“It’s not even the young and handsome who can compete with me. Alas, I am a useless old windbag—” He sighed again and grinned. “But you, another beauteous redhead—”
“No one says beauteous anymore,” Cecelia said. “And I’m not—I’m older than you are.”
“Are you sure? I’m over fifty . . .”
“My looks are deceiving,” Cecelia said. She couldn’t help it; talking to him seemed to make bad dialogue pop out of her mouth.
“Oh, well, then. Since you have stars on your shoulder, I presume you’re an admiral, and maybe you can tell me when I can get home to my wife.”
“Sorry,” Cecelia said. “I’m not in that department. It should be soon, though. I’ll be glad to get home, too.”
“She’s a very bright girl, that Margiu Pardalt,” the professor said, gazing after her, “but she’s no substitute for a wife. My wife, at least.”
A gust of icy wet wind blew in as a group in uniform threw open the doors. Cecelia squinted past the lights; she didn’t recognize any of them. But from the sudden tense hush, she knew someone did.
“Who’s that?” she asked Oblo.
“Livadhis,” Oblo said. “Lots and lots of Livadhis . . .”
“Livadhi—but wasn’t that the one who—?”
“Yes.” Cecelia could feel Oblo’s tension, and she glanced at the tableful of Serrano officers. They, too, had seen the Livadhis. “And what they’re doing here—”
“Admiral Serrano,” the man in front of the group said. He had, Cecelia noticed, stars on his shoulders. More than any of the others.
“Which Admiral Serrano,” muttered Oblo, along with something Cecelia refused to admit she’d heard.
All the admirals Serrano stood up, and Cecelia was suddenly reminded of the confrontation scene in a bad historical drama, two rival gangs facing each other down. Sabado Serrano moved, as if to speak, but Heris put out her hand.
“We are sorry for your loss,” she said, into the silence.
“You—” that was the senior Livadhi, but his voice choked. He shook his head, then went on. “We came to apologize to you. For what he did.”
“I named him,” Heris said. “As an absent friend.”
Cecelia felt an ache in her chest; it had never occurred to her to name a traitor as an absent friend, to grieve for an enemy.
“Is it too late to sing him home?” asked the senior Livadhi.
“It is never too late,” Heris said, “to honor the good in a man’s life, or grieve his loss.” She nodded to the other Serranos and began the song; other voices joined in.