The Gates of Winter Read Free Page B

through his dark hair, as if it could be any more perfectly mussed than it already was. “It doesn't make one whit of sense.”
    “No, Farr, you don't make one whit of sense.” She plucked a bit of lint off his coat, noticed it had been covering a spot, and gently replaced it. “And nobody says
whit
anymore. Now tell me what happened. They've taken three months to decide what to do with us. Are we to be censured? Exiled? What?”
    Farr's brown eyes finally focused on her. Even dazed and disheveled, he was handsome. He should have been a poet or an artist a hundred years ago; he would have looked absolutely beautiful dying of tuberculosis.
    “They've invited us to rejoin the Seekers. All privileges and benefits restored. And at a higher rank.”
    Deirdre gaped, surprised at last.
    “So what do we do?” she managed to say.
    Farr stuck his gray fedora atop his head. “We go downstairs. The Philosophers have politely requested we stop by the main office before leaving the building.”
    “And what if we don't?” Deirdre said. She felt light-headed, as if the air all around her had gone thin.
    “What, Deirdre? How could you possibly think to disobey the wise and benevolent Philosophers?”
    Farr's voice was strangely soft; nor was he looking at her. Instead he gazed down the corridor, brown eyes haunted.
    Deirdre started to reach toward him. “Hadrian?”
    He turned his back and moved out of reach. “Be a good Seeker, Deirdre, and come along. We'd best see what wonders the Philosophers have in store for us.”
    Three minutes later, they stepped off the elevator into the brightly lit warren of offices beneath the Charterhouse to find Sasha waiting for them, two manila packets in hand. She smacked them idly against her cocked hip as her red lips twisted in a smirk.
    “So, Hadrian Farr does it once again. He breaks all the rules and gets all the rewards.” She sauntered forward and kissed Deirdre's cheek.
    “It's good to see you,” Deirdre said, squeezing her hand.
    “You, too.” Sasha stepped back and rolled her eyes. “Good Lord, Farr, could you quit staring? They're just boobs. I'm sure women on every world have them.”
    “Not like . . . that is, I wasn't . . .” Farr cleared his throat and looked away.
    Deirdre couldn't blame Farr for staring. Sasha was fashion model gorgeous—tall and lanky, curved in all the right places and sleekly muscled everywhere else. Her skin was coffee with cream, her eyes black opal. Nor did the severe bun into which she had pulled her hair, or the faux secretary outfit—prim gray skirt, white blouse buttoned low, and reading glasses dangling on a rhinestone chain—do much to hide her beauty.
    Sasha regarded Deirdre. “Some days it's a complete nuisance being hot, isn't it?”
    “I wouldn't know,” Deirdre said with a laugh.
    Sasha grinned. “Don't tell me you're just fine with the girl in the mirror.”
    Deirdre shrugged. “I can't say I talk to her much, but I suppose she's all right. Although her nose is a little crooked, and I do keep telling her she needs a better haircut, but she doesn't seem to listen.”
    “I hope she never does,” Sasha said, the words wistful. Then she turned her attention on Farr. “Why so quiet, Golden Boy? I would have thought you'd be crowing over your victory.” Only Sasha could make disgust seem so impersonal and boring.
    “News travels fast in this place,” Deirdre said.
    “You know our motto,” Sasha said with a wink, tarting up her West End accent. “To Watch, To Wait, To Believe.”
    “And, evidently, To Spring On People When They're At Their Most Defenseless,” Farr grumbled, hands in his pockets.
    “I hate to destroy your fantasies, Farr, but I'm not your stalker. I was simply instructed to give these to you.”
    Sasha held out the large envelopes. Deirdre took the one with her name on it. Farr hesitated, then took the other.
    “What is it?” he said.
    “I'm letting myself hope it's a good dose of humility,” Sasha