one that curled so comprehensively in contempt—and leading her to the garden pond, giving her a good boot in. At least she’d be with her own kind.
She was used to her daughter’s tendency to settle stolidly into one interest, stuck firmly in an adolescence that Rosemary privately believed had gone on for far too long. Surely Ruth should have realized long ago that her mother paid no attention to histrionics? Unfortunately, it hadn’t seemed to stop her. Many times Rosemary had idly wished that she could cast every memory of Ruth’s tantrums, rid herself entirely of those unfortunate experiences, but no one would take them as trade, and there wasn’t room in the house to store them all. Except in the library, and Rosemary was damned if she would sully her treasures, if only by association.
Later, in the same library, she was forced to reconsider what she had traded away—and the possibility of getting it back. Was it such a silly idea? Granted, Ruth didn’t know the value of
anything
and couldn’t be trusted to make an accurate assessment if her life depended on it. Which it never would. And Rosemary had not made her initial choices lightly. Her grandmother’s coin was a rare piece in a library of polished rarity, but uncommonness alone was not a reliable indicator of worth. Under normal circumstances Rosemary would not have regretted its loss—both she and her agent had assessed the market value of the sapflower coin and its ability to hold as an investment, and Rosemary was certain of her conclusion. Trained since she could toddle to maintain and improve her family’s most valued asset, Rosemary knew she was an expert in her field; had known since she was younger than Ruth was now that in her ability to discern and to trade on that discernment she was a match for anybody. The sapflower coin was the better memory, and was undeniably worth what she had paid for it. She would not give it up—not for her grandmother’s coin, and not to placate her daughter.
These, however, were not normal circumstances, and the loss not a typical one. Rosemary might be able to give up a family memory without a qualm, but she was not so foolish as to give up the ability to influence her successor. Ruth might not be the best or the brightest, but she was sharp in her own way. Grasping, determined. She
had
learned to ride, adjusted memories to her abilities. And ultimately, she was what Rosemary had to work with. An only child, damn her blank fish eyes.
Rosemary breathed deeply, willed patience into the set of her shoulders and tried to picture her retirement, picture herself handing over responsibility not to a single-minded-and-memoried idiot, but to a well-rounded person who could be trusted to carry on the work of her ancestors.
At heart, Rosemary was a businesswoman. A woman who knew an opportunity for a good bribe when she saw one.
She leafed through the cases of a far shelf, locating one bound in blue leather. Rosemary took it to the bone yard and held it out to her daughter. “Tell you what,” she said, “you want your grandmother’s requiem? This is Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata,
the first recorded musical memory of our time. It’s not the most difficult piece I could have chosen, but you’ll have to work to learn it. When you can, if you can, I’ll see about getting your grandmother’s coin back.”
Ruth gazed at her speculatively, then uncovered the coin and threaded it carefully onto her necklace. Holding it against her breast, left hand curled over the outer surface, her eyelids, half-closed, began to flutter, and with her right hand she began to slowly pick out notes. Rosemary watched her with some surprise, a hopeful stirring of pleasure.
Ten minutes later, she raided the petty cash, and tied on her hat for a trip back into town. Ruth might be determined, but she was also—if the thumping from the direction of bedroom and bone yard was anything to go by—outrageously short on talent. Rosemary was