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They found all of their things exactly as they had left them in the Sunset House. Emperial had been as good as her word and the whole room had moved, along with everything in it. Third wondered what existed now in the place where his room had been. An empty room? Or something different?

Regardless, Emperial (the new one) made sure things were set up and that Third, Constant, and Aelinye were settled in. Third was surprised to find that Aelinye tolerated this instance of Emperial a little better, and was even content to be picked up and fed by her. Emperial only smiled. "I should think I know how to interact with Aelinye a little better, as it's me that's been writing her story up 'til now."

"Writing her story?"

"That's what an imperatrix does," said Emperial. "We monitor and record all the things that happen to the people we look after. And, to make it easy for everyone to communicate, we write it down. So, I've been writing down her and your stories, including things only she or you would know."

And then, Emperial recited a brief passage from memory. "'How he knew what the door said was a faint mystery to him, but it was as if words and letters had always had meaning to him. He had known all along what they meant. They were somehow a part of him. At once he wished to have his slips of paper with him, the slips he had been clutching when first he came into being. (It was exactly that, he now realized, and wondered how he could have been so foolish as to think anything otherwise in the past.)'"

Third was perfectly aware his jaw was hanging open, but he could not think of anything to do but gape. Constant had gone completely still at his side.

"I'm sure that violates the laws, to tell you a piece of your own story, but we Emperials are nothing if not concerted lawbreakers where deific rules are concerned." Third was still gaping. Emperial smiled and said, "I'm afraid I can't tell you anything more, but I think now you understand the sort of bond I have with you, Constant, and Aelinye. I was responsible for watching over all three of you, and it was not a limited observation. You should know, however, that not everything was recorded, and that power ended when I agreed to let you join me.

"But I can tell you without a doubt, since I know you, Third Hhalak Atreipie, and Constant Tchriai Atreipie, that you'll like it here, and that I know what you were thinking, and I would be honored if you called me mother."

For a moment, Third said nothing. A tear spilled down his cheek. "Then, did you see what was in the mirror?" he said quietly.

"I did."

"And did you write it down?" He was shaking now. Constant nudged his leg in support.

Emperial nodded. "I did." She smiled and beckoned Third forward so she could put her arm comfortingly around him. "I'll show it to her for you if you like."

"Please," said Third, and started sobbing, sinking to the floor with Emperial and Constant. "I can't do it myself."

"I sacrificed my imperatrix status so I could do this," whispered Emperial. "It's as Trant said. Any of us would sacrifice anything for you, even our lives."

Constant nuzzled Third and licked him, as comforting as she had been right after the mirror, glad that she would learn of it so she could help him and that her Third was now unburdened with the task.

Third was grateful. She had been writing his story, and she knew him, and she knew he needed to tell Constant what had happened and couldn't. "Thank you, mother," he whispered.

