[ The Rotting Hound ] [Preview ] Chapter I

I was there the day of your rebirth.

You stood upon the altar, wrapped in a toga spun from brown and golden wool. Seven bronze rings graced your left arm, skin and metal alight with the faint fires of gloaming, but your hands and feet were bare. Your face too bore no decoration, and you lowered your gaze, terrified of the crowd gathered in reverence to you.

You were something out of a painting, the past made manifest. It had been twenty-eight years since last an Emissary was appointed and many there were not old enough to remember it clearly. Many had not been born. The person you once were had not yet walked the fields and hard-packed paths of Valtir.

I was there when the Emissary of Mars was reborn, but I had been a child. People of all ages revelled in the celebrations rebirth brought, piety an afterthought, but my fascination was with the ceremony itself. At ten, I was insensible with anxiety and left at the mercy of ceaseless nausea. It was not until the Emissary of Mars was dressed in a toga and presented to the people they were sent to commune with that I was myself again.

I was there, but I had not been so near the front.

The king and his priests took your name from you and let the black of space between the celestial bodies devour it. You were not given another. Something so frivolous, so ubiquitously mundane, was for the unanointed, those not consecrated.

You were to be known only as the Emissary of Saturn.

There had not been an Emissary of Saturn for forty-seven years. Mars and Mercury alone were represented in Valtir, and the Emissary of Venus had returned to the grey planet a little over a decade ago.

But Saturn had made its intentions clear. In the heart of autumn, the season owed and dedicated to the ringed planet, an omen came.

A murmuration of starlings blackened the evening sky. They twisted above the palace they had never before roosted in, and from the confluence of black, iridescent bodies, lightning fell. It struck a granary on the edge of the palace grounds, ruinous and deft. The fires were instantaneous, voracious. They consumed the grain as the stonework crumbled with the heat, leaving nothing but a smouldering pile of ash and stone.

All within perished. All but a single servant had their lungs blackened with smoke, their flesh burnt from bone.

That servant stumbled out of the ruins untouched, unburnt.

The sign was clear.

The king’s hesitance, spurred on by our neighbours’ hatred of our piety, was not enough to blind him to all you were. He consulted with Mars and Mercury’s Emissaries and had the servant sent to the Temple of Saturn, where she might learn to unravel the divine truths within her.

Every sundial in every courtyard, every hourglass gracing a kitchen or bedchamber, was destroyed. In the year that followed, autumn to autumn, they were replaced, stonework inlaid with bronze and gold.

When the harvest came, each of the kingdom’s farms sent offerings of grain to the palace, lean as the past harvests had been. The grain was piled before you at the altar, set out in baskets weaved for that very occasion.

Those were Saturn’s domains: the intangibly of time and the material realm of the farmlands. They were yours to watch over.

The king called me before the altar.

I knelt without command.

I knew I was to be your knight before the honour was bestowed upon me. I was part of the Order of Dusk, the circle of knights that devote themselves to Saturn as Dawn, Day, and Night concern themselves with Venus, Mercury, and Mars. The ritual of rebirth demanded a new First Hound of Dusk be bound to the Emissary, entwining their lives. In a more brutal time, the former First Hound would have been sacrificed upon the altar, blood marking a new age.

King Galen simply asked that he retire.

He would not. At the close of summer, the First choked to death on his dinner. Our unflinching god did not shake the ground to dislodge the offending bone from his airway.

I became the First.

I wore my mask of steel, the helmet with its visor of mesh, metalwork thin and delicate. Over this laid the decoration, the branching silver swirl that replaced my face.

You were never to see what laid beneath.

I could not dedicate myself to you, body and soul, if you saw the flesh for what it was.

I often wondered when this tradition began, whether it was a true ritual or mere routine. Still, I did not argue with it, knowing I was unworthy of being looked upon by the Emissary of Saturn.

You spoke no words as I knelt before you, recited no speech. It was for me to promise myself eternally to you.

“I am the First Hound of Dusk,” I said, speaking to the ground. “Behind me stands the Order of Dusk; we serve you above all others, above our king and the unflinching god, First through to Eleventh.”

You had been handed an hourglass and clung to it with such force that the glass ought to have shattered, once more becoming the sand it held back.

Did you hear me?

Do you hear me, even now?

I needed no reply. As you were reborn that day, the blessing of your presence remade me.

