Free Imager by L. E. Modesitt Page B

warmly.
    “I’m most certain you do.”
    “And being married doesn’t mean you have to have a family right away.”
    “That’s true.” I grinned at her. “Are you asking me to propose to you?”
    Seliora actually lowered her eyes, if only for a moment. “I am part Pharsi, if that helps. My grandmother was one. She came to L’Excelsis as a servant.”
    “If you take after her, I doubt she stayed one very long.”
    “No, she didn’t. She was the one who started the business.”
    “You . . . your family . . .?” I hadn’t realized that.
    “Papa and Aunt Aegina are the master crafters. They make the chairs and the settees. Mama and I choose the fabrics and do the additional embroidery designs.”
    I had wondered about the fact that Seliora was usually better dressed than the other young women, but I’d learned that some women spent every last copper on clothes.
    I inclined my head. “I’m—”
    “Please don’t tell anyone, especially Dolemis. He’s a terrible gossip.”
    The music resumed, another waltz, a slower one, and I turned to her. “I still would have asked for another dance.”
    She smiled. “I know. I do foretell more than I say.”
    We spent most of the evening dancing, and I did walk her and two of her friends home, even if it meant an even longer and colder walk back out the Boulevard D’Este to Master Caliostrus’s establishment. The entire way, I wondered what she had foretold that she hadn’t said.

755 A.L.

    Flattery is almost always perceived as either accurate
or justified.

    On Jeudi afternoon, I was in the work shed powdering red ochre, using the ancient mortar and pestle that looked as though they had been in Master Caliostrus’s family for generations. Despite the sunlight outside, a chill breeze seeped through the bare plank walls. Powdering hard red ochre was sweaty work. The chill made it even less pleasant, especially if I crushed it and twisted the pestle too hard, because then some of the powder seeped into the air and then stuck to my sweat. Later, it got cold and itchy, and scratching just made it worse.
    I consoled myself that the situation was only temporary because Stanus had finally run off, after throwing a bucket of hot ivory-black scraps at Ostrius. The scraps had burned holes in Ostrius’s shirt and given him several welts on his neck, but it would have been worse had not Ostrius been wearing a leather working vest. If the civic patrollers caught poor Stanus, he’d spend at least a year in the mines, but, in the interim, assuming that Master Caliostrus could find and accept another apprentice, everyone expected me to do all the apprentice chores as well as my own, not to mention painting whatever commissions might come my way, not that I had any at the moment.
    Still . . . the Scheorzyl portrait had turned out well, and I’d even gotten a half-gold bonus. I had to wonder how much extra the Scheorzyls had paid Caliostrus. But my name was getting around—at least to families with daughters who liked cats.
    Everyone in the household was edgy that morning. As I’d left the table after breakfast, Madame Caliostrus had murmured something to her husband that had sounded like “your worthless brother skulking around here again.” I’d known Caliostrus had a brother, and I’d even seen him a few times over the years—and smelled him, reeking of plonk so cheap that not even the poorest apprentice would have drunk it. That morning, Caliostrus had snapped back, but I hadn’t heard what he’d said. I’d just wanted to get away before Ostrius made another comment about my lack of foresight, especially since it was really his shortsightedness, not that he’d ever admit it.
    I checked the powder. Still too coarse, but getting closer to what was necessary to mix with the oil and wax that were melting over the small iron mixing stove in the corner. I went back to grinding, wishing that Stanus were still around, or that Caliostrus would get another apprentice so that