No Greater Pleasure Read online

  “I’m not needed to do my job, at the moment, and you look as though you could use some help.”

  “The master might be angry, him,” Rossi replied.

  Quilla realized something. “Rossi, are you frightened of me?”

  Rossi’s laugh was so false it made Quilla’s head hurt. “Me? Afraid of you? No!”

  The way she dusted furiously and wouldn’t look at Quilla told a different story. “Rossi. Look at me.”

  The younger girl did, reluctantly. “Aye, mistress.”

  “You can call me Quilla. I’m not your superior, you know.”

  “You’re the master’s own Handmaiden. I’m only a cleaning girl, me.”

  Quilla couldn’t deny the truth of that, so she sighed. “Are you afraid I’ll tell the master you haven’t been keeping up with your work?”

  Rossi shook her head. A tall girl with skin the color of tea with cream, her dark ringlets piled high beneath her cap, she could easily have worn a ball gown instead of an apron. ’Twas her demeanor, not her features, that set her class.

  Quilla sighed again. “Then what?”

  “I don’t want to dishonor you, me.”

  The words had been murmured so low Quilla had to strain to hear them. “Your pardon?”

  “Lolly says Handmaidens is special, and should be treated special. Lolly says you’re to bring about the return of the Holy Family, and we ought not dirty you with our base natures. Lolly says you’re like unto an angel, Lolly says.”

  As Quilla had never even passed a word with Lolly, this seemed to be a broad assumption on her part, but Quilla nodded anyway. “Think you angels dare not dirty their hands with common chores?”

  Rossi looked confused. “Nay, mistress.”

  “Think you the Invisible Mother didn’t care for her family and house?”

  This seemed to give the maid pause. “I supposed she had servants to do it for her. Like our lady Mistress Delessan does.”

  Quilla laughed. “No. Kedalya had no servants. She’d have picked up a dustcloth, too, if she’d had dusting to do. She was a woman before she bore Sinder’s son, and a woman after, even though she had the love of a god.”

  “Ain’t that always the way it goes?” Rossi smiled. “We’s women first, no matter who loves us or what they gives us.”

  Truer words had never been spoken. “Women we begin and women we end.”

  “You ain’t like we thought you’d be.”

  “I rarely am, Rossi.”

  Rossi held out the dustcloth. “If you really want to help—”

  Quilla took it. “I’d rather have busy hands than idle ones.”

  Rossi laughed and got back to work with her feather duster. “No fear of idle hands around this place, Quilla Caden. Plenty of work to be done.”

  So they got to it, and Rossi talked while Quilla listened. Rossi spoke of her childhood, which had begun far away, and how she’d come here in the back of a gypsy wagon and was left behind when her family moved on and she decided life on the road was no longer for her.

  “I liked the big house, me,” she told Quilla with eyes gleaming at the memory. “I liked the hot water for baths, me. And the clean clothes. I liked the never-hungry bellies, me.”

  “I don’t blame you for that. I also like hot baths and a full stomach.”

  Rossi lifted a large vase so Quilla could dust beneath it. “I had ten brothers. I’d never have been married off. Too many men thinking they knew best what to do for me.”

  Rossi had been at Glad Tidings for two years now, she said, and she didn’t intend on ever leaving. “I loves it here, me.”

  From where the pang came, Quilla wasn’t certain, only that it hit her right in the breastbone and made her put a hand there, startled at the emotion. What would it be like, to have a home? A place you loved so much you never wished to leave?

  She had her parents’ home, of course, to which she could always return and be welcomed with open arms. Yet on the occasions she did return, her childhood room and the narrow bed both seemed too small to contain the woman she’d become. Once upon a time she’d skipped without thought along the halls of her parents’ home, but now she walked them carefully as a guest.

  When she returned to the Order between assignments, she had a private room. A cell, bare and sparse, though comfortable enough. She had a place to keep her clothes and what personal possessions she might have, of which there were necessarily few. She walked those halls with more comfort than she did those at her childhood home, and felt less a guest, but even so, ’twas not home in the way Rossi thought of Glad Tidings.

  Quilla nodded and smiled at all the right places in Rossi’s conversation, but her thoughts spiraled around this sudden discontent. A home, a house, a place to call her own, with people in it who loved her, and not what she could do for them or what she meant to them. A place where she need not fear being cast out for not being what she was expected to be, because she was accepted as she was.

  Disturbed, she paused in plumping the cushions on the floral-patterned settee. Rossi, despite her earlier reticence, continued chattering, not noticing Quilla’s sudden silence.

  In all her years of Service, Quilla had never minded moving on. She’d never regretted, nor looked back with anything but fondness on the patrons whose lives she’d touched, no matter how briefly. She’d done her job the best she could, satisfied with the knowledge she was doing her part in filling Sinder’s Quiver.

  Never had she thought beyond that. Not until today. Not until this place . . . and this patron.

  “You keep squeezing it that way, it won’t fit back on the settee.”

  “Your pardon?” Quilla looked up, realizing she still clutched the pillow. She looked down and softened her grip. “Oh. Mercy. I was distracted.”

  Rossi’s merry laugh was like the burble of a spring-running creek. “Ah, I talk too much, me. Florentine does say so, all the time.”

  Quilla smiled and put the pillow back and smoothed the fabric. “No, your company is most pleasant. Don’t let Florentine tell you otherwise.”

  Rossi tossed her hair and looked coy. “Oh, I know how to work that one, me.”

  What exactly she meant by that, Quilla had no time to speculate, for the pounding of feet in the hall outside made them both turn. In the next instant, the parlor door flew open, and a small figure with bright golden hair burst through it, mouth chattering.

  “And there were monkis, on leashes,” he was saying. “And Uncle said he would buy one for me if I was a good lad and did my studies, but I said no, I would rather have a dragon.”

  “Indeed,” came a familiar, deep voice, and Gabriel followed his son into the room.

  Quilla paused, but Rossi froze. The maid ducked her head and curtsyed, bobbing up and down with so stiff a posture Quilla was afraid the lass was going to hurt herself. Quilla straightened her back and smoothed her hair off her face.

  Gabriel’s eyes flickered over her, then to the maid, but he said nothing. The next figure through the door was the Mistress Saradin, who swept inside like a queen entering her court. Her attire had looked spectacular from a distance. This close, Quilla could see how fine it truly was. Not one part of Saradin’s gown, not the buttons nor the thread, was of common material. She wore it with the same casual air she might wear a flaxen slop dress—but only, perhaps, because she saw no reason to flaunt it at the moment.

  This was clearly because she did not notice she and her husband were not alone in the room with their son. Her eyes slid over Rossi and Quilla as though they were part of the furnishings. Rossi looked relieved. Quilla caught Gabriel’s eye. Did the mistress not know he had a Handmaiden? Or did she not care?

  “Dane, love, a dragon would take up far too much space, and can’t be house-trained.” Saradin’s voice was like the chirping of a bird. Dainty and bright, like her hair and her dress. She settled into a chair by the window and patted her lap for the boy to sit, but he ignored the gesture and bounced up and down. “A monki would be a fa