24

BUSINESS WASN’T TERRIBLE, FOR A CHANGE, HAD BEEN PRETTY GOOD, IN fact, since that whole parasite business had been wrapped up a few weeks prior, but Quark was so upset that he couldn’t even water the cocktails properly. He had Broik doing it, and was spending the pre-dinner rush just sitting behind his bar, his beautiful, doomed bar, cursing his lot.

Bajor was going to be inducted into the Federation in just over twenty-six hours

and Quark had only just received word from his business associate’s lawyer that Kostaza, his lifeline, his primary post-Quark’s investment, was under indictment. The Federation had seized all his assets—Quark’s latinum a not-insubstantial piece thereof—and prohibited him from conducting business pending completion of an investigation

which, considering how deeply the Federation cared about the plight of the small businessman, meant that the UFP’s legal system would be tying Kostaza up for the next five years, give or take a decade. His dreams of flying away with a ship full of latinum were over, ke-plat. Would Ro Laren even consider going away with him, now? That didn’t matter, either, because there was no way he could afford to keep someone like her interested, not anymore. He was ruined.

“Quark, do you have a minute?”

Quark looked up and saw Kira Nerys, of all people, standing across from him. She looked the way he felt, only not as sharply dressed.

“Seems like I have all the time in the world,” he said, sighing heavily. “It’s over. My new business venture fell through, along with all my latinum. Once tomorrow’s party is over, I’m finished.”

“Yeah, that’s a shame,” Kira said dismissively. “Look, I came by because I was asked to bring you some news.”

Marvelous. Perhaps his quarters had caught fire. Or Odo was planning to stand outside his restaurant for its final business day, glaring the patrons away. That Odo had been masquerading as Wex had come as no great shock; Quark had suspected all along, of course. Hadn’t he said as much to his nephew? He’d tried to strike up a conversation with Odo when he’d come in with Kira a few days prior, but old stodgy-face had only scoffed and turned away.

Odo’s back, O’Brien’s back, Sisko’s back—though he hasn’t even bothered to visit, thank you very much—even Worf is supposed to be on his way, for the big signing. It was like some terrible reunion of vexing, boring, and scary; he had no idea what Kira wanted to tell him, but had the feeling he wouldn’t like it.

“Whatever it is, just get it over with,” he said.

Kira sighed, as if every word she was about to utter required tremendous effort on her part. Probably just tired from too much Odoing, Quark decided. When they’d stopped by for dinner, they’d been mooning at each other all over his bar. Blech.

“A couple of weeks ago, the Ferengi government contacted the government of Bajor and expressed interest in opening full diplomatic relations,” Kira said. “Minister Asarem agreed, and with the approval of the Chamber of Ministers and the Federation Council, your bar has been declared the Ferengi Embassy to Bajor. In other words, Quark, effective immediately, the space within these walls is the sovereign territory of Ferenginar, subject to its laws and commerce practices.”

Quark snorted, trying to imagine the lobeless loser who’d be saddled with the thankless task of running an embassy on Deep Space 9. That would mean—

He looked up, his jaw hanging, speechless, but only for as long as it took to hear the latinum clattering. “Are you telling me

my bar is the new Ferengi embassy? And I’m the new ambassador to Bajor?”

Kira gritted her teeth. “I didn’t have any say in the staffing.”

Embassy, Quark repeated in his mind. Hello, and welcome to Quark’s Bar, Grill, Embassy, Gaming House, and Holosuite Arcade. I’m your host, Ambassador Quark. What can I get you tonight?

Quark smiled toothily, hopefully. “Diplomatic immunity?”

Kira’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t push your luck, Quark. Come by my office tomorrow. Better yet, make it the next day.” Without another word, she disappeared back into the crowd.

Okay, so he would still have to watch his toes. And with the democratic reforms back home, Ferengi laws were decidedly more constraining on the extent to which he could gouge his customers, but the fact remained—

“I’m still in business,” he said in a weak voice, the reality of it starting to sink in.

Treir was hurrying across the room, her own assets jiggling prettily, a grin on her face as she stopped in front of him.

“Congratulations, I just heard. Either you have the dumbest luck in the quadrant, or somebody in high places really loves you. I assume you’ll be wanting to renegotiate our contract

?”

