Authors: Elizabeth Bonesteel
The Cold Between (43 page)
He had made Alex Carter some of his horrible coffee, and in return the young man had told him what he knew of Captain Treiko Zajec of PSI. Ilya had been impressed, and strangely saddened. Such a large part of his friend's life, shut away behind him. Although seeing him in his uniform . . . Ilya had to wonder.
“You are standing out, you know, Treiko Zajec.”
Trey glanced around, noting some of the attention. “I suppose I am,” he said ruefully. “No matter. Hiding from what I wasâwhat I amâdid me little good, and I have recently decided that lying is exhausting. I have better things on which to spend my waning energy.” He looked back at Sarah. “Is your mother very angry with me?”
Sarah's eyes widened. “She used words I never heard her use before,” she told him. “But I think she was worried. I went downstairs one night, and she was in the kitchen, reading your letters.”
“Hm,” Treiko said again, and Ilya saw a suspicious gleam in his eyes. “I am sorry if I caused her pain.”
The child straightened. “I think it was good for her to miss you,” she declared. “Perhaps she will be nicer to you now.”
At that Treiko laughed out loud, a true belly laugh, and Ilya felt his worry for his friend falling away. “You cannot change the nature of a thing, Sarah dear,” he told her. “Your mother will be herself, and I will love her for it. You must, too, you know. She will need that from you, on the days she cannot love herself.”
“We still don't have a new dessert chef,” Sarah told him slyly.
“One thing at a time, dear girl,” Treiko said gently. “Let her grow used to me being home, and to all of these people knowing
who we are to one another. If she wishes for me to cook for her after that, I will cheerfully do so.”
Impulsively Sarah reached out and took his duffel. She frowned. “Is it empty?”
“I left with nothing,” he pointed out. “These are small creature comforts acquired on the way home. And possibly a gift for you, from Yi Shao City, but you will have to wait until I unpack to see it.”
Her eyes glowed, and she became little again, and she turned and skipped ahead of them, heading down the block toward Treiko's flat.
The two men fell into step, eyes on the child running up the sidewalk. “What happened, Treiko Zajec?” Ilya asked.
Trey was quiet for a long time, his footsteps muffled against the concrete, his eyes far away. “I have seen the future, Ilya Putin,” he said at last. “Or possibly the past. I do not know which. I do not know that it matters.”
“And what does the future hold?”
“I am not sure,” Treiko admitted. “I think I ought to fear it. But I must say, Ilya, that having seen it . . . when I set aside the fear, I am left, strangely enough, with hope.”
Ilya did not begin to understand. He would have his own measure of the future, and it would not be as big as Treiko's, or Sarah's. Any fear he used to feel at what lay ahead had long since been replaced by curiosity and anticipation. He thought on the last day of his life he would still wake up full of energy, awaiting the beauty of the day. “So it did you good, this seeing of the future,” he said.
“I do not know. But I would not give it back.”
Sarah had stopped, having run into a friend, and instinctively
Ilya and Treiko stopped as well, giving her room to socialize. Her friend was a few centimeters shorter; he looked younger than she did, but there was something in his smile that suggested to Ilya he was not. Ilya glanced at his friend, expecting to find a glower of disapproval. Instead Treiko was watching the children, a slight smile on his face, something lost and hollow in his eyes.
“She stayed behind,” Ilya observed.
“She is a child of the stars,” Treiko told him. “She could no more thrive here than a plant without light. She might have stayed, if I had asked; but she would not have been herself, not for long.”
“You let her go.”
“I did.”
“I am sorry she allowed that.”
Another smile, brief and sad. “As am I.”
Sarah flashed the boy a bright smile, and started skipping down the sidewalk again. The two men resumed walking. After a while, Ilya cleared his throat.
“You are not alone, you know, Treiko Zajec,” he said.
Treiko kept his eyes on the little girl. “None of us are alone, Ilya Putin.”
And much to Ilya's surprise, Treiko Zajec began to sing, his voice melodic and strong, an old folk song Ilya remembered from his own childhood. After a moment Ilya joined him, and together the two men followed Sarah back home.
W
riting is indisputably a solitary activity, and yet somehow I have managed to acquire a long list of incredibly talented and generous people I would like to acknowledge. Without them, this book would never have come to pass. With apologies to those I will inevitably miss, I would like to extend my thanks to:
Hannah Bowman, my agent, who saw what this book could become and worked with me to get it there with the fiercest good cheer of any person I have ever known;
David Pomerico and Natasha Bardon, my editors at HarperVoyager US and HarperVoyager UK, for their invaluable insight and their kind patience with the new kid;
Richard Tunley, writer, musician, and endlessly patient friend, who was the first to read my work and say “Hmm, this is not bad”;
Nancy Matuszak, writer and coconspirator, giver of honest feedback, midnight encouragement, tea, and chocolate;
Donna, Tara, Reuben, Denise, Gery, Bob, and Tru, my beta readers, all of whom gave me invaluable insight;
and everyone at Absolute Write, especially the denizens of the M/T/S board, who have stuck with me through failure and success, good days and bad, and continue to motivate me every day.
My family merits their own section for putting up with me. My thanks to:
my mother and father, who have somehow always been proud of me, no matter what in my life I've screwed up;
my brother, who picks up my parenting slack by taking my kid on all the rides I'm too scared to go on;
my always amazing husband, who has managed to survive living with me through all of this while remaining unfailingly patient and encouraging;
and lastly, my smart girl, who will someday pick up this book and say “Oh, THAT'S what she was doing!” There are things in life worth fighting for, my dear. Never doubt it.
ELIZABETH BONESTEEL
began making up stories at the age of five, in an attempt to battle insomnia. Thanks to a family connection to the space program, she has been reading science fiction since she was a child. She currently works as a software engineer, and lives in central Massachusetts with her husband, her daughter, and various cats. Massachusetts has been her home her whole life, and while she's sure there are other lovely places to live, she's quite happy there.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE COLD BETWEEN
. Copyright © 2016 by Elizabeth Bonesteel. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-241365-9
EPub Edition March 2016 ISBN: 9780062413666
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