No Greater Pleasure Read online

  “Thank you, Bertram. I’ll remember that.”

  He hesitated, as though wanting to ask her something but afraid to. She’d also encountered this before. Quilla smiled warmly at the lad, who was probably a good eight years younger than she.

  Bertram’s cheeks flushed the color of brick while the tips of his ears went more crimson. “Florentine says you’re going to be sent away right off.”

  “I might be. Do you think I will?”

  “I don’t see how anyone could want to send you away.”

  Quilla smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Well, if you need anything . . .”

  “I know where to find you.”

  He nodded, still blushing, and beat a hasty exit. Quilla watched him go, amused. She always elicited the same reactions. Fumbling embarrassment or veiled disdain. Shaking her head, weary from the journey and the effort of arriving in a new household, she sank onto her knees, hands folded in her lap, the back of her right hand inside the palm of the left.

  The uncarpeted floor was cold and hard, but she didn’t notice. Quilla was Waiting. Waiting was a clearing of the mind, of thought, of the physical. Waiting was the first practice any servant of the Order of Solace learned. Waiting created calm. Serenity. It allowed a Handmaiden to focus her attentions fully on her patron.

  Invisible Mother, grant me serenity enough to share, for there is no greater pleasure than providing absolute solace.

  In the absence of her patron, Quilla Waited for herself. Every new assignment was difficult at first, no matter how well her training allowed her to hide it. Smiling when she wanted to weep, murmuring when she wanted to scream, saying yes when she wished to say no. It always passed once she settled in.

  Invisible Mother, grant me patience enough to share, for true patience is its own reward.

  In a way, Quilla preferred the homes in which she never settled, never became a part of the family. It was hard to love a place and its people, only to be sent away, in the end. Yes, that was her life, her role, what she did, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept when it came time to pack her bags and leave a place she’d come to consider home.

  Invisible Mother, grant me beauty enough to share, for a flower is made more beautiful by its thorns, and I have many.

  Glad Tidings did not seem to be destined for that sort of ending. Quilla rubbed her temples. Would her new patron be as awful as Florentine had said? And what had the chatelaine meant with her cryptic statement that Quilla might hurt him?

  Invisible Mother, grant me generosity enough to share, for selfish is the heart that thinks first of itself.

  “How can I possibly hurt him?” she murmured aloud. “ ’Tis my place to serve him.”

  Woman I began and woman I shall end.

  She could do no more nor less than that. She sighed and got to her feet, wanting only to wash away the grime of her travel and prepare herself for her new patron. She opened the wardrobe to see what sort of uniform she’d be wearing. She’d been dressed in everything from tight-corseted formal gowns to loose shifts more appropriate for sleeping, but what she found hung inside and folded in the drawers made her smile.

  She touched the fabrics, none of them expensive but all of them fine enough quality. No harsh or scratchy wools. Soft linen and flaxen gowns in muted shades of green and blue hung from the hangers, while plain but clearly new undergarments took a place in the drawers. Warm stockings, for winter was coming. A soft, black woolen cloak with a hood, a bow of red startling against the throat of it. Slippers and one pair of plain black lace-up shoes.

  She took out a deep blue gown and held it up to herself in front of the mirror. Long sleeves would come to a point over the back of her hand. Plain satin ribbon banded the high neckline. Buttons ran from throat to hem as on the gown she wore, but of higher quality. More plain ribbon adorned the hem, which reached to her toes and looked to be full enough to swirl when she turned.

  In short, he expected her to dress the part of the traditional Handmaiden. Dark colors and demure style. An insight into what he desired, or merely laziness on the part of whomever had ordered the clothes?

  It didn’t matter what she wore, if anything. She would be what he needed, no matter what that was. In dark blue or flaming red, covered from throat to toes or naked, Quilla’s place was to serve.

  A bath and good teeth brushing. Wash her hair. Perhaps a chance to sleep in the narrow bed. Those were her plans until the knock on her door made her turn. She opened it, though of course there was no lock and the person on the other side could simply have walked in. It said a lot about this household, though, that privacy was respected.

  “Come in.”

  Florentine stuck her head around the half-open door. “He wants you.”

  Quilla looked at the gown in her hands and her own dusty dress. “I haven’t even had a chance to bathe—”

  “Now.”

  “All right.”

  Quilla hung the gown back in the wardrobe and brushed her skirt clean as best she could. The bath would wait, but she did take a gulp of water to rinse her mouth before following Florentine out of the room.

  Quilla fixed her hair with swift fingers as she walked, tucking her curls into a tight braid that hung to the middle of her back. It was the best she could do on short notice, though she was certain she still looked journey-worn. She followed the chatelaine down the narrow garret stairs and a short, wide hallway to the carved wooden door at the end. When Florentine pushed it open, it revealed another set of narrow, steep steps. Quilla counted twelve. Not too many. Just enough to trip her up as she followed Florentine.

  “He’s in here?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Quilla pushed past the fat chatelaine and opened the door. It swung open on creaking hinges that sounded like an old man’s joints complaining, and she made a note to take care of that. It couldn’t be pleasant, always hearing the door scream when it opened.

  The room inside wasn’t much more pleasant. The fragrance in the air was acrid and slightly burnt, though the fireplace looked to be in good enough repair. The floor of bare, unwaxed wood had made the acquaintance of a broom and mop some time ago, for small stains and speckles of grime played hide-and-seek amongst the tattered woven rugs. The tapestries on the wall were nondescript and out of fashion, though of fine workmanship and probably quite expensive.

  Four tall windows provided ample light, but the numerous lamps upon the walls would provide illumination when the sun did not. A massive table dominated the room’s far corner. On it, glass beakers and simmering cauldrons crouched over tiny gas-powered flames. The scorch marks on the wood and the wall behind it showed her the source of the burnt smell.

  An untidy but well-made desk squatted along the other wall, its surface heaped high with books, papers, pots of ink, and all manner of detritus that looked as though it might simply tumble over at any moment. More interesting were the rows of small cages in which mice squeaked and fat rabbits squatted, complacently chewing.

  Quilla took in all of this, including the high-backed chair in front of the fire, with such swift unobtrusiveness that none but another Handmaiden would have noticed her scrutiny. There were innumerable ways to make this room more pleasant, the first a thorough cleaning. Quilla noted the battered kettle hung over the fire, the tea chest with the splintered lid, the chipped cups with missing saucers. So he liked tea but did not seem to take much comfort from it.

  “I was expecting someone older.” The flat comment turned Quilla’s head toward the man who’d stepped out of the doorway at the back of the room.

  Without a word, Quilla sank gracefully onto her knees, folding them beneath her so she could rise in the same smooth motion as she’d dropped. She folded her hands in her lap, the back of the right tucked into the palm of the left. She Waited.

  “My lord Delessan, this is—”

  “I know who she is, Florentine.” Gabriel Delessan stomped toward Quilla in great black boots in need of a polishing. “Didn’t you hear