And Michael?
She sighed. The note had gone by messenger more than three hours back. He would surely have read it by now. In fact, she had been expecting him to call these last few hours. But nothing. It was as she'd thought—as she'd said in the letter—he was too preoccupied with other things to see what he had done to her. Too bound up in his father's business. For a while she had thought him cured of all that, changed, free to pursue his own straight path through life, but she had been mistaken. Kennedy's visit had opened her eyes to that.
Yes, and the news that he had gone to see his father—to beg forgiveness and become his "son" again—had hit her hard. Had woken her to the reality of her life.
She had delayed too long. Had let herself be blinded by her love for him. Well, now she knew. It was no good waiting for Michael Lever. No use relying on any man. Surely she had learned that lesson once already in her life, with Gesell?
Even so, some instinct kept her here, waiting for him to call, to knock on the door and tell her it was all a mistake. That what he'd said to her was true. That he had changed.
That he loved her.
"Ten minutes," she said softly to herself, glancing at the timer on her wrist. Ten more minutes, and then she would go.
She tucked the ID into the inner pocket of the jacket, then went across and stood before the mirror once again, carefully removing the wig and replacing it in the carrier.
She had booked her flight already, under the name of Mary Jennings, taking the rocket to the West Coast and then a fast-track south. There, in the teeming lowers of old Mexico, she would switch identities. To begin again. As Rachel De Valerian.
She looked about her nervously, going through all she had done these past few hours. All bills were paid three months ahead, all commitments met. Only Michael would miss her. And then maybe not.
She closed her eyes, wishing, hoping against all reason, that he would call, at this late hour, and put things right between them. That he would simply walk through the door and take her in his arms and. . .
There was a banging on the outer door, so sudden that it made her jump.
Michael...
She went across and stood there, trying to calm herself, but her pulse was racing, her heart pounding in her chest. As the hammering came again, she called out, her voice tiny, barely in control.
"Who is it?"
"It's me! It's Bryn!"
Bryn.7 And then she understood. It was Bryn Kustow, Michael's partner.
Thumbing the lock, she stood back, letting him in.
"YouVe got to help me," he said breathlessly. "Michael's gone. He went to see his old man and they had a big bust up. I got a call. I don't know who it was. One of the old man's cronies, I suspect. Marley, maybe. But it seems that Michael was very upset. The Old Man really gave it to him. Making demands. Insisting that he marry the John-stone girl. Humiliating him in front of strangers. I tried Michael's apartment but he wasn't there. No one's seen him for hours!"
Taking his arm, she made him sit on the edge of the bed, then stood over him, her mind in a whirl, trying to take in what had happened. "Okay. Slow down. Let's think this through. You say you went to his apartment. Had he been there?"
"I think so. I mean yes. Yes, he had. The manservant said he'd called in. Very unlike himself. Very distressed."
"And did he take the note?"
"The note?"
"I sent him a note. It's important. It might explain things."
Kustow shrugged. "I don't know. I... Yes. Hang on. The man said something about. . . about a special messenger coming."
"Shit." She shuddered, knowing now that she had got it wrong. Whatever Michael had been doing, going back to see his father, it had had nothing to do with her. And that was Kennedys fault. Kennedy who had misled her.
"Look," she said, "he won't have gone far. I know what he's like. He won't want to face anyone he knows. Not now. I reckon he's gone down. Down to the lowers. If I were you, I'd check the bars in all the local stacks. Somewhere dark and anonymous, where he's not likely to be known. That's where you'll find him."
"Michael? Down there?" Kustow laughed, but then he saw how she was looking at him and his laughter died. "You think so?"
She nodded. "Yes. And when you find him, tell him this. That the note was a mistake. I didn't understand. I thought. . ." She shrugged. "Look, just tell him that I'll wait for him. If he wants me, he knows where I am. And Bryn . . ."
"Yes?"
"Tell him that I love him. And that I need him, even if his father doesn't. Tell him that, neh?"
kim was standing with his back to her when she came into the room, his dark head tilted forward as he looked down at something in his hands. She set the tray she was carrying down noiselessly, then, quietly, knowing he had not heard her, went across and stood there, behind and slightly to the side of him, looking down at the object he was holding.
It was a globe of yellowed ivory, carved with intricate towers and ornamental bridges, crowded with tiny figures, yet small enough for him to cup in one of his tiny, childlike hands. She watched him set it back carefully, then half turn, realizing suddenly that she was there.
"I'm sorry, I..."
She smiled and shook her head. "No, don't apologize. Handle them if you want."
He looked at her strangely, his lips parted, the pupils of his eyes forming large dark circles that surprised her with their intensity. There was a wild, untamed quality about him that both frightened and attracted her. His eyes seemed to fix and hold her with a power she didn't quite understand, yet when she found her voice again all that she said was, "YouVe nice eyes. They're so dark ..."
"They're green," he said, laughing, looking up at her.
"No . . . not their color. . ."
She hesitated. She had been about to say that they were like the surface of the northern sea; that their greenness seemed to mask an unfathomed depth of darkness. But he knew nothing of seas and so she kept silent, watching him, knowing only that she had met no one like him before. His dark hair was cut neat against his large but not unattractive head, and his skin had the pale smoothness of a child's. He was dressed simply, so simply that in that single respect alone he was distinct from anyone she knew. Even her father's young soldiers wore jewelery and made up their faces. Yes, even the austere and distant Axel Haavikko. But Kim wore nothing special, added nothing to his natural self.
He looked past her at the tray. "Is that ch'al"
"Yes." She laughed, feeling a sudden warmth come to her cheeks. She had forgotten. For that brief moment she had forgotten everything. "There are some sweetmeats too. But you'll stay for dinner, I hope. My father should be back . . ."
He nodded, then moved around her, bending down to take one of the sweetmeats from the tray.
She turned, watching him. In some indefinable way he was beautiful. Quite beautiful. Nor was it the kind of beauty she was accustomed to. He was not tall, nor broad, nor handsome in the classical Above sense of that word. Even so, something shone out from him. Some quality that was more sensed than seen. Some powerful, uncompromising thing that simply wasn't there in other people. She felt that he was somehow... in touch. Was that it? In touch. But in touch with what? She shook her head, watching him bend to take another of the sweetmeats, his smallest movement different, somehow connected. She watched, frowning with the intensity of her watchfulness, but she could say no more than that.
He turned, looking back at her, smiling. "Won't you join me?"
"I . . ." She laughed, embarrassed, realizing how awkward, how gawky she must have appeared at that moment, but he seemed not to notice. He merely stood there, smiling, one hand raised to her in invitation, waiting for her to come to him.
She crossed the room and took his hand, the movement so easy, so natural, that it seemed to her that she had somehow always done it. But the feel of his palm against her own stirred her so deeply that she shivered and glanced down to where their fingers met and interlaced. When she looked up again he was watching her.