Page 161 of Tsumiko and the Enslaved Fox
His smile faded. “I can’t.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
Jacques caught the corner of Argent’s sleeve in a wordless plea, also of Amaranthine origin. Someone haddefinitelybeen coaching him. He would have words with Michael later.
Taking a shallow, shaky breath, Jacques whispered, “I’m willing to beg.”
“You know how?”
For an answer, he bowed at the waist and touched his lips to the inside of Argent’s wrist. Argent growled in annoyance, and Jacques flinched. But the fool clung desperately to his hand, properly pressing his forehead to the spot. Would he grovel next?
But a hot tear splashed onto Argent’s palm, and then another, and his heart sank. Of all his tormentors, why was this insufferable brat the only one to come back, to bother to learn how, to give what no one else ever did? Apologies.
Gently placing his hand atop Jacques’ head, Argent muttered, “Ridiculous boy. Raise your head.”
Jacques’ countenance hid nothing—admiration, trust, hope.
With a deep sigh, Argent accepted his apology and his place. But that didn’t mean he had to be nice about it. Rolling his eyes, he huffed his annoyance. “I suppose you already have my lady’s support?”
Relief and gratitude had their moments, but Stately House’s new butler quickly lapsed into a much more familiar lopsided smile. “I should hope so, sir. I’m her favorite uncle, after all.”
. . .
Lulling a sated and sleepy Kyrie, Tsumiko lingered on the fringes of the commotion surrounding Argent’s and Gingko’s homecoming. Most everyone had gravitated to the kitchen, where tea was served—by Argent. She doubted it even occurred to him that he didn’t need to do this sort of thing any longer.
Sansa was full of questions about his family, his finery, and the reception he received from the various fox clans. For once, Argent answered candidly.
Deece loitered by the door, nonchalantly attentive.
Jacques made a show of polishing spoons at the table. No one remarked on the fact that he was using silver polish on stainless steel. He would learn.
Gingko hung over the back of Isla’s seat, surreptitiously tucking flowers into the girl’s hair. She had yet to notice his attention. Eight-year-old Isla was Michael and Sansa’s second daughter. Hisoka-sensei had dropped her off at Stately House before continuing north to join Argent and Gingko.
The girl behaved with unusual composure for one so young. And much like Michael, she showed no trace of shyness, tending instead to lecture anyone in earshot. At the moment, that was Lilya. Tsumiko was close enough to hear as Isla addressed herself with all seriousness to her new baby sister.
“When you come to Ingress, I’ll watch over you. And I’ll be an even better teacher than Darya is to Annika. And you’ll be glad, since I’ll earn my first ranking by then. Someday, we’ll make everyone proud.”
After only two days, Tsumiko had gained strong impressions of Isla. The girl obviously wanted to outdo her elder sister in Sansa’s eyes. And it was equally clear that she intended to outdo her father in Hisoka-sensei’s eyes. All without realizing that they were already proud of her, though perhaps for reasons Isla didn’t quite understand.
So she looked for ways to distinguish herself. And was inadvertently conscientious and thoughtful in the meantime. Tsumiko wondered all over again how Sansa could bear to let such precious children go.
Just then, Michael and Hisoka came in through the kitchen door, and Isla leapt up, all eagerness. “Papka! Sensei!”
Michael whisked Lilya from her arms and beamed at Isla in a way that made their strong resemblance all the more obvious. She was a pretty girl, with her father’s slender build and coloring. Sansa had wound Isla’s dark blonde hair into a snug coronet, which was all abloom thanks to Gingko’s additions.
The girl had no idea until Hisoka produced a spray of pink blossoms from within his capacious sleeve. “May I add a token to your crown and be counted among your admirers?”
Isla looked horrified and hurried to check at herself in the hall mirror. “Gingko!” she cried, returning with her cheeks puffed in a childish pout.
“Aww, Isla. It’s tradition!” Gingko scooped her up and rocked her back and forth in wide, exaggerated arcs.
“Stop!” she demanded.
He did, though he didn’t put her down. Straightening a drooping bud, he grumbled, “I had to enduresomany traditions over the last couple of weeks, and Dad’s were nine times worse than my little ones. Ninety times!”
“Like what?” she challenged.
Affecting great injury, Gingko whispered, “Manicures andeye liner!” Then he pointed at his father, for Argent was still resplendent.