Quark nodded dully, and Treir said something about telling the staff, wandering away a moment later. For a change, Quark didn’t drop everything he was doing to watch her walk away, his thoughts too full. He’d have to talk to Ro, have to convince her to stay; she’d been hesitating, anyway, he’d seen it in her face

but their not-yet romance wasn’t at the forefront of his mind.

Dumb luck, Treir said

or someone in high places loves me.

It wasn’t changing politics or Ferenginar suddenly seizing a new business opportunity that had saved him. There was only one person in the Ferengi government who had any interest in not seeing Quark capsize on the Great River. Only one person with the power to establish those kinds of ties with another planet.

Rom, Quark thought. My idiot brother did this. For me.

He gazed unseeing at the crowd milling about the bar, eating, drinking, and gambling as more and more of them poured in for their last big meal before departing for Bajor, for the induction ceremony. He was unaware that his patronage had gone up so dramatically because his eyes had blurred, tripling the number of customers, and was still in a daze when he finally felt the meaty tap on his shoulder, and turned to see Morn sitting there next to him, holding out a stein of freshly tapped ale. Morn still had calidine lotion spread across his fading rash, and a look of pleasure on his great, ugly mug. It took Quark a few beats to register what he was doing, but it was more than enough time for his vision to clear. It was just

Morn had never bought him a drink before.

“Don’t think this is going to win you any favors,” Quark snapped, taking the ale. “Things are going to be very different around here from now on, let me tell you. This is an official government establishment now. Your days of running ridiculous tabs are over, my friend—”

Morn just rolled his eyes and raised his own mug, tapping it against the rim of Quark’s. After a moment, Quark raised his in turn, and drank deeply.

It was the best ale he’d ever had; he was definitely going to have to raise the price.

Shar was reading a series of articles that Dr. Bashir had recommended about hybrid mutagenesis when there was a tap at his door. He stood from his desk and went to answer, half expecting to see Prynn Tenmei. She’d dropped by on several occasions recently, often just to say hello. Shar still wasn’t sure what to do about her interest, if anything; Nog had taken him to meet the Earth singer, Vic Fontaine, who had been pleasant enough, but had also confused him thoroughly. The hologram had called him a “free agent,” and suggested that he should “sow oats” when he felt ready, not before. Even with Nog’s explanation, Shar was uncertain as to his course of action.

He opened his door and instantly felt his circulation pick up, his digestive system clenching unhappily. It was his zhavey. She’d been on Bajor the last few weeks, a guest of the first minister; he hadn’t been sorry that she’d gone.

“Will you come in?” Shar asked, standing back from the entry.

“I—Yes,” she answered, and stepped inside, her posture stiff and unyielding.

He offered her a seat, a refreshment, but she declined, only standing uncomfortably in the middle of the room. She seemed to be waiting for him to speak, but she had also come to him. In spite of all the things he wanted to say, wanted to tell her, it was appropriate that she speak first.

“I’ll be returning to Andor the day after tomorrow,” she said finally.

“Oh?” Shar nodded. Waited.

“I came to ask if you

if you will be joining me,” she said, not meeting his eye, her tone as rigid as her stance. “I know there was some consideration among the three of you, that an arrangement might be made

“

“None has been,” he said. “I think that they’d be best off with another. But I thank you for your offer, if that’s what it was.”

She met his gaze then, her own angry, accusing. He waited for the guilt to overwhelm him, to make him apologize for daring to deny his place, but there was no crashing wave of it, not like before, not for her; only a mist of unhappiness, like an unpleasant dream.

My guilt is my own. She can’t have it. It was a strange thought, but a compelling one.

She turned to leave, obviously done with him, forcing him to say what he wanted to say to her back. It wasn’t the way he would have had it, but then, nothing about his situation with her had been, not for a long time.

“Whether or not I can help our people, I have a place here, zhavey. I was able to help Colonel Kira resolve the situation on Bajor. I’m—I’m wanted here.”

“You were wanted at home,” she said.

“I was needed at home,” he said. “Perhaps I’m wrong, perhaps I’ve done everything wrong, but I want to stay here, now.”

“Stay, then,” she said, refusing to look back at him, her voice like iced water. If there was any pain on her face, any loss, it seemed she meant to deny him even that small solace. Without speaking further, she swept out of his room.

Shar stared at the closed door for a long moment, not knowing what to do, wondering why he didn’t feel the need to lash out. He was hurt, and angry

but less so than he had been before.

