a gesture of vexation, obviously annoyed about something. “I should say he is.”
Her mother’s blue eyes were clear, Quin noticed, and her words crisp—both good signs—and she looked as beautiful as ever. Fiona had stayed away from alcohol since the fight on board Traveler, and she wasn’t working as an escort any longer. Quin and Master Tan were, in fact, instructing her as a novice healer. Sobriety might leave her short tempered, but Fiona looked so much healthier that her moments of anger were, to Quin, like scenes of a film actress pretending to be cross.
“It’s a good thing he’s up there,” her mother continued, “or he’d be driving me mad.”
“Is he all right?” Quin asked.
She felt a prick of worry. Shinobu had spent three days in a Hong Kong hospital, followed by days of intense treatment with Master Tan, who was, in addition to being Quin’s mentor, one of the most respected healers on the Transit Bridge. The hospital had removed the drug implants and bathed his wounds with Eastern-designed cellular reconstructors, which, the doctors had assured her, were superior to the Western versions. Then Master Tan had worked his ancient herbal magic. Shinobu had healed more in his short time back in Asia than he had in two weeks in London. Still, he was not yet recovered.
“That’s difficult to say,” her mother responded, slapping the cushions on the couch somewhat viciously. Then, seeing Quin’s concern, she held up her hands. “No, no, he’s fine. The acupuncturist was here for an hour—until Shinobu chased him out. And he chased me out as well.” Fiona pointed up the stairs. “I doubt he’ll kick you out, but prepare yourself…At least he’s up and about, I suppose.”
Halfway through this cryptic narrative, Quin began up the stairs to her bedroom. She saw her mother’s eyes following, and Fiona’s gaze felt freighted with motherly judgment: I can’t stop you from keeping him in your room, it seemed to say, but he’s a much different creature now from the young boy you grew up with.
Since these words were only implied, Quin couldn’t explain that very little other than sleeping had happened between her and Shinobu. He was the one with all the experience, and he’d been largely unconscious these past weeks, which had left Quin more concerned with keeping him alive than with romance.
She found her bedroom door shut, and she pushed it open, relieved it wasn’t locked. Shinobu was perched on top of her bed in a half crouch, staring out the round window at Victoria Harbor. He was wearing only his underwear, and his body bristled with acupuncture needles. There were none in his head, however, because he was wearing, Quin saw with alarm, the iridescent metal focal. She spotted a swath of used needles across the floor. Apparently he’d yanked them out of his scalp himself before pulling on the helmet.
“Hey,” she said cautiously.
He turned at the sound of her voice, and his eyes were bright and much more alert than they’d been before she left for Mariko’s house, but they also looked a bit wild. He was standing on the bed like a cobra, ready to strike.
“Hey yourself,” he said, jumping down to the floor.
She tried to grab him, but he landed fine without help. “You really shouldn’t be jumping just yet,” she told him.
“No, it’s all right. Nothing hurts right now.” He stood very close and smiled down at her. “Everything feels good.”
The helmet gave off a faint crackling sound, and small red forks of electricity were crawling around its edges, across Shinobu’s forehead. Quin touched one gently.
“Sunlight,” he said. “I left it sitting in sunlight to charge it. Just like a disruptor.”
“When did you put it on?” she asked. Though her real question was why?
“I’m not quite sure,” he answered, as though nothing could be more natural than his uncertainty. “A few minutes? Or a day?”
“What do you mean you aren’t sure?” She grew more alarmed. Had he been wearing it for so long that he’d lost track? Did that mean hours? Her mind went to the focal instructions in her pocket. Shinobu hadn’t followed any of them. And yet she didn’t think it would be a good idea to yank it off him unexpectedly.
“How long I’ve been wearing it doesn’t feel important,” he explained.
He took hold of her shoulders with both hands, as though he would kiss her, or perhaps eat her alive. The needles on the backs of his hands swayed as he moved.
“Quin, you have to