It’s about half an hour before brightshift when the CenGov troops burst into Eirelantra. Christolea is ripped out of her bed; the Vizier is already awake when the gunmen charge through his door. Cetin Urhu will have to wait; he’s back home on Sideria.
Governor Tellick watches this with Tara from the comfort of the CenGov flagship. “And you’re sure you can restore the power grid?”
Tara smiles sweetly. “Governor Tellick, the power grid has been working fine for weeks now. Do you think I would let your men overrun Eirelantra if it wasn’t? Not that I don’t trust you, but CenGov has a bit of a reputation for restoring order in a way that ends up equating to permanent occupation.”
“But if the power grid is working, then why has the power been completely down for three days?”
“Because it won’t hurt for the ungrateful bastards to understand their position. And I have a little show to put on for them.”
At the stroke of midshift, Tara broadcasts from the Grand Atrium to all open channels throughout the system. This is what she says:
“People of the Domha’vei, this is your Matriarch speaking. Your rightful Matriarch.”
“For the past seven months, you have followed a base pretender who claimed that she could wield the Holy Staff. You see where that has led you. The situation has deteriorated. These past three days have been days of darkness. Eirelantra and Dalgherdia are running on minimal life support. Volparnu is burning its cities to stay warm. The heat on Sideria is unbearable, and the inhabitants of the equatorial zone have evacuated. Even Dolparessa has had nothing but rain.”
“You must face the truth. You have done this to yourselves. You have offended the Archon.”
“The Archon is not a man. The Archon is a Living God. He sustains us and protects us. A God is not a governor. He does not answer to you. You don’t get to elect Him. His fate is not decided in the court of popular opinion. If he heals a sick child, or if he dresses like Napoleon and fires cream pies out of the cannons at Court Emmere, you don’t get a say in it.”
“It is fortunate for you that I have some influence with Him.”
“He tells me that if the government is cleansed of all traitors by sunset as measured in your capital cities – duskshift on the stations – and if everyone gathers in the streets to pray, asking for his return, he will restore power. If not, it will be another long, dark night. The choice is yours.”
“That was quite a performance,” says Governor Tellick.
“Oh, the best is yet to come. I really don’t want to think about what’s happening to my political enemies right now,” Tara says, smirking as she thinks of just that.
As the sun sets, the streets are packed, even on Skarsia. Power grid or no power grid, Christolea’s leadership was lacking. At first, she had the advantage of looking regal, and not having a history of sex slaves and mad dictators and public disorderliness. Also, she promised to abolish the Volparnian education program – after all, education was wasted on men. But in the end, the 5th Matriarch had been right about her – she was weak and unworthy, and she had pretty much been the pawn of Cetin Urhu and the Vizier. If there’s anything Skarsians hate, it’s a weak-willed woman.
On Volparnu, the people are terrified. On Dolparessa, the atmosphere is festival. The Cu’enmerengi know they will be much better off with Ashtara as Archon rather than a snot-needled council of Arya. The Cu’enashti adore Ashtara. To them, he’s the pinnacle of their race. His strength and his suffering are legend.
I can’t believe I just wrote that. I’m starting to believe my own propaganda.
But it is true, says Dermot.
I’m OK with it, says Cillian. Get back to the story.
As the sun vanishes, the crystals in the power grid begin to glow electric blue. The air is filled with a low, humming noise.
They don’t do that normally. They just glow a little. We did all that for dramatic effect.
And normally, the nul-energy is invisible, out of the spectrum of human sight. But we added a little blue glow, so that everyone could see the energy emanating from Dolparessa, shooting out to all of the worlds in a gigantic web of light, until finally the cascade of power reached Eirelantra. I and I had been riding the power grid in the way Cillian discovered. And so He rides it into the Grand Atrium, and appears suddenly in its center, the now-gigantic mothman blazing in all his glory. This apparition is broadcast to all the worlds of the Domha’vei.
And then Tara enters the Atrium in her most elaborate ceremonial dress, bearing the Staff of the Matriarch. She approaches the mothman, raising it. He sweeps his arms back, then forward, folding them, folding himself into the regally impressive figure of Ailann Tiarnan, 2nd Archon of Skarsia.
At that moment, the lights come on everywhere, all at once. Four worlds are a blaze of color and luminosity.
