Amelie was lovely. Quite lovely, he thought firmly, scowling. In fact, he was fixing an image of her in his mind just then; he was holding it there, quite forcefully. Her full, soft face, with its strong – but still feminine – cheekbones, its proud chin; her thin mouth, which always seemed caught in a bemused smile. Her dark auburn hair, which never seemed to be in the same chignon twice. He had never seen it down, though he knew he would soon, after – after the wedding, in Dentis. There was a great deal to look forward to, after the wedding in Dentis.
There was a picture of Amelie on his desk, in Vienda. It was a very lovely picture; in fact, it was that picture which he saw in his mind now. Encased in the silk and velvet of that ruby-red dress, with its full sleeves and lace trim. He saw that picture almost every day, under ordinary circumstances.
Congratulations, Aurelie had said haltingly. The detainee. The detainee had said. Hurte’s mercy, what right had she?
“Thank you,” he snarled.
So it was not a marriage like from those old stories. What right had she? He was still shaking his head about it, cleaning his glasses off on the hem of his jacket.
He was not concerned. Not about the marriage, nor about the wedding preparations, nor about anything which would occur after the wedding. He did not have anyone to talk to about it, which was quite all right, because he did not need to. He was not concerned about any of it; he had all of it completely and entirely under control, and if Aurelie Steerpike thought anything whatsoever of him or of his immaculate planning –
It would have been for her, once, some part of him whispered, unbidden. She had not only been his closest friend.
His train of thought broke off abruptly. He shivered.
Where would I go? came her voice, again more sharply than he had ever heard it. Not that he had heard it at all, until a few days ago, not like this.
It stung, as no doubt intended; he grit his teeth harder, and resolved to put all of it out of his head. Why did she insist on calling him by his name? The detainee, he reminded himself. The passive.
Tucking his glasses away, he stood ramrod-straight and still, his chin up. He blinked away more tears, but they seemed to be coming a little less now.
He blinked, chin jerking in the direction he thought her voice must be coming from. “To shelter of some sort, or help. The Quartering Act of 2102 requires that any human renter of any galdor’s property” – that was, of course, all of them, with very few exceptions – “quarter any officer of the Seventen, as necessary – and give aid and direction. We shall find someone, or at the very least somewhere with a roof, and either get help or wait there for further instruction.”
Carefully, he stepped closer. If it struck him rather strangely at first, the lack of a field, he could not think more about it. Why had he expected there to be one? What field had he expected?
It was nothing, he chid himself angrily; he gave another irritated snort, and resolved quite to ignore the pounding of his heart against his ribs, or the ever-multiplying beads of sweat on the back of his neck.
Stripes, it was hot! But the only thing worse than helping her up encased in his dress jacket would be helping her up in his undershirt, and so he resolved to let that, too, go.
“Very well,” he said abruptly. But then he hesitated. He would have to bend over, and – find her. Arms. Somewhere, without the aid of the handcuffs.
He bent, reaching for her.
At first, he fumbled, his hand brushing her hair and – briefly – what felt like an ear; he flushed deeply. “Sorry,” he grated, fumbling lower and finding her arms finally. It was hardly his fault – she was so small, and he…
“Take hold of my left arm,” he said sharply, “and pull as I do.” If she did, he would catch her behind the back lightly with his other, slide it neatly under her arm, and take what weight he could.
Do not worry, he got the strangest urge to say, remembering a hundred times in his boyhood when his soft, shaky arms had failed to help her up, or when she, of strong constitution, had had to take his meagre weight. He put that, too, out of his head, and all the strange feelings it brought; he grit his teeth tighter against his headache.