H e lay on Adelaide’s futon, a rug pulled over his body-not because he needed it for warmth in her apartment, but to feel the soft luxurious weight of the material. The lights were dimmed, the glass walls darkened, but he could not sleep. He was hot, conscious of a thin sheen of sweat. There was a decanter of water on a table beside him. He poured himself a glass and choked when he discovered it wasn’t water at all, but voqua.
He thought of the coldest he had ever been, trapped in the unremembered quarters on the very edge of the west, certain he was going to die. The towers had fallen into such disrepair that they were more of a sea barrier than a living space. No electricity. Broken bufferglass. Ghosts. One of the towers leaned sideways; monolithic, charred. It had burned once and people had burned in it. It was said that something nameless lurked in its depths, gorging on the foundations.
Stars knew what he’d been doing there; he must have been about twelve. He remembered a tarpaulin. Huddling under it, shaking, his fingers blank with cold. He remembered the rivulets of water that eased their way through the cracks, only to halt as the molecules contracted and froze. The floor inside a maze of glittering snail trails, outside, the sky sagging. It had been too cold to snow.
Snow, in Adelaide’s world, was nothing but a pretty white blanket.
Vikram knew the layout of the apartment. There were only three rooms between himself and the Architect’s granddaughter.
He made himself recall the day Eirik was drowned. He remembered seeing Adelaide and her father, closer than a westerner could have imagined but impossible to reach. Adelaide was unprotected now. He could take her hostage. He could, if he wanted, go into her room, put his hands around her neck, and throttle her. He could strike a fatal blow to Feodor Rechnov right now, here, tonight.
Stop it.
He shoved the idea away in horror. It was as far from Horizon’s ideals as the stars; he could hardly believe the thought had crossed his mind.
But it was an opportunity-he could not deny that. He would never have a chance like this again. Now-while she was sleeping. It wasn’t what Horizon had been about, but hadn’t that all changed? And he couldn’t trust Adelaide, she had told him that herself. Now she’d got what she wanted, what guarantee did he have that she would carry out her side of the bargain?
She almost let you get caught tonight. She could turn you in just because she feels like it. Sticking with her isn’t worth the risk.
For all you know, the skadi could be on their way over right now.
Eirik, Mikkeli-they would have thought about it. There was no doubt that to many in the west, the act would make Vikram a hero.
Stars, what was he thinking! And yet…
Go on, another part of him urged. Do it. It’s what they all want.
He pushed aside the rug. He could feel his knife sheath where it lay against his thigh. It could be done bloodily or it could be done with bare hands. For a more poetic justice, he could drown Adelaide Rechnov in her own bath.
That would be the best way. A clear signal to the City. Explicable, and understandable.
For a moment his own coldness froze him. And then he saw Mikkeli in her yellow hood. She came in through the window-wall and she walked across Adelaide Mystik’s floor and sat on the piano lid. She was still twelve.
“You’re not going to let that bitch get the better of you, are you?” she said. Foam dribbled from her lips. Her voice was as dead and as empty as surf.
You know it’s what they all want. And it’s so easy.
He sat up and walked silently through the study into the kitchen, closing each door behind him to block off her escape route. Moonlight fell across the white tablecloth and crystal glasses in the dining room. The outline of the next door was a grey line around its pale panels.
He stood looking at it. The only sounds he could identify were the thud of his heart and the drumming of his pulse in his ears. If he went through that door, he would be taking a step that could not be reversed.
The door opened. Adelaide came out, one hand rubbing her eyelids. When she saw him she stopped.
Their eyes met for a long time.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“I need some water.”
He saw Eirik, in the tank, his mouth open. Perhaps she did too.
She said, “Do you want a glass?”
“Yes, please.”
She walked around the table. She passed within a few inches of him. He recognized the effort it must have cost her, because she had seen his face. He turned and followed her into the kitchen, watched her bare legs crossing the tiles. She opened the fridge door. The light flooded her slender body, crouching naked beneath the slip of lilac. She took out a jug and poured two glasses of chilled water. Face averted, she placed one on the sideboard for Vikram.
“Sleep well,” she said. She took her own glass of water and went back through the empty dining room and shut the door.