She leaned against him, put her lips close to his ear. “Us,” she said, still tonelessly. “Colleagues. On an assignment together.”
“No.” He shook her. “About us together….”
“On an assignment,” she insisted, staring coldly into his eyes. “That’s all, Danivon. On an assignment!” She made a gesture, a warning flicker of fingers, another Enforcer sign, this one conveying caution.
He snarled, pulling her close. “You mean you …”
“I mean I was told to deliver it secretly,” she hissed into his ear, barely audibly. “And I tried to do just that, and you’re about to foul everything up.”
“You weren’t pretending,” he said softly. “Damn it, Fringe. You weren’t pretending. And I wasn’t pretending.”
And she hadn’t been pretending. He was right. For a moment her body sagged against him and his arms tightened. Then she pulled away in desperation. “We’ve work to do, Danivon.” Fear dictated the words. She needed him to get away from her, now, leave her alone, before she was lost! “Damn it, Danivon, I can’t afford this!”
He stepped away, seeing the expression on her face, offended by it, not understanding it in the least. He had never forced himself on an unwilling woman! No woman who wasn’t a target for Enforcement had ever, ever needed to be afraid of him, and no woman ever had needed to be afraid of him sexually! But there was no mistaking her expression: she was afraid of him or of herself, and did it matter which?
She turned away, her back rigid, and after a long silent moment he left her there to go trembling away, not sure what he was feeling. Sympathy, maybe? Or grief? What? Maybe anger, that was easiest! Except that anger might be self-defeating, for this mood of hers might depart in time.
Very well. He swallowed anger and decided to give her time.
When she sat near him at the table and served herself breakfast, however, her closed face looked through him, or past him, as she had been looking at him more or less since he met her in the tavern in Enarae. She sat beside Nela, but she didn’t even look at Nela.
“We didn’t sleep well last night. When we did, I dreamed I was that little turtle, in the story,” said Nela, half to Fringe, half to the air.
Fringe said expressionlessly, “It must have been a sad dream.”
“No sadder than the story you told us about the warrior maid and the gylphs,” murmured Nela.
“It’s the same damned story,” said Bertran, sounding irritable. “We are many of us raised on the same stories. In fact, many of us are the same stories. At least, so I’ve decided lately.”
Danivon tried unsuccessfully to catch Fringe’s eyes. She turned away from him. He said urgently, “Speaking of turtles, Fringe has a turtle shell in her house. She keeps it upon a pedestal but will not tell me why.”
“A turtle shell?” asked Nela, much interested.
Fringe looked at Danivon and shook her head slowly. “I found it on one of the Seldom Isles, at the top of a tall tree. So far as I know, turtles do not climb trees.” Fringe thought it likely a predatory bird had taken it there, though it could have been Nela’s turtle, seeking the secret sanctuary of the birds. Perhaps it climbed up there and couldn’t get down, and so it died, high up, staring at the sky. Actually, she preferred that explanation. If you were going to rise to such heights, better do it on your own than be grabbed up and eaten!
“And you will not tell Danivon why you keep it?” Nela teased.
“If Danivon knew me at all, he would know why,” she said wearily, fixing him with her eyes. “I keep it to remind me that even small creatures may have longings for something higher and more wonderful than they have ever known. Even small creatures can try to climb, can refuse to be sidetracked by temptations of comfort and … kindness.”
She had intended to sound cold, but the words came out as a plea.
Danivon flushed. Nela saw and understood, but her twin, his eyes on his plate, missed the exchange.
Bertran laughed ruefully. “You surprise me, Fringe. I might once have thought someone reared in Enarae couldn’t possibly understand ancient Earthians like Nela and me, yet the very fact that we both have similar feelings about our turtle stories tells me we share many of the same feelings.”
“There is not so much real diversity among folk as we are led to believe,” Nela said, trying to lead the conversation to a less emotional level.
This was heresy! Curvis immediately rose to the bait with an impassioned defense of diversity as found upon Elsewhere, while Fringe, with a feeling of relief that they were talking of something impersonal, made herself concentrate on their performance planned for this morning.
During their voyage from the Curward Isles, Nela had insisted upon stitching a fancy robe and headdress to go with the Destiny Machine, a flowing garment glittering with beads and a tall cap with painted panels falling stiffly on either side of the face. More hype, said Nela. Fringe must look like an oracle, not like an Enforcer! Immediately after breakfast, Fringe got into this outlandish garb and helped Curvis maneuver the Destiny Machine down to the float, stopping long enough to invite a few of the servitors to come have their futures foretold. In the bright light of morning it seemed apprehensions had been laid aside for they chattered about the machine, giggled over their individual fortunes, and raced back into Heron House to tell others. It was not long before there was a crowd gathered around them, all laughing and talking and pointing fingers as Curvis made the munks disappear only to reappear twenty paces away in Danivon’s pocket; while Nela and Bertran did sleight-of-hand tricks to amaze the audience; and finally while Fringe busied herself with all the hypish nonsense Nela and Bertran had
