dizziness wasn’t entirely a result of Sula’s nearness.
“What is that perfume?” he asked.
Her lips turned up in a smile. “Sandama Twilight.”
“What’s so special about twilight on Sandama?”
She ventured a little shrug. “Some day we’ll go there and find out.”
He inhaled deliberately. “I wonder how many pulse points you’ve applied it to.”
Sula tilted her head back and with her hand swept a strand of golden hair from her throat. “You’re welcome to find out,” she said.
He feasted on her throat for a long, luxurious moment. A shiver ran along her frame. He kissed a path to her ear—bright and flaming—and reached up a hand to lazily undo the top button of her viridian tunic.
Martinez heard the low chuckle as he kissed the hollow of her throat. “Make the most of it,” she said. “I think that’s the only button you get to open today.”
He drew back and looked at her at close range, so close that her long lashes fluttered against his. “Why? It’s such a promising start.”
Her speech warmed his cheek. “Because you’ve already admitted that you’re not at your best. And I deserve the best.”
“That’s fair,” he admitted, after consideration.
“And besides,” she said practically, “I see no point in losing my virtue in a train compartment when I’ve gone to all the trouble of acquiring such a nice large bed.”
Martinez laughed, then kissed her again. “I’ll look forward to the bed. But in the meantime I hope to convince you that train compartments have their advantages.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome to try.”
He caressed her with his lips, brushing her cheek and mouth and throat. The train began a smooth acceleration, without bumps or lurches, that would take it to supersonic speed on its way to the capital. His hands floated over her body, and he was rewarded with a sudden intake of breath, a shuddering gasp, and she clutched his hand with her own. And then, as they lay side by side with the warmth of her white-gold hair soft against his cheek, he felt tension enter her body.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
She turned away, took his hand, and lay against his shoulder, placing his hand around her waist. Through the window he could see improbably green equatorial countryside blur past. “Forgive me,” she said. “I’m very nervous. I thought if I could meet you and…sort of take charge—”
“It would be easier?”
“Yes.”
Martinez nuzzled her hair. “Take your time. I don’t want you to run out that door.”
She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. “That’s not it. I promise I won’t run again. But I’ve realized that youare going to have to take charge sooner or later, because I’m not going to know what to do.”
His start of surprise was so violent that she sat up and turned to him. “You’re a virgin?” he said.
“Oh no.” Her tone was amused. “But it’s been years. A very long time since I had a…”
“A man?”
“A boy.” Sadness entered her eyes. “A boy I didn’t love. I think he’s dead now.” She slowly turned away from him, and settled back against his shoulder. He caressed her hair.
An intuition flashed along his nerves. “You were drinking then?” he asked. On their last disastrous outing she’d told him that she once had a problem with alcohol.
There was a hesitation before Sula answered. “Yes,” she said. “There are things in my past that I’m not proud of. You should know that.”
Martinez kissed the top of her head and contemplated her history and his own responsibilities. Her parents had been executed—skinned alive—when Sula was on the verge of adolescence, her family’s homes and wealth confiscated by the State, and Sula herself had been fostered out on a remote provincial world. Certainly any one of these incidents constituted a traumatic enough shock to send her reeling toward the erratic solace of alcohol and sex. It was a tribute to her character that she’d been able to draw herself out of the sink of despair into which she’d been swept.
But that meant that her only knowledge of love was confined to drunken adolescent couplings, perhaps with boys who had deliberately made her drunk for the particular purpose of coupling with her. Sula had apparently never known the ease and pleasures of bed, the give and take, the gift of laughter and the fire of a proper caress…
Did not know love at all, he realized.
And the boy, she said, was probably dead. So even that attachment, whatever it was, had ended badly.
Martinez took a long breath. Shedid deserve his best. He would have to try to give it to her, in that big bed of hers.
And then a realization struck him and he laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Sula asked.
“I’m just realizing that I’ve lost one of my chief weapons,” he said. “I can’t slip you a few drinks to get you relaxed.”
Her laughter rose bright in the air. He kissed her ear, and they sat for a while, her head on his shoulder, while mountains rose on the other side of the window and danced jagged along the horizon, then fell away again. They chatted of entertainments, of a video they had shared, the comedian Spate inSpitballs! They laughed over their memories of Spate’s famous Mushroom Dance, and rejoiced in their mutual taste for low humor.
Martinez ordered a meal, and the attendant arrived to set the small table in place, adding white linen, silver, a small vase with flowers, and—to judge by Sula’s expression—some rather inferior porcelain. Sula sat opposite Martinez, her tunic properly buttoned. With the meal, Martinez shared Sula’s bottle of mineral water.
The train raced on, through forests and over broad rivers; its flanges, placed with precision along its flanks, pulsing out interfering sound waves that canceled its sonic boom. More mountain ranges rose and then fell behind, and the train began slowing as it approached its destination.
Sula and Martinez embraced, kissed, and watched as Zanshaa’s Lower Town, the huge expanse radiating on all sides of the High City, sped past the window. After the machine came to a halt in the station, Martinez folded Sula in his arms one last time before leaving the privacy of the compartment.
The terminus was within easy walking distance of the funicular railway that took them to Zanshaa’s acropolis. As they rose to the High City, Martinez looked through the funicular’s transparent walls at the blue stained-glass dome of the old Sula Palace, lost now to the Sula heir, and wondered what passed through Sula’s mind when she viewed it.
“Why don’t you take me home in your taxi?” Sula suggested. “That way you’ll know where I live.”
If Martinez hadn’t been so weary, he probably would have thought of that himself.
To his delight, Martinez found that Sula lived just behind the Shelley Palace, the colossal old pile his family rented in the capital. He suspected that was not an accident.
“When you have a free moment,” Sula said, “come up and see the bed.”
She kissed him quickly on the cheek and slid from the taxi before he could put his arms around her. Martinez restrained the impulse to lunge after her, and instead let the Cree driver swing around the corner to halt in front of the Shelley Palace, where Martinez’s family were waiting.
Martinez’s brothers and sisters had realized that he would be exhausted, and hadn’t planned anything more elaborate than a simple family supper for the night of his arrival. Roland, his older brother, placed Martinez at the head of the table, in the place of honor. He was pleased to be wearing civilian dress for the first time in months. Vipsania and Walpurga, handsome and impeccably dressed even on this informal occasion, sat next to each other on Martinez’s right hand, one in a red gown, the other in sea-green. The youngest sister, Sempronia, sat next to Roland on the left.
At the far end of the table, next to Sempronia, was her fiance PJ Ngeni, a cousin of Lord Convocate Ngeni, whose family represented Martinez interests. PJ was suspected of having lost his money in a series of debaucheries, and his engagement was a stratagem on the part of Clan Ngeni to relieve themselves of an expensive and useless relation. One stratagem deserved another, Martinez had felt, and had devised a plan of his
