TMIAP Chapter 3

The place where Monica had worked was set back somewhat from the front lines, but the wounded arrived every day all the same.

Sol had been among them—one of the men brought in two months before the defeat.

His identification tag had broken in transit; what remained was only the name "Sol" and a fragment of his service number. Something about being near a bomb blast when it went off, the shrapnel finding him.

Ill luck had caught his eyes in it, and both were bandaged—but it was evident even so that the young man was beautifully made. The nurses had pitied him greatly for it: this fine-looking boy who might never see again.

He had been unconscious throughout. An unconscious patient is exhausting work for nurses already stretched past their limit, and Sol's bed had eventually fallen to Monica. Because she was diligent. That was the stated reason.

Not that she found it amusing. She had simply gotten used to it.

Even so: when he woke, miraculously, Monica was glad.

Glad enough that his inevitable low spirits—and the occasional edge to his behavior—barely registered.

"I knew you'd wake up! I had a bet on it!"

That felt like only yesterday.

"You are Sol, aren't you?"

Monica asked with wide eyes. The young man frowned slightly. Blue eyes glittered in the sunlight—like gemstones, an uninvited thought.

Good heavens. Monica opened her mouth, then—oh. She caught herself.

Sol would not know her.

Barely a month after the young man had regained consciousness, the kingdom had declared defeat. The front-line units all withdrew; the wounded required separate evacuation, which meant the nurses worked without sleep for days after the announcement, no time for anything resembling grief. They redressed wounds. They loaded men onto transports.

'Where had Sol got to, anyway?'

By the time Monica thought to look, the bed was already empty. In the chaos, she'd assumed someone else had handled his evacuation in her place, and had regretted not saying a proper goodbye.

What she had regretted most was that when he left, he still hadn't had the bandages off his eyes. She had grown genuinely fond of him over the weeks of his recovery.

All of it rushed back in an instant, and Monica was—pleased to see him.

"It's me—Moni. Arvidd Hospital! Don't you remember? Your eyes were hurt back then, so you might not recognize me, but—"

His brow drew closer. Monica, who assumed it was because he couldn't quite place her, peered at him from various angles.

He was very handsome, and dressed well. At a glance: expensive linen cravat; a thick plain-weave jacket. Quality throughout.

But what held Monica's attention far more than any of that were the young man's remarkable eyes.

"They said you might never see properly again! So it healed after all?"

"...I—"

A rough sound came out of him. Monica blinked once, twice—and understood that he was uncomfortable.

Simultaneously, she understood why.

Good heavens. Monica had practically taken the young man by the collar and was pressing her face into his. The young man—a full head taller than she was—had been all but backed against the wall by her.

To summarize: if Mistress Oraingne had witnessed this, no letter of introduction on earth would have saved Monica's prospects. The word "decorous" had entirely vacated the premises.

"Oh! I'm so sorry."

Monica released the front of his jacket at once. Her face went scarlet. The mortification, unfortunately, had no effect whatsoever on her mouth.

"I've never seen you with your eyes open before! Right after the defeat I went to find you and you'd already vanished—how have you been? What brings you to La Spezia—"

The young man raised a hand and covered her mouth.

"I beg your pardon, miss."

The discomfort had been replaced, neatly and quickly, with a faint smile. He spoke gently.

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow. That isn't my name."

"Oh!"

Monica's face achieved a rather more impressive shade of red. She had been quite certain it was Sol.

But the young man genuinely appeared to be meeting her for the first time—smiling, yes, but with the look of a stranger.

'But he really does look so similar. Sol back then hadn't had hair quite that golden, but—anyone could have their hair go gray in those conditions, and he hadn't been nearly this clean-cut, and there'd been quite a lot of beard, and—well. I mean—'

"I'm sorry."

In the end, confused, she apologized and stepped back. Was she wrong? Was she right? She was still uncertain—but the young man offered her a way out.

"Not at all. The world is full of people who resemble each other."

He carried himself with exact propriety. The manner of a man well-educated and well-brought-up, unmistakable at a glance. Particularly the way he held his right hand at the small of his back in the presence of a woman—that was the courtesy of the kingdom's south.

Only then did Monica accept that this was genuinely a different person from anyone she knew. Sol, after all—

"My name is Luis. Luis Berfeil. It seems I bear quite a resemblance to someone you know."

"No—I—yes. Yes, I suppose you do."

A voice that settled low in the register. Really—even the voice—

The young man caught the wavering in Monica's eyes and smiled, his own eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Dear me—you're wearing an expression that makes me feel quite guilty. My fault entirely."

"Not at all! I never meant to make you uncomfortable."

Monica waved her hand in hasty denial and retreated another step. She had been entirely too rude to a complete stranger. The collision itself, caused by her own sudden change of direction—and besides—

It was then.

"Watch out."

