[PM to Join] Among the Better Men

[Lars]

quarter fords
yaris 19, 2719 - in the evening

Aremu Ediwo. The name had been stuck somewhere in the back of his head since he'd seen the imbala in the Black Dove merely a night or two before, and rather than using his afternoon off for something more useful - like catching up on sleep, perhaps - Lars found himself in the middle of Quarter Fords, seeking out a man that possibly didn't even want to be found. It was out of place, a part of him thought, it wasn't as if they were friends. Friends could seek each other out and visit one another, but he and Aremu were mere acquaintances, and despite having a reason for wanting to see him, his request felt... odd. If he even found the man, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to force the words out of his mouth - words that had been so easily given whilst in Brunnhold, but that only served to embarrass him in the company of an educated passive.

The notion of other passives attending a university alongside their former kin was still so absurd, and he wasn't certain that he'd wrapped his head around it entirely. It didn't seem possible for a place like Thul'Amat and a place such as Brunnhold to exist in the same world, not with how differently they did things - all of Mugroba, apparently, sounded like a fantasy compared to Anaxas. He wished to one day see it, but didn't allow himself that hope. Even if he managed to travel, surely the entire kingdom would crumble to dust before he reached it.

Lars had at least bothered to bathe before leaving home, figuring that if he was to embarrass himself with matters of reading and poetry then he was at least to be clean and look alright doing it, even if he'd not bothered to shave the stubble from his face (and that fact was bothering him immensely now, the passive still quite unused to the sensation). He'd dressed himself plainly, not looking to stand out or catch attention, in a cream-colored linen shirt and the dark brown trousers he'd taken off of -

Well, he couldn't recall what he'd done to him, nor could he remember his name, but the trousers were nice, and a bit soft to the touch. It made him realize just how much the days had started to blend and blur together, now that he'd gotten relatively used to it all.

Complete with his old, worn-out shoes from Brunnhold and the earrings he'd acquired a few weeks before, Lars had set out to find Aremu. Figuring that Quarter Fords was a good enough place to start, the passive wandered the now-familiar streets, breathing in the warm evening air and the scent of the sea. There was just enough of a breeze to almost (almost) give him a chill, his hair still damp against his head, and Lars was happy to be out and about rather than back at the Mad Queen, where he typically spent such evenings.

He's going to think we're moony, looking for him like this.

"We're just trying to learn something, that's all," he whispered, eyes darting between passing faces. "It's not as if we're trying to kill him."

You say that now. We don't know how he's going to react.

No, he didn't know, but he didn't think he had to. Lars didn't need to know Aremu that well to know that he was a kind man. Honorable, even, and he wasn't unaware of the irony.

Lars moved through the dwindling evening crowd of the market, pale gaze sweeping across and over and everywhere else in his search for the imbala.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 19 Yaris, 2719
Dzah Street, Quarter Fords

There was always a small market on Dzah street, a small square tucked off to the side with stalls for vegetables, fruits, spices and herbs, for kofi, for fried lentil fritters and cool yogurt in ceramic pots. On nines it swelled, spilled out into the street and took it over, so that even to pass through Dzah street meant weaving through stall after stall, stepping over blankets topped with stacks of vegetables, meant losing oneself in a cloud of lilting Mugrobi.

“Oqi’yuwiq!” The vendor was an older woman, sitting on a small squat stool amidst piles of eggplants. Her hair was twisted up in a brightly colored cloth, pink and orange and green patterned across it, vivid.

“Ayah, ada’na,” Aremu said, crouching at the edge of the blanket.

“Ayah!” She grinned at him, revealing surprisingly clean, well-kept teeth. “I can say nothing to do justice to such eggplants,” she said, gesturing wide with one hand, knuckles and joints swollen. “You must look and judge for yourself.”

Aremu smiled back, understanding, and felt some of the tension ease out of his shoulders. “Then take my silence as well,” he said, looking down at the heaps of small green eggplant, shifting to another stack of long, thin purple ones.

The woman chuckled, and rested her hands on the colorful skirt in her lap.

Aremu settled a small basket by his knee. He felt the eggplants with his fingertips, lifting them to judge the weight in his hand, his face intent. He looked for dark, glossy skin in the spilling lantern light, and eggplants which felt heavy, for their size, and firm beneath his fingertips. He teased them from the pile, the best of them, and piled the few he chose in his basket. He raised his eyebrows at the vendor, his right wrist tucked against his pocket, and his left hand busy with his work.