An Order had twelve spaces to fill. Each of your knights had ascended in rank with the former First’s death, but we had not yet found a new knight to make up our numbers. I prayed it was no slight to you, for we did not wish to rush someone unworthy into armour.

With the ritual complete and the celebration orbiting around you, I undertook my first duty. I led you to your new chambers, large, airy rooms fit for any lady of noble birth, where none were permitted to disturb you. This was no temple where petitions might be heard or offerings left. It was your sanctuary and even I hesitated to intrude upon it.

You took in the rooms with silent, heavy wonder. It was but skin deep. The year before your rebirth had brought revelation after revelation, and you did not linger over the fine, silken upholstery, nor did you take in the view of the capital beyond.

You slid the bronze rings from your arm, dropped them onto a sideboard, and arranged them in the order the temple had taught you. You touched your arm where the metal no longer resided, incredulous that it had not branded your skin, and fell onto a settee.

You began to cry.

I said nothing. The words I had spoken at the ritual were part of it, indivisible from my duty, but I would not destroy the illusion of privacy I wished to grant you. I stood at the door, armour-clad; metal empty, for all it mattered.

I did not move.

My sword could not protect you from this.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I—” you said in time, wiping your face on the toga you surely felt ridiculous in. “I hope I don’t appear ungrateful or weak, but this is all—that is, I—”

“My Lady,” I said, deigning to speak when spoken to. “You need not apologise. It has been an exhausting day, a demanding ceremony, and you were only this evening reborn.”

You sniffed loudly. More relieved than embarrassed, I thought.

“Things will look better in the morning, won’t they?” you convinced yourself. “Once I’m out of this ridiculous costume, I’ll have a better grasp on things. I was afraid this was all a great joke at my expense, that I would stand on the altar looking like this, and everyone would mock me for how gullible I was. But, oh—they meant every word of it, didn’t they? And the way you knelt before me…”

It pained me that you did not see the dignity and composure you’d acted with. Your old life had been so different, so wholly unrecognisable from the power you now were, that only an omen with its lightning and all-consuming fires could divide you from it.

“Should I call for your maid, Lady?”

It was not my place to remove the toga from you, though I would have unwound it until there was but one long, continuous strand, and reduced that further still to woollen fibres.

“No, no.”

You waved your arms in front of you. Your answer came quickly, as though you had to convince me to follow any order, any wish. Either you wanted to be as alone as you ever could be in this life, or you were unnerved by the thought of a young girl attending you as you had once served those above you.

“Would you rather I refer to you as Emissary, Lady?”

You had no name to give, no name that had not been consumed, but there was one choice I could offer you.

“Lady is fine. I don’t know that it fits me, but—but it’s less of a mouthful than The Emissary of Saturn, isn’t it?”

You made the effort to smile at me, at the knight whose face you were never to see.

“It is, Lady,” I agreed.

“And how should I refer to you?”

“I am the First Hound of Dusk, my Lady,” I said.

Now the smile came without effort.

“And is that not even more of a mouthful?”

I bowed at the waist, armour clanking.

“I am Sir Vaşak of the Gloaming.”

You laughed, shoulders finally relaxing.

“If I have to call you that, I shall have you refer to me only as The Emissary of Saturn, Master of the Hounds of Dusk,” you declared.

“Order would be more correct,” I said, grateful my words had brought you to yourself. “But you may call me Vaşak, if it pleases you, my Lady.”

“Vaşak,” you repeated, mulling the name over. Had I chosen it only to hear you speak it, decades later? “Thank you for being here, Vaşak. I know you have no choice in the matter, that our unflinching god brought you to me, but I’m glad you’re here. I’m relieved you’ll speak with me. I feared your presence would be as empty as those old suits of armour propped up in the throne room.”

“My speech and silence are at your command, Lady.”

I bowed again.

You closed your eyes and fell asleep on the settee, draped in your ceremonial costume, hair askew. I watched over you. I turned your maid away, forbidding anyone to disturb you until morning came.

♄

Two days later, after you were granted the chance to truly rest for the first time in more than a year, you made your debut at court.

Valtir is a large kingdom. It is old and has always held tight its wealth, its power. The balance had begun to change those last fifty years, war threatening more than its borders, but six years of relative peace heralded your rebirth.

