Free Ghosts of Columbia by L.E. Modesitt Jr.

holder by my elbow.
    I raised my glass, and Llysette followed. The rims of our glasses touched, and we drank from our glasses without speaking.
    A waiter I did not know appeared. “Have you decided, sir and lady?”
    “The pasta primavera, with the tomato rice soup,” said Llysette.
    “I’ll have the fettucini alfredo with the barley soup. Two of the small salads with the house dressing.”
    Llysette nodded in confirmation.
    After the waiter left, I took another sip of the white. I liked it. So I looked at the label—San Merino. While I was looking, Llysette finished her glass, and I refilled it.
    “I saw Miranda’s ghost,” I volunteered.
    “This ghost you saw recently?”
    “No. I meant the night she was killed.”
    The waiter placed warm cranberry rolls on the butter plates and set our soups before us.
    Llysette took another solid sip of the San Merino. “You did not tell the watch.” She lifted her soup spoon.
    “I walked out of my office, and there she was. She mumbled some meaningless phrases, and then she was gone.” I tried the barley soup—hot and tangy with a hint of pepper and basil, an oddly pleasing combination.
    “That woman, always was she talking meaningless phrases.”
    “How is your soup?”
    “Comme ci, comme ça. Less of the tomato, I think, would be better. How do you find yours?”
    “Quite good. Would you like a taste?”
    She inclined her head, and I held the bowl so she could try the barley soup.
    “Better than the tomato,” she confirmed. “You should see.”
    I tried hers, and she was right. The barley soup was better, fuller. I broke off a corner of the cranberry roll, still almost steaming, then finished my soup.
    “I really never knew Miranda,” I said, after the waiter removed the soup bowls. “Was she always talking nonsense?”
    “Nonsense, I would not say. She always repeated the small … the trivial. One time, she spoke at a meeting four times about the need to revoice the concert Steinbach. And Doktor Geoffries, he had agreed to approach the dean for the necessary funds after she spoke the first time.” Llysette finished her second glass of the white. My glass remained about half full, but I refilled hers.
    I frowned. “Did she keep confidences?”
    “Confidences?”
    “Secrets. If you asked her not to repeat something …”
    “Mais non . A tale she knew, everyone knew.”
    “Still, it is very sad.”
    “Very sad,” Llysette agreed.
    The waiter arrived with our pasta, and another cranberry roll for me. Llysette had scarcely touched her roll.
    The fettucini alfredo, especially with the fresh-ground Parmesan, had that slight tang that subtly lifted it above the mere combination of cheese, cream, garlic, and pasta.
    “How is the primavera?”
    “It is good. You would like a little?”
    “If you could spare it.”
    “I eat all of this, and into no recital gown will I fit.”
    I didn’t have a witty response. Instead I leaned over and tasted some of her dinner. The primavera was as good as the fettucini, but you expected that when you paid Angelo’s prices.
    “It is good,” I said. “Would you like some of the alfredo?”
    “Non . I will not finish what I have.”
    Several minutes passed before Llysette wiped her mouth on the red linen napkin and took a swallow of her wine. Then, glass still in her hand, she asked, “Johan, what was it—did you miss something the most when you left the capital?” Her eyes were thoughtful.
    I finished a small sip of my own wine before answering. “Most times, when you leave a place, you do miss things, especially at first. I thought I might miss things like the museums, or that something was always happening. At first, I missed the
newspapers. I missed the up-to-date radio and even the stuffy television news. But I noticed something after a while. I started missing items in the news, and nothing changed. I mean, the names change, but the problems continue, and they go on and on.” I shrugged. “What do you miss