After a brief, short session of bargaining, Aremu piled the eggplants into his rucksack, atop onions, dried red chilies, a ginger root and a bunch of bright green coriander. He took out two small twists of paper, and set them on the blanket, then put them back atop the eggplants. He eased back up to his feet, settling the rucksack over his shoulder, and grinned again at the vendor. “Ule’elana, ada’na,” Aremu said with a smile. “Your beauty has brightened my evening. Domea.”

“Bhe,” The woman waved her hand at him. “I shall expect a better compliment from you, when you come again. Even a handsome young man should know fine words well.”

Aremu grinned, then, abruptly, bright and wide, and was rewarded with a pleased laugh from the woman on her stool. “Much better,” she told him.

Aremu shifted his rucksack against his back, and sighed as he went, rubbing his fingers against the back of his neck. The heat of the day seemed to have fled with the setting of the sun; here, at least, the spices and kofi drowned out the fishy tang that seemed to permeate every inch of the Rose.

“Únús, domea,” Aremu stopped at another stall at the edge of the market, this one a vendor’s cart, propped still, wheels sitting off to the side, ready to go on their axles when it was time. He felt the loose, silky feel of a field in the air around him, and the wick behind grinned at him, revealing a glittering gold tooth behind full, soft lips.

“Ea,” The man opened a hatch, and took out a small, heavy ceramic pot, cheesecloth stretched taut over the top of it. He set it down on the edge of the cart, raising his eyebrows. “Enough for you?” He asked with a little smile.

“Ea,” Aremu said, smiling back. He set coins down, and settled long fingers around the edges of it, moisture already beading against them. He hesitated, just a moment, then smiled again, shifted the bag to his front, and tucked the yogurt inside with his left hand, nestling it next to the eggplant. “Domea,” Aremu said.

“Domea domea,” The wick turned away with a grin, already looking at the next of his customers.

Aremu was moving too, hefting his rucksack again and easing away through the crowd. People were streaming into the market, most of them; he was a little late to be buying food to cook, Aremu thought. Tempting smells chased him as he went, drifting through the air, and once, a little longingly, Aremu glanced back over his shoulder at the market behind, wondering if it would not be better to stay – to pretend, just a little longer – to forget, he thought, all of them together – or else to create, even in the midst of the Rose, something which felt like home.

[Lars]

quarter fords
yaris 19, 2719 - in the evening

Lars' gaze found Aremu around the time he came across the eggplants, but the passive found himself unable to move forward from the crowd, unable to step out to meet him. He was so carefully choosing his produce, so diligent in his task, and the white-haired passive couldn't do anything but shrink down, back into the crowd, back away from the stand. What was Aremu like, he wondered, when just going about his life? Without anyone important watching him? No Nicco, no nothing, just an imbala in the market looking for vegetables and other necessary ingredients. He wondered if it came naturally to him, that smiling. It didn't come naturally to Lars.

Then Aremu was moving again, having successfully chosen the best of the eggplants, and Lars wished he was close enough to hear what he was saying - not that he was likely to understand much of it, if any at all, but he wanted to hear the tone. He looked happy, he decided, or at least close enough to it. He hadn't seemed very happy during any of the times they'd met, except for maybe at the cliffs, before Lars had disturbed him. It looked so real, now, so authentic.

He wanted to look that real.

I thought we were out here to learn.

"I am learning," he argued quietly, eyes following the imbala as he stood and moved from the first vendor and carried on to the next. Aremu smiled, again, and Lars smiled too, doing his best to imitate the expression and ignoring the odd look from the older woman shouldering past him. It didn't feel right. It didn't sit well on his face. He dropped it, waiting for Aremu to purchase what he needed and leave the cart, finally beginning to move out and away from the larger crowds.

The Hessean followed after him, careful not to bump into anyone or knock over any carts or stands (he really didn't need that embarrassment), finally pushing himself out and into the open. There was still a slight sense of nervousness basing itself in his hands, making his fingers tap against each other and against his legs idly, but he needed to ignore it if he wanted to actually do what he'd come out here to do.

It wasn't as if he was trying to impress anyone, or trying to do anything important - he was just asking a man to show him how to read. Nothing to worry about.

You're so annoying when you get like this, Lars.

"Shut up," he hissed, voice low, before lifting his head a bit and moving to approach the imbala.

"Aremu?" greeted the white-haired passive, a small, nervous smile curving his lips, "I was - looking for you, actually, do you have a moment?"