And somewhere, the other Emperial, whom Third thought had erased his room in the Sunset House, was immensely happy to be called such.

~~~

"Of course, we can't do that again."

"But I'm sure we made the right choice." Emperial smiled. "I calculated out all the possibilities, and if we were to use this only once, it would have to be at this moment in time. It would be of the most benefit."

"I trust you, of course. But I hope you're right and that it wouldn't have been any better to use this later."

"I just hope we don't get in trouble."

"We all hope that!" They laughed.

"And now," said one.

"We see what happens in the quest part two," said another.

"Oooh, I wish we didn't have to wait! You'd better make sure you do lots of writing so we all learn what happens as soon as possible."

"All in good time!"

"Yes, and whatever happens will happen. From now on, watching will be all we do." And they did just that.

The Greyhaven House was not overly misleading, but the sheer number of its rooms and halls made it seem like it was bigger than the outside. The property was not terribly wide, but it was deep, and the rooms small and petite. The halls were so narrow that two people could not walk side by side without touching, and a large person would have been greatly inconvenienced by the width of the doors. It was probably a good thing that Constant was neither large nor a person. The house fit her perfectly.

Throughout the house the smell of must was almost overpowering to Constant's sensitive nose, but through all the dust and the old books she smelled something else, a smell that confused her. Two smells, then three, then possibly more. It was hard to tell exactly what they were, but she recognized the scent as something animal. Not a deer or squirrel, which she knew well, or wolf or dog, but animal nonetheless. Simply because it was outside her knowledge of odours did not mean it was any less living in origin.

As she wandered along the halls, she caught whiffs of these smells here and there, never more then a few feet of trail, always disappearing. She thought for a moment it was something that could climb the walls and she stood with her front paws against the wallpaper, but there was nothing higher than two feet. There were traces along some walls of animal markings, much decayed, but still potent enough. Someone or something had marked this as territory.

Constant let her nose lead her through the corridors, eventually tuning out the fragments of smell to focus on finding something that was of more interest. She was on the third floor sniffing the edge of the carpet when she heard it.

Almost feather-light, paws in the corridor behind her. She whipped her head around but the hall was empty. She stood there, tense, waiting for it to come again.

The air was still. Then, suddenly, the same faint noise behind her. Constant turned again to no avail, seeing nothing, but quite sure that a moment ago something had been there. Something alive.

She realized she might be surrounded. Whatever these creatures were, they would turn her in circles as long as she stood in the middle of the hall. So she went to the far end, the wall behind her, and waited.

She did not have to wait long. A minute of silence later and a slender grey cat ran across the hall and disappeared behind a corner. Constant was immediately rabid with excitement and ran forward to chase it. A cat! The last time she had seen one of those was North Carolina. Then, the cat had quickly disappeared into the brush, but here there were no trees to disappear behind. Here, the cat was sure to be cornered.

Constant's blood pumped with the thrill of the hunt as she ran down the hall, toenails clicking on the wood. She slid to a stop where the cat had gone, ready for excitement, and was stopped cold.

It was a blank wall. There was no corner.

Confused, Constant stared at the wall. She heard a noise and turned, this time fast enough to catch it. Another grey cat dashed past, a fatter one. In the dim light of the hallway she could clearly make out the cat's path across the hallway. It ran straight into the wall and vanished.

Immediately, Constant ran for that spot and pushed her head against the wall, but it was impassably solid. She pawed it carefully, so as not to scratch it, but to no avail. The wall was simply that: a wall.

Her first conclusion was that she was dealing with an insubstantial cat. A ghost, a spirit, something that could walk through walls, but it left scent, and no ghost could do that. Perhaps a spirit, but a wholly insubstantial creature should have equally insubstantial scent particles.

There was a heavy creak behind her, something much larger than one of the cats, and once more Constant turned. Trion was standing on the stairs at the far side of the hallway.

"I see you've met the cats," he said, descending the last half dozen steps to join her on the third floor. Constant wagged her tail in silent agreement before heading towards Trion. "There are four or five of them," he said, "as well as severals rats and mice, a few rabbits, and a pair of German Shepherds." He crouched down and scratched Constant affectionately behind the ears. "Try not to get too near to the large grey one. He's been known to attack dogs."

Constant looked up at Trion, brimming with a million unvoiced words. Trion just smiled at her with the sort of quiet sadness that could make a person's heart ache. Constant let out a huge sigh. Somehow, someday. She onyl wished she knew how the cats were doing the wall trick.

As if understanding her, Trion said, "They can travel between the walls, it's in their nature." He removed his hands from Constant and hushed her with a finger to his lips. Then, while she watched, he made a peculiar spi-spi-spi noise and reached his hand into the wall.

It went into the wall as if no wall were there, a solid juxtaposition of flesh and wallpaper. It was as if the surface of the wall were like water to Trion, but without the characterisitic ripples of water, and Constant realized it reminded her greatly of the heavy water on World Zero.

When Trion withdrew his hand he brought with it one of the cats, the smaller grey one, and she looked none too happy about the situation. Her body was completely stiff and the moment she saw Constant she struggled and twisted in his hand, but his fingers were firm. He brought the wriggling cat to his chest where her claws dug into his shirt and her belly rumbled with the feline version of a growl. It sounded like twanging wires.

"This is Alderaan," Trion said, cupping her tightly and vigorously stroking ehr head to calm her. He apologized, "She doesn't like dogs, and I'm afraid she doesn't know the difference."

Constant stayed where she was and sniffed at the air, her nose just inches from the shuddering grey fur.

"The other one is Chester, her friend, and he's not very friendly. It would probably be best if you left the two of them alone." Trion lessened his hold and though the cat had looked like she was calming, she took her first chance and jumped off of Trion's chest into the wall. Constant had to bite back a yip.

Brushing the cat hairs off his shirt, Trion stood and looked down at Constant. She wanted to ask him what about the others, the cats he had not mentioned and the rats and the German shepherds.

Though it seemed at times that Trion could read her mind, without Third there would always be a gap of communication between them, and her question was not answered. "I'll see you at dinner," was all Trion said before heading towards the downward flight of stairs. Constant sadly watched him go. She could still smell the cats on the air, but the smell as fading.

She did take one last look at the stairs leading up to the attic, but the door at the top was closed. So she headed down the stairs and did not ask her questions, even when she had the chance later.

They were sitting at the dinner table when it happened. Tonight the meal was tofu and rice and a chilled, sweet cous cous on the side and crisp salad, which was wholly something that Charles Aberdeen might have prepared if he had been cooking dinner, and it suited Third for that reason, though Constant silently noted her preference for something a little bit meatier. As they were seated around the table, conversation proceeded as usual, bits of small talk ("how was your day?" and "this is an excellent cous cous") interrupted by moments of chewing and gulping at the food and drink on the table.

Third had the fork almost to his lips when it hit him like a brick wall. Constant was sending him a question, the force of her intent overwhelming him. The fork landed on his plate with a clatter. Almost too fast to follow, the language of their peculiar thoughtspeak assembled itself in his mind, a thousand tiny fragments and impressions forming the image of a German shepherd with picture-perfect clarity, coupled with the urge to ask something. It was as if a light bulb had just gone on in Constant's head. She remembered something she had almost forgot, and her exuberance demanded speedy resolution lest the idea fall by the wayside again.

It was a familiar image, from a book of dog breeds they had looked at some weeks ago. Constant had been curious to find out if there were any quite like her, and the German Shepherd was one of the breeds with which she shared a passing resemblence, but dshe was closest in appearance to a young wolf, and not the hundreds of domesticated breeds the book presented. She could perhaps be mistaken for a Siberian Husky or Alaskan Malamute, but only by someone not overly familiar with the nuances of both breeds.

But the picture was a German Shepherd, and alost unbidden Third heard himself speaking the words his daemon so desperately craved: "Constant wants me to ask about the German Shepherds?" It was as much a question for himself as it was for Trion and Em, for Constant's eagerness had not included any reason as to why he should ask such a question.

The table had gone quiet and the drop of Third's fork. It was not until Emperial scraped hers against her plate that they could continue.

"The German Shepherds?" she replied, a question to a question. "Sometimes they live upstairs." She looked at Trion, who had quietly resumed eating. Either he was content to let Empreial do the talking, or he was reluctant to join the conversation.

Aelinye was looking at Third with big eyes, still startled by his earlier action. Third reached over and fed her some mashed vegetables to calm her.

"There are two," said Emperial, since it had fallen to her to answer the question. "One brown and one white. It isn't likely that you'll meet them."

"Why not?" asked Third, this time his own question. He had not realized there were other animals living upstairs.

Emperial shrugged with a forkful of tofu in her hand, waving gently through the air with the motion of her shoulders.

"I don't know. I suppose they don't like it as much as other places. If you get lost, they'll lead you home. That's their designation."

Constant sent Third another question, totally without the urgent forcefulness of the first, and sentences only. "Do they have any names?"

This elicited a long, thoughtful pause from Emperial, during which she chewed upon her tofu. "I suppose," she said as she cleared her mouth with a swallow, "you would have to ask them." And that ended the conversation.

The pond was almost as Third expected it, except for the ice.

He could not tell when they entered the Bridge in the mists of Greyhaven, but they must have crossed it for within a half dozen seconds the fog had cleared and they were standing somewhere else entirely. The sky was bright and partly cloudy. Dry grass crunched under their feet and the dry, crisp air was so clear you could see for miles.

It was a pond exactly as the word might suggest. Its shape was gentle and irregular, a twisting outline like that of an organ in a book of anatomy. Its shores were dotted with bare-branched winter trees. Patches of reeds blurred the pond's contour, dried brown stalks frozen upright. In other areas the land went straight to the water, and in spring there would be streaks of muddy tracks from ducks sliding into and out of the water.

The dead-looking grass was dusted with a thin layer of ice, a frozen remnant of morning dew some days earlier. Third knew the grass was simply in a state of suspended hibernation under the earth, but he could not help feeling a stab of desolation. It was so brown it felt like the greenery might never recover. He could scarce picture the vibrancy and life that would appear come spring in this cold and quiet frozen garden, when it would be released by the snowmelt. Had he more winter experience he would have thought it seemed like the pond was waiting -- the ice was formed, the ground was thickly frozen, and all the leaves had fallen from the trees. It needed only snow.

It was, Third realized, his first experience of real winter.

He had been out in the cold before, at the Conference, but in some strange way he could not define, that icy plain had not been as real as this. It did not have the crisp and crackle of a natural occurrence, chaotic and imperfect, the edges blurred and running together like a Van Gogh painting, the way it was at the pond. The Conference field was in contrast wholly artificial: it was totally and had always been that way, and not come to it through the transition of the seasons with traces remaining of the long-dead summer.

Succinctly, picturesque. Filled with the innocence of a quiet countryside from years past, an innocence and time that had never actually existed excep tin the pages and imaginings of fiction and Rockwellian illustration, where such lofty concepts could be realized.

The ice was not empty. On top of the frozen water several figures skated, some gliding effortlessly and others with more caution. All were dressed in thick, heavy layers, scarves and hats and coats to ward off the cold and the sting of the ice. Puffs of air appeared from under hats and behind scarves, momentary clouds of exertion as transient and intangible as memories. They all carried bent sticks, flat edge against the pond's surface, and through the mess of calls and shouting Third could make out the heavy smack of a small disc-shaped object as it passed from one player to the next. So this was hockey.

Constant was instantly entranced by the motions, the gliding of the players and the speed of the puck as it ricocheted from stick to stick. She barked in happy anticipation, for this was a game, and she had never yet found one she did not enjoy playing.

A figure broke off from the cluster and towards the noise of Constant's barking. It was Pavel. He slid to a stop at the pond's edge, spraying a thin shower of ice chips. The two metal blades on his feet left a pair of long scratches on the ice behind him. They crossed a myriad of similar scratches until they became lost in the curves and lines that criss-crossed the pond in a vast abstract scribble that would have been equally at home in a modernist museum or on a family's refrigerator.

"Dobriy dehn," Pavel greeted, a phrase which Third replicated almost exactly, to Pavel's delight. All Constant could manage was a bark, but it was understood nonetheless. As was his unfortunate habit, Pavel focused on Third almost entirely and said, "We'll make a Russian of you yet!" It was only in afterthought that he looked down at the daemon and offered a "Hello, Constant." But he was trying, and that both Third and Constant could appreciate.

"So, are you going out?" asked Pavel with a twinkle. Third looked at Emperial. He had no ice skates. She smiled knowingly and Pavel yelled something at another player in Russian. There was an equally untranslatable reply and the player broke off from the practice and headed to the reeds where they had stashed the ice box. He reached down and pulled a child-sized pair of ice skates that had been hidden by the reeds a moment before. Skating over to Pavel's side, the other player held the skates out for Third.

Third took them with a sense of awe. They were handmade, some sort of toughened leather, treated and painted a leathery black-brown. Pavel's voice interrupted his reverie. "We weren't sure of the size, so I hope you have some spare socks."

Once more, Third was ready to admit his deficiency, and once more Emperial smiled knowingly. "Here!" she said, shuffling Aelinye so she could pull out the heavy woolen socks stuffed into her coat pocket. She tossed them to Third and he caught them one-handed.

"Thanks," he said, mildly shocked, and sat down on the cold ground to put them on. Emperial and Aelinye went to sit on a small set of bleachers set up to have a good view of the action on the ice.

Pavel leaned on his stick. "We'll start you off with something easy, give you a chance to learn to skate first. Mishka said you've never done it."

"No," admitted Third, glad he could finally admit some shortcoming. Constant sniffed distrustfully at the edge of the pond.

With a grin, Pavel slung his arm around the player who had gotten Third's skates. "This is Rustam, we call him Rusty. It has as much to do with his Russian as his hockey skills." Third suddenly remembered Rustam from the Conference -- he had been among the ones selected by the lottery along with Pavel.

Rustam rolled his eyes and groaned, taking a light swipe at Pavel's legs with his hockey stick. He was a friendly-looking man with thinning brown hair sticking out from his green and blue cap and oval-rimmed glasses hiding brown eyes edged with pleasant crinkles.

"If there is anything you need, you can ask him," said Pavel.

"A pleasure to meet you," said Rustam shyly.

"Likewise," said Third, doing up the last of the laces. He carefully rose to his feet. Constant went to his side, ready to join him in an adventure.

Both Rustam and Pavel stretched out a hand to assist Third onto the ice. Pavel cast a dubious glance at Constant. "Be careful, it is very slippery," he warned. "Everyone walls before they walk."

Third could sense the unsteadiness of both larger men despite their size and experience and the iron grips with which they supported him. From the first moment his skate touched upon the ice he understood the reason, but at the same time, it was not his own.

Beside him Constant touched her paw to the ice tentatively, feeling the slip and delicately adjusting. Her entrance was decidedly more precarious: no sooner had she got her front two paws on the pond they began to slip away from her. Only her considerable strength kept her from sprawling. Muscles rippled under her fur. She managed to place her third paw and then she was standing, and faintly sliding, not daring yet to make another move.

For Third it was simply a matter of putting down the other foot and then he was standing. Precarious, but balanced. Sensing that he was ready, Pavel and Rustam let go.

"Very good," said Pavel. "You are already better than Mishka. Next, you have to learn how to move forward." Pavel skated back a bit and then forward, demonstrating the technique. Of course, Third had already observed the technique for several minutes since his arrival, and he duplicated the motion with ease.

Pavel looked at Rustam. "The boy is like me, a natural!" The amusement in Rustam's face said that was probably a bit of an exaggeration on Pavel's part, but it certainly held true for Third.

Constant took a tentative step, splaying hre paws for better purchase. With a bit of difficulty she managed, but the layout of her feet and muscles were not so well designed for skating as Third's skates. She shot him a sensation of gentle envy. Third replied with pride and praise for her bravery and progress.

"You know, not too long, and you will be as good as Kolya!" Before anyone could stop him, Pavel called out to the players once more in Russian and the practice came to a halt. A brief conversation broke out and then half the men were chanting, "Kolya! Kolya," Pavel among them.

After a moment, Nikolai Belyakov, another man familiar from the Conference, handed off his hockey stick to another player, resigned to his fate. Third began to wonder just how many familiar faces from the Conference he would find, but Antipov, Rustam, and Belyakov seemed to be it. The rest of the players he would have seen at the Conference, had he bothered to study all several thousand faces.

Third and Constant wondered what all the hubbub was about. Nikolai took a moment to compose himself and then moved. Without his hockey stick his movements seemed somehow different, and they did not realize why until he was already in the air. Once, twice, and then a half he turned, landing on one foot with his arms outstretched and just a bit of wobble. Immediately all the other players broke out in cheers and applause and a few hoots and catcalls.

Pavel was beaming with ridiculous pride, almost as if he himself had executed the jump. Waving down the praise, Nikolai retrieved his stick and the practice resumed.

"I'll leave you with Rustam," said Pavel, jovially saluting as he skated back to rejoin the group. Given the way he shouted what sounded like orders in Russian, Third guessed he was the teams' captain. Given the occasional grumbles heard in response, not everyone was happy with the arrangement, but there was no doubt Pavel was the strongest player.

Third practiced in the little area set out for him, which was defined by a small bay-like alcove. (In real games, it was the area designated for the penalty box.) Rustam was there to offer aid, but soon found there was little for him to do with regard to Third, who skated without falling, and he seemed nervous about Constant. It might have been concern over the way she nearly slipped and slid, it might have been worry at her wolfish appearance, it might have been because she was a daemon and he was uncertain how to approach that relationship. Whatever the reason, he kept a politely friendly distance, but whenever Constant was on the verge of slipping, he started as if he wanted to help out.

Third made an offer to explain things, but Constant turned him down. <> Third decided that was probably a good idea: just as he was learning ice skating, people needed to learn to deal with Constant by themselves. So long as Third remained a proxy, he would be a crutch, and those around them would not learn to approach Constant as an equal.

The biggest different was that while Rustam stumbled in his lesson, Third sailed through his. True to Min'n's observation, Third had excellent, even superhuman balance. He practices skating faster and faster, first forwards and then backwards. He resisted the urge to try and spin in the air as Nikolai had, not wanting to seem boastful. For now, simply skating and not falling was a feat enough.

He looked up several times to Aelinye and Emperial and found their attentions equally divided between the practice and himself, but when the attention was on him, Emperial cheered on Third and Constant, and looked very proud.

(Aelinye looked cold more than anything, self-concerned with her bear and a rubber keychain Emperial had given her. She looked at Third occasionally, but mostly she snuggles up and burbled to herself and her playthings.)

The hockey practice broke up in an array of shouts and the players headed landside, in Third's direction. Third tried not to focus on them too much -- they were mostly unfamiliar faces, beads of sweat under their heavy winter clothes. Some of them laid down on the first patch of bare ground they came to, hockey sticks at their sides, stretched out with happy exhaustion. One stormed past Third with an angry mutter. Rustam said quietly to Third, "Don't mind him, that is Rusak Petrovich Talietzin, they call him the Black Sword. He is always like that." Pavel brought up the rear of the group, Nikolai Belyakov beside him, the two conversing in Russian.

The Russian conversation ended and Pavel waved his hockey stick in the air. "Everyone! This is Third, Mishka's son. Today is his first time learning hockey." This evoked a lackluster cheer from the exhausted players.

