When she was sure Berk was out of earshot, Viv looked at Fern and said, “Lady Zee, huh? So, do you think he … and she … ?” She made a suggestive motion with her hands which could’ve meant several inappropriate things. “I mean, given what she writes, I have to wonder if—”
“Wonder what?” asked Fern archly.
“You know.”
“Don’t ask that, either.”
Viv feigned offense. “For somebody who was terrified to do this, you’re real brave about handing out rules.”
Fern opened her mouth to respond, and then Berk was back, one hand on the door, crinkles at the edges of his eyes. “You’re in luck. She’s not writing, so she’s in a good mood. Follow me.” Then he tucked the gryphet under his arm as though he’d done it a thousand times before and motioned them inside.
* * *
The foyer was massive, featuring an elaborate wooden floor with detailed circular inlays. A grand stair ascended to the second story, and the paneled walls were fairly crammed with paintings in a bewildering array of sizes, all puzzled together with barely any wood between them. Potted trees flanked the staircase—thin, silvery things with graceful, twining branches.
A long corridor extended to the left but had a clear feeling of disuse. Not dusty, but sparely decorated, with closed doors along its length.
Berk led them to the right, into a warmer, shorter, carpeted hall, illuminated by hissing flick-lanterns. Another turn through a narrow passage led into an enormous kitchen, clean and light, with a huge marble counter in the center and a pair of stoves substantial enough to feed a garrison. Fresh herbs hung in fragrant bunches along one wall, and a few saucepans and platters were clustered on one small corner of the counter, part of some interrupted preparation.
From the look of the cookware, Viv got the distinct impression that only a fraction of the estate was used. She wondered how many people actually lived in the Greatstrider household, because the number in her imagination was steadily dwindling.
Another few turns took them to a long office with a solarium at the other end. The walls featured built-in bookshelves from floor to ceiling, absolutely stuffed with books. The ottomans, chairs, and side tables held tottering towers of them as well, and since that hadn’t been sufficient storage, they were piled higgledy-piggledy on the floor, too.
It put Thistleburr’s stock of books to shame and made Highlark’s home library seem miniscule by comparison.
Flick-lanterns on the columns between the shelves provided a steady golden glow. At the far end, a small table squatted in the solarium’s light, topped with a metal machine Viv didn’t recognize. It was scaled with bronze keys like some misshapen mechanical reptile. A limp tongue of paper unspooled from the top, and piles of regularly sized parchment waited on either side of it. A very old-looking chair crammed with squashy pillows lurked behind the table.
On a long divan behind it, with an open book propped on her bosom, reclined Zelia Greatstrider.
She looked up at their approach, snapped the book closed, and rose to her feet. Like most elves Viv had encountered, she was possessed of a regal beauty. Unlike them, however, she was nearly as tall as Viv herself, and willowy was not a word you would use to describe her. Her hair fell silver around her shoulders in unbound waves, and her skin glowed a dusky bronze. She wore comfortable-looking riding trousers and a flowing, open-throated shirt. Her feet were bare, and she occupied all the space she deserved.
“Here they are,” said Berk. “Viv and Fern.” He seemed to remember his burden. “Ah, and Potroast.” He deposited the gryphet on the carpet, whereupon the creature immediately lay across his boots and huffed a huge sigh.
There was a beat of silence during which Zelia Greatstrider regarded them both, tapping her book against her leg.
Viv had considered several opening gambits on the ride up, but they all flew out of her head at once, and all she could manage was, “Uh, this is a lot … of books. Have you … read them all?”
Fern might have whimpered beside her.
“Never trust a writer who doesn’t have too many books to read. Or a reader, for that matter,” said Zelia. She approached the desk, shuffling through papers and knickknacks until she produced a quill and inkwell. With some resignation, she said, “So, I assume you’ve got something you’d like signed?”
Fern nudged Viv in the leg, and she started, remembering the basket hanging over her arm. “Oh! Oh, no. Uh, I—we—had a sort of proposal. Actually, I guess it’s a favor? Well, also it would probably be good for—” She realized she was rambling and thrust the basket out instead. “You know what, let me start over. We brought a gift.”
Zelia shrugged at Berk, who gently disengaged his feet from Potroast and cleared a space on a side table. Viv set the basket down and flipped back the muslin. “My, uh, good friend Maylee owns the bakery on the beach. She packed up a few things for you.”
“Sea-Song?” The first note of real interest entered Zelia’s voice.
“Oh, you know it?” Viv asked.
The elf peered with interest into the basket, which was stuffed with scones, lassy buns, and long, gleaming sticky cakes wrapped in paper that smelled strongly of lemon.
Berk laughed, a deep, easy sound. He clapped Viv on the shoulder. “If I’d known that basket was from Sea-Song, I would’ve sent you straight in.”
Plucking a lassy bun from the assortment, Zelia withdrew to her throne of squashy pillows and gestured to two book-stacked chairs opposite her desk. She broke off a large piece, popped it into her mouth, and chewed with obvious pleasure.
As Viv and Fern cleared their seats, the elf swallowed and said, “All right, you’ve earned a few minutes. You’re the owner, aren’t you?” she inquired, tilting the bun toward Fern. “Your father opened that shop, if I recall. An ‘R’ name, I believe … Rowan?”
“Uh, yes, ma’am.”
Zelia flashed Berk an amused expression. “I thought you told me they called me ‘miss’？”
Berk looked up from where he was rubbing the gryphet’s belly and offered a vague shrug.
“And you …” Zelia narrowed her eyes thoughtfully at Viv. “You, I don’t believe I know. I haven’t puzzled out what you’re doing in her company yet. Those aren’t bookselling arms.”
“Oh, I’m just around for a few weeks. A friend of Fern’s, I guess. Helping out here and there. Which is what I wanted to talk to—”
“Actually,” said Zelia, a sly smile spreading across her lips, “I do know you. You’re that orc who was dragged into town a few weeks back. Highlark is lucky he made it out alive.”
“Um, yeah,” said Viv, face flushing hot and honestly feeling a little persecuted. “Yeah, that was me, but I felt real bad about it. I wasn’t in my right mind at the time, because of the fever, and—”
Fern put her face in her paws.
Zelia burst into full-throated laughter and slapped the arm of her chair. Wiping away a tear, she rolled a hand at them. “All right, I’m more intrigued by the moment. If nothing else, I’ll work this all into a book. Do go on. Your proposal?”