“Thank you,” Giddon replied in Keepish, pausing to knock on Hava’s door. She’d skipped that interminable dinner last night. Refused to leave the ship, then kept turning into a sculpture anytime anyone tried to talk to her. So they’d left her behind with the sailors, then Giddon had returned after dinner to collect her. Once he’d explained that they’d be staying in a quiet, isolated home, then begged, pleaded with her to come, she’d done so, silent and cold, going straight to bed when they’d arrived.
“Hava has already gone to breakfast,” the man said.
“Has she?” said Giddon, worry twisting inside him. “Was she wearing a coat?”
“No, sir,” said the man.
Then maybe she really had gone to breakfast. Though Hava could make a man see a young woman without a coat, if she wanted to.
Giddon walked on quickly toward the staircase. At its top, a cat sat at attention, its rump on the floor, its nose in the air, its white fur, even its posture and gravity, mirroring that of the man in white, almost comically, as if it believed itself to be directing guests to breakfast as well. Then it saw Giddon and darted down the steps in front of him and the illusion was broken. Giddon was comforted, obscurely, by its familiar, catlike behavior.
There had been a few blue foxes at dinner last night—though their fur had been a dark gray, not actually blue—and he hadn’t liked the feeling of their intelligent gold eyes on him, the sense that they might be “bonded” to some person at the party with whom they were having a secret conversation. Of course, everything about dinner last night had been difficult. Giddon had felt as if he were clinging to propriety by a thread; he’d wanted to crawl under the table and roll into a ball.
Through the south-facing windows, he could see the Cliff Farm that, Quona had explained, was owned by the Winterkeep Academy and was used by the school of animal medicine. Its barns, painted pale blue, were perched on a cliff of gold grass above the sea, fat cows grazing idly. Giddon had never seen barns with huge glass windows before. Suddenly he hated the farm, because it was part of an educational institution more successful and blessed with resources than Bitterblue had ever been able to dream of.
His breath whooshed out in relief when he found Hava in the dining room, tearing bacon with her teeth like she was trying to punish it. Her shoulders were hunched, her pale face in a snarl. He sat across from her, not pressing her to speak when she ignored him.
Guide me, he said.
You’re doing fine, Bitterblue said. Just let her be.
* * *
—
Breakfast was overrun by cats.
The meal took place in a beautiful room with tall windows that striped the table with sunlight. The food was good. The tea was delicious. And Giddon had grown up in a castle with dogs; he was friendly with many cats; it didn’t alarm him for something furry to brush past his legs under the table, or for small eyes to watch him from a windowsill. But there were just so many. Two in the room when he arrived, a ginger and a mottled black batting at each other with concerted antagonism that turned suddenly into complete indifference, and their numbers kept growing. By the time Quona Varana came in, at least seven cats were present, and he could hear others scurrying in rooms nearby. One had fallen asleep on Giddon’s foot. This was fine with him.
Quona took each of the visitors’ hands in a quick, firm grasp—first Bitterblue’s advisers Froggatt and Barra; then Coran, who was both an adviser and the queen’s doctor; then Giddon; then Hava. Giddon, who knew handshaking wasn’t a Torlan custom, was so touched by the gesture that he almost started crying again.
“How are you all?” said Quona in stiff but unhesitant Lingian, sitting down, then attacking a hard-boiled egg with a spoon. “Did you sleep? Are you comfortable? I hope you don’t mind the cats.” She was a woman of perhaps forty, with dark hair pulled neatly back and black eyes in a brown face. Her voice was deep and forceful, her focus on them rather startlingly intense. She asked her questions like she had an agenda and was ticking things off a list.
“I’m quite comfortable, thank you,” said Giddon, “and I like cats.”
“Good,” she said, eating quietly for a minute or two. Occasionally a cat jumped into her lap and she swept it onto the floor again with a quick remonstrance in Keepish. “Bad cat!” or “Behave yourself!”
“Do you have any foxes?” asked Giddon, wanting to know if he needed to guard himself, though unsure against what. Could foxes read everyone’s minds?
“I do not,” said Quona. “Though if I did, I would have only one. There are many laws governing the relationships between humans and foxes, and one is that no human may be bonded to more than one fox. Do you understand about the foxes?”
“About . . . the laws?” said Giddon, confused.
“About how their telepathy works,” she said. “You’ll be encountering foxes during your stay, so it’s important to understand. You don’t need to fear their intrusion, for a fox can’t understand your thoughts or words at all, unless it’s bonded to you. A fox might choose to bond to you in the course of your visit—it’s unlikely, but possible—but if so, the fox will tell you. And then, it’s like human conversation. They’ll know what you tell them, and you’ll know what they tell you. You won’t be able to see into each other’s souls, or any such nonsense, but if you need a letter delivered or want to know if your staff is dawdling, they can be useful. It’s quite straightforward. At least, this is the common knowledge about foxes. None has ever bonded to me, so I can’t speak to how it feels. Do you want one to bond to you?” she asked abruptly.
“Not particularly,” said Giddon.
“Congratulations,” said Quona. “You’re the only person in Winterkeep who doesn’t, perhaps besides me. I prefer my cats. But maybe, as you come to understand the importance of blue foxes here, you’ll change your mind. I’m told they are loyal, obedient, and unbribable by your enemies. If you do change your mind, give them treats. They’re pleasure-seekers.”
Hava seemed to rouse herself. “Aren’t you an animal doctor?” she asked Quona, leaning forward with her chin in her hand. She did that sometimes—rarely—when she wanted to challenge someone with the strangeness of her mismatched eyes. She blinked at Quona, copper and red.
Quona met her gaze. “Yes. I have an advanced degree in animal medicine,” she said. “It’s also my academic subject. I teach Winterkeep’s brightest future animal doctors.”
“And isn’t your sister the prime minister of Winterkeep? Doesn’t your family usually go into politics?”
Quona flashed a toothy smile. “Absolutely,” she said. “Politics, or airships.”
“Why didn’t you go into politics or airships? Don’t you like your family?”