“Mmm. Yes. Something . . .” How could she have known it was a mutual feeling? They had both understood professional etiquette; nothing must come of any feelings, and thus better to leave them unfelt—or at least unsaid.
“So?” The flat, gray light, all that was left of sunset, caught in his eyes. Heris opened her mouth to say how impossible it was, then realized it wasn’t. Not any more.
“So . . .” She still could not say it. She moved, instead, into the arc of his arm.
“You should have trusted me,” he said again, but without heat. “It hurt, when you went away like that, without a word.”
“Yes. It did.” She leaned against him; his arm felt good against her back. Better than good. “It hurt a lot. But I’m here now, and I’m trusting you.”
“About time.” Then his grip tightened. She had never allowed herself to imagine—really imagine—what embracing him would be like. It would have been too difficult to go through everyday shipboard life, if she had. Now she was glad of her former discipline. She had no nagging comparisons to make, just the experience to savor.
“I fixed it,” Cecelia said. She sounded smug. Bright morning light gilded her hair, and she looked crisp and refreshed by ample sleep and good food.
“Fixed what?” Heris had bathed and changed, when she and Petris got back to the Lodge shortly before dawn, but inside her clothes her body felt lush and relaxed. She wondered if Cecelia could tell. She had her own list of things for Cecelia to fix, and hoped her employer hadn’t used up her energy on something minor.
“Your resignation,” Cecelia said, as if continuing a conversation in progress. “I hate to lose you, but I know how you’ve grieved. And the evidence is clear. So I just argued my way along, and they’ve agreed to take you back. Quite willingly, in fact. Everyone knows that George’s father will sue Lepescu and his cronies, and the Regular Space Service is anxious to dissociate themselves from any of that.”
Heris stared, her brain racing. Cecelia had fixed that, in a few hours, from an obscure planet with no real-time communications beyond its own system? Then: Go back? Retrieve her command, her career? She felt her heart begin to hammer, the racing pulse pounding her body, making her hands shake. Exultation flooded her; she could see the look on her father’s face, on her mother’s. . . . She could imagine how her younger brother, still in the Academy, would react. Yes, she thought. Yes.
“How?” got out of her mouth first.
Cecelia beamed, clearly glad to be asked. “I’d been afraid it would take weeks, but you remember Bunny said a Crown Minister was here hunting? Bunny asked me to speak to him about Mr. Smith, and of course I told him about you. I pointed out that going through the usual channels would require your complete explanation, and you, as an honest person, could hardly fail to mention Mr. Smith when you justified the killing of Admiral Lepescu.”
“Mr. Smith,” said Heris blankly. She had almost forgotten that mysterious young man. Then her brain snapped back into focus. “A . . . royal, you said, about the boots.” Which, given his age, meant . . . “Not the one Ronnie was in trouble for—”
Cecelia grinned. “Quite so. The Minister saw my point, of course, and assured me that no statement from you would be required, under the circumstances. Enough evidence of Lepescu’s unfitness existed to overturn the judgment without recalling whatever court or board it was. You can trust him,” Cecelia went on, as if anticipating Heris’s doubts. “With Mr. Smith’s reputation at stake, he would do more than this. Luckily for us, the Minister requires a special communications link—I don’t know what you call it, but it’s almost instantaneous through some kind of relay back to Court. He was able to contact the necessary officials, and—”
“And the surviving crew?” Heris asked. She felt already like a Spacefleet officer, the purple uniform forgotten along with the past several hours.
Cecelia nodded briskly. “Oh, yes. All rehabilitated, as they called it. I knew you would want that, so I insisted. Wherever they are, if some of them were not on that abominable island.” When Heris didn’t answer at once she went on. “I do understand, you know. We are both aristocrats, even if we aren’t in the same aristocracy.”
“I—thank you, milady.” Only that formality would serve, could possibly express her gratitude.
“I will hate losing you,” Cecelia said, more softly. “Not only as a captain, and student of equitation, but as a friend. I like you, and I don’t like many people.” Then her voice firmed again. “Will it be difficult, for you and Petris?”
Heris stared at her, disoriented by the double-change of direction. “Petris . . . ? Oh.” So Cecelia had noticed. At once the exaltation left her, as quickly as if someone had pulled a plug in her heart. She could go back, and he could go back, and they might serve on the same ship . . . but they could not go back to the past hours. Not ever. She tried to imagine him as a civilian . . . husband . . . but that would destroy him. “Oh, my,” she said, hardly hearing her own voice. “I didn’t think.”
“Most people don’t, in your position,” Cecelia said. “That’s why I mentioned it, before you go and tell the others. You can go back . . . but you don’t have to.”
Didn’t she? She could hardly breathe for a moment, in the alternation of possibility and impossibility. She could not give up her chance in the R.S.S. again—she could not give up Petris. She could not ask him to give up his career, as miraculously restored as her own, but if either of them . . .
“Damn,” she said. It was all she could say. She sat down suddenly, and Cecelia made a show of turning away, preparing something to drink, offering her a steaming cup of some brown liquid. . . . She should know what it was, but she couldn’t recognize anything.
“As a classical maiden aunt,” Cecelia said, not looking at her, “I am qualified to give useless advice, which you are free to ignore. You love that man, and he loves you; that was obvious when I first saw you two together. You can’t be together in the Service, and neither of you will be happy as a civilian partnering the one who stays in. If you do go back, Heris, be sure you’re never on the same ship . . . You know that.”
“I know that.” Her lips felt numb—was it the drink? Was she going to faint? She never fainted; it was ridiculous. But her skin remembered his touch; her ears remembered his voice, the sound of his breathing, the beat of his heart when her head lay on his chest. She wanted that, wanted it more than anything . . . except her commission, her ship, her crew . . . which she couldn’t have, if it meant him.
“I still need a captain,” Cecelia went on. “I need new crew members—you told me that. If you choose not to reenter the Service, you would have a place with me.”
And Petris would become just a crew member on a rich old lady’s yacht—she could not see him being happy with that. He had taken as much pride in his career as she in hers. He would not settle for less.
“You ought to ask him,” Cecelia said, as if reading her face. “You didn’t ask before, and look where that got you. Give him the chance, now, while you have the chance . . . while you are, for the moment, free.”
It was true. She had not thought she had a chance, before; she had taken the commander’s way, the solitary way, and had not asked anyone, and because of that Lepescu had been able to ruin her and her crew. This time she could ask him. She stood up, nodding to Cecelia without saying a word—she could not have said a word—and went to find Petris.