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  Marianne nodded, feeling a little foolish. “My gratitude,” she said.

  “It is my honor,” the woman said, leaving the room in a more conventional manner.

  <<>>

  Smithton poured himself a whiskey. He’d just received word the shuttle had lifted—and left Marianne Woolsey behind.

  “We did it!” his wife exclaimed, face glowing. “We got someone in there.”

  He grunted and sipped the drink. “How useful she’ll be is another question.”

  “Oh Smitty.” Adeline pursed her lips. “Don’t be such a stick. She’ll do fine.”

  The door chime sounded. Adeline swayed off to see who it was.

  “Come in,” he barked, before she could get halfway there. The ship’s AI opened the door on John and Laura Howard—as he expected. He caught John’s eye and raised the glass. “Drink?”

  “I’m on duty,” John replied. “Early for that, isn’t it?”

  Smithton took a sip.

  “I’ll make coffee,” Adeline said in a bright voice.

  The Admiral lifted a hand. “The ship’s processors—”

  “—make wonderful tea and ghastly coffee,” finished Laura. “I don’t know how you drink it.” She shot Adeline a smile. “I’ll help.”

  The women disappeared into the suite’s small kitchen with a swish of their long dresses.

  “Well?” Smithton asked, sinking into one of Adeline’s well-padded sofas.

  John took a seat in the one chair which wasn’t overstuffed and examined the fingernails of one hand. “Well what?”

  “You owe me a week’s pay.”

  His friend’s expression turned sour. “Who’d have thought Central Command would keep their mitts off the girl?”

  “Anyone who could put two and two together. Come on, pay up. You bet the Sural would reject Miss Woolsey just as he did the other two candidates. You lost.” John pulled a card from an inside pocket of his uniform jacket, flipping it across the coffee table. Smithton caught it and swiped the back with a finger. He grinned. “You got a raise. I’m going to buy Addie something shiny with this.”

  John laughed. “You do that.”

  “Do what?” Adeline came through the door from the kitchen carrying a porcelain coffee service on a gold tray. Laura followed with a small silver plate piled with cookies.

  Smithton let his grin broaden. “Buy you a nice bauble with a week’s worth of John’s pay.”

  “What did you two argue over this time?” Laura asked. She put the plate on the coffee table and sat on the arm of John’s chair.

  John snaked an arm around his wife and leaned forward to grab a cookie. “I was sure I’d be shipping Miss Woolsey back to Tau Ceti by now.”

  “Oh ye of little faith,” Adeline scoffed, as she set the gold tray beside the silver plate and started serving coffee.

  John mumbled around a cookie. “What made you so sure this one would pass the Sural’s muster?” Adeline handed him, then Laura, steaming cups.

  “She’s really just a teacher from a tiny high school somewhere in Iowa,” Smithton said. “Speaks an ungodly number of languages and practiced them in the Babel cloud where someone noticed. She’s only twenty-seven. No secrets and clean as a babe in arms.”

  “Hah! You had inside information!”

  He sipped his whiskey, unperturbed. “You had access to it if you’d bothered. Besides—you don’t need your Earth Fleet salary any more than I do, though I do like to decorate my wife with it when you lose.”

  John snorted and stuffed another cookie in his mouth. Laura poured milk from a creamer into their coffees.

  “She seemed like a nice young woman.” Laura slid a cookie from the silver plate and nibbled at it. “I’m glad the Sural didn’t send her away.”

  “We all are,” John said. “But now the real work begins.”

  Chapter Three

  The Sural remained camouflaged in the audience room, observing the human woman as she left for her quarters with a servant. Some disinformation had provoked her reaction when she forgot herself and spoke English—she had expected a summary dismissal for a child’s mistake. She was little more than a child, at least in his people’s terms, and it seemed she required some re-education.

