"I'm sure he'll try," Jess said. "But I won't be the one taking you. That will be my brother."
Her lips parted, and then closed again, and it was strange: just as with Brendan, he didn't need to explain it to her. She knew. He saw the flash of it in her eyes, and the horror, and the understanding. She knew what was coming. And now he did feel lighter. A burden shared, at least. Neither of them worrying what would come next, because for this moment, at least, they had no more secrets.
"You can't tell the others," he said. "Not even Wolfe. He'd never be able to hide it from Santi, and . . ."
"And Santi would never accept it," she finished. "Agreed. Dario knows?"
"Yes. We'll need him." He didn't explain why, or how; it didn't matter just now. "But nobody else. The fewer of us, the better. I didn't even want to tell you, but-"
"But you knew I'd kill too many fighting," she whispered. "Of course." There were tears in her eyes, brief and bright, and then she blinked them away.
"I would have waited to tell you, but-"
"No. No, this is better. It gives us time. I knew-I knew you were keeping something from me. And now this is right again. We're right again."
"For as long as it lasts," he said. "Morgan-"
She put her hands on his chest, slipping beneath the fabric of his half-open shirt, and stopped his words, and thoughts, completely. All he could think of in that moment was the warm trail of her fingers moving on his skin, and then the tug as they released another button, and then the last, and eased the fabric off his shoulders. She leaned forward and kissed his bare skin, and his arms went around her and held her close.
"For as long as it lasts," she said, "let's make it something to remember."
And then she was kissing him, and it was all whispers and silence and heat, and no thought at all, and for the first time, when he fell asleep in this soft bed, it felt like heaven, and heaven included the young woman curled against him as if they would never again be apart.
EPHEMERA
An excerpt from a historical letter on the importance of chess as a guide to war in the reign of King Noshirvan of Iran
Even as the wise have said, victory must be attained through wisdom and forethought upon the field of battle. In this, we look to chess, for the play of chess is that one must not wait for, or react upon, the movements of the other player, but rather comprehend one's opponent in his person, and thus shape a game to his defeat.
As in war, chess requires one should preserve what one can, and sacrifice what one cannot.
Even to the sacrifice of the most valuable of pieces to win the game.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"I think we've made a terrible mistake," Thomas said. He looked awful, Jess thought-pallid, sweating hard enough to paste little tendrils of blond hair flat to the sides of his face. His hands were steady, though. That was a good sign.
///
The bad sign was that he was using those steady hands to pluck at the knot of his silk tie. He looked very elegant-the Brightwell tailors being what they were-and the sober dark blue velvet of the jacket suited him well, but he seemed to really hate the tie. He couldn't leave the thing alone, and he'd already jerked it nearly out of position.
Glain slapped his hand away from his collar and stepped closer to pull the knot back into the right position. "Stop yanking at that, you baboon," she said. "Even my brothers aren't this bad at looking good."
"Easy for you to say. You get to wear what you like!" Thomas's gesture took in the thick leather jacket that poured sleekly around her in graceful, dangerous lines to her thighs. Beneath that, she wore a loose dark shirt, fitted dark pants, and heavy boots, and in her own way, she looked elegant. Deadly, but elegant. "Maybe if I put on the robe-"
"No Scholars' robes today," she reminded him. "This isn't a time to remind anyone about the Library, now, is it? Even the captain is out of uniform. You need to be, too."
Her brisk, matter-of-fact sureness settled Thomas, finally, and he took in a deep breath and nodded. He took out a handkerchief and wiped sweat from his face and attempted a vague smile. "I hate speaking in public," he said. "Jess, would you-"
"No," Jess said. He was dressed, like Thomas, in elegantly cut clothes; his tie was a dark purple to Thomas's wine red, and his jacket was black instead of navy blue, but they looked quite a bit alike. He hated the tie, too, but knew to keep his hands off it. "Pretend it's your first lecture. You'll do fine."