. . . Truffles continues

3

I TOOK AN easier breath when Morgan stepped close. I’d no specific concern this instant, other than to avoid having my foot stepped on and likely crushed by a passing, preoccupied Norsenturtle—but this wasn’t my home.

It was his. Plexis was the closest thing to a base the Fox had, Huido her captain’s only family. Morgan was known here, had connections throughout the station, most especially on levels like this where most tags were blue and spacers outnumbered customers. Little wonder he’d chatted with the sombay seller. There were many who acknowledged our—his—passing: be it a scowl from security or a cheery wave of a staffer’s tentacle. Morgan responded to each with a casual familiarity I envied.

While I’d lived in deliberate isolation in the Cloisters, even from most of my kind, this solitary Human had accumulated a staggering array of friends—and their opposite. How could he not? My Chosen, I thought with a very unClan-like pride, wasn’t a person to overlook another’s need or ignore what harmed others.

As for the predators here? And there were, of course. They knew better than to show him their faces. Except, I thought grimly, for a certain official, and took a moment to imagine its likely reaction had we ’ported right into the Duties & Tariffs office, except I’d no idea where or what that was—

So serious. Fingers slipped between mine and gave a gentle tug. “Forget E’Teiso. Let’s go dancing.”

I stared at him. “Pardon?”

Morgan spun around to walk facing me, deftly leading us around the Norsenturtle who, fortunately, appeared paralyzed by such behavior in a Human. I empathized. “Dance, Witchling.” He took possession of my other hand.

Music thumped, thudded, and wailed from all sides, luring—or driving—patrons from the assorted clubs, bars, and other establishments lining the night zone. None of it appealed, but when Morgan smiled at me, I couldn’t help smiling back. Playful wasn’t his public face—until now, apparently. “Huido will know we’ve docked,” I pointed out in a last effort to be sensible. “He’ll expect us.”

“And we’ll get there when we’re ready.” His smile widened as he looked over my shoulder. “Perfect. There’s Daniel, one of Rose’s. He’ll run a message for us.” Morgan swung us around. “Dance with me, Witchling.”

I planted my feet to forestall another spin, feeling a sudden chill. The last—and first—time I’d danced had been in the Poculan jungle, admittedly with more vigor and sweat than grace.

Until the night shattered into tragedy. Jason, I can’t—

His face altered, and I knew that mix of impatience and compassion: I’d missed some essential truth. We treasure our friends for how they lived, Witchling.

He was my teacher in more than trader life. I nodded, swallowing grief, doing my best to remember laughter and the beat of drums. I managed a tremulous smile. “Dancing it is.”

“Good. Daniel!”

A tall Human seemed to materialize out of the surrounding crowd, though it hardly seemed possible I’d missed him earlier. A brilliantly colored lock of hair drooped over his forehead and the spacer coveralls he wore made mine look new. His age eluded me. Younger than my Human, but with the same too-controlled expression. Until he grinned. “Hey, Morgan. Whaz happening?”

“Excuse us.” Taking Daniel aside, Morgan spoke to him quickly, then returned to me. “We’re set.”

I glanced back to find our messenger had melted back into the crowd.