Chapter 12 #2
“She can make it sound like concern. As though she's only trying to keep me safe.”
He glanced at her hand against the chair, then back at her face.
“Would sitting somewhere else help? Walking?”
She shook her head.
“Your hand,” she said, barely audibly.
He put it beside hers, palm up.
She took it.
This time she didn't worry about whether he would know she meant to. She held on with both hands, careful of the healing cut, and let his fingers close around hers.
“Yesterday was nicer,” she said.
“It was.”
“I'm sorry.”
“For wanting my hand?”
A surprised breath escaped her. Almost a laugh.
“For all of this.”
“You haven't done anything to me that needs an apology.”
His thumb brushed her knuckle. She watched it, the reddish bronze of his skin against hers, and tried to make herself believe him.
After a while, she loosened her grip.
“I do want my own room.”
“Then we'll arrange it.”
“I want to tell her myself. That part, anyway.”
He was quiet for a moment. She could see him considering it.
“You can collect your things with an escort. They can wait inside the sitting room or directly outside the suite. Your choice. If you want them closer, call them.”
“Outside,” she said.
“All right.”
“Do you think I'm being foolish?”
“No. I think you've had to consider someone else's reaction before doing anything for a long time.”
Her eyes filled so quickly she had to look away.
He didn't pull her toward him or try to catch her face. His hand stayed in hers, warm and steady, while she blinked until she could see the courtyard again.
“I liked it when you were trying to make me blush,” she said.
“I wasn't trying very hard.”
She looked back at him, and there it was: the smallest suggestion of a smile.
“You could put a little effort in.”
“Now?”
“Just a little.”
He leaned closer. The light outlined one of his tall horns and the dark hair at its base. At this distance, she could see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the roughness along his jaw where he needed to shave.
“When you smiled at me across that room,” he said, “I forgot what the male beside me was saying.”
“What was he saying?”
“I have no idea.”
She laughed, a small, unsteady sound.
“It may have been important.”
“He'll recover.”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth. He noticed. She knew he noticed because his fingers tightened very slightly against hers.
“You've stopped talking,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“Is it because I'm looking at you again?”
“Yes.”
She let herself look a moment longer.
Then she rested her forehead briefly against his shoulder. He went still, and when his free hand settled against her upper back, she felt the care in it before she felt the warmth.
No demand to lift her face. No attempt to turn it into something she hadn't offered.
She closed her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said.
His hand moved once, lightly, across her back.
“You're welcome.”
She stayed until her breathing steadied. Then she sat up and wiped beneath one eye with the heel of her hand.
“I probably look terrible.”
“You look like someone who's had a difficult morning.”
“That was a very careful answer.”
“I occasionally manage one.”
He found a clean cloth in the cabinet by the water service and gave it to her. She dabbed at her eyes while he waited with his back half turned, a courtesy she liked him for almost as much as the hand.
When she was ready, she gave him permission to copy the note from her comm. He asked her to keep the original and tell him if anything else occurred to her, without trying to question Roemary or overhear another call.
“I won't,” she said.
At the door, she touched his arm.
“Dhomhes?”
He turned.
“Would you still have wanted to talk to me if I hadn't heard anything?”
The question shamed her as soon as she asked it. He answered before she could take it back.
“Yes.”
“You don't have to—”
“I wanted to talk to you yesterday. I wanted to hear your voice when you called. And when this is finished, I'd like another cup of tea with you.”
She looked at him for a moment, then nodded.
“Not with all those people.”
“No,” he said. “Just us.”
Roemary was waiting when Sereya returned to collect her things later that day.
She sat beside the window with her legs crossed and a slim cream-colored packet on the table. The spilled tea had been cleaned up. Sereya noticed that before she noticed anything else.
“Where have you been?”
“The housing office.”
“Why?”
“They're offering private rooms. I'm taking one.”
Roemary uncrossed her legs.
“Why would you do that?”
“I'd like my own space.”
“You have your own bedroom.”
Sereya kept a hand on the suite door. Beyond it, the guard waited in the corridor, close enough to hear if she raised her voice.
“I've made the arrangements,” she said.
Roemary's gaze went to the door. “Since when do you need an escort to come home?”
“The residence is under increased guard.”
“I know that.”
Sereya didn't answer.
For a few seconds, Roemary watched her with an expression she had never permitted Sereya to see so plainly. Anger, yes, but something else beneath it. Calculation sharpened by worry.
Then she picked up the packet.
“Before you go, I need you to do something.”
Sereya looked at it.
“Program documentation,” Roemary said. “Graecey's office used to handle this sort of thing. Tomorrow, mid-morning, take it to the east administrative annex. A clerk called Vessik. Third window.”
“Can't it go through the office?”
“It is going through the office. Vessik works there.”
“Then perhaps one of the staff could take it.”
Roemary got up.
“I'm asking you.”
The sharpness in her voice made Sereya's shoulders tense. She felt the old response begin: agree, soothe, get the task done before the anger found something more painful to settle on.
Roemary saw it too. Her tone softened.
“Hand it to him yourself. No one else. Mid-morning, not earlier. It won't take you long.”
She held it out.
Sereya took it because refusing would leave it in Roemary's hands, and she wanted Dhomhes to know what had just happened before anyone else carried it away.
The packet was light. An ordinary program seal closed the flap.
“I'll have to check what movements are permitted,” she said.
“Oh, I'm sure your new friend can arrange something.”
Sereya looked up.
Roemary's smile had returned.
“He's been very attentive. It would be a shame if that made you forget who's been here for you all along.”
Sereya heard the threat underneath, familiar enough now that she could have supplied the next words herself. Her past. Her safety. Everything Roemary knew.
She put the packet on the table.
“I need to pack.”
She went into her bedroom and closed the door.
There wasn't much to take. Borrowed clothes, toiletries, the things supplied after the ship burned. She stood over them for a moment, feeling the absence of the scarf she had kept for six years with a suddenness that made her throat close.
Then she picked up her comm.
She wants me to deliver a packet.
She told Dhomhes the clerk's name, the window, the time. She told him where it was and that she hadn't opened it or promised to deliver it.
His answer came while she was folding the blue dress.
Leave it where it is.
Stay with the escort.
All outgoing deliveries will be screened.
I'll arrange for this one to be checked.
She read the message, then gathered the rest of her clothes. Her hands were shaking, but they kept working.
When she came out, Roemary looked at the small bag and smiled as though they had agreed on every part of the afternoon.
“Don't forget the packet.”
“Outgoing deliveries have to go through security. They'll collect it.”
The smile disappeared.
For once, Sereya did not rush to replace it.
She opened the suite door. The guard turned toward her, and beyond his shoulder the corridor was bright and occupied and blessedly ordinary.
“Sereya,” Roemary said behind her.
She knew that voice. She had answered it hundreds of times.
This time she stepped out into the corridor and let the door close.