“I do.”
“And by this you mean more, I presume, than mere lust. You are not telling me only that you want my body.” She flushed, saying this, a thing she had never said, not even to Rigo. It was only possible to say it if she walked away from him, to the window where she stood looking out.
“Of course not,” he blurted, stung.
She spoke to the garden. “Then, if you love me, you will say nothing further about it. You must accept what I tell you. I am married to Rigo It does not matter if that marriage is happy or unhappy. It doesn’t matter that you and I might be happier together than either of us might be with others. None of that matters, and you must not speak of it! My marriage is a fact in my religion, and that fact can’t be changed. I will be your friend. I cannot be your lover. If you want religious explanations, ask Father Sandoval to explain it If I were even to converse with you about it, it would be an occasion of sin.”
“What can I do?” he begged. “What can I do?”
“Nothing. Go home. Forget you came here. Forget you said anything, as I will try to do.”
He rose, unwillingly, reluctantly, far more stirred to passion by her refusal than he would have been by her consent. He could not let her go. “I will be your friend,” he cried. “And you must be mine. This business of the plague, we must not forget that. You need me to help you with that!”
She turned back to him, her arms crossed protectively across her breasts. “Yes, we need you, Sylvan. If you will. But not if you talk about this other thing.” Her throat was dry. She longed to comfort him, he seemed so distraught, but she did not dare touch him or even smile at him.
“Very well, then. I will not talk about this other thing.” He made a wide, two-handed gesture, as though casting everything away, though he gave up nothing. If talking of love was not the way to Marjorie’s affection, he would try to find some other way. He would not give up courting her. He did not understand Marjorie’s religion, but he would learn about it. Obviously it tolerated many things it did not allow. Otherwise that proud, harsh man, her husband, would not be able to keep his mistress almost upon his wife’s doorstep!
He stayed, for a time, sitting a good distance from her, discussing the things she needed to know. He promised to do everything he could to find out whether there was any unusual disease upon Grass. He let nothing happen to disturb her again, controlling their conversation with a courtly charm, seeing her gradually relax, lower her defenses, become the woman he had danced with. When he left her, he felt his eyes grow wet, wondering what she thought of him, amazed that it mattered to him that much. He was no youngster to worry what a woman thought! And yet … and yet he did.
She, looking after him, was more stirred than she had been in years, wishing with all her heart that he had never come, that he had never spoken, or that she had met him before she had met Roderigo Yrarier.
It was an evil thought. She went to the chapel and prayed. Over the years, prayer had comforted her. It did not do so now, though she knelt for most of an hour, seeking peace. The light over the altar glowed red Once she had thought of it as a holy eye, seeing her, but she did not think it saw her now. She had been God’s child once. Now she was only a thinking virus, a thing beset by longings with no appeasement allowed. “How long has it been since I laughed at something?” she asked herself. “How long since we have had any fun at all, as a family?” She could remember both, and it had been long, too long ago, when Stella was still a child, before Rigo had Eugenie.
She went outside. The afternoon had grown chill. From the northeast came the muted roar of an aircar. She hurried toward the graveled court where it would land, stood there shivering and looking up. She needed Rigo, needed Stella, needed family, needed to belong to someone, be held by someone. She would make them offer her something, make them show some affection. She would beg it, demand it!