Jordan was kind, and that was probably her downfall. She wasn’t accustomed to kindness from men, and had rarely encountered it. The men of her Household, in the brief bits of time they had with her, were simply correct; and she had never had any contact with other men except as an interpreter. The interpreter was paid no more attention than a business machine, especially if she was a woman; after all, as Thomas said so frequently, a circuit will carry any message you want to send over it, but you do not assume from that fact that it understands what you have said. It was his standard response to accusations that the linguists allowed their women to take part in affairs properly reserved for men.
As for small girls interpreting, or women past thirty… they were invisible. Nazareth much doubted that the men they worked with even knew they existed for more than a few seconds at the beginning and end of each negotiation. They disappeared from the male consciousness in just the same way that the miniature earphones — so annoying to the wearer for an instant or two after they were inserted — faded out of awareness.
Jordan Shannontry not only treated her kindly, he paid her compliments. He had remarked once on the tasteful arrangement of her hair. He had mentioned that she had a lovely throat. A lovely throat! On a very bad day, when nothing at all went right and every one of the men at the table was cross and on a nervous hair trigger, Jordan had brought in a yellow rose and laid it across her dictionary. No one had ever given Nazareth a rose before, not even on her wedding day. When she looked at him now, she could scarcely breathe for the thudding of her heart, and since that could well have interfered with her effectiveness as interpreter she was careful not to look at him. Only at his hands; she allowed herself that. She had thrown the yellow rose away, rather than chance its being found no matter how carefully she tried to hide it; there was no way that she could have explained how she had come to have it in her possession.
The day came, as it inevitably had to come, when there was only one more session of negotiations left, one more day when they would sit side by side in the interpreter’s booth. She knew she wouldn’t see him again afterward unless she made some sort of effort herself. What sort, she had no idea… she had heard of “affairs” but was completely ignorant of how they were initiated. One thing she was dead certain of — whatever was done would be done by the man in the situation, not the woman. But surely she had to let him know that she was willing?
She did not let the word “adultery” come into her mind, adultery being an offense second only to murder… she had a feeling that within the Lines it might well be considered more serious than murder. She had gone no further in her imagination than lying in Jordan’s arms, both of them fully and decorously clothed, and perhaps talking together… perhaps his lips might touch her hair. So far, and no further.
All that last day she thought, whenever she was not actually interpreting; but no graceful stratagem came to her, and as the hours passed and she knew that if she didn’t act she would never have another opportunity her anxiety became panic. And that was how it happened that she found herself, walking down the corridor behind her escort to the government car with Jordan beside her, turning suddenly to him and reaching up to whisper into his ear “I love you, Jordan, I love you so very very much!” And then running. Running full tilt past the flabbergasted government aide, and almost leaping into the car. Slamming the door behind her, praying that the driver would hurry.
“Something wrong, Mrs. Chornyak?” the man said when he reached the car. “Never saw a lady linguist take off like that before, I must say. You all right?”
“A little sick at my stomach,” she managed. “I’m sorry.”
“No problem,” he said. “We’ll get you home, then.”
She waited through that afternoon, having no idea what might happen next, alternately wishing she had done nothing at all and wishing she had done far more, wishing there were someone she could talk to and knowing there was nobody she trusted that much. And it would not be fair, even if she had had someone; whoever it was, by her telling she would have implicated them in what she was about to do. She would not do that.
Every soft signal from the comset made her jump, but none of the calls was for her. And then, a few, minutes after eight o’clock, Rachel found her out in the gardens and told her that Thomas wanted to see her in his office.
“Oh, damn,” said Nazareth, “I’m in no mood to hear about the next contract, or whatever complaints there are on this one, or whatever else Father has to talk about!”
“Really.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m worn out.”
“Nazareth, your father didn’t ask me to come find out if you were willing to go to the office. You know that. He sent me to tell you he was waiting for you there. Please don’t trouble me with your nonsense.”
“I’m sorry, Mother. It was rude of me… I guess I really am tired.”
“No doubt you are,” said Rachel calmly, and went on about her business, saying only, “Don’t keep Thomas waiting now, dear; he doesn’t like that.”
No, he didn’t; that was true. Whatever he wanted, the longer she put off hearing about it the more unpleasant it would be, and so she hurried.
When she opened the door of the room set aside for the Head of the Household, her father was at his desk, as she had anticipated. But she had not been expecting to see Aaron there with him, sitting in the armchair, nor was she expecting the bottle of wine open and already half-empty on the desk. She stopped in the doorway, surprised, and Thomas motioned to her to let the door close and join them.
“Sit down, my dear,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Nazareth was wary instantly; they both had that satisfied expression that went with some new and delightful project that would mean endless annoyance for her but carried some advantage for them. What had they scheduled her for now? Aaron wore an expression that could only be described as a smirk; it had to be something he was really confident she would detest.
“Nice to see you, Natha,” he said, all cordiality and cooing welcome. “You do look lovely.”
There was a time when Nazareth would have explained to him that the reason she was so grubby was because she’d been out working in the gardens when Rachel came to get her, but she no longer bothered. She kept still, and waited to see what they had for her. Work on a frontier colony, maybe? Someplace that would involve a dozen frantic transfers from one means of transport to another? She detested travel, and they both knew that.
She expected something dreadful, but she did not expect what it turned out to be.
“Nazareth,” her father said, “we had a visitor this afternoon.”
“Nice man,” Aaron put in.
“Indeed he is,” said Thomas. “And a gentleman.”
“Well?” asked Nazareth. “Does it concern me, this gentleman? Or is this just a game and I don’t know the opening move?”
“Nazareth, it was Jordan Shannontry.”
Nazareth went very still. What was this?