Sooooo outta here. Lishelle grabbed the loader and hustled for the exit. She didn’t even glance back at the intriguing Idrin.
Apparently shewasgoing to be that sour spinster space aunt.
The decks of the station being converted to rooms and suites were busier than other areas, and she passed more construction crews and decorators.Nor and Trixie had been the ones to suggest a resort retrofitting for the station, and the dowager duchess had embraced the idea like only a fancy lady creating essentially a space-going luxury liner could.
Hopefully it wouldn’t end like the Titanic…
Lishelle nodded to two workers who were installing lights over a concrete planter built along the bulkhead. They nodded back as she guided theanti-grav loader past a topiary shrubbery in a temporary pot waiting to be transplanted.
“So did they ever figure out what triggered the overgrowth?” one was asking. “I swear everything was pruned before we transported.”
The other shrugged. “Some sort of unusual blackbody radiation surge from the singularity, they said. Seems to have subsided, so we won’t have any more problems before the wedding.”
Weddings always had problems; that was what made them memorable. Except hers. Her wedding had been beautiful and problem-free.
The actual marriage, however…
Mistakes were made, as people liked to say in the passive voice, absolving any specific person of culpability. She thought of Trixie’s righteous scowl and heartfelt threat at the mention of Blackworm and his mercenaries. But did justiceor even revenge matter to the women who’d been sacrificed to the singularity?
Maybe once upon a time she’d have sat around—with weed or ghost-mead or totally sober—and opined on the point of it all, and she might’ve even namedropped some of her newly mastered terminology: membrane paradigm, curved spacetime, information loss paradox, quantum entanglement. She might’ve even got really nostalgicfor her old dorm room and wish she could debate Blackworm on the existence of God. Or gods, if she graciously granted him the Thorkon view of divinity as polytheistic.
But Blackworm was (thank God or gods) dead. And she had purple ribbons to hang.
At the bridal suite, she waved her hand over the lock, and the door opened with a welcoming chime.
Though the suite was huge enough to hold allthe accouterments of a noble wedding, Rayna had told the estate staff to do the bare minimum in renovations here and spend their time in the public areas that would most benefit the relaunch of the station’s image. A savvy move, Lishelle thought; Rayna might have fought against the responsibilities of leadership at first, but she would be an admirable duchess.
The two women who’d decided to havetheir memories wiped when they returned to Earth and the families of the abducted victims who hadn’t made it would never know where the survivors benefits slipped into their finances came from. The success of the station would be some small, insufficient payback for their experiences with Blackworm.
Lishelle opened the crate that held the wedding dress. Stasis gel had kept the elaborate pleatsfrom being crushed, so she didn’t have to do more than give it a gentle shake and hang it on a rack where it would wait for the big day. She touched the tissue-thin layers of fabric a little wistfully. Her own wedding dress had been traditional white—not that she’d been a virgin—and she decided she rather preferred the Thorkon custom of wearing whatever looked joyful and best on the bride. Whatwould she wear if she was getting married today?
She turned away from the pretty dress with a snort. She wasn’t making that mistake again, not even with a rich, noble alien.
Restlessly, she straightened some of the detritus from the last few frantic days. Maybe the two couples were still at the landing pad and they could all grab a late dinner together…but she wasn’t sure she could overcomeher own churlish bitterness enough to fool them. But she didn’t want to be alone either. Maybe the gardeners would want to get a drink.
But when she stepped out into the corridor, she found only the sculpted topiary bush in its planter standing sentinel. She let out a disgruntled breath. That’s what she got for being stuck inside her own head.
Never mind. She had plenty of reading to keep herentertained this evening and plenty to do tomorrow. If there were a few empty hours in the middle… Well, she’d moped herself to sleep more than once, even on Earth.
She locked the suite behind her and set off down the passageway. Apparently it was later than she’d thought—however much therewasa later in space—because all the staff seemed to have checked out for the night. The halls on the wayto her private suite were empty. And that damned echo was following her again.
Refusing to look over her shoulder, she stomped down the corridor. When she was upset enough, she could make even slippers stompy.
She crossed into one of the nexus atriums where several corridors met under a high transparent steel dome. The station decorators had added a couple benches and more concrete planterswith topiary, some of which were blooming already. Not yili or crocuses but some other alien flower as big and yellow as a mammoth sunflower but as intricately composed as an orchid with veins of darkest crimson, like heart’s blood. She focused on the pretty blooms and their drifting fragrance—sweet but musky—so she didn’t have to acknowledge the partial view of the black hole visible through theskylight.
The most annoying thing about the relatively quick spin of the station, which helped maintain the artificial gravity—she never knew which turn of a hallway would suddenly show that glaring celestial eye. It was like some unnerving creeper always peeping in the windows. She knew it wasn’t sentient, and yet…
Despite her best intentions, she realized she was staring up at it, a slightcrick in her neck, as if she’d been standing there longer than she remembered. When she shook her head, her vision swam a little, and the musky-sweet perfume of the alien flowers seemed to waft through her veins.
The scent reminded her of the last hot summer days in Tennessee shortening to chilly nights, the little crabapples outside her aunties’ farmhouse sweetening to hard cider under brilliantleaves, heady and buzzing with bees.
Certainly her head was buzzing now as if she’d gotten into the weed and the ghost-mead and all the sugary wedding cake at once…
Between the distraction of the alien flower and astral phenomenon overhead, she excused herself for not noticing the being standing in the middle of the nexus. Like she’d been, he was staring up at the skylight, but one of his handscupped a flower, as if he was admiring its scent and beauty before the black hole came into view.
Shewas admiring his long artisan fingers stroking the yellow petals. Hands big enough to hold a woman of any size…
Hold up, girl. Maybe this alien preferred embracing men of any size. Or mishkeets. What did she know about alien loving?
