Unexpectedly, he reached out for her hand. That look had returned he wasn’t hiding it now but she still wasn’t sure what it was. “One thing at a time, Kris. Just take it one thing at a time.”
Chapter 5
Northern California Territory
Western Federal District, Terra, Sol
“Would you like to go shopping? Maybe look at some new clothes?” Mariwen asked, surveying Kris across the remains of their light breakfast: fresh winter peaches from the orchard outside, duck confit, and hash browns.
Kris plucked at the oversized tee shirt she was wearing. “Something wrong with this?”
“Of course not,” Mariwen chided with a teasing smile. “It’s lovely. Something doesn’t have to be wrong to go clothes shopping.”
Kris raised a skeptical eyebrow. The entirety of her personal belongings fit into the large duffle bag in the bedroom closet and off-duty, her notions of what to wear (or whether to wear anything at all) were a bit unorthodox. This AM, however, she’d put on that big slouchy sylph-cotton tee shirt, tight black exercise shorts and her undress service boots, half-laced. It was something of a departure from the white or gray tank tops and beige cargo pants she often wore; softer, more relaxed, and Mariwen thought quite a bit sexier with the way the capacious neck opening would slip off one leanly muscular, tanned shoulder.
But it was the shirt’s color that caught Mariwen’s attention: an attractive olive that brought out the green in Kris’ hazel eyes. With a couple of minor additions, say a bit of silver jewelry or a splash of turquoise, the ensemble would be comfortably stylish. Kris was a beautiful girl; indeed, she’d never seen a girl more beautiful, and while that beauty had a feral edge that made it less accessible than Mariwen’s own, she felt it was even more arresting. She understood Kris’ aversion to doing anything to enhance her appearance, and as much as she loved Kris in her raw unpolished state, she couldn’t quell an inward desire to adorn what she loved. That Kris had picked that exact shade of olive to complement her eyes had kindled a tiny cherished flame of hope.
“Umm . . . okay,” Kris agreed with a note of caution. She’d been shopping with Mariwen once before: an evening they went out together in Nemeton, shortly after they met. Mariwen had dressed her up, they’d had an early dinner, and she’d been dragged through a bewildering array of shops most quite exclusive, Mariwen being at the height of her fame then listening to Mariwen coo and comment and editorialize. They’d ended the evening at the metroplex’s most fashionable night spot, where she’d watched Mariwen dance alone to the strains of a single haunting bamboo flute played by a wizened little man, not more than a meter-and-a-half tall, who would introduce now and again a curious hesitation into the complexly hued music, a beat or two of stillness that had a strikingly touching effect.
It had been fun, from first to last, and her memories of that evening were darkly bittersweet. She wasn’t sure if Mariwen remembered it at all she rather thought she didn’t and she was careful not to bring it up. Nor had she quite gotten over her association of shopping with Trench and her life as his slave. Those memories, especially his idea of making her ‘try things on’ had lost most of their power, but a twinge remained.
“I mean, could we?” Kris said, by way of covering her thoughts. “It wouldn’t be a problem?” Mariwen was still officially in protective custody, under the jurisdiction of the Terran Office of Special Investigations. That imposed restrictions on her travel, but Kris didn’t know to what degree.
“I’d have to call in,” Mariwen said with a shrug. “It’s not like we’d be going to NYC or Berlin. I don’t think I’m quite up for that much excitement, just yet.”
“So . . . where’d you have in mind?”
“Taos.”
“Taos?”
“It’s in New Mexico.” Mariwen picked up her xel, unfurled it and tapped up a map reference. “It’s a chartered artists’ community. Small, but there are some excellent designers there. And the best jewelers on the planet. See?” She held the xel out.
“That’s only two hundred klicks from Kirkland,” Kris said, noting the big Terran naval base that surrounded the Southwestern District capital of Albuquerque on three sides. So it wasn’t some jaunt halfway around the globe she was being roped into, and she’d have to be more than blind not to see how badly Mariwen wanted to go. “Not more than an hour. If we take my flyer from Beale to Kirkland and then catch a cab, we’ll be there before lunchtime.”
“Then you don’t mind? Really?”