After a while, he went back to his desk. Found where he’d left off, and started to read.

Opaka had asked Yevir to meet her in the Archive. It seemed appropriate, to her at least, that the venue for their meeting be a place of knowledge and learning. She hoped that Yevir would see it that way.

The Archive was unused this evening, the shadowed aisles silent, the tables empty. Opaka sat at a bench at the library’s far end, facing a window that looked over a quietly dozing street. With the signing ceremony so close at hand, most people were at home or with their loved ones, preparing for the celebration that would follow. The truth of the parasitic aliens and Shakaar’s death had been an unpleasant shock

but the successful resolution of the crisis had coincided with the birth of the Avatar, the return of the Emissary, and her own resurrection; it was being taken by all as a sign that Bajor was indeed on the right path.

Avatar. Opaka smiled to herself, thinking of the beautiful child she had helped into the world. How strange to think that Ohalu’s book alone, among all the known prophecies, had foretold the birth of the Emissary’s daughter. She hoped that Yevir could be persuaded to see it as the wondrous gift that she had come to believe it was.

Behind her, she heard the library’s great double doors open. She turned and saw Yevir walking toward her between the two great rows of reading tables, his expression unreadable. It was their first meeting since he’d brought her back to Bajor; she hoped very much that he’d since opened himself to the possibilities that Ohalu’s book represented.

When he stopped in front of her, he bowed his head in deference. “You wished to see me, Eminence?”

“I am merely Sulan now, Vedek Yevir,” she said, welcoming him with a smile.

Yevir’s return smile was uncertain. As before, he seemed caught off guard by her casual disregard for ceremony. “I—very well. Sulan.”

Opaka patted the empty space beside her on the bench. “Please sit. I only wish to speak with you a moment.”

Yevir sat silently as Opaka searched for a way to begin.

“I don’t know if I managed to convey to you how much I admired your work with the Cardassians,” she said finally, her tone light. “The return of the Tears is a great achievement. It speaks to the power of your faith

and your willingness to employ unorthodox means on behalf of your people.”

Yevir bowed his head humbly. “I am merely an instrument of Their will

and that of the Emissary.”

Opaka nodded. She’d heard the story of his call to the Prophets, through the Emissary. “What do you think you might do next?” she asked.

Yevir shifted on the bench, looking away. “Once I believed I was destined to become kai,” he admitted.

“And now?”

He frowned, his confused gaze turning to her face. “You’ve returned, Eminence.”

Opaka let that go by unchallenged. The Prophets had not shown her that resuming the spiritual leadership of Bajor as to be her path.

Yevir went on. “I must follow through on my peace initiative. I thought I might go to Cardassia for a time, as an ambassador of faith.”

Opaka nodded again. She knew of the proposed exchange program, between Bajor’s vedeks and the guides and clerics of Cardassia’s Oralian Way.

“Your vision is inspiring,” she said sincerely. “You have truly been Touched by Them.”

Yevir was relaxing, she could see it in his face, in the way he sat. But there was still a tension in him, deep and unresolved. She waited, certain that he wouldn’t be able to resist returning to the source of his anxiety, the same sore spot he’d brought up again and again at their initial meeting—the Ohalu text. That she’d refused to respond to his prodding had unnerved him, apparently unnerved him still.

“Perhaps

perhaps you will be able to heal our spiritual disunion,” he said finally.

Opaka took a deep breath. “I see no disunion,” she said gently. “Certainly there is discord among some members of the faithful, but I do not believe it to be the crisis you perceive. Our people are merely learning new ways to seek and understand the Prophets, new ways to think about our relationship to Them, and new ways to walk the path on which They guide us. These are not things we should fear, they are to be celebrated.”

Yevir’s pagh was clearly in turmoil. “But the Ohalu heresies challenge the very foundation of our faith.”

“Is that something to fear?” Opaka asked honestly, searching his face. “We are sentient beings, Linjarin. To question everything is our nature. Why would the Prophets not wish us to indulge, even exult, in that aspect of ourselves that defines us like no other?”

Yevir said nothing, and Opaka pressed on, hoping that she was being heard, that he would still listen when he understood what she wanted to ask.

“I think that exposing our people to such ideas might prove beneficial,” she said. “That such an act might be seen as an act of faith.”

