“You haven’t touched your coffee.”
“That’s all right. I prefer tea anyway.” He bowed and left her. There would be another Sangaree guard still outside, she knew, because that was the way Will was.
She sat there alone and stared thoughtfully at the door. Her hands were slowly and with a life of their own pulling apart a piece of the date-bread. A quarter-hour later she looked down at her plate in surprise and saw a mound of crumbs.
Well, who knew what would come of it?
“What do you think her problem is?” asked Hartley. “Do you think she’s in love?”
Will said, “How do I know what’s going on in her head?” He knelt silently for a moment in his pew at St. Tom’s. Up in the front of the church people were hanging garlands and long white banners. “But, no, I don’t think so. I think she just likes Adrian and believes what she’s doing is wrong.”
“ ‘Wrong,’ eh? Interesting concept. Maybe she just needs a small jolt of reality.”
Will turned to scan his face. Hart was looking straight ahead to the Symbol with a respectful expression. Will said, “She seems pretty firmly decided to me.”
A small smile appeared and disappeared on Hart’s face. “No cause for alarm, old chum. By the way, how was your sister’s wedding? I never, asked.”
“It was fine. I was best man.”
“Glad to hear it. Have you heard anything about where you’re going after our Io’s settled in as a Mercati?”
“Going?”
“Your next assignment, Willie. Once she’s married, they can’t have an Opal citycop running bodyguard duty for her. She’ll get Diamond protection.”
Will said, slowly, “No, I haven’t heard anything yet.”
“Well, let me know. I hate to have old friends drop out of sight.”
Somewhere above them a harp and a durami clashed as the respective musicians tuned them.
Three large rooms in court territory had been turned over to Barraci and Sons, the tailors who had won the wedding rights. Last-minute alterations were being made in nearly everybody’s clothing, and people who had accidentally gotten red sashes when they should have gotten blue (and vice versa) hurried in and out with boxes. Decorators were milling around as well, double-checking the colors of the wedding party for their match with the banners and flowers in the church and the ballroom.
“I thought all this was supposed to have been done weeks ago,” said Iolanthe. She stood on a footstool in the midst of this chaos with a woman from Barraci’s pinning the hem of her gown. Prudence Taylor was with her. Even Prudence looked a little done-in; she’d pulled over a small hassock and collapsed on it with an expression of relief.
“It’s never done,” said Prudence. “Even tomorrow morning people will be running around—right up to the last second. I don’t really know why—it’s the way human beings are.” She sighed and fanned herself with the program for the wedding music.
Io caught sight of herself in the mirror across the room. The welts on her face were almost completely gone, and cosmetics could take care of the remainder. She was glad she’d spoken to Will yesterday morning, it was a weight off her mind in one sense … and in another sense, another weight put on. She could just visualize the Lord Cardinal being told of her treachery. Or her cowardice … however they would see it.
“Honey, do you have another headache coming on?” asked Prudence. “Your face has that look.”
In fact, she did have another headache coming on. “I’ll be all right,” she said.
“Where’s the aspirin I gave you?”
The tailor-woman showed no reaction to this reference to forbidden drugs; she was probably used to showing no reaction to anything the aristos said or did. Io said, “It’s in my purse.”
“Well, it won’t do any good there, sweetheart.”
Io had tried Prudence’s aspirin before; it was about as effective against her crushing headaches as a good heart was against a Keith pistol. (She had once heard Will use that metaphor.) “Really, Pru—”
“I’ll get it.” Prudence rose and went over to a chair on the side of the room, where she found Iolanthe’s purse under a pile of silk. The purse was small, of pink satin and ribbons, and perfectly in this season’s style. She brought it back to Io, obeying the age-old law that one does not root around in another woman’s purse, even if one already knows everything inside it.
Iolanthe opened the drawstrings and pulled out a small gold case, from which she removed two little white pills. Prudence brought her a cup of water from the refreshment table in the comer of the room. “Drink up,” she said.
Io hesitated. “I wish you could have gotten more things from that lady,” she said; meaning witchcraft herbs from the witch on Mercati Boulevard. Io was more discreet than Prudence in speaking in front of servants.
“Well, she’s not in her shop lately; I don’t know where she is, and we’ll just have to do without her. Swallow ’em, now.”
Io put one of the aspirin in her mouth. She often had difficulty swallowing pills, and she found herself hesitating … hesitating longer than was usual … the taste of the aspirin was foul, even more sour than normal. She felt an overpowering urge to spit the stuff out. Good heavens, not in front of everybody! But the urge swelled, so that between one second and the next she found herself frantically searching for a trash pail. There! She spied one, jumped off the stool, ran over to it, and spit. She couldn’t have held back another moment.
She breathed hard with relief, still gagging. Oh, lord, and now she had to turn and face people.
Prudence rushed over to her. “Io, what’s the matter? You jumped like you’d been set on fire. Are you all right?”
Behind Prudence Io could see the tailor-woman standing and staring at her, not troubling to hide her complete loss to explain the ways of spoiled aristo girls, and her contempt. “I … I’m okay, I just …” How
