Free Damia by Anne McCaffrey Page A

up and she responded with generous compliments.
    “What else did you get? Besides,” and her smile was mischievous, “reams of origami papers?”
    She helped him unpack the rest of his purchases and approved of the disposition of furniture and furnishings.
    “Would you care for something to drink or eat?” he asked her, finally recognizing the onset of hunger and thirst in himself now that the day’s demands had eased.
    “No, not tonight, I think, Afra. If you would be kind enough to join me tomorrow evening, I would be glad of your company.” She threw back her head, making eye contact. “I’m a good cook.”
    *   *   *
    The Rowan was subdued the next morning, but her work was steady and her manner much improved over the day before. Still, by the end of the shift, Afra steeled himself against the Rowan reneging on dinner.
    He was positively startled when she asked: “Is six too early?”
    Afra shook his head. “No, not at all.” His eyes lit appreciatively. “Can I bring anything?”
    The Rowan gave him a deep smile. “Some origami paper, as I know I won’t be robbing you.”
    With a wad of various colors and sizes of paper, Afra paused nervously outside her quarters. He took a deep breath and pressed his hand against the door plate.
    Come
, the Rowan said, and the door slid open.
    Afra took one step inside and went no further as he took in the Rowan’s spacious quarters. He had been more than pleased with his rooms, but this!—this was palatial. Of course, she was a Prime and less than this sort of luxury would have been insulting. Nevertheless, his eye was drawn here and there by the clever disposition of sculpture, paintings, and the style of the furnishings. She had simple but extremely elegant taste.
    And, judging by the subtle aroma that drifted across the lounge area, that extended to her cooking. He took a deep breath.
    “Smells great!”
    “Tantalizing, huh?” the Rowan called, ducking to peerout from the kitchen hatch. “It ought to taste even better than it smells,” she added, and beckoned him to join her.
    She had three pots simmering on the hob. She pulled a spoonful from one and turned toward Afra.
    “Taste?”
    Afra self-consciously bent down to sip from the proffered spoon. Mischievously, the Rowan drew the spoon back, slowly enough that Afra at first didn’t catch on to her ploy. He made to grab her wrist but pulled back, shocked that he would ever accidentally touch a Talent, especially a Prime, without invitation.
    The Rowan caught both look and feeling. “So serious!” she noted sadly. “Do young Capellans ever have fun?”
    Afra felt his cheeks redden as memory sprung unbidden. The Rowan’s smile fell and she forced the spoon into his hand.
    “I’ve never done it before, Rowan,” Afra blurted out in apology, both for his dalliance and the broadcast of it in her company. “I . . . it . . .” he struggled for composure. “I mean, I had dinner with Gollee Gren, he’s a T-4, my age. They seemed, I mean—they acted as if that’s what everyone does on Earth. Gollee—Luciano—and I really did feel stressful. I do feel much less taut today. I—I hope I worked well—”
    A suddenly magical smile pulled at the Rowan’s lips. “I shall also hope you performed well the other night.” Her smile deepened as he gasped in shock at her reply. “Well, I hope so for your sake, Afra. And hers.” She turned back to the stove and stirred one pot vigorously. “First times are special.” She cocked her head at him. “I was eighteen and he was special, too.” With an abrupt flick of her hand, she turned off the heat and began ladling the food into serving bowls. She gestured to Afra to take two and led the way to the dining room with the other two.
    Seated, she explained the dishes. “Sort of a smorgasbord of Chinese food—ginger beef, chicken cashew, kung pao chicken and—” she crinkled her nose at the last dish, finishing conspiratorily, “—something