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 19 Yaris, 2719
Dzah Street, Quarter Fords

His name caught him by surprise, and the voice that it came in even more so, although he knew it immediately. Aremu came to a stop on the edges of the market, and turned back, blinking softly, rucksack shifting against his back. There was a moment in which he readjusted, in which he placed Lars into context at the edge of the market – in the last, lingering steps before Aremu could no longer be anywhere but the Rose.

Aremu smiled, and warmly. “Lars,” he said, more pleased than he might have expected. The strangest part was that despite the contrasts, the other man didn’t – quite – seem out of place. Aremu thought he should have; he thought it should have been jarring, Lars’s quiet Anaxi accent – not broad like the Rose, but precise and almost elegant, distinctly elsewhere, and the paleness of his skin and hair in the evening glow. It wasn’t; he couldn’t quite have said why.

There was a prickle of awareness through Aremu, a moment when he thought to check whether his right wrist was still in his pocket – as it was, of course, Aremu thought, faintly embarrassed – more embarrassed, in truth, by his desire to check than anything else. He had not, at least, looked down, and he was grateful for that.

The imbala frowned, then, faintly, as Lars’s question sank in. “Of course,” he said, glancing from side to side. It was hard to think why Lars would have sought him out, and hard to think how the other passive could have found him. But, then, Quarter Fords was a sensible place to look for a Mugrobi, and not such a big neighborhood, not really. He found that he was worried, abruptly, that Lars might need help; he found himself checking for eyes lingering on them, for anyone watching from the shadows, as if it was really so easy to tell whether you were being followed.

He’s not yours to bear, Aremu told himself, although it was increasingly hard to believe. Even if he had only been the instrument by which the other man had joined the Bad Brothers and not necessarily the cause, Aremu could not but feel the weight of it. It was not only that, not anymore; he thought of Lars on the cliffs south of the Rose, watching him with his head resting atop his knees, a small frown on his face, white hair bright in the sun and tousled by the breeze. Perhaps he could have told himself before those moments that there was nothing else between them, nothing but a one-sided obligation. But, then, Aremu knew well that there was little sense in lying to yourself, no matter how well you did it.

“Is everything all right?” Aremu asked. He let go of the strap of his rucksack, and reached out, fingers gently resting on the other man’s upper arm, for just a moment before his hand lowered again, back to his side.

[Lars]

quarter fords
yaris 19, 2719 - in the evening

There it was again, a smile, warm and at home on Aremu's face. He could've fooled himself, with that smile, into thinking the other passive was pleased to see him - something he didn't allow himself to do, and instead he focused on the matter at hand. It didn't matter whether Aremu actually enjoyed his presence or not, he told himself, it only mattered that he'd listen and give him a chance. He was only here to learn something, if possible, and if not... then he'd turn around and spend the rest of the evening as he should, catching up on sleep.

Lars didn't miss the way Aremu's gaze wandered, as if looking for something in the shadows of the buildings and the market around them - it didn't quite click until the imbala spoke again, setting a hand against his arm for a moment. Pale eyes flicked down, briefly, at the touch, before returning to Aremu's face and settling his own into a neutral, warm expression.

"Yes, everything is fine," assured the Hessean with a slight dip of his head, "and my apologies for seeking you out like this, when you're busy."

He wasn't sure if he was really sorry about that, but old habits died hard, and it was best to be polite, wasn't it? Aremu was likely on his way home, trying to get things done in a timely manner, and here he was, holding him up. Lars knew that he was just making himself stall, now, not wanting to admit what he was really here for, not finding it quite so easy to be honest when he wasn't as intoxicated as he had been at their last meeting.

Lars' head tilted slightly to the side, eyes refocusing on the imbala's face, feeling a small, irritating warmth rise to his own. It shouldn't be this hard, he thought, to better one's self. He inhaled deeply, forcing his fingers to stay still at his sides.

"No, I had something else I wanted to ask you about. Something a little more, ah, embarrassing," he admitted quietly, a small smile returning to his face, "I... I can't read, and ah..."

Honestly, it shouldn't be so hard to ask for help - it wasn't as if everyone in Anaxas could read, but he was... a passive. He had been raised as a proper galdor, despite everything that'd become of him since, and by all means he should know how to do that, even if he hadn't been educated further. He made himself pause, straightening out his posture.

"I wanted to ask if you would be willing to help me. I can - I can pay you, if you are."

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 19 Yaris, 2719
Dzah Street, Quarter Fords

Aremu was aware of a faint prickling sensation, as if he’d overstepped; he felt it in the tingling of his fingertips. He hadn’t lingered, but he took his left hand and tucked it into his pocket; there were matching bulges on both sides, then, and it left him feeling a little more even-keeled.

