"Gretchen," I said, "I can't stay."
"Don't be a silly billy." She kissed my neck again. "You just got here."
"I have some friends outside. There's been trouble at the school, and we need to borrow your boat."
"What?" She blinked as if I'd just pinched her.
"One of our students has run off. People are after him-dangerous people. We need a fast boat so we can find him before they do."
"You're just here to take my boat?" Her voice had an edge of outrage.
"It's important, Gretchen. A girl is dead. Murdered. And other people are dead too, thanks to a Spark Lord who-"
"A Spark Lord? Which Spark Lord?"
"The female Sorcery-Lord. Called Dreamsinger. She showed up at a tavern and-"
"You met a Spark Lord? When?"
"Tonight," I said. "Just a while ago. Now she's gone to Niagara Falls, and we need your boat to-"
"So this Sorcery-Lord is in Niagara Falls?"
"That's where she said she was going."
"And you want my boat to go there too?"
"Yes."
She drew away from me-not abruptly, but in typical Gretchen fashion: a squeeze of mock affection, then an ooze of regretful detachment, and finally a playful flash of her naked body before she closed the comforter around herself. "All right," she said, "we'll head for Niagara Falls."
"We?"
"Yes: we." She threw off the comforter and began to get dressed.
She'd probably claim that she dressed in a hurry… and she did abbreviate her usual routine of trying on half her wardrobe before deciding what suited her mood. But Gretchen was not one of those heroines from fiction who can switch instantly from pampered beauty to rugged adventurer. If her bedroom caught fire, she wouldn't leave until she'd tried on half a dozen outfits to see which matched the flames. As for being seen in public without rouge, mascara, perfume, et cetera-silly billy, what are you thinking?
So I sat on the bed and waited as patiently as I could. Trying to rush Gretchen was worse than useless-if you annoyed her, she slowed down to punish you. The woman had a knack for petty vindictiveness: entirely unconscious too. She'd be genuinely shocked if you suggested she was deliberately taking longer than necessary to redden her lips, pluck her eyebrows, and choose which garters went with which stockings inside which boots to wear on a muddy night in late thaw; and then she'd slow down even more.
Gretchen could drive a man mad in so many ways.
"Now tell me," she called as she rummaged through boxes in her closet, "what did this Dreamsinger look like?"
"Don't know," I answered. "She was hidden in Kaylan's Chameleon."
Gretchen stuck her head out of the closet. "Now I really want to know what she looked like. Me perhaps?"
"If you were my ideal sexual object, do you think I'd admit it?"
She laughed and disappeared back into the closet-no doubt convinced I couldn't possibly desire any woman besides herself.
I said, "You realize this trip might get dangerous? We aren't the only ones going to Niagara. Have you heard of the Ring of Knives?"
"God, those people? I swear, that dreadful Warwick Xavier spies on me with a telescope."
"He's a smuggler; he watches the lake for customs agents."
"He watches my windows for a glimpse of my booboos."
"Do you ever give him one?"
Gretchen laughed. "Of course. Every girl needs someone to torture."
"In addition to herself."
Gretchen didn't dignify that with an answer. For a while, the only sound from the closet was the squeal of metal hangers scraping sharply along clothes-rods.
"So," I finally said, "why so many shine-stones tonight?"
"Nothing, darling, just a whim."
"What kind of whim?"
"An idle one."
Since she couldn't see me, I rolled my eyes. "You weren't, for example, afraid of the dark and wanted as much light as possible? Or feeling so depressed, you thought the light would cheer you up?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I feel fine."
"Really? Titania was worried about you."
"What did she say?"
"She didn't say anything. But she has a way of twitching her whiskers…"
"Titania should keep her whiskers to herself." Gretchen stuck her head out of the closet again. For some reason, she was wearing a green felt hat shaped like an iguana. The rest of her was still naked. "Really, darling, I'm fine. Honestly."
"Good."
"Good."
She vanished once more into the closet. I could hear boxes being shoved around… or possibly being kicked. Under all that racket, she murmured something so softly I couldn't make it out.
"Beg pardon?" I said.
Gretchen didn't answer right away. Then she spoke in a manner intended to sound airy and offhanded. "I suppose Titania thought I was upset because the Earl of Brant canceled his visit yesterday. But why should that bother me? He's a busy man; he said he had pressing affairs of state."
I winced. For centuries, the phrase "affairs of state" has meant hopping into bed with some trollop. The expression is so universally associated with sex that people in government avoid it when referring to legitimate activities-if you truly spend your time on official duties, you don't say you're dealing with affairs of state. That only makes folks snicker.
Besides, I knew the Earl of Brant: a rake in his mid-twenties, far too good-looking and rich. Brought up by a doting aunt whose only means of discipline was telling the boy how much better he was than anyone else. "So don't you think you should act better too?" I couldn't picture the earl spending a nanosecond on real administrative chores; if he'd wriggled out of a date with Gretchen, it was only because he'd found someone younger, prettier, and/or double-jointed.
Gretchen must have known that too: she was blind about many things, but astute in detecting the lies of unfaithful lovers-she had extensive knowledge of such lies, having used them all herself. No callow pup like the Earl of Brant could deceive Gretchen Kinnderboom, especially with such a transparent excuse. Affairs of state indeed! The earl was thumbing his nose at her, as if she wasn't worth inventing a better story.
I knew it. Gretchen knew it.
Gretchen must also have known I'd see through the earl's lie… yet she told me anyway. Almost as if she were confiding in me. As close as she could come to sharing her pain. My eyes stung with tears, and guilt. If Gretchen had ever reached out to me before this, rather than toying with me, dangling me on the hook, never admitting she might need me for anything more than scratching a sexual itch-if she'd ever acknowledged the slightest crack in her armor-perhaps I would have been thinking, I hope Gretchen doesn't get jealous over Annah. But I was thinking, I hope Annah doesn't get jealous over Gretchen.
That was the way things were. I cared what Annah thought, but all I had left for Gretchen was pity: that the earl's cruel brush-off had shaken her so badly she was finally seeking an emotional connection with me.
Just a few hours too late.
"So you must have been bored," I said, trying to keep my voice light, "sitting here without company. Why didn't you send me a note?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I wasn't bored." The rummaging in the closet had gone silent. "Besides, what would you think if I had invited you? The gentleman must petition the lady, never the other way around. Otherwise, it looks like she's groveling."