After the guard had led Lemos back to his cell, Korrogly walked slowly through the twilight across town toward the Almintra quarter, ignoring the bustle of the evening traffic; his mind was in a turmoil, the greater part of his agitation caused not by the snarls of the case, but by the fact that he had threatened to turn against a client. It was the final tattering of his ideals, the ultimate violation of his contract with the law. How could he have done it, he thought. Was it Mirielle, her influence? No, he could not blame her – blame attached only to himself. The sole course open to him was to defend the gemcutter from this point forward to the best of his abilities, his guilt or innocence notwithstanding. And he would have to break it off with Mirielle; he could not in good faith continue to upset Lemos. It had been a long time since he had felt so at ease with a woman. But he would do it nevertheless, he told himself; he would not allow this case to become a drain down which the last of his conscience flowed.
When he reached the gemcutter’s apartment, however, his resolve went glimmering. Mirielle was even more ardent than she had been the previous night; it was not until much later that Korrogly thought of Lemos again, and then it was only in passing, produced by a flicker of remorse. Mirielle was lying on her side, one leg flung across his hip, still joined to him; her breasts were small and white, glowing in the misted light from the streetlamps with the milky purity of The Father of Stones; beneath the skin, faint blue veins forked upward to vanish in the hollow of her throat. He traced their path with his tongue, making her breath come fast; he cupped her buttocks with his hands, holding her against him while his hips moved with sinuous insistence. Her nails pricked his back, the rhythm of her own movements quickened, and then she let out the last best part of her feeling in a hoarse cry.
‘God!’ she said. ‘God, you feel so good!’ And without thinking of what he was saying, he told her that he loved her.
A shadow seemed to cross her face. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Just don’t say it.’
‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ he said. ‘I don’t have much choice.’
‘You don’t know me, you don’t know the things I’ve done.’
‘With Zemaille?’
‘I had sex with other people, with whomever Mardo wanted me to. I did things . . .’ She closed her eyes. ‘It wasn’t so much what I did, it’s that I stood by while Mardo . . .’ She broke off, buried her face in the join of his neck and shoulder. ‘God, I don’t want to tell you any of this.’
‘It doesn’t matter, anyway.’
‘It does,’ she said. ‘You can’t go through what I have and come out a whole person. You may think you love me, but . . .’
‘How do you feel about me?’
‘Don’t expect me to say I love you.’
‘I’m not expecting anything more than the truth.’
‘Oh!’ She laughed. ‘Is that all? If I knew the truth, things would be much easier.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘Look.’ She took his face in both hands. ‘Don’t make me say anything. It’s good between us, it helps. Sometimes I want to say things to you, but I’m not ready. I hope I will be someday, but if you force me to say anything now . . . I’m perverse that way. I’ll just try to deny it to myself. That’s what I’ve been taught to do with things that make me happy.’
‘That says enough.’
‘Does it? I hope so.’
He kissed her mouth, touched her breasts, feeling the nipples stiffen between his spread fingers.
‘There’s something I’d like you to do for me, though. I want you to visit your father.’
She turned away from him. ‘I can’t.’
‘Because he . . . he abused you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think there’s some evidence you were abused by him.’
‘Abused,’ she said, enunciating the word precisely as if judging its flavor; then, after a moment, she added, ‘I can’t talk about it, I’ve never been able to talk about it. I just can’t bring myself to . . . to say what happened.’
‘Well?’ he said. ‘Will you see him?’
‘It wouldn’t do any good, it wouldn’t make him any happier. And that’s what you’re after, isn’t it.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘A visit would just upset him, believe me.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to,’ he said. ‘I can’t force you. I just wish I could get him more involved.’
‘You still think he’s innocent, don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure . . . perhaps. I don’t think you’re sure, either.’
She looked as if she were going to respond, but her mouth thinned and she remained silent for a long moment. Finally she said, ‘I’m sure.’
He started to say something, and she put a finger to his lips.
‘Don’t talk about it anymore, please.’