Yevir stood up abruptly. “What I did in Attainting Kira Nerys had to be done. She put her own judgment before the judgment of the Vedek Assembly, and is directly responsible for our people’s present spiritual upheaval—”

“Kira Nerys,” Opaka said quietly but with conviction, “may be the truest child of the Prophets I have ever known, Vedek. No matter what losses she endures, no matter what injustices are inflicted upon her, no matter how long or how mightily she struggles to master the violence she carries within her, her faith never wavers, and does not diminish. What she did in releasing the Ohalu prophecies was an affirmation of her faith.”

Opaka rose from the bench and took Yevir’s trembling hands in her own. “To deny the exploration of faith, each according to our will, is to deny faith itself.” She paused, looking deeply into Yevir’s troubled eyes. “As I see it, it was not the release of the Ohalu text that set in motion Bajor’s present spiritual discord, Linjarin. It was the Attainder of Kira Nerys.”

Opaka released his hands, and turned away from him. “Your pagh is strong, Vedek Yevir, and I believe that there is much good you will accomplish as you walk your path. I hope you will take care that your steps are true.”

She bowed and slowly walked away, leaving him to consider what she had said.

Ro hadn’t been back to Tora Ziyal’s art exhibit since it had reopened, except on business—the beat check for suspicious activity, a few times filling in for one of the guards so they could get a cup of something hot or run to the ‘fresher. After she’d received the package, though, left on her desk by some helpful Starfleet cadet, no doubt, she’d found herself wandering, off duty and in a state of

a state of feelings she wasn’t sure about. Amusement and irritation and gratitude and uncertainty seemed to be vying for position at the top, but none were winning. Mostly she was confused, and an art exhibit seemed just the place for someone who didn’t know what else to look at.

The exhibit was quiet, only a few men and women walking through, gazing silently at Ziyal’s work or speaking in low, appreciative tones. The station was starting to feel just as deserted; everyone was getting ready for the big ceremony, and many of the station’s Bajoran residents had already taken transport to the planet’s surface. In twenty-six hours everything would go back to normal, but everything would be different, too. The Federation was already moving in, instructors and mediators and diplomats on their way to Bajor to help with the transition. Starfleet was almost finished with their Bajoran training facility, ready to enlighten the militia to the Federation way. There was talk that they might even open up a branch of the Academy, although that was still somewhere down the line.

A new start, for anyone who wants it. Almost anyone, she thought, wondering what she was going to do about Quark as she stopped near one of the small line drawings, looking around for the big oil painting he’d pointed out to her on their one and only tour of the exhibit. She remembered that it had been the first time she’d really accepted that he might allow his depth to shine through. His expressions, his comments

he had exposed real insight, not in a practical sense but as a fellow being of emotions and spirit. He’d made her really look at the piece, the divided faces that he’d named as Ziyal’s self-portrait

and that, in turn, had made her look at him in a way she hadn’t seriously considered before.

If I stay, what will I tell him? She’d been so set on leaving, determined not to be folded back into an organization that had only been trouble for her

but what she’d done in the past weeks had been invaluable to stopping the parasites, and had made her feel needed. Which felt

good. Kira had even pulled her aside to mention that Akaar had withdrawn his objections to her staying on—reluctantly, undoubtedly, but it was what it was. She’d been approved, and stranger still, she’d found that she liked it.

Still, she’d been ready to tell Quark that she would leave with him. They’d gotten together twice since the end of the parasites, but the conversation had been light, the mood deliberately casual. Neither time did they discuss anything of real import, but the future had been there, silent and possible between them. If they didn’t work out personally, they could still look into opening some kind of a business together

she could actually see herself a few years ahead, comfortably dressed, hair pulled back as she leaned behind the bar of some pleasant neighborhood tavern somewhere, polishing glasses while Quark worked the customers. He’d get himself trapped in some minor intrigue, she could spend her spare time getting him back out. It wasn’t such a bad vision of the future.

The package that had been on her desk, that she’d opened only a few moments before walking across to the exhibit, had her name and designation on the outside, nothing more. Inside were only two items, one of which had made her decision complicated again. The first, a Starfleet uniform, standard-issue security gold, what many of the Bajoran Militia would be wearing before much longer; she hadn’t been terribly impressed, until she’d seen the second item—a slip of hardcopy resting near the uniform’s insignia, only a few words dashed across, the script fine and elegant.