The atmosphere was as relaxed as it was vapid. Few people wasted their time debating how best to strengthen our patrolling forces along the River Tethys, though it had once been all anyone cared to discuss. I knew there would be nothing of greater interest than you, Valtir’s third Emissary, but the sheer number of heads that turned your way startled you.

You had not expected the congregation to revolve around you.

Emissary is not a title that can be brought, whether with coin or blood. It has no fixed placed in our hierarchy and is instead considered equal to whoever engages you at the time, be they baron or king. An Emissary’s graces lies in always deferring to their monarch when there are subjects who might overhear.

The Emissary of Mars accompanied you for that first appearance, taking your arm when I could not.

Although I had witnessed the arrival of the Emissary of Mars twenty-eight years ago, they were not yet thirty. They had been reborn shortly after their first birth, anointed by omens in the cradle, and had no memory of any name given to them in error. They grew alongside their title, overseeing the domains of craftsmanship and mercy, and would make a good friend for you.

There is no sense of competition between the planets, no rivalries or ancient grudges. Their Emissaries understand the delicate balance of our galaxy and are moved by loyalty, by an unspeakable sense of familiarity and belonging.

The First Fox of Night walked beside me, both of us hidden from the other by our masks. I knew the First Fox well, as I knew all the knights of all the Orders. Her name was Phobos and she had ascended to the role of First Fox at the age of eighteen, having only been a knight for a six-month.

Our war with the Atils was at its most devastating, then. Ten of the Foxes above Phobos had been killed in quick succession, aiding the kingdom’s armies in battle, and she had found refuge in the role as mercy spread from the Emissary of Mars, bringing a break in the endless onslaught of fighting.

There were no togas to be seen in court, no ceremony that was not part of the infinite unspoken rules of that world. You were free to dress in breeches and shirts, doublets and dresses, though I was not permitted to remove my mask.

All gathered were eager to greet you. There was no piety in it. Emissaries are reborn in Valtir because we are the only kingdom that honours the planets so, but our own people consider it outdated, going so far as to call it a superstition. The courtiers that paraded around the palace in the latest fashions, cradled by ease and luxury, saw reverence to the planets as a relic best left in the past.

It is the commoners toiling in the fields who understand the true power of your domain.

The courtiers thought it imperative to let you know that you did not belong in this world. They were born into their titles, their genealogies could be traced back through the annuals of history, but your rebirth had not negated the core of you: a servant girl who thought herself owed reverence for not dying.

Perhaps they were not to be blamed for lacking a knight’s devotion or a priest’s faith, for choosing not to disregard the life you once led. But their cruelty was their own doing, their snide remarks carefully composed and spoken just loudly enough for all to overhear.

“Emissaries!” a baroness greeted, doing you the honour of tipping her head. “That truly was a spectacle, was it not? To see you dressed like that, all aglow in the evening light, would’ve risked being comical, had the king not treated it as seriously as he did. I expect you feel a good deal more respectable now you can dress as you please. Tell me. Why has Saturn sent an Emissary after all this time? We could’ve used your guidance thirty years ago when the Emissary of Mars came to us, but I suppose there are whisperings that the Atils will take up arms again.”

I knew without seeing that Phobos’ eyes were fixed on the baroness, pinning her in place as she spoke so blithely to and of our Emissaries.

“I cannot say. Not yet, Baroness,” you said, tone light. During your year-long absence you learnt the ways of court as well as those of Saturn. Valtir thrived because it had never separated the political from the religious. “I was reborn but two days ago.”

The Emissary of Mars laughed. The baroness smoothed out a frown.

“I have always been a great supporter of the Order of Dusk, Emissary. They have undertaken many commissions on my charge, often protecting my farmlands along the border. I should like to know of any little revelations that come your way, Emissary, as soon as they occur. I don’t believe you have much sway over warfare, but there’s little more important than protecting the agriculture of Valtir. Isn’t that right, First Hound?”

I placed a hand on my cuirass.

“As you say, Baroness,” I said.

You startled a little. Surprised, I think, that I would not only be directly addressed but answer in kind.

“Let’s not pretend that my fellow Emissary is here as a harbinger of doom,” the Emissary of Mars said, laughing. “There are many reasons we walk amongst you and they are not all immediately obvious. I’ve nearly thirty years behind me and I still have a purpose to fulfil.”

The Emissary of Mars had always lived in the palace. They had grown up as one of the nobles and knew the power of a painted smile, understood how laugher could soften the sharpest threat.