It’s how we do things, in Mugroba, he wanted to say. It’s not – it’s just – Anaxi are so aware of the space around them, so hesitant to intrude. We know better, in Mugroba, I think. But he wondered, too, why he wanted so badly to reassure Lars on this point; it was enough to tell him that it was wiser to stay silent. He knew all too well the distance between intention and understanding.

Aremu nodded, slightly, when Lars reassured him that everything was fine. The frown didn’t disappear; if anything, it deepened faintly. They were still just standing there, the two of them, in the midst of the street, with the dwindling flow of people to and from the market all around them, the sharp smell of kofi and spices trickling past too. Aremu was conscious of the grumbling ache in his stomach; he shifted a little more.

Lars’s cheeks flushed pink in the sunset glow, although he was smiling, too, when he spoke again. Aremu stared, a moment, not quite understanding. Lars drew himself up, and asked, and all Aremu could do was to frown.

No, Aremu wanted to say. No – I doubt I’d be much good as a teacher. I’ve never done anything like this. No – I couldn’t possibly. His lips pressed together, and he frowned a little more, thinking of the pale blush on Lars’s cheeks, the hesitant way he’d brought the confession out, the question too.

“Not for payment,” Aremu said, then. He frowned, looking down for a long moment, thinking it over. His hand shifted in his pocket, tightening and relaxing. I’m not here in the Rose long, he wanted to say. It’s just a short trip, this time, and then I’m off to Vienda, and then – and then, I’m not sure.

Not for payment, Aremu wanted to say. I wouldn’t demand anything of you, not like that – not payment, and not friendship, and not favors owed, either. It doesn’t seem right. He didn’t know how to say it; he understood, he thought, the impulse to pay, to put a distance between them: a man receiving a service, and another giving it. He couldn’t settle for it.

Aremu looked back up at Lars, face still knotted, still serious. “I’ve never tried anything like it,” he said, honestly, with a little nod of his head. “If you don’t mind a bad teacher – if you don’t mind I’m not here long – I’ll try. Will you walk with me?” His hand shifted back out of his pocket; he stifled the urge to touch Lars again, and settled it around the strap of his bag instead. “We can talk on the way.”

[Lars]

quarter fords
yaris 19, 2719 - in the evening

At first the white-haired passive was afraid that he'd offended the other man, that somehow he'd said something wrong and that requesting help must've been some sort of insult to him - it didn't help the confusion when Aremu said not to pay him, but it at least gave hope that the imbala was at least considering the possibility. If not for payment, then for what? Surely the man wasn't considering helping him for free, if he was considering doing it at all. Lars couldn't imagine anyone in the harbor doing something out of the kindness of their heart, least of all a Bad Brother, but then... Aremu was different. That was only made clearer each time he stumbled (sometimes intentionally) upon him.

Lars' pale gaze watched the imbala curiously as he continued, wondering again if it had been a good idea to seek him out and request such a thing. He had made Aremu uncomfortable, and he had known that he would - he wanted to feel worse for it than he did. Any guilt was quickly, heavily outweighed by a mixture of surprise and hopeful anticipation at the other passive's agreement to try, and Lars dipped his head in a nod, reaching out to set a bruised hand against Aremu's arm, copying what the other had done.

"Of course," agreed the Hessean, "thank you, Aremu. Whatever you're willing to try is enough," he wasn't entirely sure of why Aremu would want him to walk alongside him when he could have simply told him to come back another time, when he was better prepared and not presumably about to make his dinner, but he wouldn't refuse him that if he wished for it. Lars wasn't of the belief that he made the best company, at least not when he was outside of the Queen, but he didn't mind a longer chat.

He allowed his hand to fall from Aremu's arm, returning to his side where his fingers began to tap at his soft, dark trousers, before stopping their little movements as he took notice of them.

Lars looked over the bag in the imbala's possession, his head tilting the slightest amount, just enough to let a few strands of colorless hair to fall over his forehead. He could be heading somewhere else, he supposed, he could be on his way to someone else's residence - Niccolette's, perhaps - and he might not have the time or the energy to devote to such things, he might simply be offering politeness rather than the truth, but - no, it didn't seem like Aremu to lie, not over simple matters.

