across the petals of the velvet-soft blossoms. Imagine having enough gold to create floating gardens. Surely, Lady Evara will spend a bit of her fortune on a has-been rider’s dreams of lost glory.
Maybe she should think of a better sales pitch than that.
Trouble was, she wasn’t good at asking for money. Or for anything. She’d become a rider to prove her worth, and that hadn’t changed—she wanted this patronage because she deserved it, not because anyone pitied her.
After giving her name to one of Lady Evara’s servants, Tamra waited as instructed by a pond that was overstuffed with lilies and shimmering silver fish. A waterfall fed the stream, pouring from bronze vases. Even though she knew it cycled back through hidden hoses, it still felt like a frivolous waste of money.
But then, I suppose, so am I.
Last season her patron had showered her with enough money to buy the best racer at the auction and hire the most promising rider. Both had died when she’d pushed them too hard in their final race in the Heart of Becar.
Even worse, they’d taken down multiple racers and riders around them.
A high-profile disaster like that, accompanied by so many fines that Tamra had lost all her savings from her champion years, should have been enough for her patron to abandon her entirely. Tamra should just be grateful that she hadn’t. Yet here I am, about to ask her to trust me again.
This is never going to work.
She fixed her thoughts on Shalla, attempting to firm up her resolve once more.
It was funny, but she’d never once felt this kind of self-doubt on the racetrack.
It’s age, Tamra thought. The youth can be confident because they don’t know how many doors are closing with each passing day. The youth had the illusion of limitless possibilities, whereas Tamra had already had her fate, her failure, shoved down her throat.
I can’t fail again. I won’t.
“My petal!” Lady Evara swept across the garden, looking as if she were wearing a garden on her body. She was draped in gauzy layers of fabric embroidered with a riot of flowers, all in gold- and emerald-colored threads. Her hair was dyed emerald and gold as well, and was wrapped around a puzzle of golden trellises so high and wide that Tamra didn’t know how she managed to walk without tipping over. “Such a delight to see you, my dear, especially after what happened yesterday. Losing all your students at once. Tut-tut.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised that Lady Evara knew, but it still caught her off guard. Even with so many city services hamstrung by the lack of an emperor, the rich still found ways to get news faster than anyone else. She wondered whether one of the other trainers had sent a messenger wight with the humiliating details. Or it could have been one of her students’ parents. Tamra tried not to let her dismay show on her face as she bowed low. “Gracious One, you look as beautiful as your garden.”
Lady Evara laughed, a tinkling sound that resembled a wind chime. Tamra knew she’d cultivated that laugh—she’d once interrupted the great lady practicing when she thought no one could hear her. Or maybe she simply hadn’t cared if Tamra had.
“You have probably guessed why I have come, Gracious One.”
The laugh died as if it were a fire doused with water. “You want. Isn’t that why you always come? Your wants. Your needs. Your dreams. But does anyone ever ask what I want and need?”
Oh, spectacular. It’s going to be one of those visits. “What do you want and need?” Tamra asked dutifully, though what she really wanted to ask was how could Lady Evara need anything, living in such splendor? Her every whim was catered to. She’d never known true need. Maybe want, though. Even the rich had wants.
“Absolutely nothing. All my dreams have been fulfilled.”
That . . . wasn’t the answer she expected, even if she suspected it was true.
“That’s a lie, of course,” Lady Evara said airily. “I want to sponsor a winner. You promised me one. You were so very certain.” She pouted, and Tamra tried to guess what the appropriate response was. An apology? Bravado? She went with truth:
“I can make a winner.”
“Oh? So confident, sweet petal? You’re cursed, they say, after last year’s catastrophe. They call me foolish to encourage you. They’d rather I toss you to the jackals. But I’m not so fickle in my judgments. And I judge that you can do as