Into the bleak cold of ruined hopes came a jarring intrusion. “Oh, for God’s sake,” moaned Sindri from his perch on the windowsill. “This is so puerile.”
Grant whirled on him, feeling the hot prickles of shame rushing to his face. He growled, “You little sawed-off asshole, you wanted me to remember!”
Sindri’s face screwed up as if he tasted something exceptionally sour. “Not these old maudlin memories, five or more years old. What can I do with them? I mean, really ”
He propped his cane beneath his chin with one hand and made back-and-forth sawing motions across it with the other, miming the playing of a violin. He shook his head ruefully. “All of you are going to have to do much better.”
Grant glanced toward Olivia, standing there with her back to him, head bowed, shoulders slumped by the weight of an inconsolable misery. He remembered how he had left her place a few minutes later and, unable to sleep, prowled the promenades of all four levels, seeking a way to escape his own grief. He had considered barging in on Kane, but then he would have been obliged to explain his presence at 300 a.m., and he simply didn’t have the words.
At dawn, he and the squad made the Pit sweep. They found six pregnant women cowering in a cellar, and at Salvo’s terse “Flashblast this slaghole,” they opened up with Sin Eaters on full auto. Grant had kept his eyes closed when he fired, praying he didn’t hit any of them but knowing he had.
Shuddering, Grant faced Sindri again. In a dead voice, he said, “I don’t like it here.”
Sindri hopped down from the window. “You and me both. Let’s go someplace else.”
Brigid winced as the brush caught in a snarl and pulled her scalp. “Ouch, Mom! Are you trying to snatch me bald or what?”
Moira Baptiste chuckled, patting the top of her daughter’s head. “If you paid a little more attention to your appearance, brushing your hair wouldn’t be like hacking through a jungle.”
Brigid sighed in irritation. “I ought to just cut it all off. It’s a pain putting it up every day before I go to training.”
Moira ran the brush through her daughter’s red-gold mane with long, even strokes. “You could, but I.think you’d regret it.”
“Why? Having it pinned up for twelve hours gives me headaches. And besides” Brigid’s words trailed off.
“Besides what?”
Quietly Brigid said, “It draws attention to me. Some of the men there give me funny looks. Not ha-ha funny, either.”
The brush paused in midstroke. Tensely Moira asked, “Is Lakesh one of the men?”
Brigid was startled into laughing. Turning in her chair, she looked up into the slightly weathered beauty of her mother’s face. Though her eyes were hazel, her hair was identical to Brigid’s own, both in color and texture.
“Him? C’mon, Mom! He looks like he’s eighty years old. Besides, he’s the senior archivist. He hardly ever comes to the training sessions, except to give a lecture now and then.”
The expression of relief on her mother’s face was so pronounced that Brigid was mystified. “Why’d you ask about him?”
A smile creased Moira’s lips, but it wasn’t her characteristic smile, which lit up and transformed a pretty face into something heart-achingly beautiful. It was forced, stitched on.
“No reason.” Gently she turned her daughter’s head and began brushing again. Very softly she asked, “Is your talent serving you in your studies?”
Brigid knew what she meant. “Talent” was their private euphemism for her ability to produce eidetic images. The talent had first manifested itself when Brigid wasn’t much older than an infant, and her mother had carefully coached her not to mention it to anyone.
Imitating her mother’s quiet tone, she answered, “Yes.”
No more was said. Her mother finished brushing her hair, then began pinning it up for her. “You know,” she said casually, “you’re really going to have to get into the habit of doing this yourself.”
“Why?”
“You can’t expect me to be your personal stylist forever.” Moira’s voice held a teasing lilt. “You’ll rise up the ranks in your division and be on your own.”