Constant came sliding across the ice and head-butted Pavel in the leg, both to stop her trajectory and get his attention. Genuinely apologetic, Pavel said, "Sorry. And this is Constant, his daemon." When he did not expound upon it further, Third suspected Pavel had indeed mentioned something on the subject of daemons earlier. Judging by the response, it had not been a particularly good explanation. Third felt a pang of despait for Constant's situation, which she in turned shrugged off.

Pavel pointed out the rest of the team's members. Boris Ivonin Milyukov was stretched out on the grass and raised his hockey stick in greeting. He had sleek, tinted visorlike shades on his long face, which was roughly shaven. Viktor Rusinov Demochev did not even bother with that, stretched out on the ground beside Boris. He was even less cleanly shaven, shaggy dark hair in need of a good wash and cut. He drummed his fingers on his chest and hummed as he rested. Dmitry Mikhailov Petrov was easily the fittest of them all, barely tired from all the practice, though he had worked hard. His hair was a shade lighter than the others and his eyes a stunning purple. He waved despite the fact he was engaged in conversation and surely could not have heard his own name. Third thought he felt something strange about Dmitry he was unable to describe. (Constant confirmed it.)

Rummaging through the ice box was Ladislav Kratochvil, a square-faced man with a little too much neck stuffed into his collar, but a genial disposition. Milos Cermak was the youngest by far, a fresh-faced boy not even twenty, lanky and uncertain, fair-haired and fairer-complexioned. He was all angles and elbows, not quite grown into his own heigh. Next, the interestingly named Pavel Zasloffski was unfortunately not quite so interesting to look at, in his mid-forties, his face a mixture of aged lines, some from pain and some from laughter. He looked a little on the serious side, and more than a little reserved compared to some of his more ebullient fellows. His dark hair was severely grey in places, generally grey in others, but still held enough of its former color to identify Zasloffski as a brunet. He stuck out among the players for his generally immobility; he was the goalie by default more than skill at hockey.

Of course, Nikolai Belyakov, clean-cut and respectable by anyone's standards, who smiled and tipped his head politely and continued his discussion with Dmitry.

Finally, "Rusak Petrovich Talietzin," which Pavel said with enough rancor to melt the ice he was standing on. Talietzin was struggling with his laces, as eager to leave as Pavel was to get rid of him.

Then Ladislav started slinging around beer cans, and all ill will was forgotten. Pavel caught one and went to sit down at the pondside and share it with his friends.

They were a mismatched lot, some loud and some quiet, but their language united them, if nothing else. There were plenty of arguments, but they died down almost as fast as they flared up, and the patter of noise was too fast for Third to try and make out any of the words in Russian.

So, left to himself, he sent to Constant, <> and proceeded to show off. He worked up a little speed and, replicating the actions of Nikolai earlier, spun once, and twice, and a half, and landed with such shaky surprise he almost, almost fell flat on the ice.

His feat had not been missed by the others, and they let out a great cheer mingled with gasps of surprise and phrases in Russian. To which Pavel reprimanded, "English, English! Have some regard when we have guests!"

"This is not the one who has skated today for only the first time!" exclaimed the one identified as Viktor. He was easily the most excitable of the bunch, jumping and waving his arms in a comic fashion, wild-eyed at the slightest provocation.

"It must be a lie," agreed Ladislav, so shocked he could only be comforted by drinking more beer.

Third exchanged a look with Constant as he slid to a halt at the pond's edge, as smoothly as Pavel had when they first arrived, the same spray of icy sparks flying into the air. "It is my first time," he insisted with wide-eyed innocence that spoke to his veracity.

Nikolai Belyakov had been studying Third with his hand on his chin. While the others continued exchanging disbelief, he walked over to Third and put his hands on Third's shoulders. "Try not to lean so much forward. Your entry is good, but focus less on the straightness of your arm and more on the whole of your body position. If you trust yourself, you will hit the landing."

"No no no no no!" This was Pavel, standing up with his beer in one hand and hockey stick in the other. "We are not learning figure skating, we are learning hockey. He thrust his beer at Nikolai and the stick to Third. Nikolai let out a little disappointed sigh and Third got the impression he much preferred figure skating to hockey, but he went along with his friends because he valued their company. (Against his better judgment, it must be noted.)

Pavel reached down to pull up Milos and then Viktor. "Come, come, back on the ice. We are teaching Third hockey." Groans, as much for the act of getting back up after practice as putting down the beer cans. Rusak Petrovich stayed seated, but it seemed he was not invited in any event. He watched the others like a hawk and gripped his beer can tightly, without any sign of enjoyment. Pavel Zasloffski excused himself as well, claiming sore shoulders and old age. He went and sat with Emperial on the bleachers, which gave her someone to talk to. They seemed to be friends.

Third looked apologetically at Constant. They both knew that without good control of her movement on the ice or a hockey stick, there was no way for Constant to play. Third found it upsetting. Bad enough his daemon was treated like a second-class citizen, this sport was completely beyond her. Constant was quick to offer reassurance. <>

<>

<> Her tongue lolled in encouragement. <> Still feeling badly, Third did just that.

<>

Constant shook out her fur in laughter. <>

Third had to laugh, realizing the literal truth of the matter with the rather dirty mental image Constant sent him. They kissed sloppily at the water's edge and Third went to join the assembled players on the ice. If they had been having trouble dealing with Third's relationship to his daemon, the sight of her licking him straight on the mouth probably didn't help any.

Moving straight along, Pavel began to outline the proper way to hold the stick. "You grip it like this, an extension of your arms, don't even think about holding it and focus on the puck always." It was, Third reflected, similar to Nikolai's instructions about hitting landings. Don't think too hard and let it come naturally. Pavel positioned Third's hands and gave a nod of approval.

"It might be a good idea in the future to wear some gloves," added Viktor, wiggling his fingers. Third then noticed that most of the men were wearing gloves, fingerless in some cases, but still gloves.

"Helps keep away blisters," said Rustam in explanation.

Pavel shrugged. "A little. We still get them anyway."

"And it's warmer!" chimed in Milos, his voice nearly a squeak. If Viktor was the excitable member of the group, Milos was the nervous one, overshadowed by the stronger personalities of the group. It was good that he asserted himself every once in a while, or Third might have forgotten he was there.

Pavel dropped the puck and passed it towards Third, who instantly deflected it back lightly.

"Good God, the boy doesn't need any training," remarked Boris.

Viktor superstitiously crossed himself. "Or thank God." His mind was already on the subject of the championship, which was less than three months away.

Pavel just harrumphed, not liking how he was losing the awe of his friends, and ordered them all to spread out. "Let's try a few passes and some ragging." With that, they launched into play.

Third tried to pay occasional attention to Aelinye and Constant, but there was just so little chance, and he was admonished for it when Pavel caught him. "Eyes on the puck," was a sentence Third soon learned to appreciate.

He also learned that a little bit of attention on the position of the other players was probably a good idea when Ladislav, caught up in the moment, accidentally smacked Rustam in the face.

At first Third was surprised at the meagerness of the apology, by after a few minutes, the reason became clear. Collisions and accidents were not uncommon. A few minutes after the facesmack incident, Viktor and Boris went crashing together and landed in a heap, tripping Milos. It took an angry minute for them all to right themselves, Boris and Viktor trading loud accusations.

"You're both at fault!" came Pavel's verdict. "Learn to skate!" They made faces, but resumed playing.

Though she was not playing, Constant had a chance to show her worth when an errant pass sent the puck flying into the frozen bushes. She eagerly dove in and picked it up, bringing it to the ice's edge.

Jumping and twisting, she released the puck from her teeth and sent it flying on the ice towards Third so perfectly he caught it against the flat of his stick. This was as good a feat as any displayed by a player and she was cheered for it, as enthusiastic as the earlier cheers for Third.

"That is some creature," said Boris Ivonin.

"She is," smiled Third, recognizing it was only intended as a compliment.

Eventually, one by one, the players returned to the beer in the ice box and left the game until only Third, Nikolai, Pavel, and Dmitry remained. They were, by no coincidence, the best four players on the ice, even if it was Third's first day.

Pavel and Nikolai were both looking a little tired, Pavel moreso than his friend, perhaps because he had spent so much energy yelling and commanding. Nikolai was pale and sweaty. His skating had lost most of the delicacy displayed in the hour preceding. Third, who had not been on the ice as long, was still fresh, and Dmitry simply knew how to conserve his energy. The "lesson" turned into something a little more serious.

Third was beginning to find a strong opponent in Dmitry. It was as if the man knew Third's movements before he committed them, even when Third made what he thought were successful feints.

He had just feinted and tricked Pavel (but not Dmitry) when Pavel gave up. "All right! All right! That's enough for today." He leaned on his knees, gasping. Nikolai looked totally in agreement. Third uncharacteristically glared at Dmitry. He was suddenly finding himself with a challenge, and it was bringing out the darker side in him. Somewhere deep inside, Third hated nothing so much as being told "no," and even though it was nothing verbal, Dmitry was very much an impassable obstacle to Third's perceived dominance of the game.

Since he had the puck, Third but his lip and ignored Pavel's plea to end it. He swung his stick with as much force as he could muster in Dmitry's direction.

The puck went flying at an incredible speed, and in this informal lesson and practice, there were no pads and no helmets. Third's swing had been reckless; even he could not have predicted its direction, which meant there was no way Dmitry could, either.

Third regretted it immediately, knowing he had gone too far, but there was no time for him to change it. There was barely enough time for him to register his remorse. Worse, he could not have targeted it more directly if he had been aiming. The puck went straight towards Dmitry's unprotected head.

Dmitry had only enough time to blink. The puck went bouncing off into the reeds. Pavel gave a shout and ducked. A hockey stick dropped. Everyone froze. There was a cracking thud as the puck hit and shattered the ice where it impacted.

The dropped stick was Third's. He was for a moment panicked, but Dmitry was still standing. They had all seen the puck bounce off at such an incredible speed, but Dmitry was still standing. Third's breath was stuck in his chest as he waited for Dmitry to slump over.

"What the hell!" Pavel shouted, not even sure of the words he needed to express his emotions.

"It's all right."

Dmitry's words, though quiet, were like a glass dropping. Everyone heard them. With a smile, he ran a hand through his thick brown hair. "It's my fault. I was provoking him."

Pavel deflated, his anger lost. Third just blinked in disbelief. Dmitry was totally unhurt.

"I wanted to see what he was capable of."

After a huge, calming breath, Pavel directed his shouting at Dmitry. "******** hell, Mitka!" He skated over and used his free hand to smack Dmitry on the back of the head, a blow which seemed to hit, dispelling the idea that Dmitry's head was protected by an invisible forcefield. "Don't you ever do that again! Ever! You could have ******** killed someone! And you too!" he said to Third.

Dmitry mumbled an apology in Russian while Third stooped to collect his stick, still too rattled to talk. Pavel took another deep breath. "Christ. Save it for game time! I need a beer." He promptly stomped off the ice to get one, Nikolai following.

Third and Dmitry were left standing on the ice, Third's hands white-knuckled, his mind completely frozen despite Constant's attempts at communication. Dmitry stared at Third a moment, then shrugged and headed to the ice box.

He could have killed someone. The idea turned Third's stomach. What had he been thinking? The problem was that he stopped thinking, something else had taken over, or was that simply an attempt to escape responsibility?

Constant was relaying reassurances from herself and Emperial to no effect when Nikolai, the only person still in skates, glided over to Third and put his arm around the boy's shoulders. Startled (he really had been rattled to the core), Third looked up surprise.

"It's okay. You just surprised them. It's not the first time someone's done that." He gave Third's shoulder a squeeze. "I think your friend is waiting."

Sure enough, Constant was. She was at the water's edge leaning out as far as she could without unbalancing, straining to be near him without touching the ice. Third wiped his eyes with his sleeve and apologized to her for making her worry. <>

And a voice in both his and Constant's heads said, <>

With his creepy purple eyes, Dmitry was looking at Third. There was no mistaking the voice. Third's jaw dropped.

<> said Dmitry, <>

Third knew about psychics from mention in a book or two, but the word could be applied in so many different ways it was hard to know how it was used in Dmitry's case. Certainly as mind-reader, but probably telekinetic, too. It would explain how Dmitry escaped the puck.

At both Dmitry and Nikolai's gentle urgings, Third skated to the shoreline and rejoined Constant. It was good to stick his hands into her thick fur, warming and comforting. The incident seemed to have diminished the group's camaraderie.

Then Dmitry popped open his beer and the sound signaled some return to normalcy. There was nothing the Russians liked better than drinking and gossiping, and so long as there was alcohol, everything was fine.

"I think we can look forward to giving the aliens a run for their money," was the first thing said, by Rustam. It shifted the focus quite firmly to the future and not the events of the practice or the lesson.

"Yes!" agreed Pavel, secretly happy the trouble was over. He had been toying with the idea of apologizing in some way to Third, but now that the subject was changed, the compulsion was gone.

"They aren't going to know what hit them," assured Ladislav.

Just as quickly, Viktor disagreed. "No! We want them to know who has hit them! Us! The Slavs!" He raised his can in suggestion of a toast.

"The Russians!" said Pavel, raising his can in a toast.

"The Slavs!" repeated Viktor, shaking his beer, to which Ladislav said, "The Czech!" and Pavel insisted, "You are all citizens of the Soviet Republic!" And then an argument ensued, so that all memory of the incident was totally erased and Third began to feel a little bit better and he forgot, too. Forgiving and forgetting was the nature of the group, for it was the only way so many different politics could coexist.

Third and Constant both soon figured out that while they were called the Russian Hockey League, only half of the members actually identified themselves as Russian. The only Russian they had in common was the language. Pavel was a diehard communist and preferred the designation Soviet, Milos and Ladislav were actually Czech and marginally anti-Communist, Viktor was from the subjugated country of Chechnya and despised Russia, Communist or otherwise, and Rustam was an ex-pat from a suppressed country who preferred to be considered American. Only Nikolai, Boris, and Pavel Zasloffski seemed to be both fully Russian and fully tolerant. Rusak Petrovich was saying nothing.

Eventually, that argument was spent, and rather quickly, for it was only the same argument the group had every time they met up. The discussion returned to the game of hockey. "There is no greater sport," asserted Pavel, and to that they could all drink. (At least, those who were drinking could.)

"It's so good to have someone else here for a change," said Pavel Zasloffski, resisting the urge to reach out and ruffle Third's hair.

Noticing Emperial and Aelinye again alone on the bleachers, Third asked, "Doesn't anyone else ever come out to watch the practice?"

There was a pause as the men exchanged glances. Boris said, "No. There isn't really many Russian women in the Fleet for us to choose from."

"Though Ladislav has a sweetheart," noted Viktor, elbowing Ladislav in the ribs. Ladislav grinned proudly.

"Are you kidding? He has three!" said Boris, and they laughed, Ladislav hardest of all.

"There is Yulia and Serafima Alexandrovna," said Milos when they had recovered. Immediately, there was a dissentious grumble.

"That frigid b***h?" said Pavel.

"I would rather stick my d**k in a fishing hole in Siberia," growled Boris, and from the benches Emperial gave a shout of warning, reminding the men that they had forgotten the nature of their audience. It was a little too late: though none of the men were even approaching drunk, they were all too eager to let themselves succumb to the call of their beer. Rusak Petrovich spat, whether at Emperial or Serafima, there was no knowing.

"A man would have better luck with Teqatia Endruis," said Viktor after a moment.

A tiny smile crept onto Pavel's face. "A man has had better luck with Teqatia," he said, and Boris clapped him on the back in congratulations. It was short-lived jubilation, for Pavel returned to the subject of Serafima. "Rabik isn't even a proper member of the Family, or a proper Russian."

"She's more of a, what would you say, hanger-on," agreed Ladislav. "She does not belong in out Community or our Family. I heard she was going to be exiled."

"I heard that as well," said Viktor, and even Nikolai had to nod his head in agreement. Whoever Serafima was, it seemed she was not well-liked.

"Forget Rabik," said Rusak, and ground his boot into the ground where he had spat.

"Now, that Yulia Olgova," began Viktor, shaking his finger and grinning.

Pavel let out a whistle. "She has a body of a goddess!" he said appreciatively, "and the blood of a nationalist."

Boris cupped his hands in the air and clucked his tongue. "Her tits are the size of grapefruit!" He made a lewd grasping motion with his fingers.

"I would do that in a second!" exclaimed Viktor, and snapped his fingers emphatically.

At that, Nikolai had to ker-hem and clear his throat. Not a moment too soon, for Rustam was looking positively greenish. "How did we get on this subject?" Pavel wondered aloud.

Dmitry, who had up until that point been refraining from the conversation in the manner of a gentlemen, said, "Third was asking why we had no support in the bleachers."

There was an uncomfortable silence. "We have Emi," pointed out Viktor, weakly, for she was there on Third's behalf.

"It is a sad fact that at the moment, all of us are unmarried," resolved Pavel. Boris opened his mouth to object but Pavel cut him off. "Your marriage to that prostitute is not legally binding, or even emotionally binding for that matter! Losing your grandmother's wedding ring to a whore does not constitute a marriage."

Boris puffed his cheeks, pouting, but there was no arguing with Pavel's logic given the truth of the matter.

"The bleachers are not always empty," said Pavel Zasloffski, breaking his characteristic silence. "Sometimes my daughter comes to see us." The others were nodding. Dmitry looked strangely thoughtful.

"A wonderful girl, Nadejda," assured Pavel.

"Very sweet," grumbled Rusak. It was amazing how he could turn a compliment into a grumble, but he managed.

Then Viktor sloshed his can and exclaimed, "Remember the time we were visited by Schrodinger!?" A chorus of agreement that left out only Third and Constant. Third was secretly relieved that they were finally not talking about members of the female persuasion. He was quite sure Constant had been on the verge of biting all of them.

"My god that was something!" said Ladislav.

"You know Jonathan?" Pavel suggested to Third, as if he expected a positive answer. When Third answered in the negative Pavel clarified, "Dr. M," and then Third nodded. "Picture him, but a thousand times worse."

"That man has never showered." Ladislav shook his head in pity and distaste.

Rustam offered a protest. "Not true!"

To which Pavel shrugged, "Once every six or eight months," and Rustam had to agree to the accuracy of that.

"But he was a genius," said Pavel Zasloffski, "and he created a play that could win us the championship." Someone proposed a toast, and they all clinked their beers together. They drank deeply.

Ladislav said, "If we can, we should invite him to join us in the game when it comes."

Rustam shook his head. "If only that were possible. I am afraid by the time it comes around, his mind will be on something else entirely."

"But we'll try," insisted Viktor, and despite everything they had said about Serafima and to some extent Yulia, Third was struck by the intense feeling of loyalty the men suddenly seemed to generate. They were willing to do anything for someone who was a member of their family, even someone not well-regarded, even Rusak Talietzin, who raised his can in another toast.

"To Family," he said.

The others echoed it. "To Family!" At least half of them downed the rest of their cans, which signaled the end of hockey practice and everything it entailed. Those who had not finished (Zasloffski, Rustam, and, oddly, Viktor) poured the remainder of the beer out on the ground.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before the breakup. One thing remained to be said. Pavel cleared his throat, but he could not quite bring himself to say it, a little embarrassed by the sentimentality of it.

Dmitry could have said it with his penchant for mind-reading, but it was Rusak who clapped a hand on Third's shoulder. His hand was a little heavier and more forceful than could be construed as friendly, but Rusak Petrovich Talietzin was incapable of being friendly, at least by the usual definition of the word. He was a man who made a career out of cruelty and felt no remorse for any of his actions. Everyone who knew him knew he was despicable and incapable of true compassion.

He was particularly suited to the sentiment, for no one understood the words the way Rusak did. It was something that had taken Rusak a long time to learn. In the process of learning it, he had caused considerable pain to a lot of people, and felt none himself. He knew for a fact he did not deserve what he had been given, and that he took it for granted, and that there were people out there who would kill to receive it and deserved it a lot more than he did. Yet for some reason he had it, and so too did Third.

Rusak's dark eyes seemed to look straight through Third, the sort of piercing glare that eats a person up and spits him out broken into a million tiny pieces. He said to Third, "You belong to this family." Almost inexplicably the words echoed in both Third and Constant's heads directly, until they realized it was Dmitry, making sure it was not interpreted exclusively for Third, since it applied to them both.

There was a somber silence, broken when Third said on behalf of himself and Constant, "Thank you."

"So we'll see you next week?" asked Viktor.