There is weeping, and cheering, and drinking – a spontaneous celebration that lasts for days. It will be known politically as Restoration Day. In the Archonist religion, it becomes a holiday known as the Enlightenment Festival.
It’s a turning point. Skarsians are all nominally Archonists. It’s the state religion, but it’s mostly driven by politics. Dolparessans basically ignored it; their own traditions were clustered around the worship of the trees. On Volparnu, Archonism was despised as a woman’s religion.
From this point on, Archonism becomes evangelical. On Dolparessa, it becomes identical to the traditional practices. On Volparnu, the League of Heroes declares that it is an approved faith. After all, there’s nothing particularly objectionable to a religion whose omnipotent God is male. The fact that many women worship Him is just as it should be.
I find all this enormously uncomfortable, even embarrassing. Cillian sucks it up like hot javajuice. Ailann and Whirljack find it useful propaganda. Driscoll thinks it’s funny. The others pretty much ignore it.
As you might well imagine, the situation becomes even more complicated after the disclosure. But before the rest of it will make sense, I have to tell you about Premma and Ashpremma.
Premma was the daughter of one of the butlers at Court Emmere. In the Domha’vei, to be the retainer of some noble house is an honorable position. Premma’s family were respectable middle class.
Premma herself was a bit of a strange girl. Human boys didn’t much fancy her. She was plump and a little stand-offish, not snobbish, but too wrapped up with a head full of stories. She was honest. She didn’t smile at them and pretend to care that they had made their school’s MayaXtreme team. She didn’t lose on purpose to them at cards.
The first time I saw her, I thought, she’s going to make some tree a fine wife someday.
Not long after that, the court mechanic engaged a lad to help maintain the fleet of official hovercars. I took one look at him and thought, there’s Ashpremma. But he looked at me and nearly dropped his can of Magibuff. He hadn’t known the Prince Consort was Cu’enashti, like himself.
This was before the Great Reveal, so I think we both found it a comfort to have someone else of our kind nearby, even though my status was far more elevated than his. I took him under my wing and made helpful suggestions about Premma. After all, I’d certainly made enough mistakes – someone should benefit from my experience.
There were two things that Premma loved more than anything in the world: ballerinas and crème cakes. That the two were more or less mutually exclusive did not seem to bother Premma. It was more than obvious that Derek –Ashpremma’s emanation – would make a horrible ballerina. So I advised him to learn to make crème cakes, and asked him why he thought Premma liked those things.
“She dreams of a world full of things that are fluffy and white,” he replied, his eyes full of distant joy.
“Then buy yourself a ra’aabit,” I advised.
Sure enough, Premma started to drop by Derek’s quarters to visit little Crème Puff every day. And he made tea and crème cakes, and they would talk into the late afternoon about dragons and unicorns, and the ballerinas that would ride them. And then Derek started taking her to formal parties. She said she had nothing to wear, so he saved up his salary to buy her a white lacy dress. The humans her age didn’t understand why a decent-looking youth like Derek, with his remarkable blue eyes, would be dating what appeared to be a living incarnation of a two-tiered crème cake. But I did. She really wasn’t my type, but I could see that her eyes were full of dreams.
If you want to know, where humans will say what they are looking for in a partner is good looks, or a sense of humor, or intelligence, what a Cu’enashti would say is a strong will, an unashamed sensuality, and a head full of dreams. Tara has all three, which is difficult to find. Her dreams aren’t fluffy and white, though. Her dreams are a poison garden.
And this whole premise is a fallacy, for no Cu’enashti is looking for anything. If they’re walking around, they’ve already found it.
Anyway, all this is background for a story Tara tells Chase when she is lying in his arms, peaceful after sex, but still too wired to sleep. They are on their way to meet Tellick at Dalgherdia. Their trip has consisted of sex, drugs, and occasionally foiling Suzanna’s escape attempts. “It’s a conversation I had with Derek after the Great Reveal,” she says.
“Derek, do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Of course not, Your Highness.” At this point, Derek was a handsome young man of eighteen. He didn’t look at all like Daniel, but there was something about him, a certain sweetness, a sincerity, that reminded Tara of her first lover. They were both flowers.
“That woman, Merhna. Why do all your people treat her like a princess? I’ve even seen the Cantor defer to her. I don’t want to make anything of it, but she’s a little insolent to Ash. And the strange thing is that he seems to accept it. Even when he’s Cillian, he accepts it.”
