Chapter 29

With nothing urgently calling us back, our walk in the woods was more leisurely than the day before. This time Asmedogh rode my shoulder as usual, and between that and holding hands with Camilla I felt rich in friends. As we went I stopped occasionally to point out various birds, flowers and such to her, and she invariably seemed interested.

The only precaution I took was to again pick a direction that wouldn't take us anywhere near where Asmedogh's beacon still lay concealed. I believed her change of heart completely, it wasn't that I was worried, but a minimum amount of discretion still seemed called for.

She shooed me away shortly after we got back, and I went in the kitchen to nibble on a little leftover paté and brie on some crackers, just enough to stave off starvation before dinner. I didn't tell her that I could pick up nearly as much of their conversation as if I'd been sitting with them; the longer-range connection between Asmedogh and me was holding, and I could read even snippets of her if I tried. But I deliberately didn't try; it was far too much like eavesdropping, and she'd made clear her desire for privacy.

The two of them communed for the better part of two hours, starting with his tail wrapped lightly around her wrist. He'd first proposed sitting on her shoulder as he did mine with the tail touching her neck, but she quickly vetoed that idea; she had, apparently, something of a phobia about things coming near her throat. Understandable in a singer, I supposed, though it had never bothered me. Idly I wondered whether that might change in time, now that I'd found my full voice.

The wrist thing, though, wasn't a total success. I'd noticed before that she had a tendency to talk with her hands; apparently during her years in (mostly) Italian opera some of their national reliance on heavy gesticulation had rubbed off. Most Italians I'd met were congenitally incapable of speaking only from the neck up, the hands and arms always seemed to get involved. Finally his tail settled across her lap, and they went on that way.

I was pleased to see that they seemed to be getting on well. On her part there was a fair amount of smiling and the occasional laugh, and he seemed quite relaxed as well. After a short while I picked up the novel I'd been unable to focus on that morning and took it out on the porch, where my concentration was now easy to maintain. So immersed did I get in the book's fictional world that I was a bit surprised when she finally came out to fetch me.

"Well, hi," I said. "Have a nice conversation?"

"Very," she confirmed. "I got to know him a lot better, and I guess he got to know me better, too. We might even be on our way to becoming friends ourselves. But we're done now."

"Two items on your agenda crossed off already," I pointed out, "and it's way too early for number three, it's barely four. What'd you have in mind to fill in the empty space? Want to change your mind about work?"

"Nope, a day off is a day off," she said. "But there's something else I ought to do. You have a computer, don't you? Internet access and all?"

"Yes."

"May I? I need to check e-mail."

I showed her and got it going for her and then went back to the porch and my book. But not for all that long.

"Shit!" I heard her scream. "That lousy vindictive asshole prick!" After which came an additional stream of invective in language strong enough to send seasoned lumberjacks scurrying for cover.

That seemed worth investigating. I set down the book again and went back inside. "What's going on?" I asked from the doorway.

"Marko fucking Fabuliis!" she yelled at me. "I told you, he's a fucking motherfuck­er! Jackass shithead jerkoff. I'm going to do everything I can to blackball that little bastard from here to Australia!"

After the way he'd treated me in Turandot I wasn't entirely opposed to the idea, but I didn't understand why she was suddenly so upset about him, and I said so.