She ushered him into her study, realizing as she did so that it was messy by ordinary standards. Books and paper were stacked on most of the flat surfaces; she was researching the Commonwealth of God, and some documents were available only as hardcopy. She’d cleared a second chair in expectation of Daniel’s arrival, though.
“The business when I came home?” she said. She shrugged. “The doorman’ll be off work for several days, I believe. Apart from that, everything is, well, normal. I’d expected questioning by the authorities, but apparently it’s all been swept under the rug.”
Adele had reloaded the pistol as soon as she got home. It was in her pocket now, not against real need but for the security its slight weight afforded her subconscious. The little weapon had become an addictive drug. It was the thing that best kept the nightmares at bay, though it was the cause of those leering nightmares as well.
“Yes,” said Daniel. “Hogg and I arrived during the clean-up. The people involved appeared to be able.”
Adele closed the door and motioned to the upholstered seat across the leather-topped desk from her own straight chair. A wine bottle and two glasses waited on the tray a servant had brought earlier in the evening.
“Hogg isn’t here, by the way,” she said. “He left a message for Tovera, and they’re still out.”
Daniel grimaced as he sat down; he looked suddenly tired. “Adele?” he said. He lifted his head and met her eyes with a determined expression. “I gave Hogg free rein on dealing with what happened here this afternoon. Whatever comes of it is on my head; I want you to be very clear on that.”
Adele smiled faintly. “Have some wine,” she said, uncorking the bottle. “It’s from what used to be Chatsworth Major. The new owners renamed the estate Skyland, but the grapes are the same.”
She poured, one glass and then the other. The wine was a dark honey color; not a famous vintage, but a comfortable one and a familiar taste that brought her childhood and its security a little closer.
“As for anything that happens to the Rolfes, Daniel . . . ,” she went on. “I’d say that’s on the head of the person who sent thugs to knock our doorman around. But for what it’s worth, I told Tovera not to kill anyone. She’s quite trustworthy that way.”
She quirked a grin at Daniel as she handed him his wine. “Emotion doesn’t get in the way with her, you see,” she said. “She doesn’t lose control.”
Daniel drank and nodded approvingly before lowering the glass again. “You said you had questions?” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“Mon will have told you that aristocrats from Novy Sverdlovsk are buying the Princess Cecile for a voyage to the Galactic North,” Adele said, continuing to smile faintly. One of the few personality traits she and Daniel shared was a dislike for circumlocution. “An acquaintance, probably the person who had our court cleaned after the incident this afternoon, wants me to accompany them in order to get an impression of Alliance activity on Radiance and its satellite.”
She didn’t go into detail or use Mistress Sand’s name, knowing that the whole business would make Daniel uncomfortable. He was by no means a blunt, unsophisticated naval officer—he was Speaker Leary’s son, for God’s sake!—but in Daniel’s ideal world actions would be open and transparent. He believed that if he did his own job openly and very well, he could leave other aspects to those who found them more congenial. Leave them to people like his friend Adele, it might be. . . .
“I see,” said Daniel. He seemed calm, but he tossed down the wine instead of remembering to sip it. She reached for the bottle, but he waved her away brusquely with his free hand as he frowned in concentration.
He did see, of course. Adele had never met anyone who more quickly integrated disparate data than did her friend Daniel. It had gained him a deserved reputation as a combat commander, and probably equal envy from acquaintances marveling at Leary’s success with women.
“Lieutenant Mon’s as good a technical officer as you’ll find,” Daniel said, his eyes on the corner of a bookshelf. It was vanishingly improbable that the works filed there—pre-Hiatus fiction, a collection which Adele had chosen to recreate though she didn’t share her mother’s taste—was of any interest to him. “Nothing else appearing, I’d wish you Godspeed.”