Derek looked at Tara with wide eyes, scarcely believing that the Sublime and Holy Matriarch would miss something so obvious. “She’s married,” he said.
Tara was puzzled. “A lot of people are married. I’m married. What’s special about that?”
Derek sighed. “She’s married according to the Council of Cu’enashti. She made the disclosure, and her husband chose to extend.”
“That’s nice. I’m glad to hear that some of the Cu’enashti are feeling confident enough to disclose, and that their partners are willing to accept it. I really hope in the future that no Cu’enashti will ever have to be afraid.”
Derek was tongue-tied. To be Cu’enashti meant being afraid, by definition.
“But that still doesn’t explain why everyone defers to her.”
“Highness, I don’t know how to say this, but…you see, our people value the Cantor for her wisdom, and value Ashtara for his strength and his devotion to you. But Merhna is married, and they aren’t. That means that in the way most important to our people, Merhna is better than they are.”
Now it was Tara’s turn to stare in amazement. “Derek, if being married means so much, why don’t you ask Premma? She knows you’re Cu’enashti, and since you’re the sole emanation, the disclosure paperwork is easy.”
Derek flushed red. “Your Highness! I could never do that!”
“Why not?”
“It isn’t my place! I’d grow a thousand new branches before I’d dream of something that audacious.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We couldn’t ever do something that would seem like pressuring the Chosen, or making the situation awkward. And if she turned me down, I would have to grow a new branch.”
“So she has to ask you?”
He nodded.
“Derek, you do realize that Premma’s family are ethnic Siderians, and on Sideria it’s customary for the men to ask the women? She’ll never ask you. It would humiliate her.”
Derek slumped against the courtyard wall. She could tell by his manner that his leaves were drooping.
“Why don’t I ask her for you?”
“No! Your Highness, please don’t! You can’t ever tell her about this.”
Tara feels defeated. But she won’t let go of it. Despite that she told Ailann an occasional loss was unavoidable, she’s a damn poor loser.
“I wish,” Tara says to Chase, “that I understood your people better.”
Chase leans back, closing his eyes. “So do I,” he says. “So many drugs to help me forget. I wish there was one to help me remember.”
“There is,” says Tara. “Gyre.” The minute she’s said it, she starts to wonder. Will Gyre even affect a Cu’endhari? She didn’t see how it could hurt. It’s worth a try. They have a few days before they’re supposed to rendezvous with Tellick.
“I can get Gyre,” he says. She’s smiling at him, but he can see right through it: she’s terrified that he won’t ever remember. She doesn’t understand why I and I emanated as Chase again instead of Ailann when he reassumed the Archonate. She’s worried that permanent damage was done when the Archon’s power was ripped away from him. Chase wants more than anything to allay her fears. And then he’s shocked to realize that for once in his life, he cares about something. He cares very, very much.
Chase is as good as his word. He knows where to get anything. Anything illegal, that is.
In Dalgherdia City, the place to go is the red lounge at Tom O’Bedlam’s. Chase has no idea how ironic this is, especially since the woman he buys from, Eloise, works for Tommy, but really works for Mickey.
He holds the vial out to Tara. It has the familiar RR-2 logo. This is not to be confused with the RootRiot logo – an RR on the background of a nau’gsh tree. The RR-2 logo is a rose with the letters “i-t” superimposed. It refers to a play on the acronym RR and an ancient Zen koan: “Railroad crossing, look out for the cars. Can you spell it without any r’s?”
He’s purchased two doses. She almost says no – she hasn’t had Gyre in over a decade, except for that one odd batch she made with the blue fruit. She stopped taking Gyre because she couldn’t live with her dreams of Ailann.
And then she realizes that if there’s anything she wants now, it’s her dreams of Ailann. Especially after she betrayed him so badly. She puts the drop on her tongue.
“Fuck, baby, fuck,” says Chase, “this is the best rush, so much better than opium.”
His voice is distant to her, hard to hear over the familiar melody. She can play it, if her fingers can find the keys. She wishes that she could remember the words. She can hear it, and she can hear Ailann speaking. But he is not speaking to her.
He is speaking to the Cantor.
“I’m glad for you,” the Cantor says. “It will also clarify the situation politically. And our people will love the Matriarch for doing it.”
“I can scarcely believe it,” says Ailann. “After all these years…”
Tara can see that he is crying. She’s never seen him cry before. But he is so happy. She’s never seen him happy before, either.