  He wanted to uncover her secret, but he suspected that would take time—seasons, perhaps years. What she hid lay so deep it had to be personal, and he would have to win her trust to uncover it. From what he could sense, that would be no easy task. Still, the humans had chosen better than they knew. This Marianne Woolsey possessed a natural reserve and an appealing clarity of spirit. His daughter would do well with such a companion.

  He dropped his camouflage and made his way to the open study off the audience room to read reports until the new tutor finished settling into her quarters. The stronghold seneschal rose from a chair near the desk as he entered the room.

  “This candidate is satisfactory,” the Sural said.

  The man bowed. “Yes, high one.”

  When the seneschal did not move to leave, he asked, “You have more to say?”

  “Is the human permitted to leave the plateau?”

  “I do not hold her captive.”

  “If she should wander into the city—”

  “She will see what I wish her to see.” He flicked a dismissal with one hand and turned his attention to a report while the man bowed and left. When a servant came to inform him that his new guest appeared to want to explore the gardens, he went out to intercept her.

  She stood on her veranda, gazing out into the gardens, when he walked out from behind a tree and into her line of sight. Hands clasped behind his back, he relaxed and dropped his air of authority, becoming more like the man who’d carried her bags up the cliff and little like the imposing ruler he affected in the audience room. He offered a friendly smile. Her answering smile became uncertain as he neared.

  “Would you care to see my gardens?” he asked, schooling his face back into impassivity.

  “Yes, many!” She stopped. She had used the wrong intonation and seemed to realize it. She tried again. “Yes, very much.”

  “Your language ability is impressive.” He led her out amid the flowers. The late afternoon sun hid behind the clouds, but the long summer would come soon. The cora trees had long since come into full leaf, and small pale blooms sprouted from the ground cover. He looked down at the flowers and took a deep breath. Their delicate fragrance filled the garden.

  “The groundcover requires a cold winter to bloom,” he said. “Can you smell it?”

  The young woman sniffed the air, and her face fell. She shook her head. “No, high one. The information Central Command gave me indicates your sense of smell is much more sensitive than ours.”

  “So it seems.” Comparing their sensory abilities was, perhaps, not the best topic to pursue. He veered away from it. “When did you begin to learn my language?”

  “Three—” She fell silent, struggling to find a word “Perhaps twenty or twenty-one days,” she finished. “We would call that three weeks.” On the last word, she dropped into English, and he sensed her anxiety spike.

  “So little time.” He offered a reassuring smile, but rather than quell the anxiety, he seemed to prolong it. He smoothed his face, and her tension eased. The woman was a puzzle.

  “There wasn’t enough time to give me a full vocabulary implant, but I have the essentials, and I have a—” she stopped, squeezing her eyes shut as she sought the proper word and intonation. “I remember everything I hear,” she finished.

  “A useful ability for one who specializes in language,” he said, sensing enjoyment begin to color her presence. She took a deep breath, tension dissolving from her as she exhaled. “You are free to wander the gardens whenever your duties permit,” he added. “It is quite safe.”

  She looked around her and sighed, her shoulders loosening and back straightening as she relaxed. Concentrating on exercising her language skill seemed to be enough to take her mind off the identity
of her conversation partner, despite her obvious travel fatigue.

  They neared a small cora tree in full bloom, its leafy branches covered with small white flowers. A gathering of flutters burst into the air, a riot of color swirling away, alarmed by the approach of a stranger. She stood still and, much to his surprise, faded from his senses a little, in an apparent attempt to lure the flutters back. He had not imagined a sense-blind human could possess such an ability.

  A few of the creatures returned, hopping about in the tree’s upper branches, agitated and scolding.

  “What are they?” she asked.

  “We call them flutters,” he said. “This kind can live only in cora trees.” He held out a hand and reached out to one with his senses, holding its primitive emotions captive. It flew onto his fingers and sang. She made a small, delighted sound, clapping her hands in front of her face. He kept the creature’s senses still, soothing it, and brought his hand down to her eye level.