The baroness, flustered, regained herself when our party was joined by a newly-appointed lord.

“The old First, may the unflinching god accept his body into its devouring embrace, was a great champion of mine,” the baroness continued, staking her claim as the foremost authority in the conversation. “He served Valtir and its people well, but always had time for old friends. I hope to find such an ally in you, Sir Vaşak.”

I bowed.

“The late leader of Dusk had no Emissary to protect. You will find many things change with rebirth, Baroness. My duty is to the Emissary of Saturn alone and I champion none but her; my Order is at the disposal of her, above and before all others,” I said. “Be they monarch or unflinching god.”

It was a joy to say.

My entire existence had led to that moment.

Half the nobles in the palace wished to drag you into their sphere of influence, hoping you were too naïve, too newly reborn, to assert the power granted to you. As your knight, I would not falter. I would protect you from the self-serving as I protected you from bloodshed.

You straightened as I spoke, finally at your full height. I could make all the promises I wished to you in private or as part of an ancient ritual, but to proclaim so in the centre of court brought the delight of breaching etiquette, an honesty I could not take back.

“The former First choked to death on his dinner,” you recounted. “What a tragic, unbefitting end for a knight. Did you know him well, Baroness? I should like to know more about him. Did you dine with him, that final evening?”

Paling, the baroness recalled her presence was required elsewhere. It was well to think of her champion as a warrior at her disposal, there to protect the profits of her farmland, but less comfortable picturing him choking to death on the produce of those grazing meadows.

Others were more subtle in their attentions to you. Some were even polite.

The Countess of Syltras shook your hand, presuming to touch you.

“I am glad to see the Order of Dusk finally has a purpose,” the countess said without looking my way. “I now have the honour of meeting with all four Emissaries within my lifetime.”

“It is a rare thing for all four to be present at once,” you said, because it was one of the many things they had taught you in the Temple of Saturn. “Perhaps you could tell me about the Emissary of Venus, one day.”

The countess tilted her head, obliging.

“I do look forward to the stronger harvests that will surely follow your rebirth,” she said, bringing an end to the conversation she had sought out.

I moved into Phobos’ field of vision and gestured to the open doors. She stepped closer to her Emissary, making your excuses for you as I veered you away from that lofty, immaculate place. The vultures had already had their fill.

There was a small, quiet courtyard, neglected in favour of its larger, brighter kin, where I had often whiled away my days as a child. You sat upon the ivy-laced stone bench where I had passed so many evenings poring over my studies, interspersed with manuscripts detailing the armour and weaponry of knights long dead.

“Did you hear them, Vaşak? That baroness wanted me to know that my Order had once done her bidding, that the old First was her champion, and wanted me to—I don’t know, act the part of oracle? And then there was that countess. Was she truly implying it is my responsibility to see the fields thrive?” you said, laughing. “Really, why am I here? The devotees told me I would understand my place once I was reborn, taught me scripture and history and etiquette, but didn’t tell me what I’d actually do. I keep fearing I will be outed as a fraud. Does everyone bring up my supposed powers only to discredit me when nothing comes of them?”

“You are to oversee our agricultural matters and keep time balanced, Lady,” I said.

Your next laugh was that of a commoner. The temple had not broken you out of all your old habits.

“That’s all, is it? Just the small matter of the kingdom’s food supplies and the turning of night into day?”

I had never met an Emissary of Saturn before. There could be none but you, bound by the fibres of my being to you as I am. But I had watched the Emissary of Mars grow into their power, had known the Emissary of Mercury for much of my life, and knew it was not for a mortal to explain your place or dictate your duty to you.

You were those things. Time remained consistently inconsistent because you were there. All that was asked of you was already done by you, whether you knew it or not.

“It is your presence that matters, my Lady. By uplifting you, by giving you the recognition you are owed, we keep Saturn appeased,” I said. “It works alongside our unflinching god, not against it.”

You did not like that answer. You demanded too much of yourself in being susceptible to the demands of those around you.

“That’s all I’m here for, is it? To be marvelled at? Why not make a statue and be done with it?” you muttered.

“That is all any noble is here for, Lady. But you are a marvel in and of yourself. You need no praise for that to shine through, though it is what you deserve.”

You laughed for a third time. I have always had the favour of your smile.

