From here they could just make out the glittering surface of the broad Pada River; the dockyards and warehouses and slums about it were jagged black shapes, no gaslights there. Above them two lights moved through the sky, with a low throbbing of propellers. An airship, making for the west and the great ocean port of Corona at the mouth of the Pada.
“Chosen-made,” John said, nodding towards it. “Pia, your soldiers are brave, but they have no conception of what they face.”
Pia leaned one hip against the balustrade, turning her fan in her fingers. “My father . . . my father is an intelligent man. But he . . . he thinks often that because things were as they were when he was young, so they must remain.”
“I’m not surprised. My own government tends to think the same way.” If not to quite the same degree, he added to himself.
They were silent for a few minutes. John felt the tension building, mostly in his stomach, it seemed. Pia was looking at him out of the corner of her eyes, the beginning of a frown of disappointment marking her brows.
“Ah . . . that is . . .” John said. “Ah, I was thinking of calling on your father again.”
Pia turned to face him. “Concerning political matters?” she asked, her face calm.
An excuse trembled on his lips. Yes. Of course. That would be all he needed, to add cowardice to his list of failings. A crippled soul to join the foot.
“No,” he said. “About something personal . . . if you would like me to.”
The smile lit up her eyes before it reached her mouth. “I would like that very much,” she said, and leaned forward slightly to brush her lips against his.
probability of sincerity is 92% ±3, with motivations breakdown as follows—Center began.
Shut the fuck up! John thought.
He could hear Raj’s amusement at the back of his mind. Damned right, lad.
Jeff’s voice: God, but that one’s a looker, isn’t she? He must be getting visual feed from Center, through John’s eyes.
Will you all kindly get the hell out of my love life?
“Giovanni, there are times when I think you are talking to God, or the saints, or anyone but the person you are with!”
John mumbled an apology. Pia’s eyes were still glowing. “The only question is, will he consent?”
“He’d better,” John said. Pia blinked in surprise and slight alarm at the expression his face took for a moment. He forced relaxation and smiled.
“Why shouldn’t he?” he said. “He knows I’m not a fortune hunter”—the del’Cuomos were fabulously wealthy, but he’d managed to discreetly let the Count know the size of his own portfolio—”and if he didn’t like me personally, he’d have forbidden me to see you.”
Pia nodded. “Well, I do have three younger sisters,” she said with sudden hard-headed shrewdness. “It isn’t seemly for them to marry before me—and also, my love, I think Father thinks he can beat you down on the dowry by pretending that the marriage is impossible because you are not of the Imperial Church.”
John grinned. “He’s right. He can beat me down.”
Some cold part of his mind added that Imperial properties weren’t likely to be worth much in a little while.
He took a deep breath. It was like diving off a high board: once you were committed, there was no point in thinking about the drop.
“Pia, there is something I must tell you.” She met his eyes steadily. “I am . . . I was born with a deformity.” He averted his eyes slightly. “A clubfoot.”
She let out her breath sharply. His glance snapped back to her face. She was smiling.
“Is it nothing more than that? The surgeons must have done well, then—you dance, you ride, you play the . . . what is the name? Tennis?” She flicked a hand. “It is nothing.”
Breath he hadn’t been conscious of holding sighed out of him. “It’s why my father never accepted me,” he said quietly.
She put a hand up along his face. “And if he had, you would be in the Land, preparing to attack the Empire,” she said. “Also, you would not be the man I love. I have met Chosen from their embassy here, and beneath their stiff manners they are pigs. They look at me like a piece of kebab. You are not such a man.”