“In case you needed encouragement. JLP.”

From the captain of the Enterprise. A man she admired, respected, and even feared in some ways, a man she couldn’t begin to fathom. He’d taken an interest in her that she’d never really understood, that had both flattered and irritated her more times than she could count

and in spite of the fact that they’d only spoken once in the last six years, he still kept track of her—and had sent her the package as a vote of confidence, it seemed. Why he continued to find her so deserving, she couldn’t begin to guess.

And it had worked, too. As though the note was what she’d been waiting for, to make up her mind. Enough had changed for her on DS9 that she wanted to stay, to at least try to make it. There was nothing stopping her anymore

except, of course, for Quark.

She was aware that a good many of the people she knew thought she had a serious emotional imbalance, the only explanation for her willingness to date the Ferengi bartender, but she had ceased to care. Whatever their relationship was, exactly, or would turn out to be

it wasn’t anyone else’s business. Quark was obnoxious and strange and often a caricature of himself, but there was also a lot more to him than people gave him credit for. If they couldn’t see it, that was their loss.

Except if he goes and I stay, what relationship? It’s over. She could accept that, she thought, and also thought that Quark could manage to bluster his way out of seeming to care

but he’d be disappointed, and so would she.

She wanted to see Ziyal’s portrait again, to see if she could feel what she’d felt that day, standing next to Quark

to see if she could clarify her options, somehow. The curator had done a good job at salvaging the vandalized exhibit, but Ro couldn’t find what she was looking for, and felt a stab of sorrow at its loss—until she realized it had been moved to the back corner of the room. A lone Cardassian male stood in front of it, his hands clasped behind his back, and though he didn’t look up when she approached, he politely stepped out so that she could also see.

Ro smiled slightly, looking at the dramatic and beautiful work, remembering that she had touched Quark’s hand while they’d looked at it together. It was amazing, how Ziyal had managed to work stark, geometric shapes into an organic flow, creating the profiles of faces that joined together to make one; maybe not the most subtle of duality interpretations, but it was beautiful and sincere. The man next to her shifted slightly, clearing his throat.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” he asked softly, his voice filled with pride, an undertone of real sorrow beneath it. It was such a distinctive tone that she recognized it immediately, instinctively—the voice of someone who must have known Tora Ziyal. Ro turned to look at him, sorry for his loss. By all accounts, Ziyal had been an exceptional person

and realized that she recognized the man himself.

“It’s my favorite,” she said slowly, her muscles tensing reflexively. “Mr. Garak?”

Elim Garak, the tailor and onetime spy. How had he gotten aboard without her knowing about it?

The Cardassian’s smile was slight but his eyes glittered as he looked at the painting again, as he ignored her surprise. “Mine, too.”

She was at a loss for words. She’d only spoken to him once, via holo, trying to spare Quark more trouble in return for his help, and Garak had been surprisingly genial. But she also knew enough about him, about the allegedly defunct Obsidian Order, to know that his very presence on DS9 was cause for

concern. “Are you

” What was she supposed to ask? Are you here to cause trouble? To kill someone? She felt extremely off her guard, and asked the only thing she could think of.

“Are you here for the signing?”

Garak sighed. “You know, that was my original purpose in coming. See a few friends, watch the ceremony

and I suppose I was looking for some kind of closure to my time here. But now that I’ve seen this”—he panned the exhibit with a slow gaze—”I think I might just go home again. Avoid the rush, you know.”

He turned his attention back to the painting. “She was so

herself. Seeing her work, I’m reminded of my real purpose—of what my life is now, you could say, helping others, rebuilding. Creating something new. Stray not from the path that fate decides for you, as my mentor used to tell me.”

A compelling quote. “Vulcan?” Ro asked.

“Ferengi fortune cookie,” Garak said. He didn’t smile, but his eyes seemed to glitter ever brighter. He straightened, turning away from the portrait to offer Ro a slight bow.

“It’s been a pleasure to see you again, Lieutenant. Please give my regards to Quark.”

“I’ll do that,” Ro said. “Anyone else?”

He smiled. “No, no thank you. I’m sure I’ll find a way to keep in touch.”

Another polite bow, and he walked away, leaving her alone. She should probably notify Kira of Garak’s presence, get a detail on his movements, warn Quark

but she turned back to Ziyal’s powerful artwork instead, deciding that she would take their conversation at face value. It was probably a mistake, but she believed what he’d told her. She had no reason to think otherwise, except for his reputation

and she knew well enough from her own experience that reputations could be deceptive.