“Sit with me, won’t you, Vaşak?”

“No, my Lady,” I said. “My armour is not suited to such comforts. There would not be room for us both.”

The bench was smaller than it had been in my childhood. I could not have seated myself without doing you the dishonour of touching you, of pressing leather and steel to your bare arm.

“Then sit on the floor, won’t you?” you said, rolling your eyes. “I want to enjoy the peace and quiet while I can and I don’t want you looming over me.”

I obliged, seating myself in the dirt, turned that I might see you through the slivers of my mask.

♄

Knighthood is an honour and a sacrilege.

To devote yourself to an Order, to a planet and its Emissary, is to turn your back on the one true god, steadfast as it is. It is a blasphemy the unflinching god permits; it does not distinguish its kin as gods, for they have no people of their own, but it does recognise their power.

It understands their desires.

The planets see how devotion, prayer, and sacrifice keep the unflinching god steady and want the same for themselves. It is not a selfish desire. The unflinching god stands as the central point of the five planets, equidistance between the black edge of space and the sun so alight with its own power it is beyond worship.

It needs its knights to maintain this balance.

The Orders place their faith in the planets and in turn the planets hold steady their course, granted the strength to resist the fiery pull of the sun.

My parents did not wish for me to become a knight. My family was as well-established as Valtir itself and had held their place in court for generations beyond counting. I was the king’s cousin, removed through so many degrees I was not so arrogant to call myself such. My future was planned out for me long before I was born, every luxury and convenience mine for the taking, and I was to inherit no small amount of land and wealth.

I did not choose to become a knight. I was duty-bound to continue our bloodline as the only child of my house, the only daughter who could preserve our name throughout the aeons to come. If my parents’ wishes were granted, I would’ve stood bare-faced in court, flanked by guards of my own.

I would have stood across from you, thinking nothing of the Hound behind its mask.

When I told my parents I was to join the Order of Dusk, they begged me to reconsider. They implored me to deny my calling, to rise above the desecration of our House, ordained by the planets. They offered me half of my inheritance there and then, should I take back the words. They begged me to join the army instead. There was valour in becoming a solider, armour ordained with the unbroken circle that is the unflinching god, and with my standing, I could’ve made captain by my twenty-first year.

But I did not choose to become a knight. None do.

It is a calling, an organic, agonising urge.

All knights are polluted. They are chosen, and in being so, have no choice. It is only our love of the four Orders, for our planet and its Emissary, that adheres us to our duty. Only in service, in armour, do we find relief. It is the faith others consider a blight that makes our lives tolerable.

The particularly superstitious will not allow an infant to be exposed to the night sky, lest the planets shine bright. Infants are kept from windows, even with the shutters closed and the blinds drawn. It is a baseless practise: the planets remain in the sky even when daylight blinds us to them.

My pollution came early.

I was seventeen, eighteen. My arms grew mottled with rings of grey-blue flesh, painful to the touch. I could not sleep at night for shivering and the palace healers had no answers for me. My parents commissioned healers of renown from all across the continent to sit at my bedside and conjure a cure for me, but it was in vain. I laid awake, pressing my fingers to the rings as I stared at the ceiling, certain the pain cried out for a reason.

When the First Hound of old came to me, a woman killed defending Valtir’s borders eighteen years ago, I felt joy and despair weave into the thread that has guided my life.

My father died that very month. It was a great relief to him that he need never see his daughter, his supposed heir, clad in armour.

The pollution never troubled me once I was knighted. Any chill I felt from those dormant scars was vanquished by the heat of my armour.

I belonged to the Order for twenty years before I belonged to you. Everything in my life guided me towards you, and the pollution I bore spoke of the rings you would one day wear upon the altar.

Still, I was only human.

I smiled behind my mask when you asked me, one morning, if I ever slept.

“Of course, my Lady. I sleep when you sleep,” I told you, stood to attention behind you as you breakfasted.

You frowned at the orange you were in the process of peeling.

“Then who stands outside my chamber all night?” you asked, puzzled.

“Your Second Hound, Iapetus, my Lady,” I said. “They watch over you of a night, wearing my mask. Of course, they cannot speak with my voice and so cannot enter your chamber unless you call for them.”

“Oh.” You pulled your orange into segments, somewhat embarrassed. “I hadn’t realised, I… really, there’s so much I don’t know, despite how obvious it now seems.”

