Her mouth opened.
“Jerusha.” He picked his way across the cluttered room to her. “Ye gods, I didn’t mean it like that. It isn’t what you think; she’s only a friend. Not a romance. She’s young enough to be my daughter. She’s out on a boat right now.”
Jerusha looked away, down, “I didn’t want to — intrude.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m not a plastic effigy, gods know—” He picked up a flabby, faded cushion, put it down.
“I didn’t expect you were.” She knew she was saying it badly.
“I… you said once that I wasn’t a stupid man. But in all this time, all the visits you’ve made here, I never realized…” his hand rose to touch her in a way he had never touched her, “…that you wanted something more.”
“I didn’t want you to.” Didn’t want to admit it, even to myself. She tried to move, tried to step away from his hand, tried, tried-trembling like a wild bird.
He took his hand away. “Is there someone else? In the city, back on your world, another—”
“No,” her face burning. “Never.”
“Never?” He held a long breath. “Never?… No one has ever touched you like this—” along the nape of her neck, her earlobe, the line of her jaw “—or like this—” tracing the seal of her tunic down over her breast “—or done this—” slowly surrounding her with his arms, tightening her against him until she felt the lines of his body melt into hers, and his mouth was on her mouth like nectar.
Murmuring, “Yes… now…” as his kiss released her. She found his lips again, demanding.
“Beg your pardon, sir!”
Jerusha gasped, breaking his hold in reflex; saw the ancient cook with back turned to them in the doorway.
“What is it?” Miroe’s voice was frayed around the edges.
“Midday, sir. Midday meal is ready… but it’ll keep until you are, sir.” Jerusha heard the knowing smile as the cook shuffled back into the pantry.
Miroe sighed heavily, his face trying to smile and frown but only managing to look aggrieved. He reached for her hand, but she slipped it through his fingers before they closed. He looked at her, she saw his surprise.
“You asked the question eloquently.” Her own smile wavered with the static of her emotions. “But you should have asked it another time, Miroe.” She shook her head, pressing her hands to her lips for a moment. “It’s too close to the end for me now… or not close enough.”
“I understand.” He nodded, suddenly noncommital; as though the moment that had just been between them, the moment she had waited so long for, meant nothing to him.
Disappointment and sudden shame pinched her chest. Is that all it would have meant to you? “I’d better be getting back to the city.” So you can tell your Winter doxies how you almost had the Commander of Police for lunch.
“You don’t have to go. We can — pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Maybe you can. But I can’t pretend, any more. Reality is too loud.” She pulled on her coat, began a crooked course to the door.
“Jerusha. Will you be all right?” The concern caught at her.
She stopped, turned back, under control. “Yes. Even a day outside Carbuncle is like a transfusion. Maybe… will I see you again, at the Festival — before the final departure?” She hated herself for asking when he would not.
“No, I don’t think so. I think this is one Festival I want to miss. And I’m not leaving Tiamat; this is my home.”
“Of course.” She felt an artificial smile starting again, like a muscle cramp. “Well, maybe I’ll — call, before I go.” Go to pieces, go to hell…
“I’ll walk you out.”
“Don’t bother.” She shook her head, settled her helmet on, pulling the strap down under her chin. “No need.” She opened the dark, iron hinged door and went out, putting it between them as quickly as she could.
She was halfway down the hill when she heard him calling her name. She looked back to see him come running down the slope after her. She stopped, her hands making awkward fists inside her gloves. “Yes?”
“There’s a storm coming.”
“No there isn’t. I checked the weather bulletin before I left Carbuncle.”
“The hell with the forecasts; if those bastards would get off their simulators and look up at the sky—” He swept a hand from horizon to zenith. “It’ll be here by daybreak tomorrow.”
She looked up, seeing nothing but scattered clouds, a pallid double sundog haloing the eclipsing Twins. “Don’t worry. I’ll be home by dark.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about.” His eyes were still on the northward horizon.
“Oh.” She felt her face lose all expression.
“The girl who’s staying here, she’s up the coast in a small boat.
She’s not due back before late tomorrow.” He faced her grimly. “I’ve fished her out of the sea half-frozen once already. I might not be so lucky again. I’ll never reach her in time, unless—”
She nodded. “All right, Miroe. Let’s go find her.”
He hesitated. “I — don’t know how to ask you for this kind of favor; I have no right to ask you. But—”
“It’s all right. It’s my duty to help.”
“No. I’m trying to ask you to be — off duty, when you do this. To-forget that you ever met whoever you meet.” He smiled, or grimaced. “You see. I trust you far too much, too.” He began to rub his arms; she realized he had come after her without a coat.
And she remembered his unease at her arrival, and understood it, at last. “She isn’t a mass murderer or anything?”
He laughed. “Far from it.”
“Then I’ve got a terrible memory. Come on, let’s go before you freeze. You can fill me in on the conspiracy charges on the way.”
They went on down the hill, into the wind’s teeth. Jerusha took them up in the patroller, heading north along the sere ribbon of the coast. “All right. I guess I can let myself put the parts together now. You did have something to do with that tech runner they zapped out here a fortnight or so ago. Your guest is a smuggler.” She slid back with a kind of relief into familiar patterns, familiar habits, their old uncomplicated relationship.
“Half-right.”
“Half?” She glanced at him. “Then explain.”
“You remember the — circumstances of our first meeting.”
“Yes,” with a sudden image of Gundhalinu’s face, full of righteous indignation. “He really had you nailed.”
“Your sergeant.” She felt him smile, and then remember. “I’m sorry about — what happened. For your sake.”
“At least it was quick.” And that’s all the mercy we can hope for in this life. “The girl—?” with a growing prescience.
“Is the Summer girl who broke your arm; the one who went off world with the smugglers.”
“She’s back? How?”
“They brought her back with them.”
Jerusha felt the patrol craft buck and swoop in a strong downdraft, reset the controls. “Which means she’s an illegal returnee.” And maybe a whole lot more. “Where’s she been in the meantime?”
“Kharemough.”
She grunted. “Wouldn’t you know. Tell me, Miroe — are you sure her being taken off world was an accident?”
His brows tightened. “One hundred percent. What do you mean?”
“Hasn’t it ever struck you that Moon Dawntreader Summer bears a remarkable resemblance to the Snow Queen?”
“No.” Utter blankness. “I haven’t even seen the Snow Queen in years.”
“What would you say if I told you the Queen knew who she was — was furious over her disappearance? If I told you all my troubles started because I let her get away. What would you say if I told you that Moon Dawntreader is the Queen’s clone?”
He stared. “You have proof?”
“No, I don’t have proof! But I know it; I know Arienrhod had plans for that girl… plans for making her other self the Summer Queen. And if she finds out that Moon is back—”