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Gurney is not one to skip the evening meal, creature of habit that he is. Whether eating among his soldiers in the officer's mess, or joining the royal household in the great dining hall, this is an element of his schedule that usually holds steady.
That schedule has altered in the time since he's reached a more intimate understanding with Paul Atreides. An inevitable and necessary discomfort, and a sacrifice Gurney has never once begrudged. It is easier to slip unnoticed through areas of the castle where he has no immediate business, if Gurney's routine is an unpredictable thing. And so he has cultivated a different balance, deliberate and strategic and a little bit random, and the effort has served him well in his subterfuge.
There are elements of his routine that remain unwavering. Gurney will never allow himself to falter in his duties to House Atreides. There will always be soldiers to train, councils to attend, security to manage. Gurney Halleck remains sturdy and unshakable in these fundamental responsibilities that shape his life.
But in every other way—in the softer contours of his personal world—Gurney has come to move at a different pace.
It's not strategy alone that made Gurney deviate from his usual path tonight. It is also the seductive warmth of an autumn sunset, the air bright and pleasant and soft with moisture from the sea. There won't be many more evenings like this before winter sets in. Given that Gurney is beholden to no official duties until morning, what better moment to carry his baliset into the open air and play only for himself?
Gurney doesn't mind an audience. He enjoys entertaining his men with ballads and epics and bawdy refrains. But only in solitude can he compose the quieter songs that contain his entire heart. And this is exactly what he has sought for himself in the south gardens tonight, instead of burying himself among the noisy clamor of cheerful soldiers.
He and his baliset have wandered a significant distance from the nearest castle corridors. Around him spread trellised vines covered in green and blue tendrils, thick hedgerows crafted into unnatural but compelling shapes, flowers laid out in elegant patterns along rolling segments of hillside. And beyond it all—far below the perfect circle of grass on which Gurney sits—beneath a sky gone breathtaking with pinks and darkening purples, pulses the endless and lively sea.
By morning, fog will cover sea and cliffs and garden alike, the changing temperature drawing low cloud-cover along the landscape like a blanket. But for now the view is glorious, and Gurney takes it in with reverent awe, as his pick moves deftly across the strings of his instrument.
The song is a private one—a melody he's been honing for weeks. Quick, light treble notes soar in a tremolo along the strings, then smoothly drop into a lower register. Not quite harmony, though if the melody and counterpoint were layered together they would make a lovely duet. Even separate, they complement one another, as though taking turns in an unbroken serenade.
One heart to another.
In the silence that follows the final notes, Jessica's voice startles Gurney nearly out of his skin. "That was lovely, Gurney. Will you play it again?"
Only years of practiced control stop Gurney from surging to his feet and damaging the baliset in his haste. He doesn't entirely succeed at restraining the jolt that moves through his body, shocked by the discovery that he's not alone. Gurney can count on one hand the people capable of sneaking up on him, and have fingers left over. The Lady of Caladan is one of them—Leto certainly can't manage the trick—and when Gurney tilts his head to meet her eyes, he finds an expression of sheepish apology softening her lovely face.
"My lady," Gurney greets her, loosening his grip on the neck of the baliset.
"May I sit with you?" she asks, skirts brushing audibly in the billowing grass.
Gurney could refuse. He knows Jessica's moods and tones well enough to recognize when a request is an order, and when it is simply a request. He even suspects she won't be offended if he says no. He could excuse himself and return to his quarters, to while away whatever period of solitude is required before Paul sneaks in to join him for the night. He and Jessica are not friends precisely, though Gurney senses they could be.
"Of course you may," he answers, without having reached a conscious decision. When she tucks her skirts to the side and folds herself down onto the grass beside him, Gurney is shocked to realize he feels no hint of nervousness. No fear that she'll look through him and somehow know that Paul will be sharing his bed tonight.
Perhaps he should feel guilty for welcoming Jessica's company while keeping such dangerous secrets from her, but Gurney finds himself smiling a genuine smile instead.
Then he surprises himself again, by giving his instrument a quick tuning—he slipped one of the strings loose when he grabbed the neck too tightly—and beginning the song again. He closes his eyes and lets his fingers dance along the frets, recreating the intricate melody. He doesn't bother pretending he is alone. For all that the Lady Jessica's presence should feel out of place beside the private intimacy of the song he's composing, Gurney feels only the joy of being able to share it.
Only when he has every note and nuance perfect will he play it for Paul.
"It's beautiful," Jessica says when Gurney reaches the end once more. "Who is it about?"
Who. Not what. Gurney blinks, but he senses no trickery in the question. Jessica gives no sign of being suspicious, and though she is certainly wily enough to conceal her true feelings and motives, some deeper instinct tells Gurney her question is more straightforward. She simply sees the music for what it is, and without knowing Paul's place in Gurney's heart, must imagine the question forward but not cruel. She is asking as a friend.
Rather than lie to her, Gurney allows his expression to soften into an honest and conspiratorial smile. "You'll have to allow an old soldier his secrets, my lady."