As Second Hound, Iapetus had a strange relationship to you. They embraced the honour of guarding you of a night, of taking my place when I was otherwise engaged, but they could never be the chosen knight of an Emissary. If you were to perish before Iapetus, they would inherit an Order without an Emissary. Should the Emissary return, even a single day later, they would have to forfeit their position that a new First Hound might serve the Emissary.

“When I say goodnight to you, my Lady, it is because I too am retiring to bed. I am of much better use to you rested, though I would stay at your side indefinitely, were my mortal body capable of it,” I said. “I will be at your side during every occasion of import, at festivals, the temple, or in the city. I will be with you throughout every ritual, every prayer. But I trust Iapetus well to stand guard throughout the night. I have served at their side for more than half my life.”

“Iapetus has been good to me,” you said. “It is only—well, it is strange to think of them wearing your mask of a night, when I am permitted to see them throughout the day.”

The other knights you knew by name and face. The others were not so closely interwoven with you that it was blasphemy to ask you to look upon them.

“Many of our traditions are strange,” I agreed.

“When else are you not at my side, Vaşak?”

You pulled the pith from your orange, frowning.

“I am entitled to rest every tenth day,” I said. “If I so wish. I have never yet taken it, Lady.”

I watched your body tense, only to immediately unspool with my clarification; you had not mistaken Iapetus for me in the daylight.

“Vaşak! You should take those days for yourself. Isn’t it as you just said? You’re of far more use to me rested,” you said, popping an orange segment into your mouth as you scolded me. “And you’ll get tired of me if we never spend any time apart.”

I took your words to heart, willing to obey any order you gave me, no matter how obliquely.

When next my tenth day came, I shed my armour and divided myself from the Order. I dressed well, doublets and breeches in excellent repair thanks to how rarely I wore them, and lived a snippet of the life my parents desired for me. I let my mother see my face and how well I looked in fine embroidery. It was the routine I had known for so long, those twenty years before your rebirth.

It sickened me. It wasn’t my lack of armour that exposed me so, but my inability to recognise myself without my mask.

Already, I saw too much of the bright world around me. There was no engulfing metal to ensure my gaze was ever narrowed on you.

Often, not wanting to ignore your request that I take the time owed to me, I dared to seat myself in a courtyard or chamber that I knew you would pass through. I never looked directly at you, I was not so insolent as that, but part of me hoped you would see me. Part of me longed for the pain that a lack of recognition would bring.

I imagined returning to you that next day, only for you to say, Vaşak, who was that woman sat by the fountain? Who was that woman who turned her gaze from me, long, dark hair hanging over her face? I thought I had met all the nobles by now, but I did not recognise her. Will you introduce us when next we are at court?

But you never asked.

Instead, you smiled after our brief parting and said, “Vaşak! Oh, I’m so glad it’s you. It sounds silly to say that I missed you after a day, doesn’t it, but I think I’m starting to understand what you mean when you say you’re my knight. Iapetus is wonderful company, but—oh, never mind all that. Come, come. Tell me how you spend your free time, Sir!”

“None of it would interest you, Lady.”

You planted your hands on your hips, brow raised.

“Must I order you, Vaşak?”

“If you must,” I said. “I take the chance to tidy my chambers and have my clothing laundered. I am a very ordinary sort of person outside of my armour.”

The pinch in your brow said you had never imagined me wearing anything but plate and chain.

“I suppose one day isn’t enough for more than chores,” you hummed. “Tell me, Vaşak, what would you do if time were no obstacle?”

“I would return here, my Lady.”

“Is that so,” you murmured. You bit the inside of your cheek but your smile was not easily banished. “And do you not have—I know not, others you would rather spend time with, a partner?”

“No, Lady,” I relished in saying. “There is only you.”

You sat back in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other. You had claimed you were starting to understand what it meant to have a knight, but you had not yet seen a fragment of my devotion. My throat was dry with the thought of all I could and would do for you.

“I don’t think we need to venture out yet today, Vaşak,” you said. “Iapetus and I did our rounds of the entire palace yesterday and spent an afternoon with the Emissary of Mars. Would you sit with me? I should like to enjoy being alone with you. I might even read.”

I picked up the book you gestured to from a side table. Having only to show my acquiescence, not speak it, I took a seat on the thick rug at your feet, eyes closed, heart beating harder with each page you turned.

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