Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) by Freda Warrington

civilization into the dirt: great or small, she doesn’t care.
    Through veils of dust, he singled out a moving figure: a female, very slender in beige shirt and shorts, her reddish hair coiled messily under a bush hat. Sunlight through the dust surrounded her with a golden aura. Like him, she seemed separate from the activity around her. Behind her, the rescue teams, the mothers and fathers wailing amid the ruins, their dark skins caked with dust—all seemed to move with the swarming speed of an anthill. By contrast, the woman moved in slow motion, taking photographs and scribbling in a small notepad.
    Occasionally someone would stop her, as if pleading for help; and she would go and assist with the same slow, methodical grace.
    Rufus couldn’t take his eyes off her. A journalist, he thought. He watched for half an hour as she climbed over tumbles of rock or stared down into ruptured fissures.
    No. Observation revealed that she was more interested in the geological destruction around them, the tear in the Earth’s crust and the material it had thrown up. The victims around her were minor interruptions to her study.
    A photographer, then, or a scientist? A geologist, perhaps, who happened to be in the right place at the right time?
    The wrong place, he corrected himself.
    Presently she looked up and saw him. She stopped; the world itself stopped. Closer she came until they were no more than four feet apart, their eyes locked upon each other. Around them, carnage and misery retreated behind yellowish gauze, and all activity froze as if a pause button had been pressed.
    Her face was striking: heart-shaped with wide-set slanting eyes, golden-ivory skin caked with dust, and dark firm eyebrows. Her irises were liquid gold, ringed by dark brown. Red strands of hair escaped from beneath her bush hat.
    Impossible. Yet, if it wasn’t her, why had she come straight to him, and why was she staring with that so-familiar, knowing gaze?
    Familiar, and yet he wasn’t sure … or rather, he was sure, but daren’t admit it yet. There was a game to be played first. He needed to be certain … and so did she.
    “Hello,” she said. “I’m Orla Connelly.”
    “Miss Connelly,” said Rufus. Neither smiled; it didn’t seem appropriate.
    “Dr. Connelly,” she corrected. “Or just Orla.”
    “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Orla. I’m Rufus Hart.”
    “Rufus,” she echoed. “And what brings you here?”
    “Isn’t it terrible? I’m in shock. I don’t know where to begin.”
    “I know,” she said. “I’ve experienced earthquakes before. It never grows any less appalling. Who are you with?”
    He shook his head, not comprehending the question. “With?”
    “Which aid agency?” she said patiently.
    “Oh. Oh, I see. No one. I’m traveling alone.”
    Her eyebrows rose sharply. “Alone, in this region? You must have a death wish, Rufus.”
    “I just happened to be in the area when…”
    “Just happened?” She stared into him with her unblinking golden gaze.
    Lying came easily to him. Often he said the first thing that came into his head and didn’t care if he was believed or not. With Dr. Orla Connelly, however, there was nothing for it but the truth.
    “I was up in the mountains, selling guns to some belligerent types,” he said levelly. “The earthquake ate my Jeep, and there’s not much left of my tent, either. So I started walking.”
    “Poor you, Rufus.” She gave a sympathetic frown. “We have food, water, medical supplies. You ought to be checked over.”
    “Did you hear what I said? I’m an arms dealer. Why do you want to help me?”
    “Because I assume that’s not all you are. You’re not actually pointing a gun at me. What you are to me is an extra pair of hands. But you ought to be examined first.”
    “Can’t you examine me, Dr. Connelly?”
    “No,” she said firmly.
    “In that case, I’m fine.” He paused. “Who’s ‘we’?”
    “My team.”
    “Medical team?”
    “No. We’re