Jen Sin’s Private Quarters
He woke to find his cabin smelling subtly of lavender and cedar, and the sealed box still in the center of his table.
It was still there after he had showered and dressed, choosing a sweater from those newly hung in the closet, equally pleased by its scent, softness, and deep burgundy color.
When he had his jacket on, he stepped over to the mirror, and leaned close. Yes, his left ear still bore a small hole, and there was another thing, too—
He frowned at himself, trying to identify what had altered—and blinked.
His hair was growing out of its tight spacer’s crop, and showing signs of having a will of its own.
Change. It quite took the breath. He used his fingers to order the willful strands, then turned away from the mirror.
The box was still in the middle of his table.
You might as well look, he told himself gently. What can it be? Books? Music tapes? Your favorite quilt?
Memory stirred at that last, for he had had a favorite quilt, and suddenly, he missed it, though surely so useful an item would have gone back into general stores and not left to molder in a box sealed with the name of a man who would never come home again.
He stepped forward, had the tape off in one quick jerk, opened the flaps, and—there was his quilt, folded, and folded again, as if it were being used to cushion fragile things.
Carefully, he eased the top fold up, his fingers lingering on the worn velvet—his quilt having been made in part from formal cloaks that had become too bedraggled to wear.
His careful unfolding revealed a folder of the kind to hold flat-pics. His hand moved of its own accord, flipping it open before he thought—and there were the six of them standing on Aazella’s ramp, their leathers bright, and their faces—so young.
He blinked, brought it closer to see them again: Melia, Von, Selk, Pei Tyr, Krechin—and himself, with a rare smile on his blade of a face. All of them together, arm-linked and glowing. His team—his mates. His loves. There had been nothing that could withstand them. Nothing that might break them asunder.
Saving the delm of Korval calling Jen Sin yos’Phelium…home.
He closed the folder with a snap, and put it on the table.
Beneath the folder was a red wood box no longer than his palm, no wider than three of his fingers together, the top inlaid with lighter woods in a pattern that Von had found pleasing.
Jen Sin slid the top forward, revealing five polished stones, each a different color: rose from Selk, smoke from Pei Tyr, blue from Von, purple from Krechin, and white from Melia. They had been given when he had been called home by his delm, breaking the team, changing his life forever. He had given them each a smooth piece of obsidian, to remember him by.
He brushed a finger across the stones, uncovering a gleam of silver.
Breath caught, he tipped the box over into his palm, cradling the stones as if they were as fragile as eggs, and gazing down at the reason he had pierced his ear. They had each worn a silver ring in the left ear, proclaiming themselves to the universe.
He closed his eyes and breathed in, and out—and again. Then he returned the stones to the box, and slid the lid shut.
Reaching up, he set the hoop into his ear.
I remember, he told them, silently. I remember us, and what we were.
Another breath, and he looked once more to the box, moving the next fold of the quilt, wondering what else might possibly have survived his long absence.
And there was his teacup, the one Melia had made for him, that Pei Tyr had smashed in a fit of jealousy that Jen Sin’s bitter tongue had done nothing to calm. That event might have ended them—must have shattered them, had it not been for Selk, the peacemaker, the gentlest and strongest of them. Selk, who had pulled them back to their center. They had worked together to repair the broken cup, each one laying a line of gold to hold piece on piece, until it was whole again, and kept in a transparent case in the galley, where they could each see it, every day, and remember who they were.
Carefully, so carefully, he set that treasure among the others on the table, and turned again to the box.
But it seemed the teacup was the last thing the quilt had protected; the last of his…particular things, saving itself.
He took it up, carefully shook it—and found that he had been mistaken.
There was one thing more.
He put the quilt across his bunk and bent down to pick up the piece of paper. Plain paper, one edge ragged, as if it had been torn out of a debt book, folded once, his name written in the same hand that had ’scribed it on the outside of the box.
He unfolded the scrap, eyebrows rising.
Cousin Jen Sin, I have Seen that you will be sad, perhaps for a long time, and I’ve also Seen that you will be made a little gladder when you receive this box.
I only packed the things that sparkled when I touched them, and I hope I didn’t miss something you will particularly want. My gift is new, and a little odd, say the Healers, but I checked three times, and well I did so, for I almost missed the little box shoved into the back of the desk drawer.
I am sorry that we will never meet, but I hope that whatever has made you sad is gone now, and you can be easy again.
Your cousin Dortha
Gods.
He sat down.
He read the note again when his sight had cleared sufficiently, then refolded it and slipped it into an inside pocket of his jacket.
“Light Keeper,” Station said, “Vinsint Carresens, second wave coordinator, requests a meeting with you. She is willing to come to your office, if you will name a time.”
“Thank you, Station,” he said. “Pray tell Coordinator Carresens that I will come to her dock, and we can together inspect the section we have opened to her use. I will need to know from her if there are unmet requirements or if the space will do.”
“Yes, Light Keeper. I will transmit the message.”