by Mark Eller
"I'd like that just so long as you realize I'm not the kind to marry. I love you as a friend, and you're the only man I've ever been with. I don't love you enough to marry you."
Aaron sighed. "Thank the good Lord. Amanda, I always thought of you as a good buddy who pretends she's my mother. Truth is, I don't normally screw my buddies, but you've been trying."
She slapped his head, making her breasts jiggle against his face. "You, sir, are trying. You are very, very trying. Now get your clothes on and go home. I really do have work to do."
He crawled out of bed and went into the dining room to gather his clothing. Since some were located in unusual places, it took a little while. He started to slip on his underwear when she glided up and smacked him on his behind.
"Get along with you."
Flicker
* * *
Aaron's office at the manor was already occupied when he arrived. Feet propped on his desk, a glass of wine in her hand, Missy sat in his chair.
"I thought you'd eventually show up," she said before sipping the wine. A tipped over bottle sat beside two Aaron had emptied earlier. "Been visiting have you? You smell like sex."
"Miss Bivins just won a bet. " Be damned. If she wasn't bothered by him being naked, he wouldn't be bothered either. Aaron winced a bit when he shook out his jeans. His butt hurt. Amanda's encouraging slap had been more than robust.
"Good for her. I knew she'd win someday. " Leaning forward, she peered at his face. "You're blushing."
"Am not," he protested, although he would feel more comfortable once he got his jeans on. He turned around so she got the rear view instead of a full frontal.
"Riigghht. Look, Aaron, I came to make a truce. No, I came to make amends. There hasn't been a war between us because you refused to fight."
Aaron pulled on his pants, fastened them, and turned to face her. He felt more comfortable with his privates encased. "What are you talking about?"
"Mistress Turner and the kids stayed in Last Chance for a few years after you left, then they disappeared. I thought you abandoned them. I felt like I'd been abandoned--until Miss Bivins said she kept close tabs on me and smoothed my way a bit. Aaron, you left. I almost hated you for it because I'd come to depend on you so much. You were gentle and kind, but you stood up when you saw something wrong. You were my hero."
Missy tried to fill her glass with an empty bottle. Realizing her mistake, she giggled and let the bottle fall. "Why do you drink so much? This feels really stupid. Is there another bottle somewhere?" She looked around and seemed to give the task up as useless. Her eyes appeared slightly unfocused when they turned back to him.
"You were my hero. I wanted to strangle Cathy when she threw you over. " One tear trickled down her cheek. "I was wrong. You aren't a hero. You're only a man and not always a strong one. During training, I noticed how much you've slipped. I saw how alone you are, and I now know you never abandoned your family. Mistress Turner wouldn't send you Autumn if she didn't trust you. The Messenger wouldn't be coming to see you if you weren't worthy of her attention. I guess-I guess you're still my hero, only you're a bit tarnished."
She peered at him blearily. "There's something wrong with you. You drink too much, and you push people away even while drawing them in. You trust people with your feelings, but I don't think you trust your own feelings, not since what Cathy did to you, and-and Sarah was killed."
Dropping her feet to the floor, Missy rose unsteadily. Lurching toward Aaron, she bumped into the desk corner and fell half against him. She put a hand on his shoulder and pushed herself back to stare into his face.
"Mister Turner, bring back my friend Aaron. I want my hero again? Help her. Help the major. I want to be proud of the man who was to wed my sister."
Aaron steadied her. "I'm not a hero or a villain or anything. I'm only a man who caused the deaths of more people than I care to remember."
Missy smiled sadly. "No-you-you're not my hero now, and I know the world doesn't see you as a hero, but you were once a hero to one little girl. You could be a hero again if you'd only stop taking the easy path. You do good works, but only when it doesn't incon-incon-inconvenience you a whole lot. " Leaning her weight into his hands, she trembled. "I've heard that too much wine makes a person sick."
"Sometimes it can."
"Uh--huh. I-I think I'm going to maybe be sick."
