by Jean Lorrah
Zhag spoke briefly about being hired as a down and out musician, to which Tonyo added, “Mr. Axton didn’t even care about larity when it came to talent. He gave us both the chance to succeed.”
Then they returned to their positions, Zhag softly playing his shiltpron, Tonyo providing only nageric accompaniment today, no singing. Many of the staff spoke, and finally Jonmair walked forward. A shock went through Baird when she began, “Treavor Axton bought me as a Last Kill for his son Baird. When Baird didn’t kill me, though, I became Mr. Axton’s ward. He wasn’t easy to work for, but once I learned to stand up to him—that’s when I learned that he would treat everyone fairly who asked for it. I think he would have adapted to the new world we’re making here, and thrived in it. But he gave his life to save his son’s.”
Just as you gave yours, Baird thought.
Then it was his turn to speak. He looked out over the crowded hall and said, “My father built The Post as a refuge from life’s hardships. I vow to keep it going in the tradition in which he started it. If I can ever be as wise and strong as my father was, then his legacy will continue.” He didn’t know what else to say, feeling lost when he remembered that Treavor Axton was no longer there to advise him.
Fortunately, no one expected Baird to be eloquent on the day of his father’s funeral. But just as he was about to sit down, feeling his father would have been disappointed, Baird looked around at the elegant room, the flowers and tablecloths unable to hide that it was intended to be a place of revelry, not reverence.
“My father was not about sorrow and grief,” Baird added. “He was about good business, yes—but that business was entertainment. It was music, it was dancing, it was fun. Remember him when you laugh. Remember him when you sing. Remember him when you come to The Post because you’re post and looking for a good time. That’s the legacy my father built!”
He could zlin the crowd supporting him, the ambient warm and welcoming as he gratefully retreated from the spotlight. Jonmair smiled at him, and friends came near to offer private words and feelings.
A good portion of the crowd followed along to the cemetery, Zhag and Tonyo joined by other musicians who had played at The Post over the years. After the coffin was placed in the family crypt, they followed what had become instant tradition for the many funerals of the past three days: everyone joined in singing the Unity Hymn before they turned and left the caretakers to close the mausoleum.
On the way back, the music changed. By the time they returned to The Post, everyone was in a party mood. The gambling hall reopened, the crowds returned, porstan flowed, music played, and Baird…suddenly had nothing to do. No more lawyers or auditors would show up this late in the day, and Jonmair was efficiently doing his old job.
Treavor Axton would have been at the card table with his cronies. But Baird wasn’t interested in cards. He was interested in Jonmair.
His post reaction was finally asserting itself as desire, but three days into his cycle it was not an overpowering urge. Yes, he wanted to take her up to his bed, but that could easily wait until…he knew for certain that she wanted to be there.
* * * *
JONMAIR WAS JUST LEAVING THE GAMBLING HALL to go to the main salon when Baird stopped her in the corridor. “Jonmair, please come into the office.”
She followed him, both curious and concerned, for she could see that he was tense. What had gone wrong now?
“Jonmair...are you enjoying your new responsibilities?” Baird asked when they were in the office with the door closed. They both remained standing near the door.
“Yes,” she said. “Did I neglect something?”
“Not at all. I want to thank you for the wonderful job you did today. And what you said about my father.”
“I meant it,” she said. “I think he would have come around, Baird. We’re young, and it’s not easy for us to adjust to a new way of life. It’s much harder for older Simes.”
“Have I spoiled your plans for the future?” he asked. “I know you want to design clothes and costumes. Have your own business.”
“Perhaps I will someday,” she replied honestly.
His eyes revealed that her answer had somehow disappointed him. “Then you plan on leaving The Post.”
“Well,” she hedged, “you know I will always be here for your transfers. Baird, I know now what Tonyo means. I need it as much as you do.” Again she saw that her answer wasn’t what he was looking for. “I’ll certainly stay till I’ve paid off my debt.”
“No,” Baird said, “I don’t want you working here for that reason.” Jonmair’s heart contracted until she could hardly breathe. “You don’t owe me any debt—you saved my life.”
Because I love you, she thought, but dared not say it.
“I had hoped,” Baird continued, “that you would stay…with me. We…work so very well together.”
Work. So that was how he defined their relationship. If he expected her to stay and help run The Post, nightward him when he was in Need, and be someone convenient to share post reaction until he found a suitable Sime woman to marry—no. She swallowed hard, gritted her teeth, and prepared to do the hardest thing she had ever done: walk away from Baird Axton.
But Baird’s next words stopped her thoughts entirely.
“Marry me.”
Jonmair stared, not believing he had said it.
“We met under terrible circumstances,” he said. “But you’re free now, Jonmair. I can’t force or coerce you. I owe you my very life, so you don’t owe me anything.”
He came closer, eyes pleading. “I shouldn’t have tried to keep you here with a job, even though you are doing it superbly. There’s only one reason I will accept for you to say yes, and that is if you love me as much as I love you.”
She saw his uncertainty change to a smile, and knew he had zlinned her answer before she could say it. “I do love you, Baird. And yes! I will marry you!”
And finally she was in his arms as she had always longed to be, loved instead of used, loved instead of post, loved instead of owned.
The fact that they were of opposite larities now meant that they fit together in every way. Softly, from the grand salon, came the notes of the Unity Hymn: “Peace to Sime and Gen together.”
Together.
Forever.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JEAN LORRAH lives in Kentucky with her dog, Kadi Farris ambrov Keon, and two cats, Earl Gray Dudley and Splotch the Wanderer. The cats are licensed therapy animals who visit schools and nursing homes.
Jean has published more than twenty books through the years, several of them award winners and best-sellers. She teaches the occasional creative writing workshop in person, and with Jacqueline Lichtenberg runs a free workshop online on their domain, www.simegen.com. For information on Jean’s latest publications, essays on writing, and anything else currently going on in her life, visit: www.jeanlorrah.com
