He heard it first as a carnal question, depressingly practical and resigned: a courtesan’s question to his keeper. It was only after Daoud stood, brushed his hands together, and repeated his question that Aristide realized he meant at the prison, as a secretary. He could have hit himself.

“No,” he said, and it was true on both counts. Shame had killed whatever erotic interest the spectacle of tight trousers had aroused. Lady’s name, how had he burrowed so far down into the midden? They had started fresh, at first: arriving in Liso as partners in a venture, nothing more. It was only repeated, demoralizing failure that had pushed Aristide back into something he had always known wasn’t good for either of them, and of which he felt faintly ashamed. Now it was less the affair he felt ashamed of than himself.

“Didi,” he said.

“Hm?” Having moved on from the radiator to neatening the piles of paper on Aristide’s desk, Daoud glanced up from a drift of letters in need of replies. He seemed distracted, beard due for a trim, utterly unaware of Aristide’s assumption and subsequent disgust. “You needed something else?”

“No,” said Aristide. “No, I only … oh, never mind.”

Looking skeptical, Daoud turned back to tidying.

“What will you do?” asked Aristide, the question out of him before he had time to consider it. Gin would do that, as well.

“Pay bills,” Daoud said. “Balance the accounts. Perhaps pick up the dry cleaning, if it does not snow. The walk would be nice.”

“No, not … not while I’m out. I mean, after…” Aristide waved a vague hand and felt his cheeks grow warm with frustration and embarrassment.

Straightening from his busywork, Daoud stared. “After what, Aristide?”

The vague hand fell into his lap, shot down like a game bird.

“No, I am curious. After what? This tribunal Frye has promised? After whatever your next scheme may be? What am I waiting for, Aristide? And will it ever happen?”

Aristide felt cool air on his tongue, and realized that his mouth was open. No words were forthcoming. He wasn’t sure Daoud wanted answers, really. His questions had grown introspective at the end.

As if he had realized this, Daoud shook his head. The motion faded into a drop of the chin, a glance at his watch, and a look out the window. “Perhaps I will go to the cleaner’s now,” he said. “While the weather is still good.”

“Gentleman caller for you,” said the warden, slouching against the bars of Cyril’s cell. “Hope you wore your lacey things today.”

“I save those for you, Markert,” said Cyril, sitting up. The mattress hadn’t gotten any better, but he’d slept on worse. That didn’t mean he liked it.