–” He broke off, frowning, then smiled a wry, tired smile. He looked down at the page, then back up at Cerise. “Fair point,” was all he said – was all he could say, he reckoned. If he’d heard the sarcastic drawl of her voice break over the word alone, he wouldn’t draw attention to it, though he couldn’t help the faint pinched look on his face.
He glanced over at a flicker of movement, got a glimpse of Alain. Not the kov he’d been expecting, portly and dreamy-faced, old enough to be one of Cerise’s professors. Not looking much like the sort that’d be on a first-name basis with Cerise, either, though he wasn’t sure who would be.
If she starts to what? He raised his brows at Sish as she hopped up from her chair, watching the little drake drift on her pillow.
He flipped another page, peered back down through his spectacles. In the quiet, he could hear Cerise and Alain going back and forth.
Less than halfway through the book was another elaborate woodblock print, this time sprawling over both pages. The sky was black, with only a break for the moon – if he’d touched the page, he got the feeling his fingertip would’ve come away stained – and the stark-cut greenery was thick with blocky shadows. Two young women in elaborate dresses sat on a bench surrounded by moonlit foliage, clasping hands, leaning close enough to kiss; there was color staining the light-haired girl’s cheeks, but the other was as pale and dark as in the earlier illustration.
She was needling her father about it. He heard a few sharp laughs from the counter, and his heart tightened; he forced himself to breathe, in and out.
He hadn’t been wrong, he told himself. Just because she was pissed over whatever Anatole’d done didn’t mean she didn’t want something; if anything, it just gave her more ammunition to get it. His backing, maybe, for the travel team, or his funding for this or the other postgraduate program. If Anatole had cut her off, it’d explain a lot.
A long trip from Mugroba, he thought, frowning deeper. It was the first time she’d mentioned the Symvoulio; he’d thought, based on what Diana’d told him, Cerise would’ve been pleased to have him out of Anaxas. He shut his eyes for a moment. There was another lump forming in his throat.
He waited, studying the illustration, searching the thick dark night sky. In the corner of his eye, he could see shimmery flickers of gold as Sish’s flank rose and fell on the pillow. He thought again about reaching and scratching a feather, and again elected not to.
He flipped a few more pages with shaky hands and studied a block of text. His eyebrows lifted much higher on his forehead.
Cerise was approaching again. He looked up at her again over the rims of his glasses. “Sish has been behaving herself,” he pronounced very seriously.
It’s none of my business, he wanted to say, who you see now; I won’t stand in your way. He studied her sharp, narrow face, wondering if there was a chance in hells she’d believe him.
He was beginning to get used to it, looking at her face. It was like stepping out of one discomfort and into another. The pair of you, he’d heard Alain say jauntily; he felt a prickle of embarrassment. This isn’t my daughter, he got the urge to protest. I’m not on some nanabo lunch outing with my daughter.
He looked back down at the page, and the feeling ebbed. “Have you read any of these?” he asked, looking back at the shelf. If she’d only started coming here, he supposed not; he wasn’t sure why he’d asked, other than he felt – he didn’t feel, he told himself, anything at all.