“Iraji,” she muttered. “There’s something that’s been on my mind.” “Is it me?” he murmured. It was not even innuendo: he had been willing to talk about his past more openly. In these furtive days her casual lust had softened into fondness, and trust, and a sort of awkwardly racialized camaraderie. In Falcrest’s eyes, she and Iraji shared a single Oriati body, scrutinized for its beauty and sexuality, condemned for its indulgence and its melancholia.
