Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [47]
Avoiding her eyes, Andrys studied the hotel’s offering. At last he shrugged. “It seemed a lot more appetizing when I ordered it yesterday.” He lifted the coffee cup and studied it intently, as though its rim harbored some great secret. Refusing to look at her. Finally he put it down, and after a long and awkward silence dared, “Have you eaten?”
The question startled her. “I’m sorry?”
He looked at her then, and the intensity of his gaze made her heart skip a beat. “Have you eaten yet?” he asked again.
Despite herself she smiled. “Most people have, this time of day.”
“Recently?” he amended.
“I had lunch. That was a while ago.”
“Then come to dinner with me. Please. I hate to discuss serious matters on an empty stomach. And this ...” he faltered for a moment, then continued with forced humor. “This place is hardly conducive to confession.”
Though she knew she should leave the question unasked, she couldn’t help but voice it. “Is that what this is about? Confession?”
Something sharp and hot flashed in the depths of his eyes. Pain? Fear? Maybe both. He turned away. “Yeah. I’m afraid so.”
“What about this?” She held out the canvas toward him, offering him its secrets.
He reached out and closed his hand over hers. Warm, strong fingers: the touch was electric. This close to him she could smell his cologne, subtle but sensual. A delicate musky scent, precisely calculated to appeal.
Men that attractive are dangerous, Gresham had warned her. Especially when they know their own power.
Sweet, sweet danger. She could drown in it, gladly.
He whispered: “Bring it.”
He led them to a restaurant. It didn’t surprise her that he knew such a place, a shadowed hideaway where lovers might whisper sweet endearments in the privacy of high-walled booths. Doubtless he had brought women here before, for more blatantly amorous purposes. The hostess gave them a table near the rear of the restaurant, in a section that was all but deserted. In such a place one might comfortably court a lover, she thought. Or share terrible secrets. Or both.
They ordered drinks, a house wine, and braised fillets of a local fish. They made small talk over sauteed dumplings, frothy mousse, steamed coffee. He asked about her work, and seemed to be genuinely interested in the details of her art. Was that real enthusiasm, or a prelude to seduction, rehearsed so many times with so many women that it now seemed natural to him? How could one hope to tell them apart? In return, she asked him about his journey to Jaggonath. She discovered that he had never traveled out of his region before this, but she could not get him to tell her why he had done so now. And through it all she waited, watching as he tried to build up his courage, drawing strength from rituals of courtship so familiar to him that he probably could have played them with his eyes closed. Sensing the darkness that was within him, not knowing how to address it.
At last he pushed his coffee away with a sigh and shut his eyes. It seemed to her that he was in pain—or remembering pain, perhaps. Finally he dared, “The other day ...” It was clearly meant as a beginning, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. After a minute, hoping to help him, she urged, “At the shop?”
He nodded stiffly, then looked away. “God, this is so awkward. I just want to explain....”
When he faltered once more she prompted softly, “Go on.” Her hand rested upon his, a gentle reassurance. “I’m listening.”
At last, with great effort, he managed, “What do you know about Merentha?”
“Not much,” she admitted. “A few basics from history class, and from seismics. Very little, really.”
“My family’s lived there for nearly ten centuries. They ...