"Will you say good-bye to me before you leave?" she asked with tremulous lips, a look of uncertain anxiety about her in the dim light of the candle's glow.
"O-Of course I will!" Susan replied with a slight stammer, her own anxiety growing as the other girl drew close.
They were of the same age, dwelling beneath the same roof for a number of days and a number of nights now—and oh, what nights; nights that young Susan, so recently of an abandoned junkyard in a lonely corner of Shoreditch, and long before that—long, long before that—of the 49th century, had shared with the young girl before her.
She felt the warmth of the other girl as she came close, the brush of her silk qipao, the touch of her fingers about her waist and the closeness of her soft, soft lips as she spoke.
"Even if it is very late?" the other girl whispered, her hazel eyes staring intently into her own.
Oh, thought Susan again, oh, how perfect she was! How warm her complexion, how refined her manners, how gentle her touch! They were the same age, and yet it was not only the centuries that separated them.
Their lips touched; the taste of fruit and sweetness upon the girl's lips as Susan opened her mouth, their tongues meeting.
Beneath the swell of her breast, her heart beat enough for two.
Gently, they parted, and smiling, the young courtesan reached out and stroked the soft, waves of Susan's hair.
"No matter what time of night it is," Susan promised with earnest and heartfelt intent.
Again, the other woman leant in close, and, heart aflutter, Susan opened her lips once more.
Outside the room, beyond the curtain, the warlord Tegana listened with great intent.