“No.” Kris handed the xel back. “Sounds like fun. But when are your brother and his family supposed to get here?”
“Oh! Not until the weekend. Sorry, I forgot to tell you something came up.” Mariwen’s brother, Christopher Antoine Rathor (Chris to Mariwen, and Antoine to everyone else), worked in one of the Terran security departments, the Office of TransStellar Issues on Lunar One. In his line of work, things often came up.
“So we have all day, then,” Kris said with her best smile.
Mariwen regarded that smile narrowly. “I promise I won’t ask you to try on any dresses.”
“Fine. Okay. When do you want to leave?”
“I’ll call in now.” Mariwen stood up with a happy little bounce and then glanced down. “I suppose I should put some clothes on, too.”
Kris’ smile edged into a grin. “Spoilsport.”
Chapter 6
Taos, New Mexico Territory
Southwestern Federal District, Terra, Sol
Taos greeted them with a brisk wind coming off the mountains to the northeast, scented with cedar, sedge, mountain juniper and new snow. Mariwen took it in with closed eyes, one deep pure lungful after another, and fanned her long hair out with both hands, letting the swift chill air dance with it.
“God, I’ve missed this,” she sighed a minute later, her face suffused with intense pleasure. A playful gust frisked around the skirt of her long silk dress, a riot of pastels she called ‘mugged by spring’ and worn in a spirit of celebration today being the vernal equinox, as Kris had learned from Mariwen after she obliquely questioned wearing such a light dress on such a decidedly cool day. Her trill of delighted laughter turned heads for fifty meters in every direction. Not many heads, for the combination of it being midweek, before lunch, and the breeze (Kris figured that dress must be warmer than it looked) contrived to reduce pedestrian traffic to a minimum. Which was fine with Kris, who had an intense dislike of crowds and could have wished the conditions even less hospitable.
The aerial cab had dropped them off at the southern end of the downtown shopping district, where the car park was; the only modern-looking structure around, all gothic arches of gleaming white metal and faceted curving glass panes, it was a rather whimsical design and extraordinary to walk through with all the refracting and re-refracting light, but it still reminded Kris of a gigantic fish skeleton.
The rest of the buildings in the downtown were low (nothing over three stories) and constructed in a solid, unassuming lived-in style that harmonized much better with the surrounding landscape, and painted in earth tones to match. There were few lit signs and no glitter or sparkle of any kind. The main streets were flagged, not paved, the narrow alleys leading off them were cobbled, and many of the buildings had covered porches or raised sidewalks of unfinished wood. When it gusted strongly, the wind made a curious two-toned moan like the hollow breath of a great organ, which paradoxically lent an air of stillness that made Mariwen’s laughter and the smiles of the passersby seem like the flash of speculars off a pond.
“Art, food or clothes first?” Mariwen demanded cheerfully.
Breakfast had been recent; clothes Kris thought she should work up to. “Art.”
“Excellent!” Mariwen looped her arm through Kris’. “There are dozens of galleries in this place, you know.”
She looked up at Mariwen up because Mariwen was an inch-and-a-half taller in her bare feet, and today she’d added to that advantage by wearing three-inch heels, while Kris
had her service boots on.
“Just what are you getting me into here?”
“Come and see.”
Art galleries, sculpture gardens, and a massive carved crystal taller than Kris: seven meters long, it took in all the colors of the sky and was full of hollows and passages that used running water and the inconstant breeze to make the most incredible sounds Kris had even heard. A monumental limestone fountain set about with nude life-sized nymphs in flirtatious poses, all carved out of warm alabaster and pale translucent chalcedony that’s what Kris thought anyway, until the one on the far right turned her head and blew them a kiss.
“What was that?” Kris asked as they left, hoping it wasn’t obvious that she’d nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Amalie Chalkis. That’s her dance troupe. They do installations like that all the time, including a one every Christmas at the Met. She’s a noted butoh dancer, too. In fact, she does about everything.”
“Is she a friend of yours?”
“She was one of Lora’s clients before we got married. Sweet lady. Very talented. We stayed close. I’ll introduce you, if you like. Once she’s not working.” Seeing the glimmer of discomfort on Kris’ face at the prospect, Mariwen gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Only if you want to. Let’s go in here.”
