Immortality

Chapter Twelve - From Thee to My Sole Self

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Sorcha was quiet on the flight home. Nightingale got the sense that she was a woman of few words. She could also tell that Sorcha was reasonably young. Her face was youthful, her hair had the shimmer of fresh beauty, and her skin was unlined. But it was her eyes that made her seem older than she must have been - eyes that were wide and full of the melancholy that could only come from suffering.

"So, Sorcha," said Nightingale, trying to make conversation. "Where are you from, exactly?"

"Nowhere in particular. Belfast at first, then Blackpool, then Edinburgh, then Derry, then Weymouth, then London. Other places, too, temporarily or so long ago I can't remember," said Sorcha. "Moved around a lot with Rory."

Nightingale wondered at the bond between Sorcha and Rory. It was evidently one that was very close and extremely intimate. They were evidently far more than detective and agent - and now, they had lived together? Were they lovers? Rory was at least thirty years Sorcha's senior. Though Nightingale could hardly judge anyone for that.

"Ah. Well, that explains-" began Nightingale.

"My accent? Yes. I guess it does," said Sorcha. She smiled at Nightingale. "What about you? Where are you from?"

"Shithole called the York Bordello," said Nightingale. "Not too far from here, actually."

Sorcha flinched back at the semi-veiled hostility in her voice. Nightingale felt only partly guilty - surely Sorcha had enough brains in her fucking head not to ask her a question like that. Then again, Nightingale knew Sorcha was half Inamorata and had asked her where she was from anyway.

"Why didn't you leave, then?" asked Sorcha.

That was a reasonable enough question, though the real answer to it - David Beckett had used her love of Rose to press-gang her into serving on his team and now she didn't feel like leaving - was not something she thought she should share with Sorcha.

"I'm married to someone who lives here," she explained. It was not really a lie. She would have gone anywhere to follow Robin, though she had the distinct sense he would have said exactly the same thing if one had asked him. She gestured to her home, which had just come into view.

Sorcha stared out the window and gave little gasp. She seemed no less enthusiastic in her wonderment as Nightingale climbed out of the hovercraft and lead her inside the house. 

"Nightingale, my absolute joy, you're home early and it's made me very - oh, who's this?" Robin had begun with his standard affectation and charming pretension but, having seen Sorcha, lapsed into a sweet smile. He came forward, proffered his cheek for a kiss and looked very smug when Nightingale kissed his mouth instead, and then turned his attention to Sorcha.

"Robin, this is Agent Sorcha Brennan. Sorcha, this is my husband, Robin Brightely," she said, waving between them.

Robin somehow seemed to understand that he shouldn't try to shake Sorcha's hand, so he made her a half-bow instead.

"Agent Brennan," he said, and his wild hair flopped as he righted himself. Even that simple gesture was so full of grace that Nightingale was stuck between wanting to admire it and wanting to climb on top of him and enjoy the other things in which he was so ineffably graceful. "A genuine pleasure to meet you."