A Candle to Light Your Honor

K. Ryan, 2005

Rating: PG-13, themes.
Chapter Five-point-Five: Lise.
Author's Note: Five-point-five? Well, it's just a way to fit in certain events without actually deviating, per say, from my eight chapter format. Besides, it looks cool, and I'm shallow. There's a much longer note at the end of this, but let's not get to that until later.
1016, Wort Moon: Residence of Fedwren Rightwork, Highback Street, Ninver, Capchen

Two years, seven months after a wedding

No shame. No shame. I am a... .

Lise kept her head high as she climbed up the broad front steps to Fedwren's house. She was a business woman, with official matters to attend to on Highback Street, she assured herself for the thousandth time, lifting her chin still further before brushing droplets from her white cloth cap. What is it about Fedwren that makes it always rain? She wondered, cursing. Even internally, her voice squeaked a little.

Reaching up on her toes to grasp the brass bell-pull, the young woman prided herself on looking over her shoulder only once; just as she prided herself on choosing to wear her sage green serge for its subtle elegance and gravitas; not for it's dozen or so tiny buttons that were so particularly fiddly and difficult to unfasten.

"Afternoon to you, Daughter Cartwell." Rickson had opened the door in the midst of Lise's self-congratulations, and was smiling at her politely. The manservant always seemed pleased to see her, these days, a far-cry from his shocked reaction to her ill and hysterical entrance just over seven months ago. It made her uneasy.

"I'm…er…." Swallowing, Lise gave herself a swift mental kick for unnecessary hesitance, and attempted to retain eye-contact. "I'm here to see Master Rightwork."

"Master's detained at present, miss," said Rickson, stepping aside all the same. "But if you'd follow me to his study, then I'll—"

"No!" The shout surprised both of them. "I mean, there's no need for you to hurry Master Rightwork…er…unduly, Rickson. I'll just wait in the tradesmen's parlor."

That got a wider smile. "Daughter Cartwell, that won't do."

Lise glared. "You're being impertinent!"

Rickson leaned forward and took hold of arm. "No, miss, I'm sure. Just performing my duty. Master won't be at all pleased if he knows you've come and gone."

"Let go of me. Now."

Fingers slowly withdrew from her wrist.

"I do beg your pardon, of course. I overstepped."

"You'll be lucky if I don't report you!" Lise shivered, clearing her throat. "I'll wait for him, if you please."

He led her to Fedwren's study and bowed low to her as he left, gently closing the door.

"I'm sure he won't be long for you, Daughter Cartwell."

Click.

Lise looked about her. The room was huge. She had no memory of the dark, ancient looking beams that came down from the peaked ceiling. No recollection of how a wall painted a rich, warm red cut the room, drawing the eye to a clutter of bookcases and mathematical eccentricities that glimmered all-over brass and copper. Globes and angles. An ornate compass rose, each wind labeled in a spidery calligraphy she couldn't read.

There was a fire in the iron grate, and shades covered all of the lamps. There were a great many of them, and the patterns and colorings on paper, glass and even fabric threw shadowy images on all the remaining walls, which would have been white underneath it.

I'm in a jewelry box, she thought. With carpets.

Lise Cartwell just wanted to curl up somewhere and wait for the world to go away. She'd gone from being fourteen and learning how to draw up the more complicated account books to a barely sixteen-year-old shop owner who had to deal with creditors. It was impossible to understand.

Carefully, eyes down, she smoothed the folds of her dress, wincing at the sight of patches that were barely visible flaws in its dark green. They were flaws that spoke volumes.

"Dearest. You came."

She hadn't heard the door open. "Master!" The shrillness of her voice raised echoes.

Lise's face flamed. "Master Rightwork," she managed, slowly turning to face him. "You and your servant both need to learn how to use one's proper names." The blush just wouldn't go away.

Fedwren chuckled. "Forgive me, please. You're familiar with my particular weakness, yes?" Gravely, the older man ushered her to a seat, carefully not touching.

"What can I do for you this time, Daughter Cartwell? Andtry to remember that it's Fedwren, would you? You can call me anything you like."

'This time' was time. "The Yanjing deal fell. And it's—it's Lise."

She had been expecting a cackle; a reaching hand that she couldn't avoid. Smirks and general self-satisfaction. Instead, Fedwren was looking…sad.

"It actually fell?"

Something in Fedwren's concerned, serious tone was angering her. "Yes, it fell!" Instead of high and inaudible, Lise's voice was turning hoarse. "They have a strict code for trading. Reputation," she spat, standing abruptly, "is important."

No laughter. No gentle, fatherly shake of the head. This was too much. This was worse than toying with her. How dare he?

"Daughter Cartwell—"

"—It's Lise." The blush had faded. She was white, and cold; so cold that Lise felt that the bottom of her stomach had dropped out. Why wasn't he playing the usual game, after all the tears she'd shed getting ready for it? "You know it is, and you know why I'm here and how after you buy up on my stock you'll be allowed to call me 'dearest' or 'my love' or anything else your sick mind can think of, and how if your buying saves me from the debtors house—which it will—you'll be able to kiss me more than I let you now, and…and…well, Fedwren, you're…it's cursed Lise. Don't toy with me any more."

Fedwren stayed silent, watching Lise make up for the breaths she'd forgotten to take.

He swallowed. "You make it sound cheap."

The cloth cap fell from Lise's hair as she laughed. "Do we—have—an agreement, Master—Rightwork?"

Fedwren answered her; very, very softly. "Agreement accepted, Lise."

When the Bailiffs came andfound that Lise Celerity Cartwell (proprietor) daughter of Willem Cartwell (deceased) of Cartwell's Creations was not at home, they forced open the door.

Creditors were always paid in Capchen.

Author's Note: This chapter is cursed. It's been wiped from the hard drive no less than three times, and it loved to entirely change direction every time I attempted reconstruction. There have been plot crises by the dozen, disgusted moments of 'where do I want to go with this?' and simple lack of time and motivation. This hasn't been fair on any of you, and I apologize for that.

Cami. And Ali, of course, because you just can't stop defending my honour. grin Raiblu8 and blue-forget-me-not—whom I pray hasn't forgotten me. Lea, with all your wonderful long reviews, and Tris the weather witch. More wonderful stalwarts: littlehorse and Queen's Own. Jessalae; kateydidnt and tomato-greens. BloodyCrystal and Maiden-of-dark-life, and even Silverchild of the winds—thank you for your thoughts. Finally, rubadubdub and Blaze.

You're all wonderful, and I can't thank you enough for taking the time to review this story.