Hartley Quince grinned, an expression of complicity that reminded her of how long it had taken to get over being silent until she was addressed. It was a wicked grin, and Io had to force herself to resist it. Her mother and Aunt Bella had been “out shopping” for interminable hours every afternoon this past week, and Io had wondered more than once where Officer Quince was during that time.
“Please be seated,” she went on. “My bodyguard is here today—oh! He was here a minute ago, Officer Quince, I assure you.”
“Probably checking the entrances and exits, like a good bodyguard. Perhaps you should call him in, my lady, so I can get used to him.” Hartley Quince seated himself in a plush green chair, stretching his legs out over the embroidered carpet. These two limbs were fashionably attired, in smooth silk breeches of an uncriticizable shade of beige, that nevertheless showed a perfect line of male leg. He smiled at Io, a pure-cream smile that had no reason she could see.
“Yes, PH call him,” she said slowly, though of course no young lady would “call” for anybody, and there were no slaves about. And although she could have tried the doors to the kitchen or the slaves’ quarters, she first tried her own bedroom.
There he was, an improbable object indeed; over six feet of broad-shouldered muscle, armed and uniformed, sitting on her pink vanity stool with the silk ribbons, an expression of profound melancholy on his face.
“Sergeant?” she said uncertainly.
He started. “My lady? Aren’t you having your lesson?”
“Officer Quince asked to see you before we began.”
It was as though she’d propounded some esoteric theory of philosophy. He shook his head very slowly, not in a negative way, but more as a student might who was ill-prepared to respond to the teacher’s question. “Surely that’s not necessary, lady Iolanthe. I’m not an officer; it’s not required that I be introduced. And I do have my work to do.”
The idea of returning to Hartley Quince without what she’d been sent to get was alarming. And besides—she looked around her bedroom, with its conspicuous lack of exits. “Are you doing your work in here, Sergeant Stockton?”
He sighed and rose to his feet without responding. They marched out into the sitting room, more, she thought, like two children on their way to a spanking than a pair of adults.
Officer Quince glanced up idly from a dressmaker’s book that Io’s mother had left in the sitting room. “A sergeant of the City Guard,” he said. “Good choice. Have you filled the lady Iolanthe in on your qualifications, Sergeant?”
Io turned to the sergeant, wide-eyed. It would never have occurred to her that she had any right to ask for qualifications. Sergeant Stockton was looking at Quince. “She knows my name and rank, sir.”
“Surely she should know more, since you’ll be so close in the coming weeks. You know, Lady Iolanthe, the sergeant here will accompany you to the Diamond.”
She hadn’t known that either, though it seemed to come as no surprise to the sergeant. Quince said, “Why don’t you fill her in, Sergeant? Age, place of birth, years in service? Awards and commendations?”
The sergeant’s mouth set grimly. He was still looking at Quince. “Age twenty-six. Place of birth, Sangaree Section. Three years in serv—”
“Sangaree?” Io was startled enough to say it out loud, and civilized enough to regret it.
He turned to look at her. “Eight below Z, Sangaree Section. Would you prefer to ask for another City Guard?”
“Oh, no! Of course not. I was just surprised. I mean—” Her tutors had assured her that prejudice did not exist on the City of Opal; but they hadn’t prepared her for situations like this. “It was unexpected, that’s all.”
They seemed to be staring at each other through a silence like lead weights. “My singing master told me that without Sangaree, the songs of die past would be lost,” she offered. “I can play two on the harmium flute— ‘Greensleeves’ and ‘Hey, Jude.’ ”
He started to chuckle, which startled her again, because she had meant to be perfectly serious. He sketched her a bow; not as graceful as Hartley Quince’s, but more winning. “With such accomplishments,” he intoned, “my lady could perform in any Sangaree establishment on Tanamonde Street.”
Tanamonde Street was the most respectable place in the section, she knew; at least, it was where everybody went to hear real Sangaree music. “I’ve always wanted to go to a Sangaree bar, Sergeant, but nobody would take me. Before we leave the Opal, do you think you could—”
“It wouldn’t be wise, my lady,” he said firmly. Just the sort of door-closing thing her father would say.
“Harmony again reigns,” said Officer Quince. “Did you know the sergeant and I have met before, my lady? How are you, Willie? Can you take a seat with us, or does duty require that you hover about the edges while we work?”
You wouldn’t think, thought Io, that a person’s name could make him wince like that.
“I prefer to stay on my feet, sir.”
“Always the overachiever. You know, there’s nobody here but friends, Willie, we’re not on admin deck now. I’d prefer that you call me Hart.”
When the sergeant hesitated, Quince said, ‘That’s an order.”
The sergeant said tonelessly, “Hello, Hart.”
“It’s good to see you again. My lady, I wonder if you’d do me the favor of bringing my regards to your gracious mother? It would give me the opportunity of catching up on old times with my friend here.”
Iolanthe couldn’t refuse, but she lingered in the doorway, openly unhappy with leaving the puzzle unanswered of how a high-ranking officer on the Lord Cardinal’s staff and a Sangaree sergeant knew each other. Finally she turned, and she heard Hartley Quince’s laughter, cut short by the closing of the door.
“She’s a nice girl,” Hartley said. It didn’t come out with the air of a compliment.
“She is,” said Will. His own voice was serious, even warning.
“Well, she’ll