"I'll follow," said the passive, "so long as I'm not intruding. I seem to find always find you when you're busy," the last bit was said with a slight smile, only somewhat regretful of that fact.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 19 Yaris, 2719
Dzah Street, Quarter Fords

Lars settled his hand against Aremu’s arm; it didn’t quite linger, but it held there while he spoke, firm, not so different from how Aremu had touched him. Aremu smiled, faintly, and inclined his head in response to Lars’s thanks. He resisted the effort to disclaim, to say it was nothing; it was not nothing, he thought. Not to Lars.

Aremu frowned, quiet, thoughtful. He turned Lars’s comment over, carefully, searching for the right words. You are intruding, he wanted to say, but I do not mind being intruded upon. It is possible to you can intrude upon a man alone with himself, but it is not so tonight. I am busy, he wanted to say, conscious of the ache in his stomach, but not too busy for a – there, he thought, he balked. He did not wish to lay the word friendship between them, with all it entailed on either side.

“Your company is welcome,” Aremu said, instead. He lifted his gaze to Lars’s; he smiled, just a little.

It was not a long walk, in the end; there was not much to discuss either. “You’ve been well?” Aremu asked, once, stepping out of the way of a kenser’s twitching tail. He carried his rucksack over his shoulder, unflinchingly. At the end of it, a few streets deeper into Quarter Fords, they reached a long, quiet lane, studded with trees, reaching with summer-full leaves over paved streets. There was no laundry flapping in the breeze, here, only wrought iron gates and houses set back off the street, with privacy in all their overhanging leaves.

“Here,” Aremu said; he stopped at a gate, with the name ‘Ibutatu’ carved into a metal plaque into the side, and pushed it open. He would beckon Lars after him, with a little crooked smile, if the other man seemed to hesitate.

There was a pleasant walkway through a host of trees, well-trimmed; a wooden door was nestled at the end of it. Aremu took a key from his pocket; he frowned to find it already unlocked. He set the rucksack down, carefully; he eased the door open with his shoulder, his hand going to the center of his back.

“Oh!” There was a startled noise from inside, and a flurry of white cloth.

“Good evening, Marsha,” Aremu said, quietly, with a little bow of his head. He eased back out; he took the rucksack, and came back inside.

“Oh,” A young Anaxi woman, human, stood up from the stool just inside the door; needlework had spilled from her lap onto the floor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ediwo – it just didn’t seem right t’ leave, not with the fire still stoked, and me not knowin’ when you’d be back.”

“That’s all right,” Aremu said, with a polite smile. “I just didn’t expect you.”

“Can I fetch you anything, fore I leave?” Marsha asked. She glanced past Aremu; her gaze settled on Lars, and her eyes went faintly wide. Dark hair spilled out from beneath her cap; a mottled birthmark stretched around her right eye, stained portwine.

“This is Mr. Lars,” Aremu said with a little smile, still standing in the hallway. He shifted aside, then, to make space for the Hessean.

“Good evening, Mr. Lars,” Marsha bobbed a shallow curtsy; she pressed back, faintly against the wall.

“I don’t need anything, Marsha,” Aremu said. “Thank you for making sure Niccolette’s house didn’t burn down.”

Marsha blushed, fumbled with the needlework again; she was gone in a few moments, with another shy, curious look at Lars. She closed the door behind her.

Aremu sighed, faintly; he rubbed his face with his hand. He smiled at Lars again, a little hesitant. “This way,” he said. He led them down the hallway, off to the right – through a large dining room, well kept, a chandelier hanging over the table – into the kitchen just beyond, where the fire blazed, comfortably warm. Aremu set his rucksack down on the heavy table, and sighed faintly; something like tension drained from his shoulders.

“Have you eaten?” Aremu asked Lars, looking up at the other man.

[Lars]

quarter fords
yaris 19, 2719 - in the evening

Lars appeared surprised, for a moment, before it was masked again with careful neutrality and pushed along with a nod. To be told that his company was welcome was somehow stranger than to be told otherwise, but he didn't allow himself to read any further into it, stepping forward to follow after the imbala. He was quiet, for the most part, along their little walk, quick to reply when addressed but otherwise allowing the other man to lead him to their destination in silence. He would admit that it made him wary, not knowing where exactly Aremu was taking him or why he wished to bring him there rather than send him on his way and tell him to come back another time. He didn't mind, not exactly, he was simply pleased to have been listened to - but it was curious.

As they reached the gate, Lars did find himself hesitating, unable to make out the name carved into the metal, if it was a name at all. He looked beyond the gate, to the trees, more confused about how a place that looked rather... peaceful, could exist in the harbor, but Aremu ended his distraction just as soon, and the Hessean was following after him again.

