They sat together silently until Anjali came into the infirmary. Sevastian stopped just outside.
“Return to your room,” she said to Michael, the hostility in her voice unabated. For a minute, Sophie thought he would defy her. Instead, he squeezed Sophie’s hand, gave her a light kiss on the cheek and slid off the bed.
“Thank you, mana mila. May I see you tomorrow?”
“Yes. I will come to see you when I am ready.”
He nodded and left the infirmary, Sevastian following behind him.
She looked at Anjali. “A guard? Is that necessary?” Her friend didn’t answer. “Where have you put him for the night?”
“Your quarters,” she said. “I have nowhere else to put him. Don’t even think about going to him in the night. I’m putting a guard on your door, too.” Anjali sat down on the edge of the bed. “You forgave him.” Her tone was disapproving.
“Yes. On the agreement that he seek counseling when he returns to the US. What he did was wrong, and it’ll be a long time before we can put this behind us. But I wonder if he’s showing early signs of post-traumatic stress disorder.”
Anjali frowned, pondering that. “Possibly,” she conceded. “Or maybe he’s just an arrogant, pig-headed asshole.”
“That’s a disease a lot of people suffer from.” Sophie lay back against the pillows, exhausted. “And I may have called him that myself.”
Anjali squeezed Sophie’s hand. “I’m trying to look out for you. I know how much you love him, how much he loves you. But he’s volatile. You’ve always told me he was, but I didn’t really understand until now. So difficult, so stubborn, so totally convicted that his way is the right one.”
“Sound like anyone else you know?”
“Yeah.” Anjali smiled sadly. “Sounds just like my best friend. Who needs to get more sleep if she wants to be up and around tomorrow.” Anjali kissed Sophie’s forehead, turned off the lights, and whispered goodnight.
Chapter 16
Michael returned to his room after splashing cold water on his face. He felt humiliated, knowing that the Soviet soldier walking behind him had seen him cry like a girl.
He hated crying. His mother cried, of course. Women cried; that was acceptable. His father cried occasionally, too. He remembered tears running down Maxwell’s face as he ran to greet Signe and Michael when they’d cleared immigration at JFK the day they had finally come to New York. But his father was American, and American men behaved differently. Michael had never seen an Orlisian man cry, and his mother had always impressed upon him how important it was to behave like an Orlisian man from the time he was very small.
He’d not been in his room more than ten minutes, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the floor, when a knock came at the door.
“Mind if I come in?” He looked up in surprise to see Will Temple leaning on the doorframe. Michael waved him in. “Rough day, huh? I suppose my wife gave you that busted nose. Sorry about that.”
“It is not broken, only bruised,” he said defensively. “So many women in your country have fighting skills, I am discovering.”
“Only the good ones.” Michael couldn’t help but smile at that. “There, I knew I could make you smile. You’re such a sullen bastard. You should smile more often.”
He felt he should be angry at such a statement, but Will was impossible to dislike. “Perhaps,” Michael conceded. Then he remembered something. “I borrowed some of your clothing today. I have placed them over there.” He gestured to the chair where Will’s clothes were neatly stacked.
Will frowned. “Yeah, I noticed. Listen, you can borrow just about anything you want, but never touch my cowboy boots again. Those things are sacred to me.”
“I apologize and will not wear them again. In fact, I found them quite uncomfortable.”
Will grinned, then produced a pack of playing cards from his vest pocket. “Want to play cards?”