Read Swordpoint for Free Online Page A

him, the stars shone frosty and remote in the clear sky. They wouldn't dare to twinkle at him, not in the position he was in. His hands were freezing on the lead pipe of the Rossillion townhouse. He'd remembered it as being covered with ivy; but the latest fashion called for severity and purity of line, so the ivy had been stripped last autumn.
    Just above his hands Olivia's window glowed temptingly golden. Michael sent out a desolate haze of frosty breath, and began letting himself down.
    He ought to be grateful for the escape, he knew that, grumbling as he collected his clothes from the frozen ground, resisting the desire to hop from foot to foot.
    He shoved his feet into his boots, crumpling the doe-soft leather, even as he still hunted for his stockings. His shaking hands made it unusually hard to fasten the various catches and laces of a nobleman's evening dress - I should always remember to bring a body-servant along on these expeditions, he thought whimsically; have him waiting right below the appropriate window with a flask of hot wine and gloves!
    Olivia's window was still alight, so Bertram was still here, and doubtless would remain for hours yet.
    Blessed Olivia! Lord Michael finally managed to squeeze out the benison between chattering teeth. Bertram might have tried to kill him if he'd found him there.
    Bertram was the jealous type, and Michael had been leading him a dance all evening. He had a moment of panic when he discovered that one of his monogrammed embroidered gloves was missing; he imagined the scene the next day, when Bertram found it perched jauntily among the ailanthus branches under the window: Hello, my angel, what's this doing here? Oh, heavens, I must have dropped it when I was checking the wind
    Direction.
    Then he discovered it, stuffed up one of his voluminous sleeves, lord knew how it had got there.
    As dressed as he was going to be, Michael prepared to disappear. Despite all the wool and brocade he was still shivering; he'd managed to work up quite a sweat upstairs, and the sudden plunge into a winter night had turned it to ice on his skin. He damned Bertram roundly, hoping his turn in hell would be one long slide down a perpetual glacier.
    A sudden shadow fell over Michael as Olivia's curtains were drawn. Now only one slim arrow of light fell across the powdery lawn, where one curtain stood away from the window. Perhaps Bertram had gone - or, perhaps he was still there. Michael smiled ruefully at his own folly, but there it was: one way or the other, he had to go back up the pipe and find out what was happening in Olivia's room.
    It was much easier climbing with gloves on, and the soles of his soft boots adhered nicely to the pipe. He was even quite warm by the time he reached the tiny balcony outside the window.
    He rested there, grinning with exertion, trying to breathe quietly. He heard a hum of voices inside, so Bertram hadn't left yet. Michael edged closer to the window, tilted his velvet cap to one side, and one of the voices became distinct:
    ' - so I asked myself, why do we dream at all? Or isn't there some way of controlling it? Maybe if we got someone else to repeat the same thing over and over, as we were falling asleep___'
    The voice, low and passionate with just the hint of a whine, was Bertram's. A lighter voice made answer, but Michael couldn't catch Olivia's words; she must be facing away from the window.
    Bertram said, 'Don't be ridiculous! Food has nothing to do with it, that's only a scare put about by physicians.
    Anyway, I
    know you had a light supper. Did you pass a pleasant evening?' Olivia's reply ended on a rising intonation. 'No,' said Bertram rather savagely.
    'No, he wasn't there. Frankly, I'm disgusted; I wasted hours in a cavernous room that felt like an ice cave and smelt like a barn, because I thought he would be. He told me he would be.'
    Olivia made soothing noises.
    Michael's chapped lips quirked helplessly into a smile. Poor Bertram! He pressed his dripping