“Do you begrudge Ada and Catarina for the pieces of yourself you gave?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then believe that Benedict doesn’t begrudge you, either.”
“Easier said than done,” I murmured.
“I know.”
We lapsed into silence. I’d learned more about Ian in the last ten minutes than I had in the eighteen months he’d been my bodyguard. He’d shared a story from his childhood to make me feel better and to distract me from my worries.
“Thank you, Ian,” I whispered.
“You’re welcome.”
I drifted off to sleep, still bound by the fragile connection of my fingers on his shoulder.
When I awoke, Ian was gone. Last night was a hazy memory, as ephemeral as a dream. Had he really come into my room to make me feel better or had I imagined the whole thing?
I checked my com and the message from Benedict was all too real. Ian could’ve used Benedict’s deployment as an excuse to send me home, but instead he’d come to check on me and offer comfort. The man was a walking contradiction.
I showered and dug through the bag of clothes Ian had packed for me. As expected, he’d only packed what was in my closet, which was entirely utilitarian. These clothes would be perfect for fitting in on Matavara, but not so good for dress shopping on High Street.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have any other option because from what I’d seen, Ada’s supplies in the cargo bay included more of the same—she had outfitted me for combat, not shopping. I dressed in sturdy black pants, a short-sleeved gray shirt, and heavy boots. Any shop that turned me away didn’t deserve my business in the first place.
The mess hall was a medium-sized room on the middle level, just down from the crew quarters. A food synthesizer and recycler were set into the back wall and the rest of the space was filled with two white plastech tables surrounded by chairs.
Ian sat at the near table, wearing a near match to my outfit. It was still disconcerting to see him in something other than a suit—it made him more human. He had a plate of what appeared to be eggs and bacon in front of him, along with a cup of coffee.
I nodded at him, wary, but he just nodded back and continued to eat his breakfast. Some of my tension drained away. Perhaps he wasn’t going to mention my meltdown.
I crossed to the food synthesizer, a small rectangular box that ran off the ship’s power. It converted energy into matter and could make nearly any food in the ’verse, assuming you’d bought the recipe. The Consortium strictly controlled both the recipes and the technology because synthesizers were one of the core technologies that made life easier, and the Consortium wanted everyone to know exactly who had provided that benefit.
And who could take it away.
I hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday, so I needed to try to force something down. After falling asleep without restarting the silencer, my head ached. I could feel the signals of Honorius pressing against my skull.
I settled on a cranberry scone with jam and a cup of sweet, milky tea. I preferred coffee, but sometimes my stomach reacted better to tea. Having been raised on freshly prepared meals, I thought synth food tasted slightly weird because the recipe in the system didn’t match what our chefs had prepared. The difference was less obvious with simple foods.
The synth dinged when my food was ready. I opened the door and pulled out a plate with one perfect scone and a steaming cup of tea. I carried my breakfast to the small table Ian occupied.
“Good morning,” I said. “Are we in Honorius?”
“Yes, we landed last night. We berthed next to our new ship. The security team will transfer the supplies once we leave. Do you know where you want to go shopping?”
“High Street. The boutiques there should have what I need, though we may have to try a few before one lets me in.” At Ian’s raised brow, I waved a hand at my clothes. “I don’t exactly scream Consortium royalty in this getup and High Street boutiques are notoriously elitist. You don’t need to go with me.”
“But I will,” he said, iron in his tone.
“Suit yourself.”
I broke off a piece of the scone and slathered it in jam. I needed the calories however I could get them. The smell turned my stomach, but I forged ahead. Sometimes the nausea was a false alarm. I ate a second bite and my stomach rolled. I sighed and sipped my tea, hoping the warm liquid would settle the queasiness. It did not. I pushed the plate away, aware of Ian’s sharp gaze following the movement.
“Is that all you’re going to eat?” he asked.
“I haven’t decided,” I said.
“Did you eat dinner last night?”
I’d promised him honesty, but answering the question would just lead to more questions. “Did you?”
“Yes, I had a protein shake. Now stop trying to avoid the question.”
“I did not eat dinner. I wasn’t hungry.” Not a lie.
“You need to eat more.”
No shit, detective. I barely stopped myself from saying the words out loud. “I eat what I can. My stomach has been weak lately.”
“Since when?”
Since my husband injected me with experimental nanobots and fucked up my life. “It is not your concern. It doesn’t affect my ability to do my job or find Ferdinand.”
“Your safety is my concern. If you pass out from hunger—”
“Give me some credit, Director Bishop,” I said, my voice cold. “I’ve never passed out from hunger, nor have I come close. If it becomes a concern, I will let you know. Until then, I would appreciate it if you would leave it alone.”
His jaw flexed, but he held his silence.
I finished my tea, forced down one more bite of scone, then dumped my dirty dishes in the recycler. It would break them down into energy that could be used by the ship or the synthesizer in the future.
“I’m ready when you are,” I said.
Ian drained the last of the coffee from his cup and put his dishes in the recycler. “Lead the way.”
Chapter 13
People expected High Street to be a riot of color and fashion, but it was a quiet little street with wide sidewalks and old brick shops with frosted-glass windows and understated black signage. These boutiques didn’t need to attract window-shoppers.
The first boutique worker took one look at my clothes and announced they were closed, despite the three other customers in the store. Ian bristled, but I just smiled and moved on. I was about to spend a mountain of credits—if they didn’t want my business, that was their loss.
The girl working the front counter at the third shop couldn’t have been more than eighteen, with freckled ivory skin and natural red hair. She wore a simple A-line dress that was the uniform of the boutique, but hers was in emerald green, which perfectly matched her wide eyes. She looked at me rather than my clothes. “Lady von Hasenberg,” she stammered, “welcome to Boutique Blanchard. How may we assist you?”
“I need a dress and everything that goes with it.”
“Right this way, my lady,” she said. She led me to a richly appointed sitting room, and gestured for me to have a seat on the upholstered sofa. “Madame Blanchard will be with you shortly. May I bring you some tea or coffee?”