“Stupid, insensitive, unimaginative, flatulent fardlings!” Killashandra’s derision was slightly colored by hearing the details of the ‘outrageous’ attack, and by the realization that her instinct about Ampris’s specious assurance was quite valid. “They’re so old they’ve lost the energy enthusiasm requires; they couldn’t possibly recognize imagination.”
Lars smiled at her vehemence. “So, despite all their promises and assurances, I was given a ticket back to Angel as a reward for my unmentionable service, and told to be out of the City on the evening oceanjet. Guardians were there to be sure I boarded, which I did. After a stroke of incredibly good luck.”
He turned his face fully to her then, his lips lightly compressed as if controlling amusement, and the sparkling of his eyes indicated that he had considered confiding in her. As much as she hoped that he might, she wished fervently that he would not. For his honesty would require the similar courtesy from her.
“Lars, I don’t mean to be a spoil-sport, but something occurred to me. A star-knife is an island blade, isn’t it?”
“Yes . . .” He regarded her, suddenly alert.
“And if an island blade was responsible for wounding the crystal singer – even if it healed rapidly – would that not prejudice her against listening to your problem?”
“A good point. The Elders don’t miss many tricks, but that ploy would not have worked. Nahia and Brassner were going to speak for us.”
“Were going?”
“Yes, I did say that I had a stroke of good luck,” and he clasped her hand with a firm grip, his clear blue gaze fixed on the thick bushes. “Nahia and Brassner will now have an even better chance to present our situation.” He sounded so confident that Killashandra would have given much to be privy to his plans. “You’ll see.”
“Since I’m being candid, let me tell you that you’ve been rather indiscreet confiding in me, Lars. You don’t know me – ”
“Don’t know you?” Lars threw back his head and guffawed. He clasped her to him, rocking her in his arms, roaring with laughter. “If I don’t, young woman, no one ever will.”
“You know what I mean. Who were you talking to last night on the beach? He’s not an islander.”
“Oh, him? Corish von Mittell – something. No, he’s not an islander. In fact, he could be very useful . . .” Lars paused a moment in thought, and then shrugged it off. “He’s looking for an uncle. Father asked me to help him, take him on my next swing through the islands. Frankly I don’t think the uncle came this far out: doesn’t sound like a man who’d want this sort of life style.”
“Are you sure this Corish is who he says he is?”
Lars eyed her with some interest. “Father’s sent for an I.D. verification. We’re not so haphazard as all that in these islands, you know. There’ve been snoopers before. Father’s got a sixth sense about the breed and that Corish tilted it. Oh, he says he came in on the Athena, and he sounded as if he’d made the trip on her.” Then he added in another tone altogether, “I’m glad you worry about my safety.”
He smoothed back her sun-bleached hair, fingering the strands before he patted them in place, his whole face softening as once more he fell in her thrall. Then he relaxed, lying back again, hands under his head, his eyes intent on her face, a very tender smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Anyway, everyone on Angel dislikes federal interference as much as we do. I studied under a master of heresy. My father. The duly appointed harbor master of the Angel Island archipelago and federal representative. If you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em.”
“Your father’s the harbor master?”
Surprise registered blankly on Lar’s face. “Of course. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that?”
“I do. I didn’t.”
“So, if you really insist on going back to the City, you’ll have to be very nice to me.” He was smiling as he gently reached for her arms to bring her down to him.
“Oh?”
“Very nice to me.”
“Are you able for it?”
He settled her into the curve of his arm, her head pillowed on his shoulder, his cheek against her hair.
“When you are, beloved.” Then he yawned and, apparently, between one breath and the next, fell asleep. For another long moment, Killashandra heard the singing in her blood and for once did not regret its murmur. She repositioned her arm on his chest, placidly noting that the fine hairs across Lars’s pectoral muscles stirred upright. Well, they had more energy than he or she did. She closed her eyes and was also claimed by sleep.
Shouts startled them awake: the cheerful calls and laughter of people fishing on the beach. Killashandra couldn’t hear what was so exciting, but Lars smiled.
“A yellowback school has been forced into the cove.” He embraced her enthusiastically. “Once they’ve caught what’s needed, we’ll get our” – he looked about for the angle of sunlight – “our dinner. Hungry yet?”
“Hungry enough to go right out there bold-faced . . .” She made as if to rise, for her belly was almost painfully empty.
He pulled her back flat beside him, kissing her half-formed protest into silence. His eyes were unsmiling as he then gently stroked her cheek.
“My dear girl, with those bruises on you, I’d be hauled up in front of the Island Court and charged with rape.”
“What about the marks on you?”
“You resisted my improper advances – ”
“And you made enough of those – ”
“Precisely what the bruises say. So, since I have a reputation to maintain in this community, we will remain secluded.” He emphasized this decision with a gentle kiss. Then he stroked her hair back from her forehead his fingers lingering in the soft gold-streaked mass. “I don’t wish to share you yet, share even the sight of you with anyone. If I believed the ancient tales of witchcraft, sorcery, and enchantment, I’d name you ‘witch,’ so I would. But you’re not . . . though I am completely spell-bound ..” His fingers became insistent, and his expression was an urgent appeal. “D’you think you could possibly bear me . . . if I’m very careful . . .”
She chuckled and linked hands behind his head to bring his lips to hers.
The fishers were long gone before they finally got around to fishing. Together they waded out through the gentle tide.
“Stay here, Carrigana,” Lars directed, “and make a basin of your skirt.”
She did, first wringing water from the voluminous folds. Lars was thigh deep in the water when he suddenly bent down and scooping with both hands sent water, and fish, flying at her. She missed the first lot, laughing at her ineptitude, but neatly caught two fish in the second. After three more catches, she had to hold up her skirt lest the active yellowbacks flip out. Lars splashed back to inspect her catch, grinning at his success and her bemusement.
“This one’s too small.” He released it. “Two, four, six, seven. How many can you eat? Shall I get more?”
Before she could answer, he dove back toward his vantage point, and peered down into the clear water. With one last mighty heave, three big yellowbacks were sent flying in her direction. She cheered when she caught them in her skirt, closing the makeshift net and running awkwardly through the wavelets to the shore before any of the squirming fish could escape.
Helping her secure the bundle, Lars laughingly escorted her back to the bushes surrounding their secluded clearing.
“You clean ‘em and I’ll get firing, and see what else I can scrounge,” he said as he held the bushes back for her to enter.
Gutting fish was not one of Killashandra’s favorite chores, but she had finished half the catch before she realized it, washing them clean in the little brook. Lars was back as she slit the last one. In one crooked arm, he held twisted polly fronds that provided a quick hot fire, and another basket swung from his right hand. He found rocks by the stream to enclose their fire, hauled a frying sheet from the basket, and set out oil, seasonings bread, fruit, and another pot of the soft island cheese.