If word of this got around …
Well, he’d just take his lumps and deal with the snickers. What Kit Carson did, or didn’t do, was his own damned business. Yeah. Mine and the rest of La-La Land’s. He signaled Bertie for a fresh cup of coffee and promptly fell to worrying about where Margo was going to find someone reputable enough to trust with her life. Maybe he could talk to Sergei or Leon or …
No, he told himself, if you won’t teach her yourself, do not try and line up somebody else for the job. Frankly, he couldn’t think of a single time scout who’d be willing to try it, anyway.
Vastly relieved by that observation, Kit put Margo firmly out of mind.
Why, Margo wailed silently, does he have to be so beastly? She’d found a quiet spot under a vine-covered portico in Urbs Romae where she could sit with knees tucked under chin and indulge in a good, long cry.
Mom warned me …
That only brought fresh misery and a new flood of angry tears. She wiped her cheek with the back of one fist and sniffed hugely. “I won’t give up. Damn him, I won’t. There just has to be someone else on this miserable station who’ll teach me.”
So far, she had struck out with everyone she’d approached, even the freelance guides like Malcolm Moore. At least most of them had been nicer about it than Kit Carson. Even a brusque “Get lost, brat” was kinder than gruesome images of people being tortured to death.
”I’ll bet he doesn’t have any lousy scars,” she sniffed. “And Sam One-Eagle probably isn’t any more real than, these stupid fake columns. He doesn’t want me to be a scout, is all, so he’s trying to scare me.”