She gazed at Ziyal’s self-portrait a while longer, her brief conversation with Garak replaying itself in her mind, about purpose, about what life became. She told herself that she hadn’t yet decided whether to stay with DS9, to rejoin Starfleet, or to strike out on her own, to try a life with Quark

but telling herself that didn’t make it so.

I’m staying, she thought, wondering at the tingle that the simple statement sent through her, wondering how she was going to break the news to Quark.

Vaughn waited for Prynn outside her quarters, anxious but determined to speak with her. He’d called her every few days since his release from the infirmary, and though she hadn’t agreed to meet with him yet, he thought she had seemed less angry the last time he’d contacted her—had even seemed curious, that he wouldn’t stop calling.

He leaned against the corridor wall, checked his watch. She’d been off-duty for ten minutes or so. If she wasn’t back soon, he’d have to assume that she’d gone out for the evening, and would try again later. He didn’t want to track her down with the computer, wanted their conversation to be private

but also wanted her to have the option of closing a door in his face, if that was what she wanted. So he waited, hoping that he hadn’t been wrong, that she was more willing to speak to him than she had been in recent weeks.

I’m about to find out.

Some ten meters away, Prynn rounded the corner. When she saw him she faltered a moment, slowed—but didn’t turn around and leave, either.

She’s so beautiful, he thought, feeling as though he was seeing her through new eyes. Not just that she was attractive, that she had her mother’s delicate features and casual grace

it was her anger, too, the fire in her. The turmoil, the pride and humor, the uniqueness of her.

“Commander,” she said, entirely polite, entirely indifferent as she walked to her door.

“May I speak to you a moment?” he asked.

“If I say yes, will you stop calling me?” she retorted. He heard the barely hidden wound in her voice and shook his head.

“No,” he said simply. “I’ve already made that mistake.”

She considered him a moment, searching for something, then shrugged, pressing her door panel. “Come in.”

He followed her inside, not surprised that her quarters were relaxed, sparsely decorated and casually messy. She didn’t offer him a seat as she turned to face him, a look of studied irritation on her face.

“What do you want?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Vaughn nodded, drawing a breath. He was nervous, he didn’t want to make things worse—but he wasn’t afraid, either. It wasn’t a test.

It’s a process, he reminded himself. He’d met Benjamin Sisko twice since his Orb experience, and though the encounters had been warm, even comfortable, neither had spoken of what had happened, of Eli and Benny. Vaughn wasn’t sure they ever would; strangely, he hadn’t felt compelled to bring it up, either

but at both meetings, Sisko had asked about his daughter, if he’d talked with her. Vaughn hoped that the next time he saw Sisko—

—Benny—

—he’d be able to say he had.

“Maybe I should tell you what I don’t want,” Vaughn said. “I don’t want to tell you I’m sorry again. And I don’t want your forgiveness.”

At the very least, he’d surprised her into looking surprised, her apathy set aside. “What?”

“I could tell you I’m sorry a billion times, and it would never make up for my behavior as your father,” he said, meeting her eyes, hoping that she would hear him, that she could hear him. “And you shouldn’t forgive me. Not for me, anyway. There’s no excuse for how inadequately I’ve loved you.”

Prynn folded her arms tighter, not speaking.

“All I want now is to get to know you, a little,” Vaughn said. “You don’t owe it to me, and if you don’t want to talk to me for a while, that’s okay, too. But I won’t stop trying, not ever again. Giving up, telling myself that you were better off without me

that has been the worst mistake of my life. Because my life has been so much the poorer without you in it.”

Still, she didn’t speak—but he saw her gaze turn liquid, and felt hope, real hope.

“We don’t have to talk about the past, if you don’t want to,” he said. “Or you can yell at me about it every day for the rest of my life. Either way, I’d like it very much if you’d accompany me to the ceremony tomorrow. And maybe afterward, we could get something to eat. Or the next day, or next week. Whenever you’re ready, Prynn. Whatever you want.”

Prynn cleared her throat, but still, her voice broke slightly when she spoke. “I’ll think about it,” she said.

Vaughn nodded, struggling not to push it any further, well aware of how very lucky he was.

“Thank you,” he said, meaning it with all his heart.