“You’ve had so much to carry,” says the Cantor. “It’s time you tasted the fruit of your labors.”
“What I’ve suffered is nothing next to you.”
“There would be decades when I wouldn’t see her,” says the Cantor. “But it was worth it. It was worth it because I knew as long as the Matriarch lived, she would need Elma. And that meant I was allowed – demanded – to keep Elma alive.”
The Cantor’s eyes are full. She’s normally seems timeless, but now she looks like a young girl.
“Elma’s father was one of the first Dolparessan colonists. Her mother was one of the first trees to take the leap. Elma was wild. She did anything possible to outrage people. She took all kinds of drugs. She tried a new drug, Gyre, and then ran into the woods with her friends. And there was a girl named Desilla, and Elma pushed her back against my trunk and kissed her. And Desilla shoved her away and ran, but Elma laughed and pointed at me and said, “You don’t mind that I like girls.” And I could feel her. I couldn’t stand against her desire. And then I was there, naked and shivering. I didn’t know anything. I didn’t know anything but what she wanted.”
“And so when she’s gone – and she’s usually gone – I teach the young, so they don’t ever feel as lost as I did. But I know why Elma left – she had to protect our people. She can see everything. She doesn’t tell half of what she sees. She only tells what she thinks will assure the future that she dreams. For over eight hundred years, we all lived with the lies until just the right moment, when she failed to warn the 5th Matriarch of her impending demise. Of course, she failed to warn the 4th Matriarch, too.”
“And will she warn Tara?”
The Cantor laughs. “If Her Highness would start taking Gyre again, she wouldn’t need Elma to warn her. Besides, I can’t imagine that you would allow her to die.”
“Then I can prolong her life indefinitely?”
“As long as her destiny and Elma’s dreams are the same.”
Tara hears something the Cantor does not hear. She hears the Cantor telling Sloane that all he can do is wait. She hears Ailann realizing that Elma has played him for years. She hears something she sees in Ailann’s eyes: I’ve missed your objective advice.
“It would be a shame if they were not,” says Ailann. The Cantor meets his eyes. They are kind and terrible at the same time. They are the eyes of God. She looks away because he is stronger, even though she is wiser. He is stronger because his love is stronger. His love is stronger – how can that be? His love is strongest, and that means he must be the greatest fool of all time.
It doesn’t matter what Elma dreams. Ashtara will remake the universe in Tara’s image. “You open the festival,” she says. “You represent Apple and Rose.”
Tara can barely hear the Cantor’s voice because she’s lost in Ailann’s eyes. The world is blue, royal blue, the bloobird of happiness, the blues, the dirty blues, a blue movie, true blue, everything is blue in the eyes of God. And then she realizes that the eyes she is looking at are in Chase’s face, and he is saying, “I remember. I remember everything.”
She thinks of what she has put him through. “I’m so sorry,” she says, and kisses him to make up for it.
“Don’t be,” he says, smiling. “Now I don’t have to bear this alone.”
Oh, that’s good, but now you need to talk about…Tommy begins.
I shake my head. Bear with me. I’m getting to the really good part. But there’s one other scene I think needs to be in there, a flashback to about a year before. It’s right after Tara had another fight with Ailann.
When she returns, she’s surprised to see that it’s Lugh, not Patrick. But then again, maybe she shouldn’t be surprised. Lugh’s the comforter, the consolation prize. She’s not sure whether Ash grew him that way to make up for the loss of Owen, or whether he’s like that because Lugh knows himself what it means to be hurt.
“Hey babe,” he says, smiling. She smiles back. She has to. He radiates. Lugh, the god of light. It’s so warm in his arms.
Compassion flows so easily from him. Not like Ailann, who bears it like a cross. Ailann bears everything like a cross. His nature is gravity – no that’s wrong. His nature is the eternal fight against gravity.
She grabs Lugh by the hand. “Come on,” she says, pulling him down on the bed. He’s so handsome – might as well take advantage of it. Oddly, he looks a lot like Owen, without looking much like Owen. Owen was hard and rough and opaque, like rock. Owen Carrick. But cut and polish it, and surprisingly, it’s a sapphire, deep blue and full of light.
Later, her head rests against his broad chest. “Why do you always fight him, baby?” he asks.
“I don’t know. He’s always right. He’s God.”
“Sucks to be God,” Lugh says. “You get blamed for everything.”
