Free Blood and Chrysanthemums by Nancy Baker Page B

led her to the edge of the trees then gently propelled her through the branches onto the patio. In a moment or two, she would awaken and, no doubt, attribute her temporary disorientation to her overtired and overstressed state.
    Then he was gone, moving quickly back to the path and down the riverside towards the apartment.
    Above him, the moon shed her veils and laid silver beneath his feet. He did not look up. He ignored both the wanton moon and the spread of stars. There was something about their ancient light that was too bitter for him to bear.

Chapter 9
    Ardeth leaned on the stair railing for a moment, staring up at the naked bulb that lit the door to the apartment.
    Go on, she thought, shifting her weight from one bare, aching foot to the other. Go on up and get it over with.
    She had fumbled through a dozen lies on the way home but discarded them. Why should she lie? She hadn’t done anything wrong. Not really. And it was part of her new life—if she didn’t tell him what had happened, how was she ever going to learn to deal with it?
    The conclusion had seemed reasonable three blocks away. Now, poised halfway up the stairs, she wished that she had found a suitable lie. As if you could lie to him, she thought, taking another step towards the door. As if he wouldn’t be able to look at you and know the truth.
    Would he be angry? She climbed another few steps. No, she decided, not angry. He would look at her in the way that tore her heart: sad, sympathetic, knowing. He would forgive her, which in its own way would hurt. When the explanations and guilt were over, nothing would have changed. She could not tell if that thought relieved or infuriated her.
    She reached the top of the stairs. She took a deep breath and tried the door of the apartment.
    The living room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the moonlight through the window. Rozokov was sitting in his customary chair. She saw the grey glitter of his eyes as he turned his head to look at her.
    She tried not to limp as she entered the room. The pretence fooled neither of them and he was on his feet and at her side in a blur of movement. “Ardeth, what happened?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Where are your shoes?”
    “At the top of Tunnel Mountain, I suppose,” she answered wearily, easing herself into her chair and reaching up to switch on the light.
    “Why did you . . .” he began, then stopped as she lifted one foot to her knee. The sole was criss-crossed with cuts, seeping sluggish blood. Bits of dead leaves mingled with the dirt on her skin. “I’ll get some water,” Rozokov finished, and disappeared into the little kitchen. He emerged a moment later with a pan full of steaming water and a towel. “Can you put your foot into this?”
    She nodded and then forced herself to do it, grateful for the heat of the water that might have scalded anyone else. Despite her resolutions, she was guiltily grateful for the distraction her feet provided.
    Finally, he was done and sat back to look up at her. “You did yourself no serious harm. Now, do you mind telling me what happened?”
    “I went climbing.”
    “I know that. Did you fall?”
    “No, no, nothing like that. The climb was fine. I was afraid for a moment we’d get stuck, but then the moon came out again.”
    “We?”
    “The climber who gave me the map. He came out and found me at the cliff. We climbed it together.”
    Rozokov rose suddenly, then walked over to the window. When he turned his head, the moonlight glowed behind his profile. “And at the top?”
    “We were talking about taking chances, about the lure of danger. It was dark and beautiful and he wanted me.”
    “Did you kill him? Is that why you ran away?”
    “No, of course not. I didn’t even drink from him.”
    “But you might have.”
    “Yes. I might have,” she confessed softly and waited. For his anger—or his absolution. For something. She thought she saw a smile, thin as a snake, touch his mouth.
    “Well, no doubt you