Mariwen led her into a long two-story building whose large atrium was illuminated entirely by a little sun, no bigger than a ping pong ball, about which orbited a perfect scale model of the solar system out to Saturn. Jupiter, at almost two millimeters, was barely visible, but the other mote-sized planets could only be seen with the little scopes that lined the atrium’s periphery and revealed them to be perfect reproductions, down to the scale of microns.
The rest of the gallery was given over to traditional paintings, hung in a maze of rooms and alcoves lit with floating plume lights, tunable from candlelight to the brightest sunshine. There were many pretty ones, some inexplicable ones, a few profound ones, and two surprises. The first surprise came as they walked hand-in-hand down one of the back hallways, where lesser works were displayed away from more favored artists. This one had its own niche, and if it hadn’t been for the strange, almost holographic technique the artist used, Kris would not have noticed it. A field of stars seemed to float above the canvas, and in the background was a nebula with a woman’s face worked into it.
“Hey, that’s you!” Kris exclaimed in a low voice and turned to see Mariwen’s lips twisting.
“That’s Ari Tapper. God, I wonder how he got in here.” It was true that the painting, aside from the floating-stars effect, was not really up to par. And even the holographic technique had a gimmicky feel to it, once you got used to the novelty. Worse, there was clearly some ‘star queen’ thing going on here, and if that cliché wasn’t bad enough, he’d managed to make Mariwen look like just any pretty girl, something Kris would not have thought possible. Noting the title on the little plaque, Kris looked back at Mariwen.
“The Sweet Influences of the Pleiades?”
Mariwen rolled her eyes. “Probably thought it was romantic. He was a bit of a pest, actually.”
“Did he make it up?”
“That title? No.” A deep chuckle. “It’s from the Bible.”
Kris shook her head. In primary school on Parson’s Acre, the colony where she grew up, they had a Bible reading for twenty minutes every day right after lunch. It was a good time for a quick nap.
“‘Canst thou bind the sweet influences of the Pleiades,” Mariwen recited, “or loose the bands of Orion?’”
“Oh.” Kris ran a hand through the hair at her temple. “That’s kinda pretty.” Mariwen scrunched a face at her. “The quote not the painting. That painting’s the square root of fuck-all. He doesn’t know the first thing about you.”
Snuggling up to her with a soft laugh, Mariwen stroked a fingertip down her nose. “Goodness, love, you have such unsuspected depth. That’s one of the best pieces of art criticism I ever heard.”
Kris’ hands greedily embraced two warm full curves beneath the silk of the Mariwen’s dress. “You just gotta give me a chance.”
“Wicked,” Mariwen whispered and wiggled so the silk slid and rustled under Kris’ palms. At that instant, a trio of patrons came around the corner and walked past, staring straight ahead with glassy-eyed concentration. Kris and Mariwen watched them until they disappeared into a side passage. Then their eyes locked.
“Oops!”
Mariwen almost doubled up in a fit of giggles, and Kris had to keep one hand over her mouth while she propped Mariwen up with the other.
“Oh, good lord!” Mariwen gasped, wiping her eyes when she could straighten up again.
“You think they recognized you?” Kris asked, hoping they hadn’t alerted the whole gallery with their laughter.
“Who knows?” Mariwen shook her hair out of her grinning face. “That’s all we need! Top Line: Reclusive Former Model Gets Felt Up in Art Gallery! Video next!”
“You don’t really think there’s any chance of that, do you?” Kris was beginning to feel a twinge of doubt.
Mariwen nuzzled her cheek. “Welcome to the Big Leagues, sweetheart.”
The second surprise came half an hour later and could not have been more dissimilar. Wandering aimlessly, Kris lost Mariwen for a few minutes, and, turning down a corridor in search of her, she looked to her left and stopped dead.
