Part of her instruction, although she very seldom had occasion to make use of it, included how to move smoothly in a public setting, and she was secure in the knowledge that she fitted in seamlessly. She felt the bartender’s approving scrutiny as she ordered her drink with downcast eyes. More than one man came over to speak to her, low-toned and interested, and she listened to them with bemused half-smiles as she sipped her iced Cointreau, wordlessly examining their cufflinks or their watches or their rings until they became tired of trying and left her alone.
“Does the lovely lady have a request?”
Her seat at the bar was very near the piano, and the musician had addressed her. She felt a blush well up in her cheeks, a confused smile quiver on her lips as she turned toward him, evading eye contact as a matter of instinct. “Anything by Couperin.”
Her words had rushed out of her, breathless, and her blush deepened at them. The musician had been playing a medley of pop tunes, and must have found her request bizarre. But then he amazed her with ‘Les Baricades Mistérieuses,’ and she leaned close to listen, feeling every note imbue her with peace. When it was done she applauded, and to her surprised pleasure a few others did so too. Encouraged, the pianist moved on to a Bach prelude and was beginning a Mozart rondo when the hotel manager appeared and said something to him in a low warning tone. The music instantly reverted to bland, facile pop. With a sigh the Scryer motioned to the bartender for another drink, but a sudden hand unlike all the others intercepted her glass. The voice that came with it was low and taut, very like the manager’s to the musician.
“Damn it, ma’am, you know you shouldn’t be here.”
The Scryer was startled only for an instant, and replied calmly as she studied the hand’s fine white scars. “You shouldn’t either, Dave. Civilized clothing doesn’t look right on you.”
It took him a few seconds to reply. “Did you use the can?”
He spoke very quietly, but she colored up anyway, and answered only with a nod. Muttering a curse he got out his phone and punched in a text message. When he’d finished, he pocketed her glass, ice and all. “Let’s go. Keep the shades off—it looks weird for us both to be wearing ‘em.”
She knew better than to protest, and left the bar at his side with eyes downcast. They were silent in the elevator, and neither of them spoke on the way to the room. As soon as the door was closed she buried her face in her hands. “It was so alive, that music. Like all the places I know only from pictures, places I’ll never see…”
The last words cracked and stalled, and Dave sighed and put his arms around her, cradling her quiet. “Shh. I know, babe. Shush.”
The music had been so beautiful. The Cointreau had tasted like paradise. She hadn’t wanted to be anywhere else. “You used to be free. You—” His embrace tightened a warning instant, and she drew a deep steadying breath. “I didn’t get you into trouble?”
“Nah.” His fingers slid to her waist in that warning way she’d grown used to, but then the touch became appraising. “Let’s find you some food.”
Before Dave, the Scryer had lived mainly on sugar, alcohol, and vitamins, the latter prescribed by the state, which was extremely solicitous of her health. But Dave never failed to take full advantage of room service at a five-star hotels with famous restaurants, and made sure she did too. Going to the room phone, he ordered dinner for both of them, calmly and unerringly as if planning a crucial mission. Finishing the order he gave the Scryer that grin she always liked and seldom saw. Addressing the phone again, he said, “Plus a bottle of champagne. Your best. Oh, and fruit fondue.” He knew well that she adored both, and the latter combined two of his passions, chocolate and fire.