It was late, and the fireflies were winking love by the time she arrived, but she saw a light shining within. She rang the bell and the door quickly opened.
“Does the Lord Ambassador lodge here?” asked Ruineth.
“Sometimes,” replied Losshell. “He keeps a room here, and I see to it, and take in his letters for him.”
“Is he here now?”
“No. He has not been here since the morning.”
Ruineth frowned, conscious of the grey-eyed curiosity with which the housekeeper was scrutinizing her, and said, “Can you tell me where he is to be found?”
“No,” growled Losshell. She could have told her very well if she had been pleased; for Parnard kept a regular routine, and after he returned from the office, it was his custom to stroll aimlessly around in the Gardens. But the housekeeper was not pleased. There had been many visitors, mostly elf-maidens, to the house, coming at all hours, on very transparent excuses. Losshell had a vision of eight to ten young maidens trailing round the Ambassador, giggling faintly, chattering like birds in a shrubbery, and he reading to them – who knows what sort of words! out of that book of his. She did not approve of such things. So, on this occasion, she resolved to be prudent; and giving the stranger a curt nod as her final answer and good-bye, she made to close the door.
“Oh! but you must, you see!” cried Ruineth, and set her small white teeth on her lower lip.
Losshell paused and peered closely at the woman. She was no longer a child – that was at once plain. Cheeks, mouth – all finely shaped. Her dark hair was thick, and her eyes were dark, too. Those eyes were very eager. That face was nothing for a child like Parnard to take a fancy to and make friends with, that she could see. A glimpse of a willful spirit – that! Too much for him to handle. I have seen her before, I am certain, said she to herself, but I cannot think where. “Did you wish to leave some message, or a letter, or – something?”
“No,” answered Ruinith, and hastened away in the direction of the House.
Losshell shut the door behind her and burst out singing, “The Fortress of Air and Light" again in her strange, haunting lilt as she inspected and removed the stems and leaves from a pile of currants. And before she finished her task, Parnard entered the room and greeted her, cheerfully, with a touch of lazy drawl; then drawing a low chair up to the candlelight, he sat down and smiled at her. He still wore the silky dark-red robes of his office, and smelled strongly of wine. Since Estarfin had returned to his chambers, every evening he would stay an hour bent over his embroidery, which made practically no progress. Those birds he was stitching – Losshell blinked. The owl was doing something to that jaybird, and did not appear to be winning.
“So you are back at last,” she said.
“Yes,” Parnard said. “I wonder, with Estarfin gone, and only one person to keep after -”
“And he is more than enough for anybody!”
“Yes. Well. I meant to say that you must be very lonely during the day, now that he is gone away.”
Losshell snorted and continued sorting currants. Estarfin hardly spoke two words to her and would just sit glowering at the fire.
“Ah, you are too busy, of course,” amended Parnard. “Too busy to be lonely! doing –“ he motioned vaguely in the air with his needle, “work. You are quite lucky, you know, though you may not think it. I have done much work to-day, myself, and yet -” he sighed.
“You read a lot, no doubt!” Losshell interrupted, watching his thin fingers move rapidly over the cloth. That embroidery would never be any good, try as he might.
Parnard smiled and laughed. There was no vestige of weariness on his face, and his eyes shone brightly in the firelight. At that moment he looked extraordinarily young to Losshell. “Only a little. I can read to you, if you would like –“
“No!” she snapped. “Good night,” she said, quickly, and departed with her bowl of currants.
Parnard shrugged and stayed by the fire for another hour. Losshell was difficult to speak with. That was not such a bad quality in a servant, Sogadan told him. Her appearance and demeanour was not very friendly, and she had showed a certain degree of roughness in her dealings with the tradespeople. But she was an admirable housekeeper, and she made very good currant cake. At last, with a sigh, he rolled up his work, and went tiptoe-ing upstairs in darkness.
