“The greeting of the morning,” he said. “It is spring.”
“Oh,” was all Lalette could say, pulling the covers close around her neck, and then; “Well, I greet you.”
The smile she had once thought rather pleasant became fixed. “I have come to keep the spring with you.” He laid his hand on the edge of the covers. “You are my partner.”
“No. Not this time. No.”
“It is festival morning. You must.”
“No. What would Rodvard say?”
His laugh had an edge of nastiness. “His head will be on another pillow now. I know him. Why should you not do it as well as he?”
He reached down and began to paw at the bedclothes against her resistance, the scream she tried to give was only a squeak in that heavy-hung and distant room, and then he flung himself on her, catching her wrist to twist it around, crying; “Witch, witch, I will tame you or break all your bones.” She bit at the hand that touched her face, and with her own arm swung a sweeping blow that took him where head and neck join. He was suddenly standing beside the bed again, and she was saying low and furious, through tears:
“If you force me, I will kill myself and you, too. I swear it by the Service.”
Gaidu Pyax’ lips pouted out like a little boy’s, he sank slowly to one knee beside the bed, reaching a hand out gropingly. “Ah, I knew it couldn’t be true,” he said, and lifted toward her a face of wordless misery.