~~~

There remained only one order of business in the leaving, and it was this:

Each man gathered up his skates and his hockey stick and asked about the puck. It turned out the puck had been surreptitiously retrieved by Constant, who had passed it to Emperial, who had handed it to Aelinye, and Aelinye, once she had it, refused to give it up. With heavy resignation, the men gave in and let her keep the puck.

It left only one simple question. What value, if any, did Aelinye place upon the puck, which was neither bright nor shiny, and did not taste particularly good? The little Iridae was not saying, and later when Third thought to wonder about the black disc again, he could not find where she had put it.

They were just at the end of a practice, skating off the ice towards the patchy, dry bank, where they could sit down and start drinking. "So," came the question, inevitable as it was, "why practice? Do you guys ever play any other teams?"

Third had been reading up on hockey, and received a vague explanation of the game from Emperial, which included mention of the Stanley Cup. Good as they were (which wasn't very good at all), Third did not think the makeshift team was a member of the NHL.

The question was greeted by an incredulous, "Why do we practice?" Pavel did incredulity ever so well, as did most anyone who spent long periods of time with Emperials. The girls were forever getting into bits of trouble or doing things that made sense to no one else -- not so much the one in Greyhaven, but Sunset Em was a perfect example of it.

And for pure effect, Pavel repeated it with more emphasis: "Why do we practice?"

Boris grinned and elbowed his captain in the ribs. "Because we are Russian, and hockey is in our blood! Don't start, Viktor!" For Viktor had already been opening his mouth to object.

"We practice to beat the other teams!" cheered Ladislav, skating jauntily on one foot.

Third nearly sighed. "But when do you play them? And who?"

"In a few weeks," said Pavel. "The first game is in January. As for who..." There was a mischievous twinkle in Pavel's eye. "The North Americans!" He raised his hockey stick in challenge.

"The West Europeans!" shouted Boris, and did the same.

"The British Isles!" shouted, with particular rancor, Rusak Petrovich.

"The Aliens!" shouted Ladislav, and Pavel nearly tackled him for it, because the aliens were his particular challenge, but Ladislav made it to the shore first.

Boris took another. "The Spacers!"

"And if they ever get their act together, the team from Asia!" added Viktor.

"Ha!" said Ladislav and Boris, almost in unison. Boris added, "That will be the day."

Pavel was getting so worked up he had trouble sitting down to untie his laces. "And we have excellent reason to want to win! We founded the League first, the other teams are all copycats!"

"Copycats!" cheered everyone who was in the spirit of cheering, and immediately went to break out the beer from the ice box.



At the next practice, Rusak Petrovich wanted to check Constant's paw, just to be certain it was healed enough, and Third waited next to Rustam as he did, commenting, "He seems to know a lot about animals."

Rustam frowned in momentary thought. "Not animals, dogs. His father trained them."

"Oh," said Third.

"I think he prefers the dogs to people," added Rustam, for though he was among the nicer individuals on the team, even he could not resist taking issue with Rusak in some way. So later, after practice, Third made sure he was the first to hit the land with Rusak and had a moment to speak to him alone.

"You like dogs?" he said, looking for the part of Rusak that was redeemable, to prove he was not as bad as everyone said. After all, anyone who was so respectful of Constant couldn't be all that bad.

Rusak grunted and responded, "Dogs are very much unlike people. Dogs know when to shut up and follow orders."

Third opened his mouth, thought the better of it, and let out a little nasal sigh. So maybe Rusak wasn't quite as respectful of Constant and he only saw her as some obedient whelp of a puppy who did as she was told. Third knew that was wrong, all wrong, because to him Constant was many-layered and interesting, and she objected more than anyone else knew.

Constant took a few minutes to think about it, and her conclusion was: <> Third failed to see how that was all right, but if others had already tried to make Rusak respectful of people and failed, Third's attempt would probably end no different. Most humans were firmly set in their ways. In any event, Constant teased him, <> Maybe he was. If there was no respect, there could be no true dialogue.

3.

It was in Boris Ivonin's habit to go off by himself and have a cigarette when they were done with their after-practice beer drinking, occasionally in the company of Ladislav. Today he paused to speak to Emperial, exchanging a laugh, and went off alone. Third and Constant followed him to an open area which had a clear view of the bleachers and the hockey gear. Boris took out his cigarette and lit it, watching as Third and Constant neared him.

"What are you doing?" was their question.

Boris took a long drag, held it in, and exhaled in a cloud of smoke. "Cigarette."

Third looked back towards the bleachers. So far away he could not have thrown a stone within striking distance. "But why do you always come all the way over here?"

Boris blinked, surprised. To most people, it was obvious. Third and Constant were not most people, or even some people. They had no good gauge of what was normal or average in human society. The experience was simply lacking.

"I do it out of love for Emishka," said Ivonin. "She doesn't like cigarettes."

To Third it was not so bad here in the outdoors, but Constant was in total agreement with Emperial's conclusion. Her sensitive nose registered the cigarette as smoky poison and she bared her teeth at it, but Boris was not paying attention and continued his own thought uninterrupted.

"It is a filthy habit," he agreed.

Third watched the tip of the cigarette flare with embers as Boris inhaled again. "Then why do you do it?"

Boris just exhaled noisily, annoyed. He pulled at his face. The stubble on his chin gave plenty of purchase to his fingers. "Because it is a habit. Why do you ask questions?"

"To learn," said Third matter-of-factly, with an exaggerated eye roll and smile that forced a smile onto Boris's face in return. Boris laughed out his nose and two little streams of white smoke emerged.

"You are very funny," he said.

Third shrugged. He said without rancor, "If you say so."

During their conversation, Pavel Antipov wandered over, kicking his way through the low hedges. He stuck out his hand to Boris. "Give me a cigarette," he said, almost asking and almost demanding. Boris stared at the hand a moment and shrugged, pulling the pack from the pocket on his shoulder and slapping it against his hand so a pair of cigarettes popped halfway out. Pavel took the one extended further and turned it over in his fingers.

"Do you want a light?" asked Boris, putting away the pack and eyeing Pavel with suspicion.

"No," said Pavel quite plainly. He let the cigarette hang there between his fingers with practiced ease. Then he brought it up to his lips and chewed on the end.

It was easy to read Boris's displeasure. He had just lost a cigarette for no seeming reason. Since he would have lost it anyway had Pavel opted to light the thing, Boris tried not to let it rankle him too much. Still, it chafed to look at the thing hanging there unappreciated.

With a grumble, Boris tossed his cigarette to the ground and spat on it, then ground it with his boot. Pavel watched with vague disinterest.

"I'm never giving you another cigarette," he said to Pavel, and before stalking off said to Third and Constant, "Don't smoke." He pouted all the way back to the bleachers.

Pavel picked the unlit cigarette from his mouth and stared at it. "It really is a terrible habit, but I do miss it," he remarked.

<> thought Constant, and she meant it as an insult. Pavel remained standing there with the cigarette, motionless, a distant, lonely expression on his face. Third and Constant left him like that.

4.

"You know," said Viktor, hunkering down as if he were telling Third some secret, "you can tell if a woman is a virgin by the whites of her eyes."

Third tried to smile and succeeded thinly. This was one of those perverted conversations he so dreaded, but apparently when you put this many men together and stuck beer cans in their hands, perversity was inevitable. Either that or men usually were, as Emperial commented with a joking wink, "a completely depraved, sex-crazed species." They had been walking back to Greyhaven with Nikolai, who smiled in amusement at the comment and did not disagree.

Yet as Third had observed, a certain contingent of the men assembled took no part in the lasciviency if they could help it, so perhaps it was not all true. Merely true for Boris, Ladislav, and Viktor, who half the time were able to pull Pavel down with them.

At Third's feet, Constant rolled her eyes. <> she said of Viktor, and went to bother Nikolai, who always knew how to get that one spot behind her ears and would share with her the jerky he sometimes kept in his pockets.

For Third, there could be no escape. Viktor's arm was heavy on his shoulder. "If whites are clear, the woman is a virgin. If they are yellowed or reddish, she has been touched by another man."

This ridiculous bit of folklore was punctuated by Ladislav and Pavel, who immediately swept down from behind and grabbed Viktor. Pavel wrapped his arm around Viktor's neck and Ladislav went for his left arm, twisting it and pinning it against Viktor's back. Viktor let out a yell of indignity.

