a week, Grand-mere,” she murmured.
She sniffed. “Three short visits after three years in the western wilds. But you’re home now. Come through to the garden, ma petite. Tea will be ready soon.” Without waiting for an answer, she sailed down the central hall, confident her granddaughter would follow.
The garden overlooked the river below, the view framed by more of Cecile Sunstorm’s signature flowers. The tea service waited for them on the small garden table for two – intime, Cecile would call it, the accent and the terms an old affectation. Deianira poured, of course; host should serve guest, but as Cecile would no doubt point out, Deianira was both granddaughter and student and not a guest.
For the first cup of tea, the conversation was light, touching on the flowers, the theatre, Deianira’s dress, the impossibility of finding good servants, and Cecile’s last ball. Deianira felt the muscles in her shoulders begin to unknot.
Abruptly, Cecile reached out and ran a finger along the silver streak of hair framing the right side of Deianira’s face. “So, cherie. This is new, and a good sign; you’re a decade late to your inheritance but I told Iloura it would come.” She smiled thinly. “She was so sure the Sunstorm blood had passed you too; silly girl.
“Now that your maman’s starlet has had her child, we can begin your training in earnest. I’ve had Chloe arrange a room for you, and Henri can move your things from the playhouse tonight.”
Deep breaths, Deianira told herself. Aloud, she murmured, “Annabel isn’t back on stage yet, Grand-mere. There’s still rehearsals and the new music to learn. I’ll be performing for the next month, at least, so I’ll be needed at the Two Swans.” And busy making plans to leave. She met Cecile’s eyes, bright-blue twin gazes, imperious facing ersatz innocence, and forced herself to breathe.
Cecile’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot keep putting this off, cherie. You need training. I can hire a carriage to take you back and forth, and I’m sure we can manage to fit these rehearsals around your studies.”
“Rehearsals don’t always run to a clock, Grand-mere. Why don’t you hire the carriage to bring me here for lessons whenever I’m free? Say, twice a week?”
Cecile smacked the table; one delicate teacup tumbled into the grass. “Daily! This is your birthright. This is your priority, not some silly play!”
“It’s waited twenty-three years; surely it can wait another month?”
Her grandmother pointed at the nearest flowering shrub. A streak of flame shot from one to the other; while it burned, she explained, “No. It cannot wait. You are not a wizard, studying books of spells, or a priest, begging for divine power. You are a sorceress, and power is in your blood. You will control it, or it will control you, and one of those choices will be extremely unpleasant.
“Henri will be at the Two Swans every morning after breakfast. Actors sleep late; you will not. I will train you every morning, and Iloura can have you after that.” She waved dismissively.
Taking the hint, Deianira kissed her grandmother’s cheek and left quietly.
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