Tara laughs.
“It’s really lonely.”
“I suppose it is,” she says. “Not like he’ll let me do anything about it.”
“He’s afraid that weakness is a luxury he can’t afford.”
“Wonderful. The last thing I need is for Ailann to turn into Clive.”
Lugh flinches. He supposes that she has a point.
“Do you want to know the truth, Lugh?”
“Unless you’d rather lie.”
“That’s a safe answer,” she says, laughing. “Look – I’m not playing favorites here. I’m not getting sucked into that game, and I know Ash loves to play it. But if I had to pick one of you, if I had to, it would be Ailann. I just want him to hold me forever.”
“Why are you telling me and not him?”
“Well, he’s listening.”
“Yeah, but why not say it to his face?”
Tara is silent.
“Oh baby,” says Lugh, kissing her hair, “you’re as stubborn as he is.”
“I know,” she says. “Archon and Matriarch. We’re the king and queen on the chessboard. A matched set.”
“It’s a lot easier for the queen to move,” says Lugh.
I and I didn’t believe her, says Mickey.
Well, she had to be lying, says Lorcan. She said she wasn’t playing favorites, and then she named her favorite.
At the time, says Ailann, I thought she was saying that to make me feel guilty about the fight. But now…now I think she was sincere, at least for the moment. But really, I think Patrick…
I don’t need to be her favorite, I say.
But…
Is there anyone here who needs to be her favorite?
I meet with 22 sets of blank eyes.
It’s bullshit, Cillian says finally. We’re a team.
But Ailann looks away, and Lorcan laughs. Ailann needs to be her favorite, Lorcan says. She can have no other God before him.
I shrug. Then it’s settled, I say.
On the eve of Restoration Day, Tara takes Ailann by the hand. “My love,” she asks, “what is it that you want from me?”
“I don’t want anything,” he replies.
“All these years, you’ve served me. You’ve never asked for anything in return, and I never thought to ask. But my stupidity caused this situation. It could have been so much worse. I just want to make you happy.”
“I am happy,” he says. “Being with you makes me happy.” It feels like a lie to him. Being with her doesn’t make him happy. Being with her causes the entire universe to exist.
None of us ever knows what to say to her to convey the truth. Possibly Jamey is the most eloquent. If only I could carve my wooden heart from my chest, and place it into hers, maybe she could understand.
“Ailann, please. For once let me…” and then she stops. She remembers her dream of him, how happy he was. What could make him that happy? And then she feels like a complete idiot.
“There’s a legal matter I need to take care of,” she says. “The fastest thing would be to have Ross handle it.”
Ailann is surprised, but considering the political situation, it’s not at all unlikely. But it’s the first time Tara has seen Ross in…well, it would be the second time Tara had seen Ross, actually. Ever since Ross fixed the accounting problems at RootRiot by starting NBIA, he’s been called upon in a number of circumstances requiring legal or business acumen. But there seemed to be a tacit agreement that Ross would avoid meeting Tara. Now it was inescapable. Ailann raises his arms, and Ross folds them.
Ross doesn’t want to be there. Ross doesn’t want to exist. Everything that Tara has said to Suibhne and Tarlach and Callum has eased his pain. That doesn’t negate the fact that he wishes he were dead.
“I know my husband, Prince Patrick Fitzroy, is Cu’enashti. I’m requesting a full disclosure. Of course, he can deny it. If he does, I won’t exercise my right to annulment.”
Ross is taken completely by surprise. “But why? I mean, you already know all the emanations, except that one new branch that hasn’t emanated yet. We’re not hiding anything from you, Tara, I swear. If Patrick discloses, everything about us will be public knowledge.”
“Hmmm. That could be inconvenient. So you don’t advise it?”
Ross is silent for a moment. “It’s really your choice.”
“But you don’t want to do it.”
Ross is silent.
“Ross, you of all people should understand that I can’t marry you in the Cu’enashti way unless you disclose.”
“Is that what you want? You want to marry I and I? You want to marry Ashtara?”
“This is news? I proposed by leaving a tanzaku when I was sixteen. Of course, I never actually asked if you wanted to marry me.”
“Of course we do! Every Cu’enashti dreams of it.”
“I’m still not sure why it’s so important to your people. It doesn’t change anything. It’s just a legal arrangement.”