"Not here you aren't. " Aaron quickly guided her out of his office. He half-led, half-carried her up the stairway and into her room where he deposited her on her unmade bed. Flopping back, she began snoring within seconds. Any chance of heaving seemed to have disappeared. Just in case, Aaron found a bowl and set it beside the bed. He removed her shoes and put them in her closet.
Finished, he stared down at Missy and shook his head. She had drunk less than half his normal intake. Obviously, she didn't drink often.
He frowned. So why tonight? Did Missy need a fogged mind to face him? Had he changed that much?
* * *
The dining room had become less cavernous with every passing week. The addition of extra people at the overlarge table made the atmosphere almost comfortable.
Aaron watched while Autumn scooped up scrambled eggs with her fingers and popped the mess into her mouth. Smiling wryly, he decided the atmosphere still needed improvement. Catching his expression, Major Fitzbeth shrugged an apology.
"She gave up silverware last week."
"She will reassume the habit," Aaron said. "Autumn, place your napkin on your lap, use your silverware, and get your elbows off the table."
"Why?" she asked, still chewing. She reached for her glass of juice.
"Because it's polite and mannerly to do so. Other people have to eat with you. We want to enjoy our own meals."
Shrugging, she gnawed off a bite of ham from the slice on her plate. Water and grease dripped down her hands and face. After wiping them on her shirt, she swiped a sleeve across her lips. "Tough."
"And because I can and will tan your bottom until it's raw," Aaron added.
Autumn gave him a winning smile and picked up her fork. "That's different."
Aaron groaned and rested his forehead on the heels of his hands. He raised his head to look at the major. "Couldn't you have left her out in the ocean somewhere?"
"Tried," Fitzbeth said with a smile. "Ocean threw her back."
"Figures. " Aaron watched his recalcitrant daughter wield her fork for a short period before turning his gaze back to Fitzbeth. "What are your plans?"
"I have reservations on the Golden Belle. It leaves in a few hours. Are you sure you won't reconsider? You can make a difference. You might even make a big difference."
Aaron shook his head. "It's doubtful, and we both know it. Still, I'll think on the matter. It's possible I'll be on the ship when it leaves."
Walking gingerly, Missy came into the room and sat down. Her head drooped low as her plate was filled, and then she mostly pushed the food around with her probing fork instead of eating. Aaron found himself fascinated. Never before had he seen a person whose actual complexion could be called green. True, Missy's skin wasn't a bright green, but it certainly had an interesting tinge.
She waited until several people left before shoving her plate away. Standing carefully, she walked with exaggeratedly gentle steps over to Aaron. Standing near his chair, she licked her lips and winced.
"Mister Turner," she whispered. "I need to speak to you. I tried to catch you last night, but I didn't see you then. There isn't a lot of time left for me to say this before it's too late."
"Does this concern the major and an apology?" Aaron asked.
She seemed startled. "Yes."
"You spoke to me last night. Apology accepted."
She swallowed. "Okay…I'm going back to bed now."
Aaron patted the hand she rested on the table. "Goodnight. " He watched her leave and smiled inside. Missy might be a sight, but she had his sympathy. He'd been in her place far more often than he cared to think about.
He looked at her again just as she passed through the door and frowned. What he saw was not pleasant. Disgusting was closer to the right word. Bedraggled, red-eyed, and stinking, very little about Missy seemed appealing.
His frown deepened.
He had been there. Far too often, he had been there.
* * *
After packing two travel bags Aaron sent out for a cab and had it take him to the docks. In the months he had been in Galesward, he never had cause to travel toward the river and its docks. He was surprised to see how large the river was. Stretching at least four hundred feet wide, it was more than deep enough to support the Golden Bell, a double-deck, steam-driven, waterwheel passenger boat, another recent innovation due to information contained in his books.
Cabin space, Aaron found, had already been purchased in his name. Fortunately, his cabin was separated from the major's by at least twenty feet. Aaron had little desire to spend the trip listening to her gloat. Even worse would be watching while she very carefully did not gloat.
