Page 119 of Gates of Tartarus

I nibble on a nail, trying to think of synonyms. Jorge’s English is so good that I sometimes forget it’s not his first language. “Err, you know, blaah. Ho hum. In the dumps.” For an English major, I’m not doing very well. And now I sound like I’m wearing a diaper. Who came up with such a silly expression in the first place?

“She means,” Kavi puts in helpfully, “she’s feeling a bit sad.”

I seize on the explanation gratefully. “Yes, I’m just a bit blue.” I push a pea around my plate and into the mashed potato. Emlyn’s cooked tonight, a very British sausage and mash with gravy.

Jorge looks at me appraisingly, head cocked to one side. “No,” he says slowly. I’d say you seem more red to me. Or maybe, orange.Sí, naranja,” he decides, nodding in satisfaction.

I stare at him. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

He smiles, taking a bite of potato.

“That is the absolute worst joke I have ever heard. You’re not funny. Don’t give up your day job.” I point my fork at him. “And I’ll have you know that my hair is not ‘orange’, it’s ‘copper red’ or, if you prefer, ‘burnt sienna’.” I’m feeling a bit miffed.

Jorge looks at me with wide, innocent eyes. He really shouldn’t have such beautiful eyes. Tonight, in the soft light of the conservatory, they’re gold-flecked hazel. “Querida?”

“Don’t you ‘querida’ me.” I stab at a sausage, skewering it with my fork. ‘Orange’ indeed!” I hated my hair growing up. I know that blondes get their fair share of jokes, but I was the only redhead in my year, and being quiet and bookish didn’t help matters. Now, red hair’s all the rage, and I take pride in being the genuine article.

“No,querida,” he says meekly.

“People are not ‘orange’, Jorge. You must understand that. Carrots are orange; pumpkins are orange; persimmons are orange; oranges are orange!” I stop, floundering, and realize that not only am I not feeling low, I’ve actually started enjoying this silly conversation. I peer at him suspiciously. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

He lifts his shoulders and smiles.

“That really was a terrible joke, though. You know that, right? You must never,evertell it again, especially in public. Not, of course, that you’ll meet that many red-haired people who happen to say they’re feeling blue, giving you an in, so…” I’ve screeched off the high road of indignation straight into drivel-ville. I really need to learn when to say when.

“For what it’s worth,” Emlyn interjects, “I think you look like a candy cane myself.”

I groan and slump into my chair.

“What? I like candy canes!” I ball up my napkin and throw it at his head. He catches it and grins.

“No,” Kavi shakes his head, and I beam at him, pleased to have an ally, until he says, “more likemotichoor ladoo.”

I cover my eyes. “Do I want to know?”

“They’re red and sweet with a hint of spice.” He winks at me.

“Oh, well, oh.” I blush, somewhat mollified.

Seef, surprisingly, has remained silent throughout, eating his dinner while the rest of us banter. Now he looks up. “There isn’t much we can do, you know, until Maddox and his team can interview the women. Emlyn and I have been looking into the Russian angle, and we’ll work with Gaia to unearth the mole, but it’ll take time. It’s frustrating as hell, but…” He shakes his head.

“I know. But do wehavetime? And what progress have we made? I mean, we don’t even know who Magda is, orwhereshe is. And we know Tennireef’s involved, but we can’t touch him, because he’s a big-shot, hoo-hah senator. And who the blazes is Rhea? I haven’t seen her in my visions once, not once! And dream incubation is pants. It’s not bloody well working. And since I’m about as much use as a chocolate teapot, what if the women can’t identify anyone? Have you thought of that?”

“Don’t fetch a baboon from behind the hill.”

I give him a look. “That makes no sense.”

“And a chocolate teapot does?”

“That’s the whole point.”

“Exactly.”

Huh? The conversation’s run away from me.

I try again. “Seriously. What does it mean?”

“Don’t borrow trouble. And don’t think of everything that could go wrong.”