"What's this now?" asked Pavel. "Are you filling Trika's head with your baba's nonsense?"

Third winced in sympathy for Viktor. "It's not really--"

"Pasha," said Ladislav, leaning over Viktor's shoulder. "I think, if we listen to old baba, that Viktor must be a virgin."

Pavel adjusted his grip on Viktor to have a look at his eyes. "Mon dieu, I think you're right, Lado! As white as a baby's a**!" Third wrinkled his nose, thinking momentarily of Aelinye, whose a** was indeed a pearly white color. But Pavel and Ladislav were clearly teasing, for Viktor probably had the darkest sclera of any of the players, all shot through with tiny blood vessels and veins.

Viktor tried to grab at his assailants and succeeded in removing Pavel's hat. He demanded in Russian, "Let me go!"

"Ah ah ah," chided Pavel, "in English, and only after you admit you're a virgin!"

Viktor deflated momentarily but he did not relent. He just sat there groaning and pouting. Third groaned inwardly and rolled his eyes skyward, marvelling that any of these men had survived into adulthood with such ridiculously childish mentalities. He crossed his arms and glared at Ladislav and Pavel.

"Ah, I'm bored," said Ladislav after a minute, pretending he had not been chastised by Third's dark look. They released Viktor. Fuming, Viktor stalked over to the bleachers and sat down on the lowest level. Ladislav wandered off to look for Milos.

Third continued to frown at Pavel until Pavel threw up his arms and went to join Viktor on the bleachers. He slung an arm around Viktor's sulking shoulders.

"Vitya, you know we love you," Pavel said, swaying back and forth. "Anyway, if what you were saying were right, Lado would have to be a virgin, because his eyes have the whitest whites. But we all know he has been a home run hitter since he was eight!"

Then Viktor broke out laughing and Pavel gave Third a look that said, "See? We're friends!" to which Third could only roll his eyes. The line "with friends like these, who needs enemies" came to mind.

5.

Out of all the players on the team, there were some Constant liked better. The most obvious was Rusak Petrovich, because he liked Constant best of anybody, but she had also found a good friend in Nikolai and in Milos and even Boris -- so much so that when he said something particularly lewd one day, she nipped him on the ankle gently. His mouth formed an O of surprise and he was momentarily shocked into silence. The others laughed at it. "Tchrikina!" he exclaimed when the surprise wore off, but did not rebuke her. He was a total chauvinist slimeball, but a goodnatured one, and he only leaned down (he was the tallest of the men) and tugged lightly on her ear in teasing.

How Boris went from being a person worthy of suspicion to a good friend was this:

It happened one day that Pavel collided into Boris (one of the many dangers of trying to lead the team and skate simultaneously) and Boris sprained his ankle and had to be helped to the shore. It was not terribly painful, but Boris looked positively morose as he sat there, waiting, staring longingly at the ice, trying to muster up the energy for cheering. Constant felt sorry and went to sit next to him.

"I see now how miserable it is to be in your position," Boris said to her. His eyes were fixed out on the ice and the movements of the players, his shoulders hunched and his sprained leg stretched out in front of him. They had put a bag of ice over it and Boris was freezing as a result, but he refused to go home. He just sat there, staring and shivering. When Milos scored a point Boris hollered encouragement as loud as he was able, because Milos needed to hear it. Then he fell back into shivering silence.

They sat like that, watching the movements of the players, until Boris let out a dejected sniffle and took off his glasses. "Watching them is tiring," he said in excuse and dabbed at his eyes with the palm of his glove.

You shouldn't sit here and wallow in your own unhappiness, Constant thought, but the thought went nowhere. She did not send it to Third, for she was not about to pull him off the ice to translate what would only amount to a pitiful conversation, nor was she about to summon up another witness to Boris's misery when he clearly did not want an audience. Pitying yourself will only make it worse.

Boris did not replace his glasses, content to let the players become blurry smudges in the distance. Without his glasses, his universe only extended to himself and Constant. Everything outside his vision became dreamlike and insubstantial.

Constant could not tell him to cheer up, so she stood and put her front paws on Boris's arm and licked him on the face. He almost fell over at the unexpected pressure. "Ack!" The weight was gone a moment later and Constant sat down with her tongue out, panting cheerily. Boris blinked and replaced his glasses. Then he smiled and patted her on the head lightly, as if he were afraid of hurting her. Constant laid down at his side and put her head on her paws. At least now he was distracted.

A few minutes later, Boris remarked, "You know, it's rare to see a dog in space."

Constant lifted her head, wondering why that was.

"On our ships, we have cats," he explained, in answer to her unasked question. "There was one I named Siniy, a tom. He followed me when I let him. Used to leave the things he caught in front of my quarters so every time I opened my door I'd find a dead thing, and if he saw me put it in the garbage he would scratch or bite me.

"Whenever he could, he would get into my room and sleep on my bunk. If I tried to move him, he would scratch me. He always sat on my pillow so I had to sleep the other way around." Boris paused a moment in thought. "He was a b*****d."

"One day, he got through the door to engineering and tried to jump away from one of the rotary arms. He fell down the chute. I had to throw out the pillow."

Constant butted her head against Boris's arm.

"Siniy was a good listener, too," he said, petting her. Constant had to agree. Listening was the only way she could participate in a conversation without Third.

Third and Jeremy were so involved in their own conversation they didn't notice the skinny man until he was on top of them - literally. He practically threw himself onto the couch between Third and Jeremy, nearly sitting on Jeremy in the process. Only a very quick scoot to the side saved Jeremy's martini. "Hey!" exclaimed Jeremy, but the skinny man ignored him.

The man crossed his skinny arms and stared with ferocious intensity at the woodgrain of the table. "Your mother," he said to Third, rather loudly, "is fan-bloody-tastic. Do you know that?"

Certain he had never seen this person before in his life, Third studied him carefully. The man had tousled brown hair and unnerving orange eyes. His jacket, shirt, and vest seemed to be exaggerated costume pieces from three separate historical eras, but his pants and shoes were quite modern. He had a funny, scrunchy face with a nose that wrinkled at every emotion.

The strange fellow uncrossed his arms and poked Jeremy with his left hand. "And you are <********>--" he jabbed Jeremy once for each word, and then leaned towards Third: "--pardon my French. Sammich?" He suddenly produced a squashed sandwich wrapped in plastic. When Third didn't answer immediately he started unwrapping the thing. "Quite alright, I like liverwurst best myself." From seeming thin air he produced a can of cherry soda and popped the top.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded Jeremy.

The stranger took his time replying, chewing on his sandwich and washing it down with his soda. "I'm Daub," he said at last.

Confused, Jeremy repeated, "Daub?"

Daub spoke very quickly. "That's short for Double-A, Anthony Andrew, at your service, or is it Anthony Arthur? I can never remember. But if you don't mind, I've got a sandwich to eat." He took another bite and washed it down with more soda.

"I do mind," growled Jeremy. "I was trying to enjoy my martini"

Daub's face scrunched up angrily. "And here I thought you were shtupping your mother."

Jeremy blanched. Third couldn't comment, he had no idea what the word meant.

Daub prattled on at a thousand words a minute, "Oh, don't act surprised, I was in your same position once and I could've done the deed with my mother, and to be frank it did cross my mind as I didn't know she was in fact my mother until well after she was gone, but in the end I didn't. At least, I don't think I did. Doesn't that make me a better man than you?"

"You little rat," scowled Jeremy, putting his martini down and grabbing Daub by the shirt. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about." Third quickly moved towards the far end of the couch, not wanting to get in the middle of this.

"I am a rat," agreed Daub, scrunching his face. "I killed the woman I loved and then told my own mother I would never forgive her for breaking the law to protect me. Incidentally, Third, you had better be good to you mother and never not forgive her, because if you do the same thing I did, you will never, ever forgive yourself for it. But the important thing here is I do know what I'm talking about. Tell me, what's it like ******** mummy dearest? Does she give you a good run? What do you call her when you--"

Jeremy hauled Daub off the couch. The soda can fell onto the floor, spilling, followed by the liverwurst sandwich. A bit of soda sprayed onto Third's jacket. Jeremy balled a hand into a fist. Daub just sneered, inviting the assault. People standing nearby backed up a step.

"Lowdown!"

Jeremy took a deep breath and released Daub, who fell to the floor in a heap. Third peered cautiously at Daub from his position at the other end of the couch. Now that the danger was over, people resumed their conversations again.

"What's going on?" Three men were clustered together, looking at Jeremy in surprise. They were dressed in modern clothes ranging from grungy casual to stuffy.

"Were you going to punch him?" said the smallest of the three.

"Never mind that," said the leader of the trio, a streetwise New Yorker in glasses. "we just got word from Lion. He's got five new bodies coming in from the Missouri case, he needs us back at the lab."

Jeremy nudged Daub with his foot. "These lab rats just saved your miserable hide," he said.

Then Gunn was on the scene, never mind that he was fumbling with his belt buckle and thus not totally presentable. "What's going on here? Third, are you alright?"

"Bill!" said the small one before Third could answer that. "They released the Missouri vics to us--"

Gunn held up his hand and looked at Third.

"I'm fine, thanks!" smiled Third, and resumed looking with concern at Daub, who hadn't moved in at least a minute. Perhaps he was actually hurt.

"You were saying?" said Gunn.

Before they could resume their discussion about the case, the Ems returned, minus n'Barit.

"What happened!?" exclaimed Emperial. "Daub!" She crouched down next to him, leaving Lia to demand the explanations.

"He started it," were the first word's out of Jeremy's mouth.

"Oh, very big of you, Jer," said Lia crossly.

"Don't look at us!" said the last of the three lab rats. "We got here after. It was all Lowdown, man."

"Thanks, Loops," said Jeremy sarcastically.

Daub had merely zoned out, not fallen unconscious, and after Emperial lightly slapped him on the cheek a few times he returned to reality. "Oh, am I not dead?"

"Right, well, we have actual work to do, so if you don't mind?" Jeremy looked at Lia, attempting to get her to read his mind. It sort of worked.

"The Missouri bodies are in," the little one finally managed to tell Gunn.

"Happy Holidays, come and visit Lily and me," said Gunn quickly, waving at Third, but his mind was already forty leagues away from the party, going over the case.

"Nice meeting you," mumbled Jeremy, reaching over Daub and Emperial to retrieve his martini and heading after Gunn.

"Uh, Happy Holidays," said the little one, following suit.

"Yeah, to you and yours," said the New Yorker, sounding pissed as he exited.

Loops spread his arms wide and shouted, walking backwards towards the door. "Thank you all, you've been a great audience!" He spun on his foot and jogged after the others.

"What happened?" asked Emperial, looking at Third.

Third described it as simply as possible. "He sat down and started antagonizing Jeremy."

"Please," said Daub dryly, "let's not relive that whole experience." Emperial and Lia helped him to his feet. He seemed to be in working order. He looked at Emperial and Lia. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I can take two of you right now." He closed his eyes.

"That's alright, I have to go check on something anyway," said Lia. "Sorry about all this, Third."

"It's okay," said Third.

"You're such a sweetie," smiled Lia, leaving with a wink and a wave.

Emperial nudged Daub. "She's gone now. Do you wanna sit down?"

"Yes, I think that would be a good idea." Emperial and Daub rejoined Third on the couch, Emperial in the middle. Daub seemed much calmer now. "Sorry," he said.

"It's all right. No one got hurt, right?" Emperial looked to Third for confirmation.

"If only!" exclaimed Daub, a bit shakily. "I wanted him to hit me!"

Daub's sandwich has fallen at Third's feet and Third reached down to pick it up now. It was soppy with soda, but he held it out to Daub, who smiled thinly. "Liverwurst. Thank you. Just like Spork used to make." He flicked a bit of string off and took a bite. Finally, he said with a full mouth, "It's good." He flashed a smile of sandwich pieces that made Third wish he hadn't eaten. Emperial just smiled back and waited for Daub to swallow. "I think this soda and sandwich thing could really take off."

"Daub," said Emperial.

Daub sighed. "I don't want to talk about it. I know you're going to ask. I just wanted him to hit me." Third wanted to ask why, but kept out of it. Was this Praetorian?

"You could've gone to the bar fight. I'm sure Pasha would've hit you, German or not." Emperial grinned.

Sadly, Daub laughed and threw what remained of his sandwich on Third's plate. His eyes filled with tears. "Um, I..." Emperial and Third waited. Daub sniffled and wiped his eyes. "I got lost. When I saw Jeremy, I -- I remembered his file. So I thought..." Daub took a deep breath and held it. He sat there, holding his breath, for about thirty seconds. When he finally exhaled and resumed breathing, he said, "I can't focus any more. I haven't got Spork. I can't get my destinations."

