It frightened her how upset she was, and how out of control she felt. If any other man had acted like this she would have written him off, or taken matters into her own hands and initiated some new contact. With this man she couldn’t do either. At night she lay awake, hopelessly sleepless, aching with a need that was as much pure sexual hunger as any more civilized drive. She had sensed a like need in him when he had kissed her. So why hadn’t he returned? And if it was just a fleeting moment’s pleasure for him, a brief sidetrack in his sport, why couldn’t she call it that and forget it?
He was coming across the street now, and there was no denying where he was headed. Her heart pounding wildly, she pushed the last few cake knives into place and stood up straight again. Her hands smoothed her clothing with a desperate need to have everything in place, even as she chided herself for such foolishness. Did she really think a few wrinkles would make a difference?
Then the door swung open, its silver bells jingling, and he stepped inside. He met her eyes for an instant, then quickly looked away. Was that shame in his expression, or fear, or simply disinterest? Suddenly panicked, she realized she had lost all ability to read him.
“Mer Tarrant. A pleasure.” Gresham came around the end of the counter and offered his hand. He glanced at Narilka with some concern as he did so, and she could read his expression clearly enough. Is something wrong? Did he hurt you? She shook her head ever so slightly, her heart aching. No, he hadn’t hurt her. She’d hurt herself.
“I got your note.” He nodded a token greeting to Narilka (and how distant he was! Like a stranger again, as if their last meeting had never taken place) and then he clasped Gresham’s hand, accepting his welcome. “Is it really finished?”
“I think you’ll be very pleased.” Again Gresham glanced at Narilka, but she turned away. Andrys Tarrant’s presence in the room made her feel strangely naked, painfully vulnerable. Blessed Saris! How had he done so much to her by doing so little? “Come into the back. I’ve got it all laid out for you.”
They went through the door at the rear of the shop, letting it swing shut behind them. After a moment of hesitation, Narilka followed. She snapped the inner lock shut on the front door out of habit, so that no one might enter the shop while it was unattended. Did it really matter? she wondered. Did anything matter, when he treated her like a stranger?
She caught up with them just as they reached the polishing bench; Gresham was explaining to Andrys all the fine points of the work they had done, as if expecting that his appreciation of the coronet and armor would somehow fall short if he were uninformed. Even from behind him, she could see him stiffen as he saw the finished product. She ached to reach out to him, to tell him with a touch on his shoulder, his hand, that no, he wasn’t alone, she knew his pain and she would help him bear it. But that gesture belonged to another world, a place of dreams where their fragile connection had flourished. Not here.
“It is ...” He breathed in deeply, as if struggling for courage. “Magnificent.”
It was indeed. Gresham had put the breastplate on a body form, with its matching bracers and greaves arranged in their proper positions. A golden sun blazed on the breastplate with a brilliance that rivaled the Core itself, and the delicate inlaid forms that spiraled around it were without doubt the finest work Gresham Alder had ever produced. The curve of the breastplate did not mimic the shape of a human torso, but improved upon it. Picturing Andrys’ strong shoulders encased in that steel, his full flowing sleeves caught up in polished bracers at the wrist, Narilka felt tears come to her eyes.
Gresham had fixed a wire to the form to support the coronet in its proper position, and as Andrys’ attention turned to it, she felt herself flush with pride. It was, without question, the best work she had ever done. Its delicate form embodied not only a talent that had been finely developed through the years, but a sensuality that paid homage to the feelings he had stirred within her. Now, watching as he studied her work, imagining him as cold as a stranger to her, she hurt more than ever to have her feelings so exposed.
“Just magnificent,” he breathed. “Far beyond the original.” She saw Gresham draw himself up with pride, and wished she had the heart to do the same. Why couldn’t she hear only his words, and not sense the pain behind them? Why couldn’t she stop caring?
“Would you like to try it on?” Gresham asked. She saw Andrys stiffen, and could guess at the turmoil within him, but there was no way he could deny such an offer. He nodded, and moved as if to help Gresham remove the pieces from the body form. But no, the master indicated, he was the guest, the beloved patron, and such a man was meant to be served. He stood still while the pieces were removed from their places one by one, and Narilka came around to where she could see his profile. Hurting for him. Hating him. Wishing she could be anywhere other than where she was, or that the time could be made to move faster so that there was some hope of escape.
She saw him shiver as the breastplate was fitted to him, but only because she knew to look for such a response; Gresham would never notice. She watched as the bracers were fitted on his arms, their straps buckled tightly over his shirt sleeves. She knew that to him they felt like manacles, binding him to a past he would far rather forget. She bled for him as the greaves were fitted about his lower legs, and hated herself for doing so. This man had done everything but reject her to her face; why couldn’t she force him out of her heart?
And then the coronet was lifted and offered, and Andrys took it up in his own hands and set it upon his head. She could see him quake as the band of finely worked sterling settled down about his forehead, and his eyes fell shut in a manner that made her fear he would faint-but Gresham was busy getting a mirror into place for him, and didn’t notice. The glass was turned toward him, reflecting a figure so finely adorned that it might have stepped out of the pages of a fairy tale. Or a romance novel. Or a horror tale, she thought, sensing what he saw when he looked into that mirror. Knowing the courage he must have nurtured over these past few weeks, to be able to endure this moment in front of strangers.
“I have no words,” he murmured, and Gresham glowed at the perceived compliment. Andrys’ hand touched the golden sun at the center of his chest, fingers splayed along its rays. “This is beyond anything I could have expected.” And then he turned to Narilka, and for an instant she saw, in his eyes, the torment that was in his soul. She could hear his silent screaming, as he forced his voice and body to obey the forms of gratitude without any hint of the pain that was inside. “More beautiful than the original,” he whispered, and then he quickly looked away. As if he feared, looking longer, what he might see in her eyes.
She turned away herself as the two men divested him of his shell, unable to look at him any longer. She felt faint herself, and frightened by her own reactions. Why did she feel like every word was a knife in her flesh? When had he gained the power to hurt her like this? After a moment she realized that Gresham wanted her to do something, and she went and got his leather-bound notebook for him. Yes, he would be happy to have the pieces delivered. Of course, that date would be fine. And if there was anything else that Mer wanted, anything at all, Gresham would be happy to get it for him or make it for him, whichever he preferred.
She took his check without making eye contact and wrote a receipt with a trembling hand. This is it, she thought. I’ll never see him again. It was better that way, wasn’t it? Did she really want to get involved with a man like this? Let him play his games with the women who enjoyed them. There were enough of those in the world, weren’t there?