Gah, save me.
I dump the second glass back into the sink and am midway through trying to wrangle my bed head when the knock comes.
Lament is standing in the hallway outside my door, fully dressed in long sleeves and pants, his hair fluffed as if he just washed it, the buttons on his shirt winking like little silver coins. I become acutely aware of my flannel pajama bottoms and oversizeSpace MonstersT-shirt which, regrettably, is a cartoon for toddlers. “Didn’t realize this was a black-tie affair.”
He gives me an exasperated look. “I haven’t had a chance to change.”
“It’s past midnight.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Do you even own pajamas?”
“Yes,” he replies stiffly. “I just thought, since I’m already barging in on you, it might not be prudent to arrive half naked.” An uncomfortable pause. “Are you going to invite me in?”
“I was getting to that.”
I step aside and he steps inside and I close the door and it’s all a mess. Or, I’m a mess. Mostly because Lament has arrived unexpectedly in the middle of the night looking like some kind of businessman demigod and saying the wordnaked, which has my mind running down all kinds of paths. Also, he smells… really good. Like pine and something lighter, linen. He’s filling my room with it, which is the moment I remember this used to be Bast’s room. “Um,” I start elegantly, “would you like a glass of water?”
“Please.”
I return to the kitchenette and do the whole routine again, the glass and the water and the ice. He accepts the offered cup with a graceful hand, and my gaze keeps going: short fingernails, four of them bandaged. Stern, pink mouth. Long lashes framing his eyes, which dart to mine, then go still under my scrutiny.
I clear my throat. “You wanted to talk?”
He leans against the counter and takes a sip of water. “In person, yes. I would like to make a few things clear, but I think my messages can sometimes come out wrong.”
“Actually, I’d say they sound exactly like you.”
“How do you mean?”
I try to think of a nice way to saybossyorsarcastic, but he interprets my pause for what it is. “I suppose I’d rather not know.”
“No, no, it’s… I was just going to say… indelicate?” I wince. “Like in a good way.”
He musters a smile, setting his glass on the counter without releasing it. “I know I can be uptight.”
“You’re particular.” I shrug. “It’s not a bad thing.”
“It can be. That’s part of the reason I’m here. I’m not always good at conveying my meaning, and after what happened in the sergeant’s office, then today during our briefing… I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful.”
“I hear abutcoming.”
“But,” he continues, “this can’t keep happening.”
“Oh?”
“You seem to be developing a habit of defending me. And that’s… well.” His ears pinken. “It’s unexpected. And… appreciated. But you shouldn’t tie yourself to a sinking ship.”
“Why do you think you’re sinking?” I ask softly.
“It’s inevitable.” He shrugs in a way that only seems to reveal the depth of his emotion. “The sergeant doesn’t take mistakes lightly. She can stick us with red cards, or strip our commissions, or ground our spaceflights. The problem is, for me, none of that really matters. I need to know what happened to Bast. I need to understand the mist—where it came from, what it is, whether it could return to hurt anyone else. I plan to keep hunting for answers, and if that means I’m eventually kicked out of the Legion for insubordination, I’m prepared to deal with that. But the same can’t—shouldn’t—be said for you. Not when you’re just getting started.”
I look down at my cup to buy myself a second before answering. “There’s something I don’t understand about this,” I say slowly. “Why does the Legion think an investigation into Bast’s death is insubordination? Shouldn’t they want to know what happened that day?”
He hesitates. “They should.”
“So…?”