Third knew exactly what Daub meant because he had been told so many times by so many people during his travels through dimensions: destination is key. Lose your destination, and you lose yourself. Apparently, this was the result, and Third found it immensely pitiable now that he was witnessing it firsthand.

"D'you wanna come 'ome with us?" said Emperial. Daub shook his head.

"No, no. It's fine. Happy Christmas, Emperial." Daub stood.

Emperial grabbed his sleeve. "At least let me get someone to take you home. I don't want you wandering 'round here for days on end. Even if you've got another sandwich in your pocket."

Daub laughed, still a sad sound. "I'll just hit up another Em on my way out." He looked mournfully at his sandwich. "I am dreadfully sorry, Third."

"It's okay," said Third, not sure what else to say. He seemed to be sayign that to a lot of people tonight, as if they all needed constant reassurance that things were, in fact, okay.

"At least come for dinner!" said Emperial.

Daub wasn't interested in that conversation. "Tell me, is it Anthony Arthur or Anthony Andrew?"

"It's Anthony Arthur Andrews," said Emperial firmly.

Daub smiled. "Cor blimey. Spork's sense of humor outlives her." He headed off.

Emperial sighed. What a mess.

"Is he going to be alright?" asked Third.

"That's a very good question. He's either going to pull through this, or be dead in six months. I'm not a Praetorix. I can't help him."

"Why do you have to be a Praetorix? Can't you just help him as a person?" It seemed to Third the most obvious answer imaginable.

"But what would I do?" asked Emperial. "He doesn't need me. He needs to find the right person. That's all everyone needs. Unfortunately, his right person isn't ready to help him yet, because he still has his own problems to work through." Emperial took a deep breath. "We have something called probabilities. At any given moment in time, anything is possible, but only certain things are probable. By taking into account all the variables of events and interactions, you can predict the most probable future. Like, for example, I know with one hundred percent probability that if I were to kick your plate with a certain amount of force, it would go off the edge of the table.

"But probability is all about knowing what will happen. I know that I won't kick your plate off the table, because I don't want to. In order to predict futures, you have to take into account the emotions, histories, and feelings of all the people involved. Which is how I know for a fact I can't help Daub. If I consider the variable of our personalities, I can predict what will happen when we encounter one another, and nothing I can do or say will fix his problem. There isn't even anything Trion or Ken can do or say to fix him. In fact, most of our actions would only make things worse."

"But you can't know that until you try," protected Third. "Not with absolute certainty."

Emperial smiled. "Yes I can. And that's part of what it means to be a Praetorix. You calculate all the possibilities, and then take the exact actions that lead to the future you want to have."

Third thought long and hard before he spoke again. "I don't think I can believe in that. People have free will. I can decide what I do."

"It's the interactions of free wills that decide the future, but you want the things you want for a reason. Your experiences, your emotions, they add up to what you are. If I know all of your experiences and emotions, I know what you will do of your own free will."

Third frowned. "I think that's sad. The universe is more interesting with spontaneity."

Em shrugged. "It can be. But interesting isn't always the important thing. Sometimes, the most important thing is keeping safe the people you care about."



At last, a bloodied group of half a dozen men stumbled into the piano room. The remnants of the Germans and the Russians. Pavel, Nikolai, and Boris were there, but none of the others, and not the German called Bruno.

Immediately, a blonde fellow holding his nose spotted Emperial and started towards her, but she pointed across the room. "Emru's over there, Heinrich!" she called, and he changed his course. So that was Heinrich. Apparently, the Russians had not heeded Emperial's request to leave his face alone. Heinrich's shirt and hands were covered with a lot of blood. Third guessed his nose was broken.

Pavel, Nikolai, and Boris were right behind Heinrich. Of the three Russians, Nikolai looked the best, with a bruise on his cheek and not much else. Boris was worse. An eye already swelling and turning purple, a torn lip, and what appeared to be a broken finger. Pavel was pinching his nose to keep it from bleeding and had a red area covering half his face. There was a smear of blood in the corner of his mouth. Emperial rose, not to greet them, but to ask: "Who did it?"

Pavel and Nikolai exchanged glances. They didn't want to say.

Then Boris stepped up. He grinned bloodily and said, "It was worth it."

Emperial scoffed. "Uh huh. Well, you can go find someone else to tend to you because I'm not doing it. And if you're covering for someone, I'll find out." She glanced at Pavel.

"Aw, come on, Mishka!" pleaded Boris. "Mamushka! Pozhaluysta!" He held his hands out with the palms towards her, mindful of the broken finger.

Emperial sighed. "I don't think I can fix that finger anyway. I think I saw George near the piano, why don't you go check with him?"

"You're not mad at me?" asked Boris, eyes as big as saucers.

"Of course, I'm mad! But..." She exhaled. "I forgive you. Now, Pasha, cate to explain your injuries?"

"He tripped!" said Boris. "Didn't even make it to the fight."

"Oy!" yelled Pasha, and kicked Boris. "I punched out Bruno!"

"No, I punched out Bruno," smiled Nikolai, catlike.

"Don't betray me!" exclaimed Pavel. He was still pinching his nose. "I will so make you both pay for this!"

Emperial snickered, and so did Third. Pavel sounded ridiculous. "Did you really trip, Pasha?"

"IN THE FIGHT!" bellowed Pavel. "During the fight!" But from the way Nikolai and Boris were laughing, it was pointless to deny it. "I will break your other fingers, Borya! Kolya, stop it!"

"You know what I think about men who don't engage in bar fighting, Pasha?" said Emperial. She grabbed him by the collar, pulled him down, and with a clever turn of her head managed to kiss him despite the hand on his nose, though the kiss landed more on his chin than his mouth. "Mistletoe!" she exclaimed a moment later.

"No fairrr!" moaned Boris, going to look for Dr. George.

"Ne, Pasha?" said Emperial.

"Da, Mishka?"

"You're my hero. You can sit down now."

"Spasiba."



The party progressed in good spirit. Pavel regaled with tales of his exploits, Emperial laughed, and the room was happy and filled with smiles. Third spotted Constant running around with a group of children and they exchanged a few brief thoughts, for Constant was too focused on the play to pay attention to the long conversation.

Then Djerod and Max took up a position at the piano and began to run through Christmas songs. Everyone gathered round and joined in, singing loudly, except for Third, who did not know any of the words (though he managed on the choruses). Djerod primarily played the piano to Max's enthusiastic, barely-tuned shouting, but the two had developed a routine for Jingle Bells, Max contributing a three-key flourish at the end of each musical bar. Third found himself standing towards the front of the crowd with Emperial, Constant at his side. Even without knowing all the words they had fun. Constant's yips and yaps in time to the music provided great amusement. Third was able to hear a bit of Sally's singing, but it was not the same.

The energy was at its best and the night seemed like it could not be any more perfect. This was the memory that Third would forever try to associate with the party, and not what followed.



A pair of blonde elves and a young man entered the room around the point when Djerod and Max were running out of songs. As ever, at least three Emperials greeted them, including Third's own, though Third did not immediately catch their names because Djerod and Max were in the middle of a song and there was far too much noise for an introduction.

The tallest, a male elf with golden blonde hair, tanned skin, and a ready grin, was Feodor Arschev. He was strongly built, but with none of the decorum of a soldier. Loud, gregarious, and clearly popular, he seemed not to match his two companions in the slightest. He seemed to have some history with the vampiric elf Hirschel: at first, Hirschel looked at Feodor with his most potent death glare, and a moment later the two were all friendly hugs and smiles with a thin undercurrent of spite.

The other elf was Orriole. Pale in every shade from skin to eye to hair, he was also the shortest and slightest, so thin as to be painful to look at. He had the delicacy of an orchid. There was something distancing about his composure, a certain chill that did not invite friendly greetings.

The human was Masamichi Etoh, and his hair was a strong dark brown and his eyes only a faint shade lighter. It was easy to tell he was skittish from the way his eyes darted behind his thick glasses. He frowned constantly, an expression of mixed distaste and uncertainty. He strayed no more than a single step from Orriole's side. He could have been attached to the smaller elf.

At the end of the current carol, there was some commotion. "Play us a song, Orriole!" someone shouted, and this was immediately echoed by several, most notably (and loudly) Hirschel.

Orriole's response was not audible over the calls, but he raised his hands defensively in protest. Djerod seemed to agree with the crowd, rising and gesturing at Orriole to sit.

"Ori-pa and Kancho are both master pianists," Emperial whispered into Third's ear, and he relayed that to Constant.

Then Hirschel's bellow rose up over the din of encouragement, "No! A competition!"

The response was immediate. "A competition between the two greatest players of all time!" "Play! Play!" "Let's hear them both!"

Djerod raised his hand to quiet the crowd. He looked at the thin elf. "Master Orriole?"

"Please?" said one of the Emperials on Third's left. Orriole looked at her and smiled with a nod.

"And what shall we play?" Djerod asked of the crowd.

Again, Hirschel forced himself to the top of the clamor. "It was my idea, so I should have the choice!"

"Very well, Herr Kirsch," said Orriole, with a surprisingly clear and strong voice. "it is your competition. What say you?"

And Hirschel, with a glitter in his eye and a grin, said exactly what they all knew he would: "Beethoven."

"Yes, Beethoven!" agreed at least two Emperials, including Third's guardian.

Hirschel pushed his way up to the front near the piano, motioning everyone to clear an area for him to speak and to serve as a kind of stage. "The competition will be as follows! Two songs to be played by each pianist, one an individual choice and one to be played by both, back to back. The second pianist shall choose the shared song, and all the selections must be compositions of the great master Ludwig van Beethoven. Let every listener in his own time choose who he feels is best." Hirschel bowed with a flourish and rejoined the audience next to Third, Constant, and Emperial.

Said Djerod, "As my guest, I insist you have the shared song choice, Master Orriole."

"Then you shall play first," agreed Orriole. "The Bagatelle in A Minor: Fur Elise."

Djerod raised an eyebrow. He found the choice strange given the competition, but he accepted, and understood perfectly why Orriole had chosen it. His only counter was to choose the Beethoven piece for which he was personally most renowned. "I shall begin with the first movement of the fourteenth piano sonata, Adagio sostenuto," he said as he reseated himself at the piano. "Please hold all applause."

Third realized that the whole of the room had gone totally quiet, and the rooms beyond as well. All small children were secured by their parents. Even Constant could not hear any sounds besides breathing as far as her hearing stretched, which was a considerable distance.

At the first notes, the piano seemed magnified beyond the usual volume. It might have just been the stark contrast between the notes and the silence, but Third thought and Constant agreed that the music was heard throughout the whole of this impossible huge house, in every room and by every person.

The notes were achingly sweet at Djerod's fingers. He played with his eyes closed, but Third could not bear to blink as he watched the performance. There was something magnificent. Third remembered the string quartet of last year, but this was something infinitely more profound. It was also something so vastly removed from the duet between Trion and Tarquinia, so much so it was hard to believe Djerod and Trion were even playing the same instrument. There was a heavy sadness, and aching, a longing, a desperation, an intimacy unlike anything Third had been ever heard. It was like listening to Djerod's heart being torn open and laid out for all to hear.

Had he been able to look away, Third would have seen the rest of the room similarly affected. It was hauntingly beautiful. There was nothing in the universe outside the music, as if this sound and this moment hung suspended between time and space: otherworldly.

Constant retained enough presence to look around and see the faces, tears in unexpected eyes, yet it was not something wholly sad. Melancholy and sorrowful, yes, but at the same time beautiful and inspiring.

And all too soon it was gone. The notes faded and the audience was caught momentarily adrift, completely lost without the music. It was a sort of death.

Taking advantage of that feeling, Djerod launched forthwith into the second selection, catching everyone off guard. It was a masterful stroke that suddenly reminded the audience to breathe.

As sad as the first piece was, this one was welcoming. The notes flowed over one another like a cascade, comforting and enfolding its listeners in an altogether different sensation. It was warm and rich, even playful. It teased the listeners into a self-awareness they had lost during the first selection. It was even, dare Third and Constant say it, cute. There was a humor in it. Third smiled despite himself.

It was also much shorter, a mere three minutes, and then Djerod rose and Orriole sat down.

From the first note the piece was different. Soft, tender, and sad, in a way Third and Constant had not realized Fur Elise could be after hearing Djerod play it. The same notes, performed with the same degree of technical precision, but not the same song. In Djerod's version, it was friendly and happy, but at Orriole's fingertips it was sweetly painful, as melancholy as Djerod's first selection, but there was more to it. It had a greater breadth of sadness. It edged at times on desperation and at times on contemplation. Other sensations, too, that fleetingly joined and left the listener, like pages of a book turning in the wind.

When Orriole played, he was strangely emotionless. Where Djerod had quietly enjoyed the sound of his own music, Orriole gave no visible reaction, appearing to play with a merely technical precision, but the fact that there was emotion in this music was undeniable. It was strange to witness such disparity between the pianist and the sounds.

