The Speed of Dark by Elizabeth Moon Page A

would rather come and see other people than sit alone and be alone until the delivery comes. Not everywhere: in some cities, remote ordering has been successful.But here… I steer around a center display of wine, realize I’ve gone past the aisle I wanted, and look carefully all ways before turning back.
    I always go down the spice aisle, whether I need spices or not. When it’s not crowded—and today it’s not—I stop and let myself smell the fragrances. Even over floor wax, cleaning fluid, and the scent of bubble gum from some child nearby I can detect a faint blend of spices and herbs. Cinnamon, cumin, cloves, marjoram, nutmeg… even the names are interesting. My mother liked to use spices and herbs in cooking. She let me smell them all. Some I did not like, but most of them felt good inside my head.
    Today I need chili spice. I do not have to stop and look; I know where it is on the shelf, a red-and-white box.
    I AM DRENCHED IN SWEAT SUDDENLY. MARJORY IS AHEAD OFme, not noticing me because she is in grocery store shopping mode.She has opened a spice container—which, I wonder, until the air current brings me the unmistakable fragrance of cloves.My favorite. I turn my head quickly and try to Page 44

    concentrate on the shelf of food colorings, candied fruit, and cake decorations. I do not understand why these are in the same aisle with spices and herbs, but they are.
    Will she see me? If she sees me, will she speak? Should I speak to her? My tongue feels as big as a zucchini. I sense motion approaching. Is it her or someone else? If I were really shopping, I would not look. I do not want cake decorations or candied cherries.
    “Hi, Lou,” she says. “Baking a cake?”
    I turn to look at her. I have not seen her except at Tom and Lucia’s or in the car to and from the airport.
    I have never seen her in this store before. This is not her right setting… or it may be, but I didn’t know it.
    “I—I’m just looking,” I say. It is hard to talk. I hate it that I am sweating.
    “They are pretty colors,” she says, in a voice that seems to hold nothing but mild interest. At least she is not laughing out loud. “Do you like fruitcake?”
    “N-no,” I say, swallowing the large lump in my throat. “I think… I think the colors are prettier than the taste.” That is wrong—tastes are not pretty or ugly—but it is too late to change.
    Shenods, her expression serious. “I feel the same way,” she says. “The first time I had fruitcake, when I was little, I expected it to taste good because it was so pretty. And then… I didn’t like it.”
    “Do you… do you shop here often?” I ask.
    “Not usually,” she says. “I’m on my way to a friend’s house and she asked me to pick up some things for her.” She looks at me, and I am once more conscious of how it is hard to talk. It is even hard to breathe, and I feel slimy with the sweat trickling down my back. “Is this your regular store?”
    Yes, I say.
    “Then maybe you can show me where to find rice and aluminum foil,” she says.
    My mind is blank for a moment before I can remember; then I know again. “The rice is third aisle, halfway along,” I say. “And the foil’s over onEighteen —”
    “Oh, please,” she says, her voice sounding happy. “Just show me. I’ve already wandered around in here for what feels like an hour.”
    “Show—take you?” I feel instantly stupid; this is what she meant, of course. “Come on,” I say, wheeling my basket and earning a glare from a large woman with a basket piled high with produce. “Sorry,” I say to her; she pushes past without answering.
    “I’ll just follow,” Marjory says. “I don’t want to annoy people…”
    I nod and head first for the rice, since we’re on Aisle Seven and thatis closer. I know that Marjory is behind me; knowing that makes a warm place on my back, like a ray of sun. I am glad she cannot see my face; I can feel the heat there, too.
    While Marjory looks at the