Page 9 of The Seeker
He narrowed his eyes. “Sari didn’t say what you do here in New Orleans. Are you attached to the scribe house?”
“They wish. My parents are in charge of a haven in this area. I’m sure you understand why I can’t be more specific.”
“So you moved to be close to them?”
“Hmmm.” They still hadn’t moved from the middle of the square. Meera could feel the morning sun on her shoulders. She didn’t mind the warm weather—she relished it—but she could see Rhys beginning to sweat. “Should we move into the shade?”
Only a slight softening around his mouth told her he was grateful. He held out a hand, motioning toward the bench where she and Zep had been sitting, but it was already occupied. Zep had disappeared and more and more humans were pouring into the square.
“Hmm. I know a place that’s quieter,” she said. “Would you like to grab a coffee?”
“Tea,” he said. “I drink tea.”
“How English.”
“Or Indian.” He shrugged when she glanced over her shoulder. “I’m assuming from the accent.”
“It would be a mistake to assume anything about me.” Meera turned and walked into the oncoming tourist traffic. “But I do drink tea. Follow me.”
The courtyardof the hotel was quiet save for the trickle of a fountain. Though they were only steps from Bourbon Street, the stone walls enveloped them and kept the crowds and the heat at bay. It was one of Meera’s favorite hidden spots in the French Quarter, an intensely crowded neighborhood filled with small private corners.
She adored it.
Rhys lifted a teapot delicately, his long fingers arranging the teacups just so before he poured. There was something highly attractive about a man who handled fine things with care.
“Do you take milk or sugar?” he asked.
“Neither, thank you. If they come back, I’ll ask for honey.”
He glanced up as he passed her a teacup. He’d taken off his sunglasses as she had, but Meera could tell he was uncomfortable without them.
Fuss, fuss, fuss.
“You’re very tidy.” She cupped her chin and leaned her elbow on the table. “Aren’t you? I’m betting your suitcase is strictly organized.”
“I live in an old house with three couples and two unruly children.” His mouth curved just a little. “I have to be tidy.”
He liked the children even though they were “unruly.” It was the first hint of softness she’d seen from him, and it made her like him more. But he avoided looking at her, choosing to glance around the courtyard and examine every person who came in sight. He was definitely a soldier. Zep and his brothers all acted the same.
But Zep and his brothers didn’t avoid looking directly at her.
Hmmmm.
“Do I make you uncomfortable?” Many scribes were awkward around Irina, but he’d mentioned living with couples. Then again, perhaps he didn’t approve of Irina living in the scribe house. Perhaps Rhys of Glast was one of those Irin who wanted to keep all Irina locked in the havens, only visiting to breed children or consult on ancient songs.
“You don’t make me uncomfortable.” He stirred his tea.
“Are you sure?”
“Not knowing who you are or what you do makes me uncomfortable. Why did Sari send me to you, and what do you know about Irina martial magic? What is your role?”
“Aren’t you direct?” Her mother would have said rude. “In your world I don’t have a role.”
His gaze stopped wandering around the courtyard and locked on her. “In my world I live with three highly skilled singers who work with the scribes in our house in all manner of ways, from healing to patrolling to mental combat. So perhaps it’s a mistake to assume anything about me either.”
“Fair.” What to give him? Just enough. “Like you, I am an archivist.”
“Do you have a specialty?”