It did not have the beauty of Djerod's first piece, but it had more range and depth. It encompassed the audience as Djerod's first selection had, wrapping its listener up and removing all sense of the world outside the music, but perhaps even more thoroughly. Even Constant was fully entranced.

Because it had removed all sense of time, Orriole's version of Fur Elise seemed longer than Djerod's, even as long an the Adagio sustenuto. Later, Third would reflect upon the fact that Orriole had done everything Djerod had and then more -- in half the time: Fur Elise's three minutes to the six minutes of the Adagio. If the competition were to be judged by the Adagio sustenuto and Orriole's Fur Elise alone, Orriole would have won.

But one more piece remained.

Without announcing the title, Orriole played straight through to it, barely pausing from the last note of Fur Elise to the first of his personal selection. Despite the lack of pause, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that this was as entirely new piece. The sheer force of this second piece caught everyone off guard, even Third and Constant.

Third gasped softly in shock and surprise. It was like being hit by a brick wall. The force of the notes was unbelievable, and there were so many notes. Orriole's fingers flew across the whole of the piano in rapid succession, so quickly Third could not follow what was happening.

Without having the piece announced, Third did not know what it was, but most of the adults recognized it. The third movement of the Fourteenth Sonata, Presto agitado. Those who knew Orriole were even more shocked. Several stared with mouths agape. This was the piece, the one, and they could not believe they were hearing it.

It was like watching a different pianist. Third found fear rising as he watched Orriole, all of that previous clinical detachment gone. There was fury on the elf's face, a rage beyond anything Third had ever witnessed. There was no emotional breadth to this thing. It was pure, unadulterated anger. Even on the softer parts it felt like an assault.

Third understood now what drew people to music. There was power here, unlike anything else. These were just notes, just sounds, but they could do anything to the listener. They could pull you out of the world you were in, they could enchant and surprise you, and they could just as easily reduce you to a tiny mote of nothing in the hands of someone who knew how to wield them.

Third took half a step back, pressing against Emperial's leg, and she gripped his shoulder. She was scared, too. Third forced himself to look at the faces of the other audience members. Terror, fear, grim resolve, shock, confusion, and expressions Third had no words to describe. He even found anguish on the face of Orriole's friend Feodor.

But most of all was the expression on Orriole's face. This was no elf playing the piano, but a demon, and Third could not know how pertinent that word was. This was not a piece of music but a battle.

While there were several who might have wanted it to stop, no one dared try interrupt Orriole. At seven minutes, it was the longest selection, despite being the fastest

When it seemed like it might never end, the piece suddenly quieted, almost a musical apology. With a final flourish, it was done. Third and Constant were almost not aware of the ending. It was as if the music suddenly died, but purposefully.

A noise cut through the air. It was not the piano. Masamichi Etoh stood, drawing a bow across a violin. No one had noticed him produce a violin case and ready the instrument during the last minute of Orriole's playing. He broke into something cheerily upbeat and Orriole sat there a moment, not moving, before finally joining a few bars in. Just a quick minute and a half of the piano and the violin, like a small footnote to the performance. It was not a particularly great piece of music, but it did what it was supposed to do. It distracted everyone so that when it was over they could applaud and it gave Orriole a minute and a half to replace his facade.

The applause was somehow broken. There were too many people still stunned, Third among them, but to his surprise Emperial was clapping and cheering enthusiastically, as was Hirschel.

"Mein Gott," remarked Hirschel to Emperial, "I did not think ever in my life to hear it played so. Truly I am amazed."

Emperial nodded with wide eyes. "Fantastic!"

Third and Constant did not agree.

Orriole and Djerod bowed, Orriole pulling Masamichi to join them for his part. The audience finally broke apart and resumed conversing, but things had changed. There was something grim in the air still. That performance could not be easily forgot or erased. It lingered with Third though he tried to forget the Presto agitado and instead remember the two Elises, their parallels and contrasts. All he could hear was the smashing keys of that third movement.

"You getting tired?" Emperial was asking, and Third was surprised to find he was being addressed both by her audibly and by Constant on a mental level.

"Yes," he said. "Let's find Aelinye." He could hear Masamichi Etoh's voice behind him: "But this is a Guarneri!" and then Djerod's: "Yes, and it's yours." Third chanced one last look at Orriole and saw only a small, pale elf, smiling cheerily at his friend's good fortune.

He was happy to leave.



With all the commotion, Third had almost forgotten that one last little hope tucked away in the back of his mind. Emperial had not. She led him and Constant through the rooms (after bidding Pavel a brief good-night) and past milling groups of people. The party was quieting now, people splitting off into quartets and trios of best friends, their voices quieter after the music. The music had changed the vibe in the air. It was not an experience quickly recovered from.

Through an unassuming white door they found one such quartet, and Third let out a little happy shout and ran forward, Constant half a step behind. "Wilbur!"

The Comptroller General was seated at a dining table with benches instead of chairs, more a servants' dining room than the decorated luxury found everywhere else. A small, simple little corner tucked away from it all.

Third did not notice the others in the room at first. He hugged Wilbur in happy greeting and then stepped back so Constant could hop onto the bench and be hugged, too. "Third, Constant!" exclaimed Wilbur. "How wonderful to see you again! It was the Conference last, was it not?" Third nodded. Wilbur gestured across the table. "You'll remember Dr. M, of course, and may I introduce Dr. Akari and Falkard du Fialle."

Dr. Akari was a coldly-composed blonde woman with disinterested eyes. She wore a low-cut satiny pale green dress, revealing a birthmark at the top of her left breast, and a white fur stole hung over her arms. Her painted fingers rested on the rim of an empty wine glass, lazily tracing a circle. She studied Third and just as quickly dismissed him and Constant as beneath her interest. She did not even bother with Emperial.

On one side of her sat a tall, silver-haired man, dressed regally in embroidered dark blue robes. Falkard du Fialle. He had a long face and regal bearing, but a kindness behind it. He smiled at Third and Constant both. "It is a pleasure to meet you buth," Falkard said. His dark eyes seemed to glitter strangely and Third thought if he looked for too long, he might fall into them. He and Constant both sensed something ancient there, hiding just beneath the surface of Falkard's appearance.

On Dr. Akari's other side, between her and Wilbur, sat Dr. M. Third almost didn't recognize him. He had to check quickly with Constant. She assured him that, yes, this was the same smell as the little red-haired doctor.

M was dressed from neck to toe in black. His heavy white glasses were replaced by a pair with black lenses and silver wire, as a blind man might wear. "We meet again!" said the doctor. Neither Third nor Constant liked the sneering smile on his face.

Emperial, on the other hand, seemed quite happy to see him and slipped behind Wilbur to give Dr. M a hug, evil grin and all. She also stretched her hand across the table to Falkard and said a respectful good evening to Dr. Akari, who ignored it.

"Look at you," said Wilbur, "you've gotten so big!" Constant let out a little light grows and Wilbur smiled. "As you have, too, Constant."

"Will you be staying long?" asked Dr. M, hanging onto Emperial's arm.

"Just a few minutes. We're heading home," answered Emperial.

"It's really great to see you again," Third said to Wilbur. "We don't get enough chances. Is Millie here?"

"No, but I will tell her you said hello and happy holidays," said Wilbur. "Tell me, what have you two been doing? Are you enjoying Greyhaven?"

Third thought a moment, giving Constant a chance to offer input. It was a little hard to enjoy Greyhaven. As much as he and Constant liked living there, and they did, it was still a perpetually grey, sunless place. "We like it!" Third said, albeit a bit strained. He was able to be more enthusiastic on the next subject: "I've been playing hockey. With the Russians."

Not the right thing to say around Dr. M, apparently. "Damn Russians," sneered Dr. M. "They think they're better than the rest of us. It's a Russian Conspiracy--"

"Now, now," chided Wilbur.

"Not at the table," sighed Dr. Akari, bored.

Admittedly, Third could understand where Dr. M was coming from in two senses. First, that feeling of betrayal from the Conference Dr. M still held onto. Second, the Russians did tend to do things in their own group and disparage those outside it. But they were still Third's friends, and they were not total elitists, or even uniformly Russian.

Third changed the subject. "You have to meet Aelinye!" he exclaimed. "Our little sister."

"In good time," agreed Wilbur, trying not to sound too smug. He had, in fact, already met her, though the event had not yet occurred and would not occur any time soon. "I'm sure she's delightful, having such a good big brother and big sister." Dr. M grumbled something. Everyone ignored him.

"We're just going to pick her up now, you could come with--"

"No!" yelled Dr. M, immediately jumping up. Wilbur just as immediately caught Dr. M by the sleeve.

"Another time," he told Third, pulling Dr. M back down gently. "But it was very good to see you again, Third, and I look forward to the next time."

Third nodded, a little disappointed. Wilbur smiled apologetically. He seemed to want to say something to Third, but held back, perhaps because of his company. "I will see you again."

With anyone else, that might have been an empty promise, but with Wilbur, it was an absolute certainty.



There was something different about the woman with the dark tresses and golden eyes, different than pale brother and fur sister and story mother. It was not something Aelinye could put into words, because even though she had many words in her mind from listening to others, none seemed to fit. It was something which she defined as innately Herself, but here it was in this other woman.

Aelinye was drawn to it, not with any fatalistic certainty or impulse, but with a need to figure out what it was.

Pale brother, fur sister, and story mother went off, leaving the bag with Aelinye's important things. Food, diapers, a blanket. The dark-haired woman seemed to know what was required to do with those things

It took Aelinye a while to work out the sort of air of melancholy shared between the woman and her male companion. Her presence seemed to make the sad woman happy, and that in turn made the man happy. Well, thought Aelinye to herself, that's all fine and well for you, but I have things I need to figure out here. She wondered a bit on that sadness and then played with the long curly locks of the woman's hair.

There were many potential friends within the room in addition to the sad woman and companion. Aelinye reached her hand towards the multicolored glass stones of a flower vase, to a set of ornamental candlesticks, but none of these were items the strangers would give her, so eventually she grew bored and decided to take a nap in her blanket.



They bade only Pavel goodnight, to Third's relief, for if they had tried to bid goodnight to everyone Emperial knew at the party they would have been there until New Year's. Third was tired, and Constant, too. Not in a sleepy way, but all that music had been exhausting. All those people had been exhausting. Third wanted to flop on his bed and do nothing for a few hours.

He talked silently with Constant all the way out, both agreeing that they thought Djerod to be the winner of the, but keeping the thought to themselves. As they went through the rooms, they could see the party gradually regaining some of its force, but also things dying down.

They found Aelinye napping. She had apparently missed the music, which Third did not mind. She woke when he gathered her up and yawned in his face.

"Thank you for looking after her," Third said to Esonn and Alliann.

"Our pleasure," smiled Alliann.



Orriole commented to Djerod between sips of his mead, "It was a very good try, but in the end musicianship wins over strategy."

Djerod merely shrugged. He had intentionally been trying to bring people out of the music with his Fur Elise, but Orriole had pulled them back. The tactic failed. "I should have done the Third Movement myself, but I prefer Chopin."

"Next time you are doing Beethoven, may I suggest Das Wiedersehn?"

"Gracious in victory," said Djerod in thanks.

"But I do not think I won them all," said Orriole, smiling. "Next time I promise you Chopin." They clinked glasses.



"You see," said Emiliu, "this is why we should never have holiday parties. I remember now why we stopped."

"We stopped because Charles Aberdeen went missing," was Empell's immediate answer.

"It had nothing to do with dire constructs," said another.

"Still," Empyresa jumped in, eager to make a point. "When we do concerts everything is so much more predictable."

There was a chorus of smiles, and Empir remarked in a conspiratorial tone, "Have you seen what we've got planned for next year?"

Third was back on the ice not four days later, laughing and skating, and it was easy to pretend his fever had not happened. The truth was it had left some lingering marks.

Aelinye was happy to see him after three days of being kept apart, but somewhat upset. He had up and left her without warning or explanation. Not that she could have understood the explanation with her grasp of vocabulary, but still. He might have tried. Third patiently worked to earn her forgiveness in the matter. He made her most favorite porridge and found a very pretty polished crystal in a box in the house which he gave to Aelinye. By the time hockey practice was scheduled, she had come around, and things were settling back to the way they had been

Third was happy to find Nadejda at practice. She and Trion had helped take care of Aelinye while Third was sick, and Third was finally able to properly thank her. Though Nadejda could not respond vocally, the look in her eyes said "you're welcome" in a manner anyone could understand. Third left Aelinye on the bleacher with Nadejda and Emperial and hit the ice.

