A House Divided by Nicole Ciacchella (the giving tree read aloud txt) 📕

the official inquiry would uncover anything, even if there were something to be found."

"Precisely," she said, nodding her head at the ledger. "That's why I had no qualms about engaging in unethical conduct of my own."

"Are you so certain you aren't allowing your imagination to run away with you?"

"No," she admitted with a sigh, looking away from him. "Perhaps I simply need to feel as though I am doing something useful in this case. However, I do know that something is going on in the House, even if it is unconnected to Toran's death. What's more, Lach is insisting that his father didn't kill himself."

"It's not unusual for the loved ones of a suicide to insist that the person who committed suicide would never do such a thing."

"Yes, I know that sort of denial is common, and I can't say for certain that what Lach insists isn't a product of denial. But he was vehement. He says he and his father made plans to take a voyage together, which does seem like an odd thing for a person to do if they're planning on taking their own life before said journey. Yes, it could have been an attempt on his part to conceal the depths of his despair from his son, but Lach insists that his father wasn't despondent. He says his father was preoccupied, but not in any manner that made Lach fear for him. Moreover, Lach says his father was thrilled that he arrived home early from his voyage."

"Very well, but what if Captain Stowley's return simply made Advisor Stowley have second thoughts about killing himself? Perhaps in a fit of relief he made plans with his son, but then his despair claimed him once more."

"It's possible," Miss Wyland said.

"Is anything suspicious about the captain's being kept sedated?"

"No," she said definitively. "I've never seen Lach in such a state. He needed the sedation for his own good. I don't think his mother was keeping him drugged in order to keep him quiet, if that's what you mean to imply, though I wouldn't put such an action past her."

"Have you known her to scheme in the past?"

"That woman never ceases to scheme," Miss Wyland said, her voice dripping with disdain.

Opening the ledger, Kila flipped through its pages. "These marks," he said, noting them immediately. It was as if they'd leapt off the page and assaulted his eyes. "What do they mean?" He glanced up at Miss Wyland, who looked rather impressed.

"I don't know," she said. "Perhaps nothing. Perhaps they're just smudges caused by his having accidentally brushed his pen over the page."

"No," Kila said. Someone without his gifts might have written them off as accidental, but he had an unshakable sense that they weren't.

"So what could they mean?"

"You don't know?"

"Unfortunately, no," she said, disappointed. As he'd suspected, she'd show her emotions when it came to House affairs but was determined to remain cautious when it came to anything personal.

"May I keep this?"

"Best if you do. I have my hiding places, but I need to do all I can to ensure the House remains unaware of my actions. I'd recommend you don't hide it here, but it's for the best if I don't know where you choose to hide it."

It was a sensible suggestion. He couldn't afford for someone to discover he had House property in his lodgings.

"I'll let you know what I am able to glean from it."

"I might be able to contribute something as well, once I have an idea of what the transactions may indicate."

"It would benefit us both if I had some means of contacting you in case of emergency."

She nodded. "Have you a quill and ink?"

He procured them from his office, giving them to her along with a scrap of parchment. She shook her head and set the parchment aside.

"No, you'll have to memorize this."

Taking his hand, she began to draw a map on his palm. She swept the quill lightly over his skin so as not to scratch him with the pointed tip, and the sensation was ticklish. More disconcerting was the sensation that filled him at the physical contact with her. She cupped his hand with her left hand, holding it steady as she wrote with her right. Her palm was warm and rough with calluses. He wondered for a moment why it struck no one as odd that a lady such as her should have such rough hands, but then he realized that it must be a common trait in House Staerleigh. Whether she went to sea or no, she must have assisted when needed with loading or unloading cargo, lashing it into ships' holds, and other such sailing-related tasks.

He liked the sensation of his hand in hers. A faint current seemed to run through them at the contact, and he strongly suspected that the current would increase were he to come in contact with more of her. Her smell was rather intoxicating as well, a fresh, somewhat bracing scent, like the wind on a stormy summer day, a scent he had always loved.

Her concentration on her drawing also allowed him to study her unimpeded. Tracing her cheekbones with his eyes, the shape of her jaw, the curve of her lips, he searched for traces of the girl he'd once known. She was there underneath, he could sense it. Time had hardened Miss Wyland, but that wounded child still existed somewhere, and it caused a rush of sympathetic warmth to wash through him. She didn't need his protection, but he wanted to offer it to her anyway.

Ah, but to offer her comfort isn't the only reason you feel such a strong impulse to embrace her, a sly voice whispered at the back of his mind. He pushed it away.

