Rohan resumed his story.
For their two-month anniversary, Rohan gave Sammy an emerald-and-gold necklace. It was a massive thing, reminiscent of an Egyptian torque from Old Earth, and it seemed to bend her slender neck beneath its weight. He had bought it originally for Juliana, but she had never worn it, disparaging it as gaudy and more what she would have expected from some jumped-up, nouveau riche trader than a member of the FFH.
“So, I get your wife’s castoffs?” Sammy asked with a crooked little smile.
“No … that’s not … I never—”
Sammy stopped the stammered words with a soft hand across his mouth. “I don’t mind. It’s beautiful, and it’s rather appropriate. I got her cast-off husband.”
They were at his small hunting lodge in the mountains, enjoying a rare snowfall. The only light in the bedroom was provided by the dancing flames in the stone fireplace. Outside, the wind sighed in the trees like a woman’s sad cries.
Sammy sat up and twined her fingers through his. “Why did you marry her? Was it arranged? Did you ever care for her?”
“I was a replacement. Her fiancé was lost along with his ship. No bodies, no debris, just a ship and her complement of spacers gone. After an appropriate period of mourning, her father approached my father. I was the dull number cruncher. I was never going to equal Juliana’s dashing SpaceCom captain.”
“Tell me about your father. Is he still alive?”
Hours passed. He told her about his family, the estate in the Grenadine star system. His sisters. His younger brother. His hobbies, favorite books, taste in music. Occasionally she asked a question, but mostly she listened, head resting on his shoulder, hand stroking his chest. He talked of his daughter, Rohiesa, the one good thing that had come from his marriage.
He poured himself out to her. His hopes and dreams, his secret shames and deepest desires. She never judged, just listened. Only the fire seemed to object with an occasional sharp snap as flame met resin.
Over the next month, his need for Sammy rose to the level of an addiction. He left work early, returned home at dawn, if at all. The conversations continued. Unlike Juliana, Sammy seemed genuinely interested in his economic theories as well as the name of his old fencing master.
Some nights he couldn’t see her. He had to escort Juliana and Rohiesa to various soirees. The final night had began that way, at the first grand ball of the season.
The walls and ceiling of the enormous ballroom of Lord Palani’s mansion seemed to have vanished and been replaced with the glitter of stars and the varicolored swirl of nebulas. The effect was spectacular and utterly terrifying. Guests clustered near the center of the room, avoiding the seeming emptiness all around them. It made it difficult for those who did wish to dance to actually dance. Lady Palani was in a rage, as evidenced by her pinched nostrils and compressed lips. One of the young Misses Palani was in tears. Tomorrow’s gossip would be filled with talk of the Palani disaster. Rohan handed his empty plate to a passing Hajin servant and snagged a glass of champagne from yet another. His host approached, his long face had drooped into even more lugubrious lines.
Rohan gestured at the holographic effect. “It’s quite … stunning.”
Palani took a long pull of champagne. “Stunning price tag, too, and everyone’s terrified. But they insisted.” He gave a sad shake of his head. “There’s no accounting for what mad notion will seize them.”
Rohan correctly interpreted this as a reference to Lady Palani and the couple’s five daughters. It also brought back the memory of a conversation he’d had with Sammy only three day before.
They had been walking in the Royal Botanical Garden, Sammy pausing frequently to touch and sniff the flowers. He loved to watch her: each gesture was a sonnet, each step a song. She had gently stroked the petals on a rose and turned back to him. He had tucked her arm through his and as they strolled he had casually mentioned how a friend’s daughter was at a discreet clinic after a very public and embarrassing breakdown at a Founder’s Day picnic.
She had glanced up at him, the glitter back in those strange eyes. “Are you surprised? You keep your women mewed up and deny them any kind of meaningful activity. I’m surprised more of them don’t go nuts. You give them nothing to think about or talk about beyond family and gossip. You never let them do anything but plan parties or attend parties, run households and raise children.”
“That’s a schedule that would kill most men,” Rohan said with a ponderous attempt at humor. “Thus proving you are the stronger sex, Sammy.”
“On Earth, before the Expansion, woman were lawyers, doctors, soldiers, presidents, and captains of industry.”
“And space is hostile, and most planets difficult and dangerous to colonize. Women are our most precious possession. Men can produce a million sperm, but it requires a woman to gestate and deliver a child.” Rohan’s voice had risen and his breath had gone short. He wondered at his own vehemence and defense of the system. And why had he brought up De Varga’s daughter? Because he feared for his own Rohiesa?
“And those days are gone. Your conservatism will be the death of the League, Han. The Cara were right about one thing. Adapt and change … or die.”
“Rohan?”
“What? Ah, beg pardon. I was drifting.”
“I was just asking about the inflation figures,” Palani repeated.
“Ugly, but let’s not mar the evening with such talk,” Rohan said, and moved away.
He risked a surreptitious glance at the chrono set in the sleeve of his evening jacket. Forty minutes. It seemed like he’d been here for an eternity. Just a few more and he should be able to slip away and join Sammy at the street festival in Pony Town. He imagined the pungent scents of chile and roasting meats, passionate music from the street musicians, bodies moving in wild abandon to the primal beat and thrum of guitars. The imagined music clashed with the lovely but formal dance music provided by the orchestra hidden in an overhead alcove. Rohan deposited his champagne flute and moved toward the doors. To hell with it, he couldn’t wait any longer.
Juliana intercepted him. The hand-sewn sequins on her formfitting dress flashed as she moved, echoing the glitter from the diamonds tucked into her dark curls. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“Umm … yes.”
“You abandon me for your whore?” Her voice was rising, the words starting to penetrate through the stately measures of the music.
“What are you talking about?” He knew it wouldn’t work. He was a terrible liar. He resorted to pleading. “For God’s sake, don’t make a scene.”
“And why not? You’re making a spectacle of yourself with this alien puta.”
“How—”
“Bret’s wife had it from Bret. She told her mother. It’s all over Campo Royale and you’re a laughingstock.”
“You had already assured that with your parade of lovers!” he spat back, finally saying aloud what had lain between them and rubbed like sand in his craw.
“At least mine are human.”
People were starting to stare. Rohan looked around at the gawking faces, the soft-footed servants, the elaborate clothes. Steel bands seemed to close around him, penning him in, holding him fast. The cry of the guitars in the streets of the Old City seemed faint and far away.
“No,” he said, not certain what he was rejecting, but rejecting it all the same.
He heard Juliana screaming imprecations after him as he trod down the curving crystal staircase.
He found her in the streets