It felt good to be moving again, skating across the pond and sending up little flurries of frozen flakes. Third threw himself fully into the game and blocked out everything else. He even managed to get a move off on Dmitry, to everyone's delight and surprise. The puck went flying off onto the shore. He called and waved at Constant, both to show what he had accomplished and ask her to get the puck.

<> she responded. Third stood in confusion a moment. Constant had not been particularly playful these past few days, but she said she didn't want to overexert Third so soon after he was sick, and that she wanted to give him some extra time with Aelinye to make up for whot he missed. This was the first she mentioned being tired.

"What's wrong?" asked Pavel, and Third realized he had been standing there too long.

"Constant's tired," said Third. "I'll go get it." He skated off towards the shore, all the while keeping up a mental dialogue. <>

<> She promptly shut him out.

Third frowned, wondering what exactly Constant had done that made her so tired, but he had practice to finish. He scooped up the puck from the reeds and hit it back towards his teammates, but his eyes were locked on Constant, sitting under the bleachers with her head on folded paws.

He heard a shout and hastily skated back out. "I'm coming!"

But he kept looking back at Constant on the shore, frustrating Pavel. Finally, Pavel told him angrily, "If you can't keep your mind on the ice, then get off the ice!" Third recoiled in surprise and shame.

"Hey," snapped Boris, glaring at Pavel. "Get off his back. He was just sick!"

Everyone knew when there was an argument coming, so Ladislav quickly suggested, "Why don't we just take a five-minute break? I could use some water." Viktor and Dmitry hastily backed him up.

Pavel fumed. "Don't blame me when we lose the first game because you lot wiped out during practice!"

"Pasha," said Nikolai emphatically. "It's just five minutes for water."

"We'll stay five minutes longer," said Pavel Zasloffski, and the others chorused agreement.

"Ten," seethed Pavel. "And you have three." He whacked the puck off towards the far shore and went after it.

Nikolai sighed as they started back towards the cooler and the bleachers. He skated up next to Third. "Don't mind Pasha, he's just stressed out because of the game coming up."

"Well, he doesn't have to take it out on us!" exclaimed Viktor.

"What he needs is to get laid," said Boris.

"Are you volunteering?" Dmitry remarked, laughing, and the tension was eased. The men fell back to their usual camaraderie and joking.

Third was not so easily comforted. He immediately set about pulling off his skates once at the shore.

"Oy, Third--" said Boris, worried.

"I just want to check on Constant," Third said.

"Is something wrong with Tchrikina?" asked Viktor.

"I just want to bring her some water," answered Third, pulling off the second of his skates, pretending it was the truth. He did not like it when Constant cut herself off from him, and he liked it even less when she was tired without reason. He grabbed a bottled water from the cooler and headed for the bleachers. He could have walked over there with his skates on, but Pavel would berate him for ruining the blades by walking on rocks, and Third did not want to aggravate Pavel's already foul mood.

Emperial waved and greeted him. "Constant wanted some water," he lied to her, holding up the bottle a proof.

"That was a great hit against Dmitry earlier," said Emperial.

"Thanks," answered Third robotically, crouching down at Constant's side. <>

Constant sighed both mentally and physically. <> She pulled herself out from under the bleachers, scraping a tuft of fur off in the process.

<> thought Third, reaching over to check the spot.

<

The spot was perfectly bald, as if the fur had simply fallen out. There was no scrape or torn patch. Third dropped the water bottle and ran his fingers over the spot. A clump of fur came off in his fingers.

Third yelled and dropped the loose fur. Emperial immediately handed Aelinye to Nadejda and jumped down from the bleachers. "What's wrong?!" Several of Third's teammates, hearing him yell, also started towards him, not bothering to take off their skates: Boris, Dmitry, Ladislav, and Nikolai. Viktor started to pull off his skates first.

Third did not know how to answer Emperial's question, He looked between her and Constant, almost afraid to mention the bald spot. Constant tried to turn her head to see, but it was squarely on her back and not a spot she could get to without contorting. She whimpered.

By this time, Boris and the others arrived, again asking Third what was wrong, but still Third could not quite answer. Emperial reached over to check the spot herself and another piece of fur came off. Third gave a yell and knocked Emperial away. "Don't touch!"

Constant, too, was scared. She tried to summon up her energy wings and could not. She began to panic, and Third, too. He didn't know what to do-- reach out to Constant or keep away lest he make it worse.

Rusak roughly elbowed his way through the crowd to Third's side. He firmly took hold of Constant, even though a bit more fur rubbed off, and started to examine her.

"What's wrong with her?" Third asked for them both, feeling tears run down his cheek.

"Be quiet," snapped Rusak firmly, and it actually did some good. Third sniffled and tried to control his fear. Constant lay still for Rusak as he checked her gums, her paws, and her eyes, pulling her skin back with his thumb.

By this point, Pavel Antipov had gotten wind of the fact there was trouble and joined the rest of them clustered around Third and Constant. His earlier ire was forgotten. "Is someone hurt?"

With a grunt, Rusak hefted Constant into his arms, cradling her to his chest. He totally ignored any and all questions, except to Pavel he said, "Go back and practice your game," with such animosity it shamed Pavel into silence. Then Rusak pushed through the little crowd and headed for the exit.

"Take care of Aelinye!" Third said to Emperial, scrambling after Rusak. Emperial did not object.

The way in and out of the pond was an unremarkable patch of ground. You simply walked onto it and the area around suddenly became misty. A few steps later you were in Greyhaven. At least, that was how it worked the dozens of other times Third and Constant had traveled to and from the pond. This time, instead of growing misty, the area around seem to shimmer as if distorted by heat, and there were other places visible though it. Third remembered the danger and stuck close to Rusak, almost tripping over Rusak's legs. Rusak growled in response.

Third was in his socks still, but Rusak had changed into his boots. Had he somehow expected this situation, or had he been planning on leaving during the break? It would not be the first time Rusak stormed out of practice early because Pavel had annoyed him. Third thought that the times Rusak left early were the times he was close to physical violence, so the fact Rusak was wearing shoes concerned him.

Then the world around Third darkened. They were suddenly in a dimly-lit corridor with only a line of yellowed emergency lights to show the path. At least three quarters of the lights were out.

Third tried to follow Rusak in the dark, but he stumbled on a crate of something. A strong hand reached down and grabbed Third, pulling him to his feet, and then Third was being dragged, stumbling to try and keep up. He could hear a door slide open and then Rusak dropped him on the floor. Third felt blood on his lip. He lay there, not daring to get up in the darkness, feeling the cold of metal flooring under his hands. He could still sense Constant nearby, and hear her upset in his head. They were not even using words any more, communicating purely on an emotional level. Third was surprised to find Constant was now calmer than he was. Then again, she was not the one being dragged through the dark.

Rusak smacked a wall panel and a row of green and white lights flickered to life near the ceiling. They provided just enough light to identify shapes of furniture in the room. "Where are we?" asked Third, picking himself up.

"I live here," said Rusak, not precisely answering. Third looked at the large curved windows. Was this a space ship? Were they in space?

Rusak did not wait for Third to reach and conclusions, heading out through another door. Third scrambled after him and entered a section lit by an eerie shade of blue. There was metal grating under Third's feet. It hurt his feet. A door slid open to reveal the first fully-lit room so far, white and silver. Third followed inside and realized it was some kind of medical facility. The room was cylindrical with white coffin-shaped padded slabs pointing towards the center. Panels and screens lined the walls. Medical equipment hung from the ceiling. There was a small desk area near the door.

Rusak put Constant on the padded slab nearest the desk. Little tufts of shedding fur settled around her. There was a good deal of fur rubbed off onto Rusak's coat, but he ignored it. Third felt another pang of fear. He looked at Rusak, wanting to speak or ask something, but Rusak was ignoring him. Third climbed onto one of the slabs on the other side of the room so he would be out of Rusak's way.

Rusak seemed to know what he was doing at the desk, keying something into the computer. A piece of machinery on the ceiling jerked, startling Third and Constant both. Rusak stood and pulled the machine into place above Constant. It seemed to be some kind of scanner. Readouts began to appear of the monitors nearest Constant's pallet.

Rusak did not speak to either Third or Constant. Apparently, since his patient could not answer him directly, Rusak was not going to ask her anything directly, and he did not invite Third to take part in what he was doing. Third and Constant did not even speak mentally, as if Rusak might overhear even that and demand their silence.

It went on like this. Rusak scanned and prodded Constant, she and Third sat quietly awaiting some farm of diagnosis or news. Third's heart felt like it might leap out of his chest and he had to lay down on the white padding and try to breathe slowly and not think about anything.

Yet he could not shake the nagging doubt. He had been sick just a few days ago, and under the idea that a daemon could not catch whatever germs had laid him ill, he had let Constant sleep beside him. Now, she was sick, and he had to wonder if it was because of him.

<> came Constant.

<> he replied.

It was almost an hour before Rusak was done and picked Constant up from the table to carry her out. Had Constant not given a quick shout to alert Third, he might have been left behind in the medical room. He hurried after Rusak.

They went back through the blue-lit hallway to the dark room with the green lighting. Rusak keyed open a door and flipped on a small lamp just inside.

It was a cabin, a mere ten feet long, with just enough room to stand. A bunk was set into the wall. The lamp sat on a little shelf jutting out near the head of the bunk. Rusak deposited Constant on the cot and began to take off his coat. Third watched, waiting, and finally had to ask.

"Is Constant going to be okay?" His voice seemed small, dwarfed even by this tiny room.

"I don't know," said Rusak. Third was aghast. All that and no real answer?

"But--"

Rusak silenced Third with a glare and hung his coat next to the door. He pressed his palm against some kind of communications panel. "Admiral Atriepie."

Emperial's voice came through. "You don't have to call me that. What is it, captain?"

"You can pick up your whelp and his dog now." Rusak released the comm switch and leaned against the wall with crossed arms, staring at the wall panels above the bed.

Third felt compelled to say or do something. How could this man be so totally understanding and insulting at the same time? Constant quieted him, calling Third to her side instead.

It was uniquely disturbing to see Constant in such a state, fur rubbed off in so many places, and Third had to bite back new tears. What was wrong with his daemon? He ran his fingers across the bald spots delicately, but there was no pain. Just bare skin. He climbed up onto the bunk next to Constant and curled around her.

Rusak reached up above the bed and did something to the wall. A panel slid open. He pulled out a book, closed the panel again, and reached over to the little shelf, withdrawing a pair of spectacles. Third paid it no attention, but Constant watched. The spine of the book read something in Russian. Third's Russian was far better than hers, but she could make out the letters. She nudged Third mentally. He resisted a moment, not wanting to fulfill her request, but then relented. "What's that?"

It was strange seeing Rusak in glasses. It made him look like he actually belonged in a group with the other Russians. "A book," said Rusak, not that Third had expected anything more.

Third squinted at the letters. "Burya," he read.

"Be quiet," said Rusak, turning a page. Third frowned and read the name of the author silently. Lev Petrovich Talietzin. He knew Petrovich was also Rusak's patronymic, meaning the book was the work of a brother, or perhaps some family member buried back in history.

<> advised Constant.

Third nestled his fare against the back of her head. <> he pointed out.

<>

They waited like that until Emperial arrived, wandering in calling, "Petrovich?"

"Here," answered Rusak, marking his place in the book and placing it on the shelf. He started to remove his glasses, but not before Emperial caught a glimpse.

"You should wear them more often," she commented. Rusak snorted at the idea. He folded the glasses on top of the book and reached for his coat.

Third sat up and looked at Emperial forlornly. She smiled and brushed his tangled hair from his face. "It'll be okay," she said, taking him by the arm.

"Doesn't know--" Third managed, but Emperial shushed him. She had brought Third's shoes and helped him get them on. He was too old for that sort of thing, but it was good to be reminded that this was his mother who cared for and protected him.

Constant started to get up on wobbly legs, but Rusak had his coat on then, and picked her up once more. "After you," he said to Emperial. Emperial led Third by the arm back towards the bridge between dimensions.

<> thought Constant when Third wanted to walk by her side. He did not agree, but this was Constant's life, and he abided by her choice. Emperial went straight through the shimmering veil of dimensions and a moment later the fog of Greyhaven surrounded them. It was a short walk home after that.

They met Nadejda in the kitchen, where she was feeding Aelinye. She followed them up the stairs into their bedroom and put Aelinye in her crib. Rusak just stared.

It felt like an intrusion to Third to have this man he disliked standing in the middle of his room. "Put her on the bed," he said in a low voice, realizing Rusak was looking for a dog bed. As if! The idea made Third angry.

Then Rusak was gone out the door, and only Third could hear Constant's parting words: <> He repeated them instead to Nadejda: "Spasiba."

"Call if you need anything," said Emperial, bowing as she exited with Nadejda. Third nodded and waited until the door was closed. He checked on Aelinye. Then he crawled on the bed and cried his eyes out.