"There," she said, releasing his hand and turning to set the quill aside. While her back was turned, he ran the fingers of his other hand over what remained of her warmth.

"Memorize it," she repeated, pinning him with a gaze of such intensity he couldn't look away. Nor did he wish to. "Then wash it away."

"I will," he promised.

Satisfied with his answer, she nodded and gathered her things. "I must go."

He didn't bother asking when he could meet with her again, knowing that she would come to him when the opportunity arose. In the meantime, if he had need of her, he knew where to leave a message.

"Good night," he said, a soft note in his voice, one he hadn't intended.

"Good night," she said. Then she was gone.

His lodgings felt empty.

 

 

Chapter 15

 

 

 

Cianne felt oddly at loose ends the next morning. Her father had left early and Lach and his mother were busy meeting with the Elders to plan Toran's funeral. Despite her soul-sucking sense of exhaustion, she wasn't able to seize the opportunity to sleep later. Her mind was far too busy, and the intensity of everything that had happened over the last several days left her with the sensation of a weight pressing down on her chest, making it difficult for her to draw breath.

Though it made her feel guilty, she allowed herself some time to think about Kila's return to her life. From under her shirt she drew out a tiny key on a leather cord that she wore around her neck at all times, then used it to open the small chest she'd extracted from the hidden compartment in her jewelry wardrobe. She didn't care one fig for jewelry, but even at the age of twelve she'd had an impressive collection of her own, much of it gifts given to her by other House members over the years. Upon her mother's death she had inherited Annalith's extensive collection, though she hadn't been able to bring herself to wear a single piece of it. Even looking at it was almost unbearable. Vivie hardly ever convinced her to wear jewels to important events, even when she employed her most persuasive cajoling techniques, and so Cianne's general disdain for expensive baubles had become known throughout the House. Another mark against her, she supposed. House Staerleigh wasn't overly ostentatious, but House members saw no reason to refrain from a tasteful display of one's wealth.

Which was why the jewelry wardrobe was such a good hiding place for the chest. No one ever saw her going into it, and House members tended to view her as simple, so underestimating her wiles that they would never believe her capable of any deceit. They would expect her to exhibit all sorts of suspicious behavior if she were attempting to hide something, so even though it made her grit her teeth, she did her best to take advantage and play into their prejudices against her.

Reaching through the stuffed wardrobe without brushing against any of her mother's familiar necklaces, bracelets, and earrings was also something of a training exercise for her. The task required a steady hand, intense focus, and an unwavering gaze fixed on the back of the wardrobe, where the secret compartment's latch was hidden. It was also a test of mental endurance, because each piece reminded Cianne of times spent with her mother, provoking memories both painful and so exquisitely happy as to render them painful as well.

Her ordeal wasn't over yet as she would have to return the chest to its hiding spot, but even that was nothing compared to what she was planning on doing as soon as possible. Her hands shook as she pulled a small leather book from the chest and slipped it into a hidden pocket sewn into the inside of her shirt. The book was so slim that wearing a flared waistcoat over the shirt was enough to conceal it. Once the waistcoat was securely laced, the book pressed against her breastbone, a reminder of what she'd carried close to her heart for these nine long years. The thought of returning it filled her with a dull heaviness, but she knew giving it back was the right thing to do. It hadn't been hers to keep in the first place; it was due to a mere quirk of fate that she still had it.

Closing her eyes, she pictured the book with perfect clarity. The wine-colored leather had darkened with age, the edges of it stained and frayed from much contact with fingers. The pages were thin, fragile, and Cianne always turned each one with extreme care, not releasing her breath until she was certain she hadn't ripped it. A little larger than her palm, the book contained a series of meticulous sketches, thirty-two in total, covering the pages front and back. Each sketch depicted one of the forms of the deshya.

 

***

 

"I can't do it!" Cianne said, throwing herself on the ground in frustration, trying to hide her tears. She hated that she was such a crybaby. She cried about everything, when she was mad, when she was sad, when her muscles became so tense from her inability to do something that she felt like her bones would shatter. Her mother had told her that she shouldn't be ashamed of the force of her feelings, that such deep emotions were the result of having a big heart. Her father, on the other hand, had often barked at her to wipe her eyes and compose herself, his scorn clear as he said that nothing was worth so much fuss. It didn't matter what the fuss was about; in her father's view, any fussing was too much of an extreme.

"Of course you can," Kila said in his gentlest voice. Squatting next to her, he peered into her face with his warm, dark eyes. She loved that voice, loved the instant effect it had