Royal Opera House • Uptown
Evening on the 18th of Yaris, 2719
T
om found himself fair speechless as Linnea went on; he couldn’t do much but listen, the smile warming, tentatively, on his face. His posture might’ve loosened a bit, melting a little from Anatole’s ramrod. He was aware of the tinkling of glass on glass, the gurgle of a decanter, but he found he could set it aside for the ambassador’s voice.
The meaning, and purpose, of love. She’d seemed like a statue, the kind you saw in the few museums he’d got dragged to in the past year. All draped cloth and hard angles. He heard the tiniest spark of warmth creeping into her voice to mirror his; he’d thought Anatole’s voice had swallowed him whole, but now he thought she’d heard it, heard him, and the warmth drew him like a ghost to the lanterns in Serkaih. Even if it was pretense, poetical chroveshit, he was grateful for it.
He could feel Diana’s fingertips press into his arm. By that time, Milo was offering him a glass; it was a less-than-graceful little wriggle, but he slipped his arm out from underneath her hand to reach for it. Light glinted against the snifter, down through the brandy; his wedding-glass clinked against the glass.
“Thank you,” he said to Milo, pleasant enough. It felt effortful; he’d lost something. Had he lost Anatole? The brandy jumped to the lip of the glass in his shaky hand, but he managed to avoid spilling it.
Linnea spoke again, and it was only when he turned back to her he realized Milo hadn’t got her a glass. Kenser. Listening to her go on, he held his own snifter in his lap, hoping nobody’d noticed he hadn’t raised it to his lips right off. Quick enough, an unfamiliar name swept him out of his head again, but the glass felt preternaturally heavy in his fingers.
If you’re clueless, he half wanted to say, smiling wryly, I’m a godsdamn mung. You should see what a mess I made of love, in my first life. “Ansari pez Nasoor,” he murmured instead, rolling the name round on his tongue; he was about to ask when Milo’s voice tore the question from his mind.
Tom couldn’t quite manage the smile. He found his lips pressed thin; there was a little strain in the lines around his eyes. But one eyebrow twitched up when Linnea spoke again, and his lip twitched, too, ever so slightly, when Milo turned away.
Godsdamn, he thought.
Behind him, he heard Diana twitter. “You’re too kind, Mr. Savatier,” he heard her murmur, and saw a flash of a white hand, and the glint of a diamond, as she brushed his arm playfully.
He turned back to Linnea. He was leaning on the arm of his chair, now. As he smiled, he crossed his legs, one foot bobbing cheerfully for a moment. “Ansari pez Nasoor,” he repeated, as if trying to remember something. He thought he’d come across the name, in Anatole’s library. “I’ve never read him. What d’you recommend? Being honest, I could do with some guidance; apart from pez Hirtka, I’ve got no clue where to start. It’s all rather new to me. Something lighter might be nice.”
He swirled his snifter, hesitant, then brought it to his lips. He swallowed, but the brandy didn’t even reach the rim of the glass. When he lowered it, he was studying Linnea with interest, but there was still a little tension in his face, a little jumping nerve round his left eye. He scratched at his jaw.
om found himself fair speechless as Linnea went on; he couldn’t do much but listen, the smile warming, tentatively, on his face. His posture might’ve loosened a bit, melting a little from Anatole’s ramrod. He was aware of the tinkling of glass on glass, the gurgle of a decanter, but he found he could set it aside for the ambassador’s voice.
The meaning, and purpose, of love. She’d seemed like a statue, the kind you saw in the few museums he’d got dragged to in the past year. All draped cloth and hard angles. He heard the tiniest spark of warmth creeping into her voice to mirror his; he’d thought Anatole’s voice had swallowed him whole, but now he thought she’d heard it, heard him, and the warmth drew him like a ghost to the lanterns in Serkaih. Even if it was pretense, poetical chroveshit, he was grateful for it.
He could feel Diana’s fingertips press into his arm. By that time, Milo was offering him a glass; it was a less-than-graceful little wriggle, but he slipped his arm out from underneath her hand to reach for it. Light glinted against the snifter, down through the brandy; his wedding-glass clinked against the glass.
“Thank you,” he said to Milo, pleasant enough. It felt effortful; he’d lost something. Had he lost Anatole? The brandy jumped to the lip of the glass in his shaky hand, but he managed to avoid spilling it.
Linnea spoke again, and it was only when he turned back to her he realized Milo hadn’t got her a glass. Kenser. Listening to her go on, he held his own snifter in his lap, hoping nobody’d noticed he hadn’t raised it to his lips right off. Quick enough, an unfamiliar name swept him out of his head again, but the glass felt preternaturally heavy in his fingers.
If you’re clueless, he half wanted to say, smiling wryly, I’m a godsdamn mung. You should see what a mess I made of love, in my first life. “Ansari pez Nasoor,” he murmured instead, rolling the name round on his tongue; he was about to ask when Milo’s voice tore the question from his mind.
Tom couldn’t quite manage the smile. He found his lips pressed thin; there was a little strain in the lines around his eyes. But one eyebrow twitched up when Linnea spoke again, and his lip twitched, too, ever so slightly, when Milo turned away.
Godsdamn, he thought.
Behind him, he heard Diana twitter. “You’re too kind, Mr. Savatier,” he heard her murmur, and saw a flash of a white hand, and the glint of a diamond, as she brushed his arm playfully.
He turned back to Linnea. He was leaning on the arm of his chair, now. As he smiled, he crossed his legs, one foot bobbing cheerfully for a moment. “Ansari pez Nasoor,” he repeated, as if trying to remember something. He thought he’d come across the name, in Anatole’s library. “I’ve never read him. What d’you recommend? Being honest, I could do with some guidance; apart from pez Hirtka, I’ve got no clue where to start. It’s all rather new to me. Something lighter might be nice.”
He swirled his snifter, hesitant, then brought it to his lips. He swallowed, but the brandy didn’t even reach the rim of the glass. When he lowered it, he was studying Linnea with interest, but there was still a little tension in his face, a little jumping nerve round his left eye. He scratched at his jaw.
