A House Divided

Chapter 1

"Begging your pardon, miss, but you have a visitor," Vivie said, entering Cianne's sitting room with her head bowed. She kept her eyes lowered in what Cianne felt was undue deference, but, then, Vivie was nothing if not proper. Perhaps Cianne ought to have been pleased that Vivie's deference was genuine, unlike the false solicitousness of most everyone else in House Staerleigh.

"I'm not expecting anyone today," Cianne said, smoothing her skirts so they concealed the stiletto she'd been oiling. It wasn't the dagger Elder Borean had given her for her sixteenth birthday, the customary gift presented to all members attaining the age of majority. Blade emblazoned with the House crest of a ship tossed about by a stormy sea, the dagger was a distinctive weapon meant to mark the bearer as a member of House Staerleigh. While it wasn't unusual for House members to carry other ornamental yet functional weapons, it would have struck them as unusual for Cianne, particularly seeing as how hers were far more functional than ornamental.

"And yet someone is here all the same," said a familiar voice, much to Vivie's chagrin. The maid opened her mouth as if to protest, but then sank into a low curtsy and slipped from the room.

"Lach, you know how Vivie is," Cianne chided. Fluttering one hand in an imitation of the discomposed Vivie, Cianne concealed her other, slipping the stiletto between the cushions on her settee as she rose. She made plain the amusement behind her words. "She'll spend the next two hours berating herself for such a breach of protocol."

"I imagine she'll recover," Lachlon said, stepping toward her, green eyes twinkling.

Cianne knew very well what effect those twinkling eyes had on most of the eligible members of House Staerleigh—and even on some of the ineligible members. Long was the House's history and proud its many illustrious members, but Lachlon was a favorite. One of the most gifted of all Seafarers in recorded history, a favorite House jest was that Lachlon wasn't so much the son of Moiria and Toran as he was the son of Cearus, Lord of Water.

Indeed, everything about Lach seemed heaven-touched. From his abundant waves of windblown chestnut hair to his burnished skin to his deep green eyes, the same shade as the mysterious depths of the sea, Lachlon's appearance struck even the most resistant of eyes. His face was chiseled in a manner that recalled classical works of sculpture, making him almost aggressively handsome. Tall and broad, his size was imposing as well, a product of time spent mostly at sea, the strenuous work providing him with a taut layer of muscle that might have been the envy of any Battle Master.

Lachlon's gleaming smile widened as Cianne studied him, and she averted her gaze. "Taking me in?" he asked in a teasing tone.

"It's been nearly three months. I wanted to be sure the salt hasn't eroded you yet," she replied, keeping her tone light. Dear though her friend was to her, her feelings for him didn't extend beyond friendship, yet it seemed she was doomed to always be provoking false hopes in him. "What are you doing here anyway? I thought you weren't due back for another fortnight."

Lowering his eyes, he gave her a sheepish smile and she smiled back.

"Sea-blessed. I should have known," she said, to which he responded with a modest shrug. Lach was well aware of the strength of his gift, but he didn't parade it about as did some of the others, which was just one of the things Cianne liked best about him. House Staerleigh—like most Houses, really—tended to be populated by the ambitious and boastful.

"I brought you something," he said, producing from behind his back a package wrapped in salt-stained brown paper.

"Another addition to my collection?" she asked, her eyes lighting up. She extended an eager hand toward the gift, but he lifted it out of her reach with a grin.