Aiah is tall, but Constantine is taller, broad-shouldered, with powerful arms and a barrel chest. His skin is blue-black, and his hair is oiled and braided and worn over the left shoulder, tipped with the silver ornament of the School of Radritha. He is over sixty years of age, but plasm rejuvenation treatments have kept his body young and at the peak of health. His face is a bit fleshy, a suggestion of indulgence that serves to make him more interesting than otherwise, and his booted feet glide over the thick carpet without a sound.

The deep voice rolls on, imitating the clipped delivery of a tour guide. “We also have the Raptor Wing,” he says, “the Swan Wing, with its luxury apartments, and the Crane Wing…” His eyes never leave hers, his intent mind almost visible behind them, clearly considering subjects more vital than a verbal tour of the palace.

The voice trails off as he comes within arm’s reach. There is a touch of caution in his fierce glance, a sense again of something withheld. A decision, perhaps. Or judgment. Or both.

“May I ask why you are here?” he says. Aiah’s heart is a trip-hammer in her throat. Mistake, she thinks, mistake.

“To work, I suppose,” she says.

He smiles, and Aiah concludes it’s the right answer. A sudden wave of relief makes her dizzy.

He opens his arms and folds her in them. His scent swirls through her senses, and she realizes how much she’s missed it.

Absurd to care so much, she thinks. Constantine is a great figure, a part of something huge, much bigger than even he—he does not belong even to himself, let alone to her.

Aiah tells herself this, and sternly.

But her lecture has nothing to do with her longings. Her longings are self-contained, and happy within themselves.

Through the embrace Aiah can feel Constantine’s weight shifting slightly, a sign of restlessness. He is not a notably patient man. She releases him, steps back.