Only after the Golden Bell began its journey, did Aaron open a fresh bottle of wine and realize he made a mistake. He had left Patton behind. Again.
Chapter 8
Port Billings, where they would leave the river boat for a ship, was impressive in its unimpressiveness. As ports went, it was small, neat, and clean. The streets ran straight, were well cobbled, and free of litter. Every house Aaron saw appeared small and tidy. Built closely together, they had no lawns, but each boasted window box plantings. Ivy crawled graciously up their walls, and roses bloomed beneath every window. Three inns and half a dozen brightly painted taverns dotted the streets near the shipping yards.
The major got off the Bell, conducted her business, and boarded again before Aaron disembarked.
Fitzbeth informed Aaron that she had obtained a room in his name at the Nightman's Arms. A modest inn, she said, located only a few hundred yards away. Their ship wasn't due to leave for another three days. She suggested he make the most of his stay. Leaving the boat again, she hired a dockside lass to carry Aaron's bags and lead him to the inn so he wouldn't get lost.
The front doorway of the Nightman's Arms led into a dining room boasting more than twenty tables and a small dance floor. Young, modestly dressed women and men waited tables where finely dressed patrons dinned, conversed, and gambled. Three tables each held six people playing draw poker. Another table had a game of blackjack going. Aaron smiled at the sight, feeling amused and interested. Twelve years earlier neither game had been known on this world. In fact, playing cards were unknown until Sarah and Kit insisted he bring them and a couple of rule books back from his birth world.
The girl carrying Aaron's bags set them down just inside the entrance to the dining room and scampered away. A portly, aging woman approached with a platter of ribs held in her grease smeared hands.
"Would you be Mister Turner?"
"Last time I looked I was," Aaron admitted.
"I'm Mistress Hart who runs this madhouse. Your room is on the second floor, third door on the left. Your key is hanging on a hook just inside the door. Would you be wanting anything to eat?"
Aaron studied the congealed grease on the plate. "Do you have anything besides ribs?"
She shook her head no. "Only the soup and salad. Wild game and chicken are gone for today, and nobody ever bought the mutton when we had it."
He gave the ribs one last look. "I'll have the soup and salad. I'm taking my things up to my room, but I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Vinegar dressing?"
"That will be fine."
"Good, 'cause it's the only dressing we make."
"That doesn't surprise me."
His room was exactly what he had expected from a place called the Nightman's Inn. The paint was garish. The bed was hard, and the walls were too close. The room had one cracked glass window that a brief inspection proved to have been painted shut.
At least everything seemed clean.
Aaron gave the room a once over. All things considered, it wasn't a bad room. Still, he had no intention of sleeping in it. After dropping his bags on the bed, he grabbed the key from its hook, exited the room, and locked it behind him.
When he went back downstairs his table was already set up. A waitress stood by, waiting for his arrival. After settling into his chair, Aaron allowed her to lay a napkin in his lap before he looked at his meal. His soup proved to be a concoction of vegetables, beef, and barley. His salad smelled of heavy spices.
"Would the sir like music while he dines?" the waitress asked. "There is a small fee for the service. " She smiled a bright practiced smile of even white teeth and bright red lips. Blond curls brushed against Aaron's cheek as she bent to straighten his place setting.
Surprised, Aaron glanced around. Several dinners had someone standing behind them, small instruments in their hands.
He nodded. "A little music would be nice."
She pulled out a small muted flute and began playing gently, so softly her music reached only him. Her notes caressed and soothed while he sipped the soup and slowly ate his salad. When he finished, she cleaned the table and played again.
Someone cleared his throat.
"Do you play?"
Two men stood by his table, dressed in suits and ties. A deck of cards was held in the hands of the taller. They were both impeccably groomed, clean shaven, and in their middle years.
"Play?"
"Poker, do you play poker?"
"I have," Aaron confessed. "I'll play you if you're buying the first round. " Pulling himself further upright, he gestured to the empty chairs around his table.