  The little creature’s plumage shimmered in vivid shades of red, blue, and green, punctuated with bright white eyes and a black, conical beak. It gripped his fingers with its four feet and fluttered its wings, a small, living jewel. His human guest extended a hand to stroke its breast with a finger. The flutter crooned, and a delighted smile came to her lips. The Sural’s gaze fell on her face, and the smile captured him. A desire to let himself sink into those startling, luminous eyes stirred to life.

  No, he told himself. He loosed his grip on the flutter’s senses and it flew off, scolding. His guest laughed, her remarkable eyes following its progress through the garden. He withdrew back into himself, reflecting. She could not read him, he reminded himself. Humans were unaware of the world outside their own senses.

  A guard behind her flickered, reminding him of the time.

  “It is time for the evening meal, proctor,” he said, turning to head for the refectory’s garden entrance.

  “What was that word?” she asked as she fell in step beside him. “You used it before, in the audience room.”

  “A title we give to private tutors. Proctor.” He hid a smile. To educate his daughter, this new tutor needed to communicate well with him. That she felt comfortable enough to ask him a trivial question made a promising start.

  She mouthed the word, and then uttered it under her breath, running through all its intonations and inflections. She spoke with a pleasing accent, but although she could understand him and make herself understood, she would need to learn a great deal more of his language if she was to be his daughter’s tutor.

  He could think of no reason to disturb the family tutor with such a short-term venture—a linguist with a fair grasp of his language and an eidetic memory could become fluent before the end of the season. He would teach her himself.

  “Well done,” he said as they reached the refectory.

  He led her into the large room, filled with round wooden tables surrounded by elegant but simple wooden chairs. Stronghold staff occupied many of the round tables, wearing robes in the colors of their castes, from black to dark brown to pale yellow to dark indigo. Their quiet conversation created a pleasant background murmuring.

  In the center of the refectory, on a low dais, the long, rectangular high table stood. At one end sat his heavy, elaborately-carved chair, with simpler chairs lining the long sides. Tables laden with food trays populated one end of the room, where swinging doors led to the kitchens. The new tutor frowned a little.

  “High one,” she said, “I need to return to my quarters.”

  He raised both eyebrows at her. “Is there a difficulty?”

  “My food scanner,” she said. “I need it to tell me what I can eat.”

  He nodded and signaled a servant. “Bring it,” he ordered.

  “Yes, high one,” said the black-robed servant, disappearing. Since the refectory occupied the guest wing, he reappeared only a short time later, holding the small, thumb-sized scanner.

  She accepted the device and tapped one end to activate it. Engrossed in checking its settings, she failed to notice that the Sural and every Tolari nearby winced. It seemed human hearing could not detect the grating whine the device emitted. The Sural made a casual gesture for tolerance and led her toward the food, sensing the relief behind him when the irritating sound moved away.

  Trays covered the tables near the kitchens, loaded with fruit, greens, individual bowls of a thick soup, and grain rolls. Steaming carafes and empty mugs sat to one side.

  “This is tea,” he said, indicating the carafes. “From a flower we grow in cool river valleys. Suralia has many tea flower plantations.”

  She passed her scanner over a carafe, and a light on the device blinked green. This seemed to be a positive finding, for with a smile, she poured herself a mug and sipped at it.

  “Wonderful!” she exclaimed.

  He ventured a smile of satisfaction, which elicited no anxiety from her, and moved along the rest of the trays in turn. She scanned them all, finding a grain roll and a piece of fruit that the device proclaimed safe. The soup, he explained, consisted of vegetables and roots. The scanner flashed red—toxic.

  She juggled the food and the scanner, but he took the tea from her to free up a hand. With a grateful smile, she bowed her thanks. Then she turned her attention to the scanner and, much to his relief and that of everyone in the refectory, deactivated it.

