above the good pan, old rose harbor
morning on the 29th of roalis, 2720
T
hey were coming along wonderfully – they had drawn his eye immediately. She had told him she was going to grow them before he had left; a gift for a friend, he recalled, a very kind woman – one of the Viendan ladies, no doubt, though he could not quite remember who. They were lovely, at any rate: he had never seen them in such a brilliant orange, only red and yellow and pink. The rest of the garden was as lovely as usual, of course. He had come there first to look for her, but also because he had wanted to see it.
He was still in his traveling-clothes, still smelling of dust, as he took long strides down corridors covered in snaking vines and blooms.
He could hear a dog barking somewhere, and claws skittering on carpet and marble. He could imagine the scratches against the floor; they would have to train him out of it, but he was proving particularly difficult. Francesca and Petronilla and even Tanqueray were much more well-behaved. He was certainly good with the children; she had been right about that.
Gracious Hurte, where was she?
Past his studio, smelling of linseed oil and canvas; those smells were altogether too familiar after months in Tiv, painting Giardiniere Crocetti and his daughters. He would paint later – he had several commissions waiting in Vienda – but now, he only wanted to see her, and she was not there.
All his muscles ached, and his head the most. Where were the children? He could hear his steel-toed boots loud on the floor; perhaps he should not have worn them. Perhaps he had frightened the children off.
Aha, he muttered. He was on the South Stairwell, now, and finding his way down.
Mr. Steerpike! said one of the maids, passing him on the stair, then lowered her head and bowed. In the corner of his eye, he saw a swirl of red hair.
He was already at the bottom of the banister and launching himself down the hall.
My love, he called as he passed an open door, his brow furrowed. The kitchens were a whirl of steam and indistinct shapes; he was not altogether sure why he was down here, only that he thought he might find her here.
From months ago, as if it had only been yesterday, he remembered the touch of her hand. He remembered taking his leave of her and going to bed – good night, Des – why had they slept separately that night? He could not recall – he felt a spur of panic, of a sudden. Had she been upset?
He would make it better, he thought desperately. He wanted so very badly to catch her hand up in his and kiss it once more, brushing his lips over the winding shapes of scars (scars?).
Cara mia, he called, a little breathless, squinting in the dark. It was very dark; he could scarce tell whether his eyes were open or not. Primo amore mio –
–
He jolted awake, letting out a sound somewhere between a snarl and a gasp, his fist knotted in his pillow.
There was sunlight streaming into the small room. How late was it? He had overslept, he realized. Inspector Morandi did not ever oversleep. All of his muscles were wound tightly; his legs, and particularly his thighs, ached. He felt as if his eyes had been glued together, and had come apart only at a great effort.
He had shoved himself up on one arm, his heart in his throat, tangled dark hair in his face. Where was his baton? His uniform? There was about his shoulders a loose human shirt, a size or half a size too large. Elwes’, he realized, that he had asked for the night before.
There was in the room with him a shape. His eyes came into focus.
“Ah –” He cleared his throat, forcing himself to relax; his field had flexed and gone taut, and now was settling as he caught his breath. His glasses were on the side table; he did not reach for them just yet. “Forgive me,” he said, forgetting himself and running a hand through his hair, frowning deeply. “I do not make a habit of – sleeping in – I am. Hmm.”