Kris was mostly unacquainted with painting, but she knew this one: a nude young woman, heavily pregnant, rendered in profile with just a few inexpressibly poignant lines against a distant forest darkening under a watercolor sunset, the bellies of the gracefully suggested clouds tinted as with a wash of blood. On her left shoulder, facing away, a raven simply a stark black shape but for the glint in his pitiless charcoal eye trembled on the edge of taking flight, claws biting into the thin, insubstantial flesh: insubstantial, ethereal, fragile; a palimpsest. Only her unborn child was picked out in detail, vibrantly excruciating detail, pulsing with life. On the whole, it was wonderfully and terribly sad, yet somehow not despairing. The young woman’s closed-eyed expression conveyed much more than the peace of mere acceptance: a divine sorrow perhaps, closely allied with a state of grace, a willingness to not be, to entrust the last of herself to the messenger poised on her shoulder, to be remembered in the life of her child, whom she knew so intimately but would never see.
A gentle touch on Kris’ elbow startled her.
“Sorry,” Mariwen whispered. Kris reached back and squeezed her hand. Mariwen looked carefully from her lover’s eyes to the painting and back, noting the wet gleam there.
“Why do you think she put a raven in it?” Kris asked in a like whisper, well aware that Mariwen had done her master’s thesis on modes of communication among ravens.
“I can’t say.” Mariwen leaned forward to read the artist’s name, Autumn Laïs. She didn’t recognize it. “Do you know her?” It would be rather extraordinary if Kris did, but then Kris was full of surprises.
“No.” Kris nodded at the painting. “But Rafe has it.”
“Rafe has this painting?”
“In Michigan.”
Mariwen recalled the rambling Oscoda estate with its vast art collection: many Sargents, some Waterhouses, a few Rembrandts and couple of Titians, the Degas and Vermeers Rafe’s grandfather had especially loved, a room devoted to Hokusai and the Ukiyo-e collection with rare erotic works by Utamaro and Yoshitoshi, along with a host of lesser pieces by artists as varied as the Wyeths, Ariel Lynn and Lucian Wicklow, and of course the grand reproduction of Parrish’s Daybreak on the long wall of the vast formal dining room, his late mother’s delight. It was an eclectic assemblage but tied together with the recognizable threads of a refined but somewhat elastic esthetic. This painting would seem to have no place in it.
“It’s in his bedroom,” Kris added. “In that little alcove where he keeps paper books. By the stairs.”
“Next to the pantry for the second kitchen?” When Mariwen was familiar with
Huron’s suite at Oscoda, the only paintings she’d seen were in his office, which at that time was rather whimsically decorated with the nudes by Teijo Santos, Isabelle Tichenoire and Michael Parkes. That was years and years ago.
“Uh huh.” Kris’ fingers tightened a little on Mariwen’s hand.
“Well, if Rafe has it, you can bet it’s the original. Looks like she’s only selling nine prints, though. That’s number seven.” Kris made no response to the affectedly casual comment, and Mariwen gave her hand a gentle tug. “C’mon. There’re a couple more things I want to show you.”
* * *
When they regained the street, the gallery’s possibilities having finally been exhausted, Kris turned again to Mariwen and asked, “Do you think Rafe had that specially painted?”
“You mean commissioned?”
“If that’s what you call it.”
Mariwen shrugged.
“So it wasn’t there before?”
Another uncomfortable lift and fall of her shoulders. “I don’t remember it being there.” They both knew that while Mariwen was by all observables fully recovered, there were gaps and lapses in her memories, likely very significant ones, and Kris hated bringing them up. She hated it for the look it brought to Mariwen’s face the look she was seeing there right now: a deep hurt desperately masquerading as something (anything) else; a loss that could not be mourned because it could not be named; a theft forever experienced in present tense.
“Sorry,” Kris breathed out with a shake of her arms, ashamed at her mood casting a pall over such a fine day. On top of Mariwen’s look, fleeting though it was, that painting so profound, so personal, touching areas about which Rafe never spoke, hints that never made it past the armor, the merest flicker at times, so brief it might have been imagined had unleashed a tumult of memories that shook her to her core. “I just wasn’t expecting to see that. It got me a little spooked, I guess.”
Mariwen stopped and curled her fingers in the front of Kris’ jacket. “I can certainly understand that. It’s an extraordinary painting. I’d be kinda worried if you weren’t a little spooked.”
The Bonds of Orion (Loralynn Kennakris Book 5) Page 4