by J. S. Volpe
* * *
When he returned to the living room, she sat in the rocking chair with The Shen Mystery Scroll open in her lap.
She shut the book and placed it atop the stack beside her.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Much better. Thanks.” He paused before her chair, noting the way she stiffened a little as he did so. “I appreciate your helping me. I really do. That’s twice I owe you.”
“Twice?”
“You did save my ass in New Portland, remember.”
“Oh.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I’m not really keeping track.”
“At any rate, one of these days I’ll pay you back for all you’ve done. But right now I need to get going.”
“Oh!”
He savored her brief look of surprise. She hadn’t been expecting that at all.
“Um…” She shrugged. “If you’re sure. You’re not really fully healed yet, you know.”
He suppressed a rueful smile. He could tell this feeble protest was merely for politeness’ sake. Deep down, it was clear she was glad he was going.
“I’m fine,” he said as he put on his boots. “People like us, we’re hearty. We heal fast.”
“True.”
He headed to the closet for his jacket. When he saw the tattered, blood-stained mess hanging at the far right side of the rack, well away from Solace’s own outerwear, he sighed, then yanked it off its hanger, rolled it up, and tucked it under his arm. That had been his favorite jacket, too.
He shut the closet door and turned to Solace, who had risen to see him out.
“Thanks again,” he said.
“Not a problem. People are supposed to help each other. Um…” She frowned, glanced at the couch. “Are you absolutely sure you’re well enough to—”
“I’m fine. Trust me. I’ve already imposed more than enough. I’m sure you have a life to get back to, and to be honest, I have some important business to take care of that’ll keep me occupied for quite some time. Which means that while I’d love to stay in touch, I’m afraid it’s not really doable right now.”
She studied his face a moment as if suspecting a trick. Then, finding no evidence of one, she smiled with obvious relief.
“Well, maybe things’ll be more propitious next time around,” she said. “I hope things work out okay for you.”
“I usually land on my feet.” He smiled, remembering what had happened last time they met. “It’s just, sometimes I land a few thousand miles from where I started out.”
She gave him a puzzled smile, not understanding the comment but feeling obliged to return the good humor.
He opened the door, stepped through, looked back. “Take care.”
“You too.”
She shut the door.
He stood in the hallway a moment, listening. He heard no sounds from the apartment. No creak of floorboards. No rustle of fabric. He knew she was standing there on the other side of the door, listening just as he was. It crossed his mind that the next time they met, the rocking chair and the couch and the books and the frog shower curtain and maybe even the building itself would probably no longer exist.
With a grunt, he headed off to make ready for war.
6
Peridor
5989 A.C.