  “It is my honor,” he murmured, accompanying her back to the high table. When he had settled her in the chair at the left hand of his own, he went back to the tables of food to select his own meal. In a low voice, he ordered a servant to remove the new tutor’s device during the night and have it repaired to no longer emit its irritating noise. Then, returning to the table, he took his place in the heavy chair to find she had waited for him to begin her own meal.

  “A human custom, to wait?” he asked.

  Marianne nodded, taking in the amount of food in front of him with disbelief. His eyes glinted as he started on his meal, and she turned to her own. Mimicking the eating habits she saw around her, she tore the grain roll in two and took an experimental bite from one half.

  The glaze was sweet, and the bready interior delicious and herby, but moments later a fierce afterburn lit a fire in her mouth and throat. Gasping, she grabbed her mug and took a long drink. The fire went out, much to her amazement. She panted, catching her breath, glancing at the Sural to find him regarding her with concern written across his face.

  “Are you in distress?” he asked.

  She nodded, then shook her head, then coughed a little and started to laugh. “I will be all right,” she said. She panted and fanned her mouth. “I don’t know the Tolari word.”

  “What is your word for it?”

  “Spicy hot,” Marianne answered in English. “Like a fire in the mouth,” she added in Tolari.

  “We do not have this concept.”

  She shrugged. “I can become accustomed to it.” She drew her brows together as she examined the piece of fruit she had brought back from the tables near the kitchen. It was purple and about the size of a man’s clenched fist. “How do I eat this?”

  The Sural offered a hand, and she passed it to him. He demonstrated where to start peeling and started it for her before handing it back. “Peel half, then eat,” he advised.

  She followed his directions and, taking caution from her experience with the grain roll, took a small first bite. Her eyes popped at the sweet and unusual flavor. “Sweet,” she said. “Like a banana.” She took another bite, nodding and smiling as she chewed.

  The Sural gave a satisfied nod and picked up his soup, drinking from the bowl. He alternated the soup with substantial bites of grain roll, which he often dipped in the soup first.

  “Do you have—” She paused, searching for words. “Small tools to eat food? Or small flat trays to hold it?”

  He lifted an eyebrow at her, smiling and shaking his head. She returned to her grain roll, eating small bites with liberal amounts of tea. Despite the heat-redu
cing properties of the tea, the spiciness added up. She leaned back with her tea after finishing half the roll, her stomach’s complaints reduced to something she could ignore.

  The Sural stared at her, sipping his own tea, his eyes studying hers. She tried and failed to hold back a grin. Even aliens, it seemed, couldn’t help noticing her eyes.

  “Do you think you will be content here among my people, proctor?” he asked.

  She leaned back to think. As tiring and overwhelming as the last two days had been, she wanted to bounce out of her chair and dance. She had gained the Sural’s acceptance where others had failed. “Yes, I believe I will.” The answer surprised her. “I’m glad I came.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “Did you not want to come to Tolar?”

  “Well,” she began, shifting in the chair. Had she given it away somehow that she hadn’t wanted to leave Earth? Anxiety jabbed her in the stomach. “Well.”

  The Sural seemed to focus on her. She fidgeted with her unfinished roll.

  “Do not fear me,” he said, his expression becoming serious. “I will never harm you. I have pledged my life on it to your government.”

  “You can send me away, though.”

  “I have said you may stay. I neither give nor change my word at whim.”

  She paused. If she said the wrong thing… she didn’t know if she’d spark an interstellar incident. “I—” she started.

  The Sural waited. He seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of patience… so far.

  “I never wanted to leave Earth,” she murmured, looking down at her hands.

  His face lost some of its impassiveness. “I understand what it is to love one’s homeworld,” he said.

  She gave him a quick glance, then looked back down to her hands and nodded. “It was a great honor to be chosen for this mission.” She took a breath. “But I never sought it.”

  “Why then did you come?”

  “Central Command chose me. I didn’t have a choice. My government said if I came and you sent me back, there would be no...” she searched for the word and didn’t find it, “bad actions.”