Dominions

18-2

The air was warm, and Rodin shuffled. The girl’s eyes took in the room, avoiding him.

“Please, take a seat,” he said, waving one hand to the sofas. “Sertio will be with us shortly.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She shuffled to the closest sofa and perched on the edge, her hands resting on her knees.

“Would you care for a drink?” Rodin asked, certain that there were rules of social etiquette for situations like this, and hoping he wasn’t offending their guest.

“Oh, I’m fine.”

“You sure? It’s no problem.”

“Just a glass of water, then. Thank you.” She glanced up at him, then her eyes darted away.

Rodin poured a couple of glasses, the water running loudly, and then opened the drinks chiller, removing one of the bottles of sickly sweet stuff Sertio preferred. He decanted this to a third glass, placed them on a tray, and returned to the sofas.

Paskia still sat straight-backed, her robe clasped tight around her body. He handed her one of the glasses, which she took with thanks and a flicker of a smile, before he reclined into the other sofa. It didn’t feel right to sit too close.

“You’re comfortable?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, I’m fine, thanks.”

Rodin knew she wasn’t. “Would you like to have a moment to yourself, or maybe a quick visit to the restroom?”

“No, I’m fine, really. A few nerves, that’s all. My guardian took control of all the arrangements, and I have merely turned up as instructed. To be perfectly frank, I’m not sure what to expect.”

“You have no need to worry. Sertio is a most genial host. He will do all he can to place you at your ease.”

“My assistant is quite correct in what he says, my dear girl,” said Sertio, entering the room. He wore a short robe over a white shirt and grey, voluminous trousers, and had his usual soft slippers on his feet. “I am Sertio, and I believe you are Paskia, are you not? Yes, we had a brief discussion through the screen, with your aunt arranging matters. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance in person, my dear, and may I say that you are even more perfect in the flesh than you appeared in our previous brief conversation.”

He went over to her, his hand held out. Shaking, she offered her own hand, which he held delicately and brought it up to his lips, hovering. Rodin noticed a flicker of unease in Sertio’s eyes, and he let her hand slide from his, never quite kissing it.

She smiled, blushing, and Sertio seated himself, sinking back into the cushions. He thanked Rodin for the drink, took a sip, and then they talked.

To be more accurate, Sertio talked, asking the occasional question, which Paskia answered quietly and carefully, weighing each word before allowing it past her lips. Rodin sat and watched, adding the occasional comment when he felt it appropriate.

It was hard to tell the woman’s age. There was an air of youth and innocence about her. She could be barely eighteen, or she could be in her thirties‌—‌with surgery and alterations, possibly forty or even fifty. But Rodin got the impression she didn’t go in for alterations. There was a mark, just behind her left ear, only visible on occasions when she brushed her hair from her face. It was only a small scar, the type of blemish that could be removed with ease, and yet it remained.

There was an attractive fragility to her, and Rodin, much to his surprise, imagined holding her. Not in a s****l way, but as one might hold a child close‌—‌gentle, still, content. It may have been nothing more than the simple desire to protect the vulnerable.

But when had he ever entertained such thoughts?

But when had he ever entertained such thoughts?As she relaxed and let the robe hang looser, her arms became visible for fleeting seconds, and Rodin could tell that she had good muscle tone‌—‌not enough to look bulky, but enough to hint at hidden strength in a fight. He imagined she was quick, lithe, subtle, the kind of opponent who would slip from your grasp.

Of course, she wouldn’t be a fighter. Maybe she took part in sports, possibly some of the balletic faux-fighting activities that were so popular in the Dome. But she wouldn’t be used to the type of fighting where points and technique meant nothing, where the winner was the last one alive.

She accepted Sertio’s suggestion that they share food, and Rodin headed to the kitchen to prepare their spread, listening as the artist continued waffling. Over their snacks‌—‌and Sertio made far too much of Rodin’s cake‌—‌she loosened up, and responded to Sertio’s gentle probing by talking of her life. She had moved to the Dome only a month ago, under the watchful eye of her aunt, this Shae that Sertio had befriended at the party. Paskia was determined to make a fresh start, and to put behind her all those previous difficulties. Sertio probed delicately, but Paskia was unwilling to divulge any details of the problems she had faced.

“I understand, my dear. But maybe you can take some comfort in knowing that Terrell, like yourself, has newly moved to our illustrious First Dome, and is also removing himself from a troubled past. Oh, this bodes well for the work we will be undertaking, it does indeed bode well.”

But, Rodin thought, whatever her secrets are, they don’t involve p*****t for death. Paskia’s secrets might cause others to look down on her, but his secrets, if known, would result in his instant removal.

Butwhatever her secrets are, they don’t involve p*****t for deathHe was still intrigued, though. Then there was Shae. Rodin wondered what her role was, whether she was guard or friend.

Paskia talked of her life in broad terms, leaving details alone but hinting at a happy childhood, of a love of water, and of having a close group of friends, few in number but strong in bond. When she spoke of these friends, she hesitated, struggling to find the right words.

At the same time, she glanced over to Rodin. Maybe he reminded her of one of those friends. Or maybe Sertio alluding to similarities between herself and Terrell had struck a chord, and she was looking for kinship.

Or maybe she found his presence disturbing. Without clear data, he’d make no judgment.

She continued talking of some of the major events of her life‌—‌ passing her formal education with honours, to the surprise of many of her tutors; her eighteenth birthday party, the moment she became an adult; gaining her first official employment, working as an analyst at a water park. Finally, she talked of her arrival in First Dome, the day before she turned thirty-two.

Rodin pondered the number. Thirty-two, her birthday a month ago. He believed he was of a similar age. Judging on appearances, most people would surely put ten or even twenty years between them, and not in Rodin’s favour.

The meeting between Paskia and the artist ended with pleasantries and smiles. The exact nature of the work had not been discussed, but this was no problem. The important thing, according to Sertio, was that Paskia felt at ease. When she returned the following morning, work would begin in earnest.

Daventree returned to the room and escorted the young woman to the lift. Sertio explained to Rodin how he would like the studio prepared before he excused himself, heading for his suite. Rodin remained on the sofa, deep in thought.

This girl‌—‌no, woman‌—‌was a distraction, but he found her intriguing. Or maybe it was the way she talked of her past, leaving much uncovered. Rodin couldn’t help but wonder what trauma she’d endured.