6. "Perfect place, pretty face, nice place for a rattlesnake."
At one point during the summer after he first met Irina, Sark had been stricken by a case of heatstroke which resulted in severe headaches and stomachaches. In the evening, she would sit by his bedside, occasionally wiping his brow--a useless gesture that nonetheless provided some comfort. Now he is surprised to recall the sympathy she offered; it seems uncharacteristically indulgent. Knowing her as he does now, it seems she would have been more likely to tell him, on the first night, "You must get well," and expect him to promptly do so. After all, he was no longer a child, no longer expected to be without control over his body or his mind.
(Perhaps she simply hadn't felt comfortable around him yet; hadn't been able to trust that he would follow her order, if such a command were issued. Perhaps she'd been afraid for his apparently fragile health, cursing her impulsive decision to bring him into a climate so different from that in which he had lived his entire life. He remembers that, once in a while, he would drift into consciousness during the night and hear her telling him to stay, that the future held so much for them together if he would only stay... unless it was delirium.)
How unthinkable it had seemed then that the slightest pressure from her fingers, or those of the rather ineffectual doctor she'd called in, could cause him so much physical pain, yet the fingers in question would feel nothing out of the ordinary. He wished he could somehow pass the sensation through his skin into their hands, allow them to understand what was happening inside. All he could do was cry out, which he hated, and which might have been a lie anyway, for all anyone knew.
In fact, it occurred to him rather suddenly one lazy afternoon during which he could not stay asleep a second longer, the only evidence anyone had that he was ill came from his own testimony. And when he could no longer stand sympathy, he told both Irina and the doctor he was fine, and never complained again. If she'd known he was lying, which it seemed now she must have, at least she would no longer press the issue.
It wasn't the first secret he'd ever kept only for himself, but the lesson learned was valuable.
So if he is feeling anything for Sydney now beyond pity, certainly, no one needs to know.
****
He supposes he should have realized when Sydney did not draw back in horror after he initiated such intimate contact, when she instead responded in kind, that she was up to something. In his experience, women nearly always had a hidden agenda. He will chastise himself for falling for the charade. But that will not happen until some time later.
In the car, he is assigned driving duty once more; this time, Sydney and her father sit together in the backseat. He doesn't mind. This gives him the opportunity to pretend he is alone, forget all that has occurred and all that likely will occur once they reach their destination. The hour is late and the road is unlit; the headlights of a car behind him illuminate the dust and dirt that line both sides of the pavement, creating a surreal effect with the contrast between sudden light and dark. After he pulls to the side for a moment to allow the impatient driver to pass, the road reflects nothing. The only sound for miles is that of his own tires rolling against gravel. If he were inclined to believe in omens, he might have turned around right then, headed back for the safety of the nearest town: bright lights, city sounds, crowds in which to disappear. But he isn't, so he presses on, obliviously.
Sydney is not pleased, but Bristow seems unfazed when Sark points out that he must be sedated before entering the house. "It's for your own good, I assure you," he says, and those are the first words that have been spoken since his conversation with Sydney on the airplane. Bristow does not respond, merely presents an arm for the needle. Sydney glares, as if he has betrayed her personally by concealing this; perhaps he has. It is of little consequence.
Irina is pleased when he presents Jack and Sydney--the Bristow family, sort of, together again. He's suddenly struck by a sour mood, and retreats immediately to bed after securing Bristow in a holding cell located in the basement. He has not been in his room for long before his rest is disrupted.
"She must be secured as well," Irina points out.
Why don't you do it? he does not ask.
"If I enter her quarters, she will be immediately suspicious," she answers. "But I sense that you and she have formed a bond somehow."
He remains silent, unsure whether to deny any truth that might exist in her assessment. If he does, she will surely detect his dishonesty. However, if he admits it, that will be a sign of weakness as well as highly inappropriate; it might also place Sydney in danger due to her new status as a distraction. (Like Allison, an unwelcome voice interjects.) If he does neither and simply apologizes for leaving without permission, he might as well be admitting it's true, only in an even more cowardly manner. Silence seems preferable; she is quite skilled at carrying on a conversation without a willing partner.
"I'm glad you accompanied her to Spain," she says gently. "It was a good instinct on your part, I think."
"I'll sedate her and place her downstairs with him, then."
"No."
"No?"
"Jack is not the man he used to be. I don't trust him with her." She pauses. "Rather, I don't trust them together."
"What do you suggest, then?"
"I want you to stay with her tonight. Make sure she doesn't go anywhere or try anything."
All right, so either she knows and this is a game, he surmises, or she really doesn't know and this is just another task.
She smiles. "I trust you, of course."
