Inamorata

Chapter Four - The Thane of Fife

Nightingale smiled. "Natural talent," she said. Then she stared off into space for a moment before musing, "I suppose you could call it unnatural talent. Nothing's natural about me."

Michael laughed ruefully, tousling his hair with a free hand. "You've very clever, Nightingale."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Though I don't see why it's flattering to commend someone for something they were born - or created - with," said Nightingale, winding herself down onto the floor.

"What do you mean?" asked Michael curiously. His eyes were alight with bright verve as he sat down across from her, folding himself into an awkward-looking position on the rug.

"One shouldn't commend someone for their beauty, or their intelligence, or their singing voice," she said, pointing to herself. Michael nodded. "It's idiotic to commend someone on something they can't control. You might just as well congratulate me for having ten fingers."

Michael head continued to bob. Then he paused. "Then what should I commend you for?" he asked.

Nightingale smiled. "Something I can control. Something that I've worked hard to accomplish."

"You've worked to accomplish things?" blurted Michael, his lip curling a little in disdain.

Nightingale shied away, hurt. Michael instantly lurched towards her with his hands out, looking as though he was seeking to pacify her. She leaned back, eyeing him with irritation.

"No, I didn't mean it like that!" he cried, surging forward once again. This time he was able to take her hand and began to wring it fervently. "I can see I've upset you. I just didn't think that Inamoratas had anything to accomplish."

"Not wringing the neck of every single one of my clients is an accomplishment," snapped Nightingale. She took the hand that was grasping hers and enclosed it in both of hers. "I could do it, you know. You scientists must know what I'm capable of - you created me, didn't you?"

Michael's face went white as she clenched his hand, exerting only a fraction of her surprising strength on his fingers. When he looked pained, she released him.

"I'm sorry, Nightingale," he said.

Nightingale immediately felt tears spring into her eyes at those three little words. With a quivering chin and trembling all over, she looked up at Michael, stunned speechless by her gratitude. It was the first time in her memory that she'd ever been apologized to by a client.

He interpreted her grief differently, however.

"I didn't mean to insult you!" he half-shouted, wild-eyed with distress. "I'm truly very sorry!"

Nightingale leaned forward and kissed him. He went still with surprise. When Nightingale pulled back, she saw his eyelids flutter as he opened his eyes, looking dazed.

"Oh," he said.

"Oh," mocked Nightingale gently. She kissed the tip of his nose, watching as he blushed. "Oh."

He shook his head like a dog with water in its ears, his countenance delightfully confused. Then, seeming to regain a little wherewithal, he stood up.

"I should go," he said.

Nightingale, relaxed back onto the floor, lying with her arms spread wide. "Will you be back?"

"Tonight," said Michael quickly. Then he blushed and mumbled the next words. "But only if that's fine with you." He backed away as he said it, and the doors opened automatically at his presence.

Nightingale closed her eyes, spread-eagle on the rug, completely at ease. "Fine," she said, her voice lazy and comfortable.

"Fine?" she heard Michael ask. She opened her eyes to see him hesitating on the threshold, looking worried. Behind him, in the hall, she saw Magenta pausing mid-stride - obviously eavesdropping on their conversation.