Blaggard's Moon by George Bryan Polivka Page B

between his level of interest in the affairs of the evening and his actual participation in them.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said in answer. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”
    â€œYou don’t dance, then?”
    â€œNo.” He was not apologetic about it.
    â€œBut you don’t mind watching others.”
    The fiddler hit three sour notes by way of tuning, then started in, joined by a bass fiddle in a much more spirited tune.
    â€œI don’t step on toes when I watch others.” His raised eyebrow spoke of experience.
    She laughed. “Not a risk taker, then?”
    He did not answer. Instead he studied her.
    She turned her attention back to the dance, letting him make his assessments, hoping she had not offended him. But she thought not. She waved at the couple she had recently put together. The young man smiled as he danced by. The young lady winced.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” Not curt or cold, but curious.
    She turned her head toward him, looked away again. “Certainly you know. You’ve been watching me all night.”
    â€œWell, there’s only one way you could know that.” His tone was not defensive.
    She laughed again. “I did wonder why you’re standing here alone. I thought perhaps you were assigned to guard the punch bowl.”
    He shook his head. He was not smiling, but he was not angry, either. He picked up a cup, scooped it almost full, then held it out to her.
    She put her hand on it. He held it just a moment longer than he needed to. “You didn’t come over here for the punch. Did you?” he asked.
    His directness took her off guard. She heard no accusation and no pretense. She glanced around to see if any of the others had overheard him. It was rude behavior, she knew, but no one was paying attention, and she found herself unable to react negatively. In fact, it had the opposite effect. “Well, my mother tells me I have a bad habit of picking up strays.”
    â€œIs that what I am?”
    She looked into the cup, studying the deep red liquid. She smelled strawberries. But she did not drink. “I don’t know what you are.”
    He looked into her, studying her bright blue eyes. He smelled the honeysuckle of her perfume. “But these others belong here. You don’t.”
    â€œDo you know me?”
    â€œNo. But I don’t belong here, either.”
    She felt suddenly his sense of purpose, and it surprised her. It was startling. It was not unattractive.
    A talkative crowd now gathered around the punch bowl, surrounding them, ignoring them. He made a quick gesture with his head, hardly a formal invitation, but when he walked away she walked with him.
    They stood on the back porch of the inn, looking out over the street. It was quiet here, a perfect summer’s evening. The music sounded farther away than it was, and more melodious, more wistful somehow, from this distance. A watchman in a soiled frock coat walked to a lamppost, set down his stepstool, climbed up, and began trimming the wick, brightening the street by a shade or two. Now from behind them, a matronly woman creaked heavily onto the porch and crossed her arms.
    â€œThere’s your guard of the punch bowl,” Damrick whispered, cutting his eyes to the chaperone.
    She smiled, but did not laugh.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” he asked. He seemed much more at ease out here.
    She wanted to tell him. But for some reason, she didn’t. “Do you ship out in the morning?”
    He nodded. He looked out over the street again. “Three years of service, starting at dawn.”
    She wished she hadn’t brought it up. That was his focus. That was his sense of purpose. Of course. “Will you look for me when you return?” She asked it impulsively, but she held his gaze when he turned to question her. She felt a sting as he searched for an answer. His eyes grew distant again, though he looked at