Carnival

Michelangelo didn’t respond. Not even a shiver, and this time he let the silence drag. Vincent was just about to retreat to his own side of the bed when Michelangelo stretched, turning so their eyes could meet, the transmitted light of the nebula revealing his expression. Which, as usual, admitted nothing.

“If we’re going to work together—” —you have to talk to me.It was more than talking, though. He wanted what they had once had, the trust and the knowledge that Michelangelo would be where he was needed. And it was unfair to ask.

Vincentwas the one keeping secrets that could get them both killed. The betrayal had already happened, and Angelo inevitably was going to find out about it and have to live with the consequences. How many times are you going to make his choices for him?

Whatever lies Michelangelo was implying, they were for the job; he had made that plain on Kaiwo Maru.The smallest dignity Vincent could do in return was not to lie to Michelangelo about Vincent’s honorable intentions.

So Vincent leaned forward, instead, and kissed his partner. There was a moment of resistance as their wardrobes analyzed the situation, but as he’d suspected after Kaiwo Maru,they were still keyed to each other. Vincent had never changed his program, and apparently Michelangelo hadn’t either. The resistance faded, and Angelo took Vincent into his arms.

Sounds drifted into the room from outside, attenuated by height. Music, laughter. A woman singing, the nauseating reek of scorched flesh from some restaurant, people getting the jump on Carnival. The colored sky shone through the false skylights, filling the room with a faint glow. Michelangelo’s mouth opened. He kissed hard, well, fluently, his hands soft and warm on Vincent’s back. And Vincent…wished he believed.

Lesa undressed herself and hung her clothes up to air without bothering House to raise the lights. The night was cloudless and there was enough illumination through the ceiling that she had no problem maneuvering in her own bedroom. But it was dark enough that she was surprised to find the bed already occupied when she tugged the covers back.

Surprised, but not terribly so. “Hello, Robert.”

He was awake. He propped himself on his elbows, the sheets gliding down his chest, revealing curly hair. Glossy scars contrasted with the oiled smoothness of his scalp. His teeth flashed in the darkness. “I thought you’d be longer.”

She shrugged, and slid into bed beside him, rolling onto her stomach, voice muffled in the pillow. “Let me guess. I forgot to tell Agnes that I wanted you tonight?”

“She said to check in with her in the morning, because she thought you’d be late, too, and didn’t feel like waiting up. Arms down by your sides, please?”

His hands were strong; he slicked them down with the oil from the bedstand while she shrugged her nightshirt off, and started work on her shoulders first. Maybe not safe to give him so much autonomy, so much freedom. Maybe not wise to be as permissive with him as she was. But this was Robert, after all, and he was as much hers as he could be without a transfer and a marriage, and she trusted him more than any woman she knew.

She didn’t doubt his temper, or his capacity for violence. They were marked on his body, and his status as males figured such things was significant. But he’d never directed either of those things at her, or any woman.

Not gentle, no. But smart.

“Thank you,” he said.

Her spine cracked under his weight. “Mmph.” It might have stood a better chance of being a word if she hadn’t had a mouthful of pillow. Robert pulled the cushion out of the way, straightening her neck, and ran his thumbs down her spine, triggering a dizzying release of endorphins. “You heard something? Or is this a social call?”

“Would that it were, my lady.”

She laughed at his pretend formality. “It can be a social call, too.”

“Business first.” But the kiss he planted between her shoulder blades promised pleasant business, at least. He stayed bent down, nuzzling through her hair to brush his lips across her ear. “Did you meet the Colonials?”

“Yes. And yes, it’s them. Well, I’m as sure as I can be.”

“And what do you think? Can we trust Katherinessen?”

His hands forestalled her shrug. Flinty, dangerous hands, the gnarled scar across the palm of the left one rough when it caught on her skin. “Do we have another choice? I can’t tell, Robert. I don’t know. Claude won’t risk it. There’s no guarantee about Katherinessen. Kusanagi-Jones is hard-line Old Earth, though I don’t understand it and it makes me sick to think about, and Claude’s bound to think placating the Coalition is safer than open opposition, especially if it means allying ourselves with Coalition worlds in open revolt.”

“Appeasement has such a glorious history.”

“This isn’t about glory. And it worked for Ur. Sort of.”

“Which is why they’re so eager to be rid of the Governors now?”