Angels of Darkness

be down soon.”
    She watched him take the creaking stairs two at a time before making a slow circle of the room. A blue sofa with clean, contemporary lines faced a brick fireplace. On the walls hung a few oil paintings—all pastorals in bold colors. No pastels for Marc.
    Radha wasn’t fond of them, either.
    In the corner, a recessed bookshelf held a mixture of histories and political thrillers in English, a smattering of works in other languages, and a large collection of essays and poetry in French. His native language, she remembered. He’d died in America, but he’d been born in a village in northern France. His family had joined a group of French emigrants who’d settled together in a small farming commune—and she supposed that even in America, French had been the language they’d primarily spoken and read.
    A hundred and forty years ago, his accent had still been strong. She barely heard it now and had only just realized that it was all but gone. She’d expected it when he played the federal agent—like the suit, the right accent became part of the role—but even now, while entering his home, his native France played only a faint note in his speech.
    Another change, but not a surprising one. How long had he looked over this territory? He would have to adopt a Midwestern accent more often than not. Eventually that would become more natural to him than the only language he’d spoken for sixteen years.
    She thumbed through a volume before replacing it. No little keepsakes or baubles cluttered the shelves. On a table at the end of the sofa, a glass bowl held a variety of coins. Odd. Why keep them here? It would be far more useful to keep them in his cache. She had all kinds in hers, in different denominations and currencies—and some old enough to hold more value than they’d started with.
    She picked through them. Euros, centavos, reals, rubles, yen, rupees . . . taka. He’d gone to Bangladesh? And recently. With few exceptions, all of the dates on the coins were recent. But why have them out? This wasn’t the carefully itemized and mounted display of a serious coin collector. Did he just like to look at them? Be reminded of his travels?
    If this bowl gave any indication, he’d traveled a lot recently—and he’d traveled widely, including her territory.
    And that was fine. It wasn’t as if Guardians had to let each other know where they went or ask permission. But he’d been so close . . . and she hadn’t known.
    Rubbing the coin between her fingers, knowing that he could easily hear her through the ceiling, she said, “When did you go to Bangladesh?”
    The tapping of a keyboard stopped. His answer came, as softly spoken as hers. “A year ago.”
    Why didn’t you let me know? But of course he wouldn’t have. And she wouldn’t have wanted him to. Not then. She’d thought he was still an asshole.
    â€œWere you by yourself?” Such a weenie question. What she really meant was, Were you with someone ?
    â€œI was alone.”
    Her throat closed. Of course he had been. One look at him a week ago, and she’d known that.
    She picked up a handful of coins, let them clink back into the bowl. “All of these places—New Zealand, Russia, the Congo—you went by yourself?”
    â€œYes.” He paused. “Why is my going alone more interesting than where I went? Don’t you go anywhere by yourself?”
    â€œOf course.” All the time. But when she came back, Radha knew friends would be waiting for her. “But I thought you weren’t celibate anymore.”
    â€œAh.”
    That was all? Ah?
    â€œSo?” she pressed.
    He moved quickly. Across the floor above, down the stairs—within a moment, he stood at the bottom of the steps, regarding her with a penetrating stare. “So?” he repeated. “So . . . what? I don’t know what you’re getting at. You want the list? It’s not long.”
    Violent rejection speared through her. No, she didn’t want a list. She didn’t want to know.
    â€œI just don’t understand why you’re alone all the time. Working, okay, we all do that alone. But here ? When you travel somewhere? Why then?”
    â€œI don’t mind my own company.”
    â€œThat’s the point! Who would mind it? They’d have to be an idiot.”
    Some of the stiffness left his shoulders. “And you