“I don’t think I can talk about it,” he says reluctantly. He seems to be a bit flustered, but getting anything useful out of him is going to be harder than I expected. Where there’s a will there’s a way, I suppose, but I suspect Pete is nothing like as dumb as my secondhand memories of him imply. And he’s keeping tight control over his autonomic response to me. That’s okay, if that’s the way you want to play it…

I slowly extend my heels, bend forward to pick up my garments, and jack my hearing up to max. Yup, circulatory pumps speeding up. I shake my ass at him. “Help me into this?” I ask, offering him my boned minidress.

“If you want,” he says, taking it. His pulse is increasing. Some males like the unwrapping more than the contents, and some are happy to help wrap you up, too — one destined to serve would have to be of the latter type, I figure. Just let me get close to you. One way or another. I turn my back and lift my arms, and he steps close enough that I can feel his breath hot on the back of my neck. “Who are you, Fri—”

“Freya,” I correct him, slightly stung. “I’m Juliette’s youngest sister. She’s in trouble, Pete — Petruchio.” I pause to straighten my dress. “I think my employer sent me here looking like her, like this, as bait.” I’m suddenly aware that he’s standing right behind me very close, breathing fast. “Are you alright?” I ask. Please say no…

“Sorry. Can’t think straight with — you around.” Brilliant. “You’re very like her, you know.” He’s so totally imprinted on Juliette that my presence — I’m her sib after all; we’re products of the same assembly line — has tripped his breakers. His general intelligence has just crashed to something between a dishwasher and a microwave oven. That’s got to hurt. I dig my fully extended heels into the floor and breathe in.

Okay, time for some full-body contact. “Lace me up?” I ask. I hear him ventilating, fast and shallow, and a moment later I feel his arms close around me from behind. Got you! I think triumphantly, leaning into his embrace.

And then I sneeze convulsively.

I can’t help myself. I’ve gotten so used to ignoring the congested feeling in my gas-exchange turbinates that it comes as a total surprise when the autonomic self-cleaning reflex kicks in. And I sneeze again, then breathe in relief—

Oh Juliette, my sister. Is this it?

It’s so dizzying, the scent of him, of my, no her, master, that I go weak at the knees and slump backward. I can feel him pressing against the whole length of me as I take rapid breaths, trying to suck it all in—

“Oh, Pete.”

“You’re not Juliette.”

“I could be.” His hands are in my armpits, taking my weight. I’m grinning like an idiot as he lowers me to the bed… but then he takes a step backward. Frustration drags an involuntary noise from my mouth.

“Dash it, what’s wrong?” he asks, looking stricken.

I want him. There’s a dull emptiness gnawing at my structural core. I force myself to smooth my skirt over my knees. “I — I’m wearing her soul,” I admit.

“Is she” — he looks terrified — “dead?”

“No, she’s, um, missing.” I’m furious at my accidental honesty. Did I really admit that, earlier? I ask myself, disbelieving.

“You’re not her,” he repeats. His nostrils flare. “I think you’d better explain.”

“Boss sent” — it’s impossible to think with him so close — “says if I find her to tell her” — I take another deep breath, trying to calm myself, but it’s not working. “Open the fucking window!” I moan.

“Window.” He grunts, then turns with whiplike speed and grabs the chair and slams its legs against the window. It’s tough, but it’s not meant to take much of that treatment. The plug of aerogel pops out, and we both nearly follow it. The room mists up suddenly, and the explosive gasp it rips from me hurts almost as much as being blown off the bed. I shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs as a new, icy clarity settles in. Sitting up, I see a pair of legs sticking over the edge of the window casement. After a moment, they twitch a little. I get as far as grabbing his ankles before he straightens up, and slides back inside. Astonishingly, he’s still holding the back of the chair. He lowers it to the floor delicately, then bends and offers me a hand.

“Thanks—” I electrospeak; the pressure is down to Mars-ambient. “I think.”

“We’ve got about thirty seconds.” He pauses. “You complained of a hissing sound, I came to check it out, the window blew. Agreed? The front desk isn’t smart, and this place was built for privacy.”

I blink at him, clearing the birefringent rainbows that surround his face — an artifact of the moisture on my eyeballs freezing — and nod. “Thank you.” I touch his arm, but he pulls away sharply.

“Don’t thank me, thank your sister.” He gives me a very old-fashioned look. “It’s damnably rude to manipulate people like that.”

“I’m not trying to be manipulative!” I’m startled by my own vehemence. Now that I’m not breathing in that mesmerizing scent, I can think again. The downside is, so can he. Change the subject. “Boss sent her. Then sent me, when she went missing. That’s your other message. We don’t know where she is.”

“Huh. Well, that’s your problem. But in any case, we won’t be meeting again. My owner departs for Saturn next month, en route to the auction. She’s taking me along, and I don’t get any say in it.”

“Your owner?” I blink stupidly. “I thought you were self-owned—”

I stop abruptly. I’d do anything to take the words back; I can see their effect on him. But it’s too late. “I was. Until a couple of hours after we — got into trouble.” His tone is remote. “She sued for breach of contract, won, and took out a controlling interest in my personhood. I’m no slave — but parts of me won’t work without her permission.”

Oh my.

“I’m so sorry—”

“You can stop right there,” he says. Then he pauses, and hunches his shoulders, turning his face away from me. “I think… yes. She hasn’t told me any of her plans, so I can speculate aloud. Nobody here. Heh. The courier gave me the message and I left. I wasn’t to know that five minutes later a pair of her tame butchers would be along to make sure there are no loose ends, was I?”

“Tame butchers?”

He starts, then turns back to make eye contact. “I didn’t say anything, ” he says, looking startled. “You do know that she wants you hunted down, don’t you? It was stupid of Jeeves to send you, unless—”

Right. I tense myself for what’s coming next. “Is there anything you want me to pass on to Juliette if I see her?” I ask.

He looks puzzled. “Yes. Tell her… tell her about my new arrangement. And give her my love, and my apologies.” He twitches. “It won’t be forever.” He stoops to pick up his toolbox. “And as for you.” He straightens up, but pauses in front of the door (which has puffed up and extruded a domed emergency air-lock sack in front of the bathroom) . “Try to understand, I love her. You are not her. I’m very sorry you’re suffering from this, uh, delusion” — he places a hand on the air lock — “but I don’t want you.”

Then he steps out of my life, leaving me alone in the room with a broken window and a broken heart, to await the arrival of the Domina’s executioners.