“You okay?” He grunted as someone jabbed him in the kidneys. He held his arms rigid against the walls, shielding her with his body. She shook her head. “Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to.” He drew one hand in, touched her bare cheek softly. She shriveled away from his fingers, pulling the torn cloth of her veil back over her head. “Sorry.” He glanced down, bracing again as the van swayed through a turn. “You weren’t even there to hear my speech, were you?” He grimaced ruefully; suddenly he looked barely older than she was. She shook her head again, and wiped her eyes. He muttered something bitter in his own tongue. “KR’s right; I do more harm than good!… Don’t tremble, they won’t hurt you. Once we get to the inquisitory they’ll weed out the bad seed and let you go.”

Another shake. She knew the reputation of the Church police all too well. She felt her eyes fill with tears again.

“Don’t. Please don’t.” He tried a smile on, couldn’t keep it. “I won’t let them hurt you.” It was an absurdity, but she clung to it, to keep from drowning. “Listen,” he groped for a change of subject, “uh, since you’re — here, you want to hear my speech? This may be my last chance.” Beads of sweat glistened in his wiry brown hair.

She didn’t answer; and taking it for assent, he had filled the rest of their stifling journey to judgment with the sweet fresh air of his hopeless idealism — of all men living together like brothers, of women sharing the same freedoms with men, and taking the same responsibility for their own actions… By the time the van lurched to a stop, throwing them back into the reality of their plight, she had become certain that he was utterly insane… and utterly beautiful.

But then the doors banged open, letting in the harsh light of day and the harsh commands of the guards, who herded the miserable captives out into the walled yard of the detention center. They were the last ones down, and he had pressed her hand briefly—”Be brave, sister” — and asked her name.

She spoke to him at last, only to say her name, before the guards reached him. She heard him begin to protest her innocence as he was hauled out, heard it turn into a gasp. Groping heavy hands dragged her down and away so that she could not see what they did to him. She was herded into the station with the rest, and she didn’t see him again.

But waiting inside the station was her father, who had come at a frantic call from her chaperone after she had been carried off in the van. She ran sobbing to him, and after many threats and a large payment to the Church missionary fund he had taken her away from that place of horror, before the Church’s inquisitors could inflict any permanent damage to her reputation.

She had been at home for almost two weeks, barely daring to leave the house while her fright slowly healed, before she could bear to think about the mad off worlder again… to wonder about his words, and his kindness to her in the midst of chaos… harder still, to wonder whether he was even still alive. Knowing that she would never know, never see him again, still she could not push his shining-eyed ghost out of her mind.

Even so, she did not recognize the stranger who sat self-consciously on the bench under the vine-covered courtyard wall, as her mother led her to “a suitor,” and left her to stand awkward and uncertain in the man’s eager scrutiny. He was conservatively dressed in a business suit and cloak; the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat half obscured his face. But what she could see of the face, dimly through her veil, was purple and green.

Apprehensively she threw back her dark blue head veil to let him see her own face, keeping her eyes averted. She curtseyed, her necklace of silver bells singing in the quiet air.

“Elsevier. You don’ recognize me, do you?” The words slurred, but his disappointment reached her clearly. He pulled off his hat.

But she had recognized his voice, even distorted as it was, and sat down on the bench beside him with a small cry of astonishment. “You! Oh… hallowed Calavre!” barely aware that she swore. Her hand rose to, but didn’t touch, his face; the warm brown of his skin was a tapestry of half-healed cuts and bruises, the sharp line of his jaw was still blurred and swollen.

“I toF your fadder I was in an acciden’.” He smiled with his lips and his eyes; pointed, “Jaw’s ‘ired shut,” in explanation.

Her own face furrowed with empathy, she twisted her hands in her lap.

“It’s aw right Hardly hurts at all now.” The inquisitors had not given him to the Blues, but instead had taken turns beating him bloody in holy vengeance for a day and a night, finally throwing him out into the street at dawn, to crawl away as fast as he could. “I don’t wanna think about it eidder…” He laughed once; but many years would pass before he even told her the smallest part of the truth. He fell silent, looking at her as though he expected something. “Is your jaw ‘ired shut too, sister?”

“No!” She shook her head, jingling. “I — I have thought about you. Over and over. I thought I’d never see you again; I was afraid for you.” She felt a sudden desire to cradle his bruised face against her heart. “Why did you come here?” She wove the cloth of her veil between her fingers. Not as a suitor. But she did not re-cover her face, or feel a need to, with him.

“I had to be sure you ‘ere aw right You are aw right He leaned forward.

“Yes. My father came… You were so land to me. My father would—”

“No. Blease don’ tell him about me. Jus’ tell me you listened to my ideas. Tell me I Planted a seed in your mind… Tell me you want to know more.”

“Why?” Of all the questions and answers that filled her mind, all that escaped her mouth was the one that told him nothing.

“ ‘Why?’ ” But she saw in his eyes that he understood.

“Ell… because I ’ant to see you again.”

“Oh! I could touch the sky with my finger!” She giggled inanely; put her hands over her mouth at the look on his face. The woman who won this man’s love would have to win his respect first. “Yes.” She met his eyes boldly, impulsively, but with a muscle quivering in her cheek. “I do want to know more. Please come again.”

He grinned. “When?”

“My father—”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.” Her gaze broke.

“I’ll come.” He nodded his promise.

“H-how many wives do you have?” hating herself for asking it.

“How many?” He looked indignant. “None. On Kharemough we believe in one at a time. One is enough for a lifetime… if she’s d’ right one.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out a handful of pamphlets. “I brought you dese, ‘cause I can’t shpeak for myself yet. But I wrote dis one… an’ dis one. Will you read ‘em?”

She nodded, feeling as though a shock ran up her arm as they touched her hand.

“You have a beautiful garden here.” A kind of longing crept into his voice. “Do you tend the flowers yourself?”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head, a little sadly. “I’m only allowed to come here on special occasions. And I’m never allowed to do anything that would get me dirty. But I love flowers. I’d spend all my time here, if I could.”

A look of peculiar resolution settled over his bruised face. Very deliberately he reached up to pluck a many-petaled lavender blossom from the vine above their heads. He put it into her hands. “We all die, someday. Better to live a free life than die on the vine.”

She cupped the flower in her hands, inhaling its fragrance. She smiled at him more than at his words.

He smiled back. “Till tomorrow, den.” He got stiffly to his feet.

“You’re going—”

“Godda meeting at d’ university over in Merdy, tonight.” He beamed at her disappointment, and leaned down, conspiratorial. “I’m an outside agitator, y’ know.”

“You won’t—?” She dared to touch him.

“Uh-uh.” He pulled his hat down over his eyes. “No more shpeeches; at leas’ till I can open my mouf again… Goodbye, sister.” He moved away across the courtyard with a rolling lurch, before she could realize that she still didn’t know his name. She looked down at the stack of propaganda, read, “Partners in a New World” by TJ Aspundh. She sighed. “What’s that he gave you?” Her mother peered at the pamphlets suspiciously.