He was glancing about the walkway when they came to the door, eyes tracing the branches of the trees and following the curves in the wood, almost unaware of the door being unlocked, and of Aremu's cautious pushing against it. It wasn't until the other man was dipping inside that Lars turned to look forward again, suddenly made aware again of his own distraction, of the ease with which he'd let his mind slip away while in the presence of the man before him.

Lars made no attempt to step forward until Aremu went back inside and allowed him adequate room, entering the house with slight hesitance and no small amount of anxiety (he could feel it in the bones of his wrists, slinking down to his fingertips), and he did his best to be polite when the human greeted him.

"Good evening, Marsha," he returned with a small dip of his head, his movements only a little awkward. He didn't miss the way that the woman seemed to shrink back, as if she were somehow afraid at the sight of him - Lars was clueless as to why, but he supposed he couldn't blame her. Maybe she could see through him, somehow, or got some feeling from his presence she didn't quite like; it made him straighten up again, mindful of his posture, of his mouth curving into a tiny smile like the ones he'd seen on Aremu.

She was leaving soon enough, and Lars was left alone again with his not-friend, looking to him with a hint of amusement to his expression. This was Niccolette's house, then. He wondered, for a fleeting moment, if the galdor was around - before reminding himself that no, Marsha's very presence had apparently indicated that she was not, and there was nothing to be worried about.

Worried about? Lars blinked, walking after Aremu through the dining room and into the warmer, comfortable kitchen area.

Watching the other passive set his things down on the table, Lars stood off a bit to the side, feeling strangely out of place in the house but, to some extent, at home in the kitchen. He hadn't spent much time in one since he'd left Brunnhold, but he had spent far too long in the kitchens to ever forget how to feel comfortable in one.

When questioned, Lars dragged his gaze upwards from the bag and to Aremu's face, settling there curiously. He considered lying, if only to ensure that he didn't try to offer him anything, but didn't enjoy the thought of lying to Aremu.

"No, I haven't," he admitted, "but you don't need to go out of your way to feed me, si - Aremu," corrected the passive, "I've already imposed quite enough, I think. This is Niccolette's house?"

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 19 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Aremu shifted; he reached down, and rolled up his right sleeve. He had not worn the full harness for the prosthetic, but only the straps that went around his wrist. He turned, slightly, away from Lars; not enough to hide what he was doing, but enough not to force it into the other man’s sight. He did not look up.

Aremu undid the straps, one by one. He set the hand off to the side, palm up, the fingers curled around it. He massaged his forearm, lightly, a faint grimace on his face, avoiding the tender lines where the straps had dug in to his skin with the pressure of holding it in place.

And then Aremu went back to his rucksack. He took the yogurt out first, one-handed, and carried it across the kitchen, tucking the ceramic pot away in the icebox. He went back to the table then, and began to set out all the rest: the twists of powder, the eggplant, the onion, the chilies, the bright green bunch of coriander.

“It is easily in my way,” Aremu said; he ran his fingertips down the smooth skin of the eggplant, then looked up at Lars with a little frown. “But you need not accept,” he said, gently. “I don’t mean to impose. What I offer is freely given.”

Aremu took the eggplants to the sink; he rinsed them clean under the flow of water, and set them to the side, on a wooden board he had taken out for the purpose. He rummaged through the kitchen, and found a knife. Aremu propped his bare right wrist against the smooth purple curve of the first and held it in place; his left wielded the knife deftly, first prying off what remained of the stem, and then slicing the eggplant neatly in two, and setting the halves aside.

“It is Niccolette’s house,” Aremu added as he moved to the next eggplant. Niccolette’s and Uzoji’s, he was tempted to say. It was stranger to be in it empty than he could say; perhaps, Aremu thought, not looking at the white-haired passive behind him, it was stranger than he could bear. He had rarely stayed here when Uzoji was still with them; he had slept on the ship, most nights. Now he wondered why; he wondered if it was foolish pride or foolish fear which had made him hold himself apart. He would not have wanted to intrude within their marriage, but he thought - Uzoji and Niccolette would not have minded a few more dinners shared.

Now the house was like a ghost of itself; big and empty. The emptiness had not been much easier to bear when Niccolette had been home; in some ways, it had been worse. She was, Aremu thought frowning, empty too, at times.

“Can you read at all?” Aremu asked curiously, into the silence. He set the knife aside, and took out a spoon and a bowl instead; he began to scrape the tender flesh from inside the eggplants with smooth, even, one-handed motions, depositing it in the bowl. “What do you remember?”