“There’s nothing wrong with her!” Darius blurted, then sank back again at the fury in the old man’s eyes.
“I see your ambitions have grown, Jocasta. From not wanting to return to the Greenweald at all, to ruling over it.” He turned away again.
“Oh, and there is one more thing,” he said, turning back around when he reached the door. “If what you say is true, you’re overlooking a vital fact. When Solomon returns, there is the very real possibility that he won’t be alone.”
He shook his head and Jocasta felt a surge of embarrassment run through her. It was the same look he used to give her when she failed thinking through a problem as a young girl.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Well, that didn’t go as planned,” Darius said after the old man left the room.
Jocasta returned to her seat. “He’s not wrong.”
“He’s old. And afraid to change the status quo.”
“No, he’s not. He’s right. I didn’t even think of it.”
“What?”
“Solomon,” she said. “When he comes back he won’t be alone. He’ll have Celia, Florian’s true heir, with him.”
“That’s assuming she’s still alive.”
Jocasta said nothing. Of course the girl was still alive. That’s the way these things worked. And she would take over as Head of House, which was the same as giving Solomon control, if the stories of their relationship were to be believed.
Maybe that was good. Then she could go back to her ship, back to the salt-spray and the wind. Leave all this intrigue and politicking behind.
“I still think we have an opportunity,” Darius said. “Perhaps not an outright strike. But what if we could put someone in Towering Oaks? Find out what’s really going on, perhaps plant the seeds of discontent. By the time Solomon does return, the House will be unstable, and while he is trying to put things right, we could take advantage.”
“And Celia?”
“Well, I’m sure she’ll return here, leaving Solomon to tend to his own House. And then... accidents happen. Tragic ones, at times.”
Jocasta considered her aide. He was ambitious and, she now say, ruthless. Not bad qualities in times such as these. But he would need to be tempered.
“Agreed,” she finally said. “We do need someone to give us an edge over there. You’ll go.”
Darius paled. “Me? I’m not a spy, my Lady. I don’t have the temperament for it.”
“Not as a spy. You’ll go as my emissary. The same way this Shireen sent Orlando to me, you’ll go to her. Extend my greetings, our renewal of the ties between our Houses, that sort of thing. And while you’re there, you’ll watch for opportunities. Do this well and you’ll be rewarded.”
Darius nodded. He looked slightly sick, Jocasta noticed. Good.
“Do it poorly, and you’ll be back answering doors. At best.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The library was quickly becoming her place of refuge, as it had been for Florian. Childress’s words shook her. Did she have ambitions to rule the Greenweald?
No, her aims remained true. House Whispering Pines would be a force unto itself, answerable to no one. No longer used by Towering Oaks or Glittering Birch to meet their own ends.
If the only way to ensure that was to remove the current ruling House and take its place, then that was what needed to happen. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all. History was full of instances of regime change.
And Celia? She was incapable of ruling one House, let alone the whole Greenweald. No, perhaps Darius was right after all. Let him cause a little chaos over there in Towering Oaks, give Solomon something to occupy him when he returned. Then, Celia could be taken care of in such a fashion that it wouldn’t arouse his suspicions.
The last thing they needed was a fully functioning Solomon against them. Done right, perhaps they could break him at the same time.
Yes. The only question was how, but she had time to work on that.
There was another piece in this game that neither Childress nor Darius mentioned. Mostly forgotten, Florian had another heir who was unaccounted for. Where was Thaddeus?
Chapter 17
The home Celia was led to matched the rest of the city: run-down and shabby. Inside, it was slightly better. The people who lived there obviously made an effort to make it a home.
“Thank you for your kindness,” she said again.
The man snorted and moved off, entering another room through a ratty curtain hung as a door.
“I should be thanking you,” the woman said. “No one tries to help anyone in this place anymore. Let alone goes out of their way to try to ease someone else’s pain. Please, sit.”
She indicated a table and chairs placed in the center of the floor, near a rusted cast-iron stove and water pump. Celia sat, her knees coming up further than they would have in furniture made for one of the Folk’s stature.
“My name is Celia,” she said, breaking the silence, forgetting that she had already told them.
The woman smiled at her as she moved to fill a battered kettle with water and put it on the stove. “I remember. And I’m Greta. My husband is Friedrich.”
“Have you lived here long?” Celia was making polite conversation, but really wanted to ask why? Why would anyone live in this place if they didn’t have to?
“All my life. It’s where I was born, where I went to school and met Friedrich, and where we had our Lyssa. It’s all we know.”
Celia said nothing, her finger tracing an idle pattern on the tabletop.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Greta said. “Why live in such a miserable place?”
“Because it’s our home,” a gruff voice said.
Celia turned to see that Friedrich had emerged from the