“To be able to walk with you in public, to hold my head up and know that you are my wife, that everyone knows you’re my wife, that my Chosen knows the truth and accepts me for what I am. Tara, every one of us builds a world around the Chosen, and only later realizes that to the most comforting, familiar being in the universe, the Cu’enashti are wholly alien. There’s a measure of self-disgust…”
Tara looks troubled. Ross is afraid now he’ll say the wrong thing and blow it. “It just means a lot,” he finishes.
“You never would’ve asked me, would you?”
“Of course not.”
“But this is what you want? It’s what Ailann wouldn’t tell me?”
“It is.”
“Then tomorrow, you can start on the writ of disclosure. With 22 emanations, it will take you a while.”
It is a moment of giddy joy, one we will replay into infinity. But Ross’ happiness is bittersweet. You bitch, he thinks. You knew exactly what you were doing by asking this of me. Now I am condemned to live forever.
“And there’s a favor I have to ask of Patrick, when we get back to Dolparessa.”
The favor was this: Patrick had to go to Premma and explain to her why he had never asked Tara to marry him.
“I assume you want Premma to ask Derek. But that boy isn’t old enough to marry,” says Ross.
Tara laughs. “I know that with a four-thousand year natural life-expectancy, your sense of time must be very different from mine, but that boy must be at least twenty-five or twenty-six now. He’s a man, and well able to marry.”
“He only has one trunk,” says Ross. “He can’t even fruit.”
Tara is dumbfounded. She’d never even considered.
“The problem is that he’s had it too easy. It happens sometimes. He’s not going to be able to generate another branch on willpower, either. That ability is rare, and requires a lot of strength. There are two ways to become strong: by suffering, and because the Chosen demands it. Derek has never suffered, and Premma wants a world filled with fluffy white things.”
“Do I demand suffering?” Tara asks.
Ross now understands what Suibhne meant by “the most numinous stupidity in the history of the universe.” He decides it’s safer not to answer that question from personal experience.
“I think I should repeat what Evan just said: Choosing you is like making love in a garden of roses – Earth-style roses. One comes away intoxicated with beauty and covered in scratches.”
Tara thinks it’s best not to dwell on that. “So Derek can never marry?”
“In his case, the best thing would be to have a silent branch. If Premma does ask him to marry, Patrick can advise him of that, or the Cantor will.”
“What’s a silent branch?”
“It’s the best solution to these cases of too much happiness. The boy goes to a remote location in the mountains, where no one will see him, and throws himself off. It will trigger the growth of a new branch, but he doesn’t have to use the emanation. The branch will just stay dormant unless it’s needed, like our 23rd branch is doing now.”
“You mean to tell me that if Daniel had never fallen, Ash couldn’t have children?”
“Exactly. Calling a nau’gsh a rose isn’t too bad of a metaphor. For a rose to be healthy, it needs pruning.”
Tara stares at Ross, understanding, really understanding in her bones something for the first time: death and suffering mean something entirely different to animals and plants. She is convinced even more of the rightness of what she has planned.
“Well, enough talking for tonight. I feel like celebrating. Let’s get drunk and fuck.”
Her impulse is to be gentle with him, but she knows that would be wrong. Like everybody else, she watched the Tarlach Tadgh Show. She knows Ross would read gentleness as rejection. So she rides him like an antigrav monorail.
His easy confidence is gone. It’s replaced by a desperate intensity. Tara likes him better now.
Of course, she can’t say that. A human could never say to another human, “The atrocity you suffered has made you a better person.” It may be true, but it’s tasteless. What a human needs to hear is, “Nothing has changed. I still love you.” But that isn’t what Ross needs to hear.
Tara looks at him and sees that his preternatural handsomeness has developed into a sad, worn beauty. She thinks about how roses grow larger and more lovely after they’re cut back.
She says, “I know you want to die. I forbid it. As you can see, I still have use for you. From now on, consider every miserable breath a demonstration of your absolute loyalty to me.” She pulls closer to him, running her hand through the hairs on his chest. “You know, you’re suffering for me just by existing. Callum will be so jealous.”
Ross is a smart enough businessman to recognize that in the strange economy of the heart, his stock has just increased exponentially. Tara has masterfully manipulated the situation. But why? He searches her face for pity; he doesn’t find any. He remembers how she treats Callum, and also thinks about her attitude towards Sloane. She’s motivated by a combination of sadism and gratitude.
He can live with that. Maybe he can even find some measure of contentment.