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The gray-haired Vulcan man followed T’Pol into the wide central living area and took a seat on a low sofa there, facing the antique chair that T’Pol had taken.

“How did you know I was on Vulcan?” T’Pol asked.

Denak scowled. “I see you have lived among humans long enough to have acquired their sense of humor. You couldn’t have forgotten that I have maintained my connections to the V’Shar, if only peripherally. However, your visit to Minister Kuvak’s office this afternoon stirred up enough talk to get my attention even without recourse to my intelligence sources.”

T’Pol silently cursed herself. Had she alienated a potential ally unnecessarily, jeopardizing her mission in the process?

“I was merely trying to establish a rapport as efficiently as possible.”

Denak leaned forward. “I assume the urgency with which you are pursuing this rapport involves an attempt to change Vulcan’s policy with regard to the Rihannsu.”

The Romulans.

“Unless you are in a position to aid me, I should not discuss this matter with you any further.”

He nodded. “Logical. But do you mind if I continue to speculate?”

“Not at all.”

“Then I shall further assume that the rapport you seek to establish will have to be with Administrator T’Pau rather than Minister Kuvak.”

“There is no practical alternative,” T’Pol said. “However, although Kuvak is nominally in charge of the government during T’Pau’s absence, his authority to affect policy in a meaningful way would seem to be constrained both by time and his own intentions.”

“So you have essentially a zero chance of making any progress toward your goal,” he said. “At least for the next twenty-eight days.”

“Unless you can assist me in some manner, yes.”

His brow furrowed. “I have been assisting you for more than a year now.”

“I have not forgotten the role you played in the mission I conducted in Romulan space last year.”

“I was not referring to that,” Denak said, using his good left hand to make an expansive gesture. “I am speaking of this house.”

T’Pol blinked, lost. “I do not understand.”

His frown deepened. “I am disappointed in your powers of observation, T’Pol. Or perhaps it is your eyesight. Did you fail to notice the distinct lack of dust on every level surface in this dwelling?”

She was ashamed to admit it, but she had indeed failed to notice any such thing. My emotional preoccupations again, she thought, upbraiding herself.

“The household utilities,” she said, putting the pieces together. “That was your doing as well.”

He nodded. “I have seen to the maintenance of this place, including the landscaping, since shortly after T’Les died. I recommend that you inspect the plomeek patch in the morning light. You may even find new fruitings on the g’teth berry bushes.”

Once again, T’Pol felt her emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Empowered only by her training, she held them at bay, if only barely.

“Thank you.”

The frown that had crumpled her old friend’s scarred forehead gradually smoothed and softened as he appeared to consider his next words carefully. Then, his gaze fixed upon hers intently, he said, “Now I must ask you for help.”

“I will assist in any way I can,” she said.

“It is about my wife, Ych’a. She is missing.”

T’Pol chided herself. Two of her oldest friends, colleagues from her days as an intel operative, had married and she had never suspected.

“Your wife?” she said, somehow managing not to stammer. “I did not know you were presently married. Let alone to Ych’a.”

His frown returned momentarily. “You worked in intelligence long enough to understand the logic of concealing certain personal information, even from close friends.”

“Of course,” she said with a nod. “Just as I am sure you understand that intelligence agents sometimes must burrow very deeply into their cover identities—often under circumstances that preclude their communicating their status to family members.”

Images of Trip, in the Romulan guise he had worn when she had last seen him, sprang painfully to mind.

“Something more than that