And so the game is on.
At one point during the summer after he first met Irina, Sark had been stricken by a case of heatstroke which resulted in severe headaches and stomachaches. In the evening, she would sit by his bedside, occasionally wiping his brow--a useless gesture that nonetheless provided some comfort. Now he is surprised to recall the sympathy she offered; it seems uncharacteristically indulgent. Knowing her as he does now, it seems she would have been more likely to tell him, on the first night, "You must get well," and expect him to promptly do so. After all, he was no longer a child, no longer expected to be without control over his body or his mind.
(Perhaps she simply hadn't felt comfortable around him yet; hadn't been able to trust that he would follow her order, if such a command were issued. Perhaps she'd been afraid for his apparently fragile health, cursing her impulsive decision to bring him into a climate so different from that in which he had lived his entire life. He remembers that, once in a while, he would drift into consciousness during the night and hear her telling him to stay, that the future held so much for them together if he would only stay... unless it was delirium.)
How unthinkable it had seemed then that the slightest pressure from her fingers, or those of the rather ineffectual doctor she'd called in, could cause him so much physical pain, yet the fingers in question would feel nothing out of the ordinary. He wished he could somehow pass the sensation through his skin into their hands, allow them to understand what was happening inside. All he could do was cry out, which he hated, and which might have been a lie anyway, for all anyone knew.
In fact, it occurred to him rather suddenly one lazy afternoon during which he could not stay asleep a second longer, the only evidence anyone had that he was ill came from his own testimony. And when he could no longer stand sympathy, he told both Irina and the doctor he was fine, and never complained again. If she'd known he was lying, which it seemed now she must have, at least she would no longer press the issue.
It wasn't the first secret he'd ever kept only for himself, but the lesson learned was valuable.
So if he is feeling anything for Sydney now beyond pity, certainly, no one needs to know.
****
He supposes he should have realized when Sydney did not draw back in horror after he initiated such intimate contact, when she instead responded in kind, that she was up to something. In his experience, women nearly always had a hidden agenda. He will chastise himself for falling for the charade. But that will not happen until some time later.
In the car, he is assigned driving duty once more; this time, Sydney and her father sit together in the backseat. He doesn't mind. This gives him the opportunity to pretend he is alone, forget all that has occurred and all that likely will occur once they reach their destination. The hour is late and the road is unlit; the headlights of a car behind him illuminate the dust and dirt that line both sides of the pavement, creating a surreal effect with the contrast between sudden light and dark. After he pulls to the side for a moment to allow the impatient driver to pass, the road reflects nothing. The only sound for miles is that of his own tires rolling against gravel. If he were inclined to believe in omens, he might have turned around right then, headed back for the safety of the nearest town: bright lights, city sounds, crowds in which to disappear. But he isn't, so he presses on, obliviously.
Sydney is not pleased, but Bristow seems unfazed when Sark points out that he must be sedated before entering the house. "It's for your own good, I assure you," he says, and those are the first words that have been spoken since his conversation with Sydney on the airplane. Bristow does not respond, merely presents an arm for the needle. Sydney glares, as if he has betrayed her personally by concealing this; perhaps he has. It is of little consequence.
Irina is pleased when he presents Jack and Sydney--the Bristow family, sort of, together again. He's suddenly struck by a sour mood, and retreats immediately to bed after securing Bristow in a holding cell located in the basement. He has not been in his room for long before his rest is disrupted.
"She must be secured as well," Irina points out.
Why don't you do it? he does not ask.
"If I enter her quarters, she will be immediately suspicious," she answers. "But I sense that you and she have formed a bond somehow."
He remains silent, unsure whether to deny any truth that might exist in her assessment. If he does, she will surely detect his dishonesty. However, if he admits it, that will be a sign of weakness as well as highly inappropriate; it might also place Sydney in danger due to her new status as a distraction. (Like Allison, an unwelcome voice interjects.) If he does neither and simply apologizes for leaving without permission, he might as well be admitting it's true, only in an even more cowardly manner. Silence seems preferable; she is quite skilled at carrying on a conversation without a willing partner.
"I'm glad you accompanied her to Spain," she says gently. "It was a good instinct on your part, I think."
"I'll sedate her and place her downstairs with him, then."
"No."
"No?"
"Jack is not the man he used to be. I don't trust him with her." She pauses. "Rather, I don't trust them together."
"What do you suggest, then?"
"I want you to stay with her tonight. Make sure she doesn't go anywhere or try anything."
All right, so either she knows and this is a game, he surmises, or she really doesn't know and this is just another task.
She smiles. "I trust you, of course."
And so the game is on.