Page 42 of Alien Burn

Fiviel had gone after Graecey without hesitation. Dhomhes kept returning to that part, though it hurt no less for repetition. The others had been trying to get people away from the edge. Fiviel had seen someone already falling.

Of course he had gone.

“Then I will tell you what I can stand behind,” Dhomhes said. “I don't know whether he's alive. I won't ask you to mourn him on the strength of a report that says nothing.”

Hawn's hands tightened behind his back.

“And I will bring him home. If we can bring him to this door, we will. If he needs the rites, he will have them here. I won't let him be left on that slope because someone decides the search has gone on long enough.”

The hall was quiet. From farther inside the house came the faint sound of a vessel being set on stone.

Hawn turned toward the wall.

For a moment Dhomhes thought he had been dismissed. Then the older male reached up and touched the shaft of Fiviel's weapon, just beneath the lower blade.

“He put this away before he went to meet the ship.”

“Yes.”

“Said it might alarm the females.”

That was so entirely Fiviel that Dhomhes felt a smile begin. It failed before it reached his mouth.

“He may have been right.”

Hawn let his hand fall.

“Tell me when you know something. You. I am tired of speaking to people who will not answer a question.”

“I will.”

“Even if I won't want to hear it.”

“Even then.”

Hawn nodded once.

Outside, Dhomhes stood on the top step and fastened a cuff he had already fastened in the transport.

He had work waiting. Calls he could make from here. There was no reason to stand looking at his hands.

He stayed until he could trust himself to speak, then called his driver.

Sereya had found the courtyard pool.

She sat at its far end, a cup beside her and a narrow fold of russet fabric caught beneath one knee. There were two paths into the courtyard. From that bench she could see them both without turning her head.

Dhomhes slowed.

He had meant to cross through to his rooms. Sereya turned the cup in her hands, and the burn started low in his chest. Two days, and it had found him every time he came near her. He stopped on the path with his pulse beating hard and the familiar excuse of passing through already useless.

Roemary's account of the blasts still bothered him. That one word. Flushed. Where she had heard it. Sereya might know. It was a sound reason to stop, and he was uncomfortably aware of how eagerly he reached for it.

He could begin with the injured hand. Ask after her comfort. Or he could admit, at least to himself, that he would have wanted to sit beside her even if Roemary had never spoken to him.

Sereya looked up.

“I know you're not actually interested in talking to me,” she said. “What do you want to know?”