Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [45]
After a moment the ornate handle turned and the heavy door swung open. “I thought I ordered—” Andrys Tarrant began. And then he saw her—saw who she was—and all speech left him. For a moment he just stared at her, his green eyes wide with astonishment. It was clear that she was the last person in the world he had ever expected to find on his doorstep.
At last he whispered hoarsely, “Mes Lessing.”
He was dressed in a loose white shirt and crumpled pants, and had obviously just rolled out of bed. His golden-brown hair was tangled about his head, his eyes faintly bloodshot. He blinked heavily and drew in a deep breath; he was clearly struggling to compose himself. “I didn’t ... I’ m sorry ... I thought it was breakfast.”
She glanced toward the hall window with a smile, acknowledging the fading sunlight. “Little late for that, isn’t it?”
He brushed the hair back from his face with a hand that seemed to tremble slightly; a lock of hair fell back across his eyes as soon as he released it. “I had a late night,” he managed. Then a smile flitted across his face: awkward, self-conscious, but sparked with genuine humor. “Or maybe I should say, a late morning. I didn’t expect company today, that’s for sure.” Least of all you, his expression seemed to say. For a moment she wondered if she shouldn’t make some apology for disturbing him and just give him the item he had left in the shop, so that she could beat a hasty retreat. It seemed a more merciful course for both of them. But then he stepped back, giving her room to enter. “Come in. Please.”
She did so, acutely aware of his closeness as she passed by him. “If this is a bad time—”
“Not at all. Really.” He closed the door gently behind her; she barely heard the latch snap shut. “We played late, that’s all. I should have been up hours ago.” He dared to meet her eyes then, and it seemed to her he hesitated. “Forgive my poor manners. If I’d thought it was you at the door ...”
The words faded into silence. He brushed awkwardly at his crumpled attire, ran his hand again through his mussed hair; he was clearly not accustomed to receiving women in such a disordered state. “I’m hardly dressed for company,” he dared.
Despite herself she smiled. “It’s my fault. I should have let you know I was coming. If you’d like to change ...” Why did his awkward vanity attract rather than repel her? So many other men with similar qualities had done just the opposite. “I can wait.”
He brightened visibly at the suggestion. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“I’m sure,” she assured him.
She was offering him more than a minute in which to change his clothing, she knew that. She was giving him time to adjust to her presence, a few precious moments of privacy in which to compose himself. And she’d be giving herself the same thing, too. She wondered which of them needed it more.
“I’ll just be a minute,” he told her. “I promise.”
His bedroom was apparently at the far side of the parlor; he made his way there hurriedly, awkwardly, clearly conscious of her gaze upon him. Not until he was safely inside, with the door shut behind him, did she dare to draw in a deep breath and try to relax. Infinitely grateful that circumstances had gifted her with a minute in which to do so.
She looked about at the apartment he had chosen, a master suite in one of the city’s most expensive hotels. The parlor was as lavish as the lobby had been, but infinitely more tasteful. It was decorated in the Revivalist style: high vaulted ceiling, polished stone floor with finely patterned rugs, slender windows with stained-glass caps. The furniture had been chosen to match that