'They weren't carrying any lances,' Tutti observed after a moment.
'Heck, no,' said Marge. 'The `Lances UP!' part of this is pret' obvious. But who's this Romulus guy?'
'Um,' said Quill. 'The Sabines. He needed wives for his troops.' She went to the west door, opened it, and peered out. 'It's turned into a snowball fight.' She paused. 'And the women are winning.'
Myles was late. Quill stood at the French doors to her balcony and watched the clearing sky. The storm left a swathe of tatterdemalion clouds. Stars emerged through the misty remnants like lilies floating up from the bottom of a pond. A chilly breeze sprang up. The moon came out. And Quill waited, a cup of coffee in her hand, until she heard him at the door.
-10-
Sunlight crept across the lace coverlet Quill's grandmother had brought from England almost a century ago. The fabric lay in folds at the foot of the bed, and the sunshine threw the rose design into sharp relief. The years had aged the lace from white to cream. Quill, propped against the pillows, thought about how the lace had traveled for over ninety years, to end up here, covering her bed.
She was facing the large mullioned window that kept her bedroom light and airy, even in the depths of winter. The glass was old, perhaps even older than the lace, and her view of the snowy fields outside was distorted, wavy, as though she were underwater.
Myles walked in carrying a tray of coffee and fresh brioche. A pink rose nodded at her from a crystal vase, and the scent of the flower mingled with the odor of fresh yeast.
'Wow.' She smiled at him. 'You didn't go downstairs dressed like that?'
'Undressed like this?' He grinned. 'The bread and the rose were outside the door. Doreen must have left it for you. Or Meg.'
'How late is it?' asked Quill. She accepted a cup of coffee and held it steady as he climbed back in beside her.
'Ten o'clock.'
'Oh, dear. I should get downstairs. The florist from Ithaca is bringing the flowers in this morning and they're going to decorate for the wedding. Meg's going to be all wrapped up in the kitchen. And John hates doing that stuff.'
She set her coffee on the nightstand and stretched, then turned and burrowed into Myles's shoulder. 'Well. Here we are again.'
His hand, large and warm, smoothed her hair. 'I wouldn't have given odds that I would see you again, like this. Wrapped in lace. With your hair tumbled down your shoulders.'
She didn't answer right away. 'So what about this blonde?'
'What blonde?'
She drew back her hand to punch him, and he caught it, kissed it, and clasped it in his own.
'Meg said that you're wasted as sheriff here in the village. That if it hadn't been for me, you would have taken a job like this global thingy a long time ago.'
'That's probably true.' Quill sat up, indignant.
'But it would have been a stopgap. Until I found a village like this again. With someone like you in it.'
'That's a... a... perplexing sort of statement.'
'Is it? It's what I want. You. A family. A town small enough to know. A town large enough to be comfortable in. I'm forty-seven, Quill. And I'm tired. Not of life. But of the kinds of ambition that drove me when I was younger. I want a certain... orderliness to my daily life. That might be the wrong word. I don't believe that I want to see much more of humanity in the raw than I have already. I've had enough.'
There was a puckered scar on his stomach from shrapnel, a dimpled hole in his right shoulder from a gunshot wound. Quill traced these marks with one forefinger. 'In a way,' she said at last, 'I haven't seen enough.'
'Mmm.'
'Was that surprise?'
'I suppose it was. I think you're right.'
'I love you.' Her voice was husky. She cleared her throat. 'I'm not whining, you understand. But why do women always have to choose? Between life outside and making a home?'
'If I were younger, you'd met me before I'd been satisfied I'd seen enough, maybe you wouldn't have to. We're at different stages, Quill. I don't want you to give anything up.'
'I don't want you to give anything up, either.' She sighed. 'I wish I were a clone. Had a clone. Whatever.'
His arm tightened around her shoulder. 'Let's take it one day at a time. Now, I gather from what you said last night that Greenwald gave you quite a chase.'
'Green... oh! The jerk in the pickup truck. You're sure my coat wasn't in it?'
'Positive. I've sent a couple of troopers out to search 81, but it doesn't look good. He dumped it before the rescue trucks got there. But the coat wouldn't be enough, Quill. It's circumstantial at best, unless we find either Nora's or Dorset's blood on it, and even if we do, we'd need harder evidence to convict.'
'But you do think it's Santini?'
'I'm not willing to make that leap yet. What's his motive? Guesswork's hazardous in this business, Quill. So far, you're operating on mere surmise.'
'Surmise.' Quill made a face.
