A second time.
A Note to the Reader:
Regarding Plans Made While Inebriated
Lewis did indeed meet me that night in Sarre Grand, before the twin spires and heavily carved edifice of the central temple. He was very late—midnight was close and I had just been evicted from the patio of the café where I had been waiting for the past four hours, a shawl over my head to conceal any stray threads.
“Deepest apologies,” he said, stopping before me. He seemed flustered, for once, and unsure of how to greet me. There was even a moment when I thought he would try to shake my hand. He settled on turning and placing a hand on my back, guiding me away from the closing café. “Let us find somewhere to sit.”
I allowed him to lead me to a bench by the courtyard’s central fountain. It had eight chambers, seven surrounding the smaller, central pool, like a flower, and was heavily tiled in the style of the last great southern empire, the Telgette.
We were not the only people about. I felt a swell of pride at how Lewis and I must appear—a proper couple, just like the others scattered around the fountain or wandering through the square.
“Are you well?” I asked as we sat. “You do not seem like yourself.”
He gave a tired laugh. “There was an attempted robberyat one of the sites whose security I am responsible for. It happened last night, but I only learned of it this evening—the site is some distance away.”
“You were blamed?”
“Naturally,” he said with a weary laugh.
“Ridiculous,” I pronounced. I reached into the satchel at my hip and produced a bottle of wine, which I proceeded to uncork with an ornate penknife. I had had hours to contemplate this meeting—I knew my role by heart. “This will help.”
He took the bottle and turned the label towards the light of the oil lanterns suspended over the square. “A Phinatine? Where did you find this?”
I smiled. “I may have smuggled it in. It is still your favorite?”
“Yes. But you do not appreciate it, as I recall,” Lewis noted, looking from the bottle to me.
“I developed a taste for it, on your recommendation,” I said.
Lewis made a considering sound and glanced around. “We’ve no glasses.”
Of course, Lewis was not the type to drink straight from a bottle. As he spoke, I unwrapped two glasses and set them on the bench between us. I was thoroughly satisfied with myself, and made no effort to hide it.
Lewis grinned. It was a genuine expression, a shedding of a weight, and it lingered in the glimmering of his eyes as he expertly poured for us, set the bottle aside, and passed me my glass.
“To unexpected reunions,” he said, and we drank.
We drank the entire bottle, actually. Phinatine wine is known for its remarkably high alcohol content, and on an empty stomach, the distinguished substance was nearly toxic.
“This is unacceptable,” Lewis declared as I blinked broadly and squinted at him. “We must have dinner.”
“It’s nearly three in the morning.”
“Tourists never sleep. With me, Rushforth.”
Arm in arm, we made for the docks and the lavish tourist hotels. There we had a fine dinner in the sparkling, slightly blurry light of chandeliers. Lewis was as relaxed as I had ever seen him, and I was warmed through by his company and thesteady stream of his conversation as he told me of digs and relics and ruins. My heart sang.
It was not until we had sobered somewhat and retired to the balcony of the hotel, overlooking the water and its forest of picturesque boats, that his mood darkened.
“I should have listened to Pretoria,” he said quietly.
I paused over the thick, spiced coffee. “Pardon me?”
“When we secreted you away from… that place,” he said, evidently unwilling to name the Guild in the quiet of the balcony. We were alone save for several older gentlemen at their cigars, but sound did travel. “She tried to convince me to accompany you.”
I recalled that night clearly, though just then my head was beginning to ache from drink, and fatigue crept over me. I took a sip of the coffee. “You still can.”