Luis pulled her back lightly as she moved to step away.

Monica found herself caught against the chest of the young man who had just introduced himself as Luis, before she had quite registered what was happening. Even in her surprise she turned to look: sailors loaded with heavy cargo were passing right through the space she had occupied a moment before. One of them, meeting Monica's eyes, scowled.

"Are you all right?"

Only when Luis murmured the question did Monica start and properly detach herself.

"Forgive me. I had to act quickly."

"Oh—no, not at all. You rescued me."

If she'd been knocked into by those sailors, that cargo would certainly have come down on her. She might even have been hurt.

Graceless, to have ended up in an embrace while hurrying to avoid them—but it had been, in every practical sense, a rescue, and she was grateful.

Monica separated herself with rather more care than the last time. Luis offered his hand, and the two of them stepped up to the side path running alongside the harbor canal.

"The path outside these posts is a constant flow of packhorses and workers."

"Ah. I didn't know that."

"It doesn't seem quite the right setting for a young lady. Did you lose your way?"

Monica nodded.

"Yes—I was trying to get to the station—"

"I thought as much."

Luis laughed—quick, open. Monica's heartbeat performed an entirely unnecessary procedure.

"This whole district is tangled up with Argent Plaza. First-timers get lost in seconds. As it happens—if you don't mind—I'd be glad to escort you as far as the plaza."

"Argent...?"

"Oh—the plaza in front of the station. That's what it's called."

"Of course—that's exactly where I was trying to get!"

Luis was extraordinarily fluent at this sort of thing. Under his lead, Monica was guided through a gauntlet of damp sails strung out to dry, rope pits, and a walkway over a drain from which salty gray water gushed without pause—and out at last onto the jetty where a hot wind was blowing.

"I'm Luis Berfeil."

"Oh—I'm Monica."

Luis raised an eyebrow. 'If he asks for the surname, I'll say I haven't got one.' Monica gripped her skirt without quite meaning to—but instead of pressing the point, the young man extended his hand.

"Watch yourself."

"Oh."

A net lay across the path—discarded or drying, impossible to determine. Monica took Luis's hand and stepped neatly over it.

"Nicely done," he said, with easy approval.

Monica had not known Luis for twenty minutes before she had acquired his name, his age, and his hometown—somewhat north of here, but not far. He was in La Spezia looking for someone.

"Did you find them?"

"No—but it's possible I was mistaken to begin with."

"I see."

Luis was, it emerged, a man who knew how to be good company. Under his easy conversation, Monica found herself mentioning, without quite deciding to, that she had come on a referral and was to take up a governess position—had only arrived that morning. The sun was too bright. She found she did not much mind.

"A governess. That I could have guessed."

"Really? Do I look like a governess?"

The sea wind was pulling at the hair she had pinned up. Even that felt almost agreeable.

Luis reached over, quite naturally, and tucked a stray strand back into place as he answered.

"No—you have the most sparkling eyes I've seen in some time."

"I'm told I look capable."

"Ha. That too, certainly." The blue eyes creased at the corners. "But you also look as though you have a great many questions about everything."

Monica's cheeks warmed.

He had apparently noticed her craning and peering at the harbor the entire time she'd been following him.

"It's just—I've never been to a harbor city before."

"Of course not."

Luis squeezed the hand he was holding once, briefly, then released the pressure—a warning about the narrow drainage channel at her feet. Monica hopped over it.

When she looked up: good heavens. She was already at the plaza in front of the station.

"The plaza already!"

"Indeed. Regrettably soon."

Luis indicated the right-hand side of the plaza—her lodgings, apparently, in that direction. He then indicated the other side: that road went through to the neighborhood of the great estates. Monica thanked him, with something approaching shyness.

"Thank you, Luis."

"My pleasure entirely."

The southern courtesy again. He smiled, blue eyes crinkling.

He was, genuinely, a remarkable-looking man. An impulse arrived quite without precedent—to ask whether they might meet again.

But Luis was faster.

"We'll meet again before long, I expect."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Wasn't that what you were wondering?"

A playful smile. Monica opened her mouth, then closed it.

He did not appear to require an answer. Luis bent slightly and pressed his lips—light as a breath—to the back of the hand he was still holding. Truly the perfect form of the southern farewell.

"Though I wasn't the man Miss Monica knew—if we meet again, I might become the man she knows. A most pleasant thought."

"Good heavens."

Monica finally gave way and said the word she'd been holding in reserve the entire time.

"You're a shocking flirt, Luis."

Luis's brow creased—not with displeasure. He did not deny it. On the contrary, he received the observation as something rather welcome, and bowed with a breezy, theatrical flourish—the sort that looked one step away from taking flight on the next sea wind.

Monica returned the curtsy.

'Good heavens. Whatever idle gentleman he happens to be—absolutely must not get entangled.'