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in the middle. That copper lily fountain is fabulous.” She gave a little cough. “I wouldn’t have thought to have floating copper flowers. The sound when they bump against each other is lovely, just lovely. I like the water sound, too. I have this entryway . . . Might I ask the artist?”
    “Enea of Yerba Lane.”
    The man raised a brow at the woman, who was fussing with her napkin. He glanced up at Camellia. “Good of you to give your sources.”
    Camellia chuckled. “Everything Enea does is unique.”
    “Thank you.” The woman gazed around again, her forehead creased. “Lovely place, wonderful atmosphere.” She breathed in and her nose twitched and her lips pushed in and out as she studied the sculpted greeniron tubs on either side of the door that held lush plants. The greenery climbed toward the ceiling on trellises in the same pattern as the ventilation shaft above the plant life.
    “Very, very lovely,” the woman said. She eyed the long shelves lined with jars of tea. Behind the counter was a note of color from canisters, tiles to set teapots on, and teapots themselves. All wares Camellia sold. “You have different products here than at Darjeeling’s Teahouse.”
    “More suited to this place,” Camellia said.
    “I like that brown teapot,” the woman said.
    “I can set it aside for you.”
    “Yes, please do.”
    At that moment the server arrived with their food. Camellia kept the menu very simple, foods a person would have during rituals: cheese and crackers, fruits, breads both salty and sweet, some sandwiches, flatsweets, whatever would complement her teas. The teas themselves were more robust here than at her other place, strong and hearty.
    “Enjoy.”
    “Mmmm.” The man nodded as he chewed a sandwich.
    Camellia welcomed other patrons—some she didn’t recognize. All seemed pleased.
    Then she went to the east wall where sconces held statues—one of the Lord and one of the Lady. Before them stood tall urns with many-holed tops for the subtly fragranced incense sticks that patrons could light. One odor-free but sparkling-smoke-producing stick always burnt in each of the urns—the element of air. A stick had finished and she needed to replace it.
    When she was done, she examined the room again, making sure it matched the image she’d had in her head for so long. Yes, she was sure her concept would work. All in all, it seemed like a HouseHeart to her.
    Not that she knew of a HouseHeart personally, but she’d done her research—hard not to when one of her best friends was Glyssa Licorice, the Heir to the PublicLibrary Family. So Camellia had seen records describing HouseHearts in general, and even some private records and record spheres of an unnamed HouseHeart or three. Since the destruction of the HouseHeart would kill the Residence, information on them was stingy.
    Her friends were the best. At thirteen they’d had a grovestudy research assignment on a sunken ship that had been discovered and was being salvaged. Camellia, her mother, and brother had been living in her Family house at the time. Camellia had recalled a story of losing their fortune in a shipwreck. Her friends and she had searched the few Family documents and found a letter and the invoice for a tea set from a famous Chinju artist.
    Camellia had interrupted the hearing on a lawsuit about salvaging the ship at JudgementGrove and was awarded the tea set—if GrandLady Kelp could find it in the ocean. The woman had; the fifty-piece tea set had not only survived but increased in value astronomically. Camellia had sold the largest item, a huge urn, and had enough gilt to found her business.
    She owed everything to her friends, to the women who had helped her.
    A server came to Camellia and discreetly gestured to a table where two women sat. Camellia knew the smaller one with brown hair, GreatLady Danith D’Ash. She’d married into one of the twelve GreatHouses, the crème de la crème of Celtan society. Danith liked tea, and