own entity, and not a human male. âMy HouseHeart chamber needs maintenance. I asked Artemisia to help. I want this done before the Healersâ project.â
âWhich is why you arenât ready today.â Garrett slipped the coin into his pocket. His lust had subsided. Good. He could still smell the woman in the room, though.
TQ said, âCorrect. I had considered requesting your help, too.â
Fascination blazed through Garrett. He nearly trembled with it. Heâd never been in a HouseHeart, the most important place of a sentient House. The HouseHeart reflected the Family. But the Turquoise House had no Family, so Garrett himself might be able to infuse a bit of himself into the long-lived being. That would be a satisfying goal in itself, a tiny legacy of himself in stretching infinity.
After his loss of Dinni, heâd discovered that heâd needed to make a mark on the world. Something more than just surviving the disease. This could be a true contribution.
âYou are reconsidering your offer?â His throat was hot with desire to learn, to see, to discover.
âYou do not treat Artemisia well, though she is your HeartMate. Humans are very odd.â
âHeartMate and HeartBonding is odd.â
âI have seen HeartBonded people.â
Garrett wondered if the House had actually had a HeartMate couple exchange the bond sexually within its walls. How much could the House sense? Garrettâs mind veered to an image of a naked Artemisia screaming her passion. Shut that down!
âWhy do you treat Artemisia as you do?â
âMy business.â
âHow am I to help my people, help
you
during this time, if I donât understand you? How am I to learn?â
The plea socked Garrettâs gut.
Dammit, now he couldnât speak because his throat had tightened. He coughed. âWeâre private here?â
âArtemisia is making arrangements to get her pillow.â There was a slight pause as if TQâs attention focused elsewhere. The House wasnât omnipresent, then. âI do not think that her pillow will survive the decontamination processes. When the pillow arrives I will measure it in all ways. If the object does not last, I will replace it with an exact copy.â
âThings arenât always interchangeable. The pillow you provide, no matter how it seems like a match, wonât be
her
pillow.â
The air around him pressed against him, TQâs attention sharp. âDid you lose someone dear and irreplaceable? A woman?â
Garrett didnât answer.
Silence throbbed. Garrett shook off the rough mood and went over to the window that looked out on the rear grassyard. Beautifully landscaped, of course. One or more of TQâs residents had been a gardener. Smooth green turf, colorful flowers shifting in the slight breeze before bushes staggered in front of small trees, then tall trees, keeping the yard private. All of the feral cats he knew, and others he didnât, snoozed in the sun.
The yard looked too manicured, as were the formal gardens and fountain of the inner courtyard of MidClass Lodge where he lived. He preferred a natural tangle of plant life like heâd found on his travels outside cities.
âThe records of the Gael City HealingHall state a young woman with a baby asked you to accompany the driver of the quarantine vehicle to the isolation clinic in the mountains.â
He jerked, remembering. Dinni had begged. Her husband had been one of the men to find the infected fish and had died. Her baby had been sick. Sheâd looked fine except for sorrow and worry.
Garrettâs throat closed. He couldnât answer, pretend this didnât matter.
â
Her
records at that HealingHall state that she had told the Healers she would scry a friendâan old loverâwho she was sure would help with the driving, and that you grew up together.â
There wasnât even a sturdy chair he could sit on, only