They agreed to his terms. Sitting down, the men ordered drinks, and Aaron proceeded to have fun.
On the off chance they were not cheating, he played clean for the first few hands, but soon had his doubts. When one of the men dealt the cards, the other always did his best to distract Aaron's attention away from the dealer. The first few hands seemed normal enough. Some were good. Some were bad. Most fell between those two extremes. Half an hour into the game his hands began looking better, and his bets won more often. Before long, Aaron was one hundred sovereigns ahead, a considerable amount, leading him to believe they were suckering him in now only to clean him out later. The original dealer picked up the cards, shuffled, and dealt.
Aaron studied his cards. Three eights, a trey, and a jack. After discarding the jack and trey, he drew two nines. His opponents both drew three cards.
The betting was heavy and fast. When it finished, Aaron had lost fifty sovereigns, and the second man of the pair was dealing. Smiling, he wished Aaron better luck.
At that point, knowing the game was crooked, Aaron used his Talent to transfer several cards around in the deck. His initial cards gave him an ace high. After drawing three new cards, he came up with a pair of eights. The other two players looked surprised when he folded, though not nearly as surprised as when they drew their own cards.
They tried. They tried hard. Cards were shuffled, dropped, rearranged, and pocketed. Aaron shifted cards in the deck before, during, and after the deal. On two occasions he sent his lute player after a new deck, claiming the luck had worn out of the old one. Despite all his card manipulation, he continued to lose, but he lost slowly and very little. By the end of the session, he lost the rest of his earlier winnings along with an extra three sovereigns. Calling the game quits, he tossed one of his remaining gold's to his flute player and headed to his room.
Once there, he locked the door, propped a chair beneath the door knob, drew the curtains over his window, and transferred.
* * *
Amanda Bivins was not home, an event Aaron had not counted on. Searching, he found no wine or ale in her rooms, but he did find a book he had never seen before. Supposedly a historical, Aaron decided it was more of a romance with larger than life characters who possessed an amazing ability to absorb punishment without taking much notice of the fact. By the time he made it a quarter o
f the way through the book, he held the firm opinion a beheading wouldn't have slowed some of the characters down. One or two would have considered it nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Twenty pages later, and not to his surprise, Aaron was proved correct. He decided Amanda did indeed have strange tastes in reading. Since it appeared she wouldn't be home anytime soon, he set down the unfinished book, wrote Amanda a note, and--flicker--transferred to his rooms in Billowby Manor. If he had to sleep, he would damn well sleep in a comfortable bed.
The next morning everyone except Patton was surprised to see him at breakfast. Patton glared daggers.
"Only back for the day," Aaron explained. "Mister Patton will leave with me later this evening. Autumn, how have you been this last week?"
Autumn glared at the two young women sitting on either side of her.
"I've been trapped," she said angrily. "These two won't leave me alone. All day long it's 'don't spit in public, don't talk when others are speaking, what's the meaning of this passage, work on math for the rest of the hour.' I swear, Daddy, I had more freedom on a small ship with the major looking after me."
Aaron smiled tolerantly. "Which is exactly how I had it planned. Okay, today is a day of semi-freedom for you. I promised to teach you how to ride a runabout. Today is the day, and then you get to decide what we'll do afterward so long as Mister Patton is allowed to come along."
"Oh, good. There's a play I heard about. It's called the Silver Torc. Can we go see it?"
Missy gestured to capture Aaron's attention. She nodded yes.
"Sure thing," he told the girl. "I haven't seen a play in quite a few years."
"Oh good. Can Julia come with us?"
Aaron shook his head no. "She's on the road with her mother. Maybe next time."
She shrugged. "Okay."
"As soon as we finish eating I'll teach you how to ride," Aaron told her. He gestured toward her new companions. "Care to introduce me to your friends?"
"These," Autumn insisted,"aren't my friends. These are my jailors, both of whom are Miss. Miss Fulbright thinks I need to learn stuff out of books. Miss Coaspree won't let me do anything without telling me how improper it is."
