Excerpts from Simone
Simone and Gaius - Getting Reaquainted
He turned his gaze to me, studying me for a moment before responding. “I might have made a suggestion or two since I arrived, if that’s what you’re driving at, but the elders organized this long ago. Malcolm was assigned to this room when the previous occupant was released.”
“Elders?”
“They’re not the oldest in the prison, but they were leaders of one kind or another before coming here. For the sake of order, those with wisdom and experience easily rose to the top.”
“Through loyalty or by means of gentle persuasion?”
Gaius strode to the far corner and sat cross-legged, as if preparing for meditation. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” I remained several feet from him, not liking this change of topic, and finding it difficult to hold his gaze.
“Whenever a bit of personal information slips out from beneath your iron walls, you become defensive and irritable.”
“I do not.” I bit my lip, my fangs piercing it. The blood tasted as bitter as my attitude. He might not have said much about what I’d shared about my family, but he’d still been thinking about it. Damn him.
Gaius closed his eyes, not bothering to hide his grin. “Don’t worry. I don’t fault you for it. It’s just that you’ve grown into such a steadfast member of a cadre, it surprises me you can still be moved by emotion.”
“Is that a crime?” My neck hairs rose, and I clasped my hands behind my back to prevent them from turning into fists.
His chuckle made me want to growl. The only feeling I was currently suppressing was the need to punch him.
“I simply didn’t expect a personal memory to leak through that hard shell you’ve wrapped yourself in. The implacable Simone. The one who won’t give an inch or ever forgive.” He opened his eyes, the smile refusing to fade. “You weren’t always like that, you know.”
I turned away, suddenly interested in an odd assortment of cheap jewelry. This was what I got for opening up. I must have hit my head at some point during the torture session.
Gaius reads poetry
Gaius picked up a book he’d been reading and showed her the cover.
“Poetry?” Simone smirked, but he knew it was a front. He’d once caught her reading a book of poems while sitting in his rose garden, but she’d hidden it in the folds of her robe. She would never admit she enjoyed it. The subject matter forced too many emotions.
“It’s a collection from various poets. Why don’t I read one or two to pass the time? You used to tolerate it.”
She grumbled as she repositioned herself, leaning on her left hip. “Barely.”
He flipped through the book. He’d never heard of any of the poets, and the writing was in Arabic, but he translated easily enough, reading a short one followed by a much longer one. When he’d finished the third one, a story of lost love, he glanced her way.
Her head rested on the rough stone, eyes closed, and a narrow line had formed between her brows. Something was on her mind.
“You didn’t like the poems.”
Her eyes flashed open. “What?”
He rubbed the spot between his brows. “You get this fine line right here when you’re unhappy about something. Or, in this case, perhaps it’s your distaste for my selection of poems.”
“I do not.” She rubbed the same spot, and when he grinned, she turned away, but not before he caught the brief upturn of her lips. “The poems were fine.”
“If you say so.” He flipped the page several times, searching for something more complex.
“You never said why you’re here.” Simone turned back to him. Her eyes had narrowed. Not by much, but he could still catch the briefest changes in her expression.
“What?”
“How did you end up here? What exactly is this one male trek with old contacts all about? You know some believe you’ve gone mad with the blood disease, even with your denials. Is that what this is all about?”
“That’s absurd. I don’t have the blood disease.”
“Are you sure?”
He glanced down at the book, his finger running down the page. Of course, he was sure. He wanted to trust her with why he was so certain about it, but he wasn’t ready. He didn’t know how much she knew. How far had Trelane succeeded in uncovering the truth about the Council?
When he didn’t answer, she persisted. “Then why?”
Was this some strange dance of who would shed their secrets first? “Why are you following me? Or are you on a single trek of your own?”
“God, you’re impossible.” She stood and faltered a bit when she took a step. It didn’t stop her from pacing around the alcove, rubbing her right hip as she moved.
“You haven’t performed your Tai Chi today. Why don’t you lead me through your routine? If we’re going to attempt an escape, it’s best if we’re both limber.”
He wanted to tell her about the Dagger of Omar. As a bodyguard in his House, she’d seen him carry it with him to many places. He’d been doing it long before she came to his service. The question was whether she’d been searching for him or for the dagger. What other answer could there be? What indeed.
When she settled into her beginning pose, he didn’t say a word as he followed her movements. He kept an eye on her right leg. It was still weak, but mostly unnoticeable, until it wasn’t. The worst kind of injury, which left one unable to trust that part of their body. She appeared capable of compensating for it. He’d seen this type of injury many times and could offer a suggestion or two, but this wasn’t the time. So, he followed, pleased to simply exist in her noble presence.