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SIX

Cirocco felt tired after her swim in the fountain. It hadn’t always been that way. When she was younger, it had left her so full of energy it was almost painful. She had not needed to eat for two or three days. Chris said it was still that way for him. He was only forty-nine. It would probably be like that for Robin, too. But for the last fifty years or so, Cirocco needed to lie down for a few hours after a rejuvenation.
She did not do it at the fountain. It was the principle of the water hole. There were enemies who could come into Dione. They might come to the fountain, knowing Cirocco had to visit it once every three kilorevs.
So she went to a secluded lake she knew, about five miles from Tuxedo Junction. There was a beach of black sand, fine as powder, and warm from sub-Gaean heat.
She stretched, rested her head on her pack, and dozed.
 
Nova saw them when they reached the bridge. For a moment she didn’t know who it was walking with the big hairy man, but there really could be little doubt. Robin wore only shorts, and the tattoos that made her body unique were visible. The snakes seemed almost alive. Robin glowed with vivid colors Nova knew only from photographs of her mother as a young woman. If anything, the colors were even brighter now. Patches of gold seemed to glitter, and reds and violets and greens and yellows shimmered like precious jewels. She looked like a little brown Halloween egg.
Brown?
Nova looked again. Sure enough, Robin had managed to get a sun tan. It was a neat trick in this buttermilk sunlight. Even neater to do it in just two hours and not burn in the process.
She kept watching the other end of the bridge, but Cirocco did not appear. She sighed, and went down the stairs to meet them.
It was shocking to see the change up close. Robin had shed five years. Nova had begun to realize that Cirocco was a very powerful witch indeed, but this was almost beyond belief. It irked her in some way she wasn’t proud of to see how fresh and happy her mother looked. She just didn’t have the right to be that happy when Nova was so miserable.
A meal was served, and still Cirocco didn’t show.
Robin and Chris went off together somewhere. Nova watched them go, then hurried up to her room. In a short time she came out again, and went to the kitchen. Serpent was alone in there, mixing something that smelled like cookie batter in a big bowl. He glanced at her, then looked back to his work.
She wandered over to the tremendous spice rack on the wall. Hundreds of blown-glass bottles contained leaves and powders and crystals and some items Nova thought best left unnamed. Many were of Gaean ancestry. The problem was she knew there were many Earth spices in there, but they were all labeled in Titanide script, engraved on the glass. By lifting the stoppers and sniffing a few likely candidates she managed to locate aristolochia root, then after more trial and error something that smelled like powdered extract of cubeb. It was the right color, and it tasted right. But after that she was symied.
“Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
She jumped in surprise—which was no small matter in the low gravity. She had been trying so hard to ignore the Titanide’s existence that she had forgotten he was there.
“I doubt it,” she said. For some reason, she was embarrassed when these outlandish animalls talked. They pretended to be human, and did such a poor job of it.
“You could try,” Serpent suggested.
“I was wondering if  . . .  if you had any cardamom.”
“Great or small?”
“What?”
“We use two varieties: the Greater—”
“Yes, yes, I know. The small.”
“Do you want the dried rind or the crushed seed?”
“The seed, the seed!” Nova regretted being drawn into the conversation in the first place. But Serpent handed her a jar, and she tapped a portion onto a slip of paper and twisted it shut. Then he helped her find the cinnamon. She could see he wondered what she might be cooking, and that whatever it might be, he didn’t approve.
“Anything else?”
“Uh  . . .  would you have any benjamin?”
Serpent pursed his lips primly.
“You’d have to look in the medicine cabinet for that.” It was clear his opinion of her recipe had dropped even lower. “It will be labeled in English, as ‘benzoin’ “ He paused, seemed about to ask a question, but Cirocco had warned him to tread on eggs when dealing with this human. “If it matters,” he went on, “there won’t be any potassium cyanide left in the solution, but there might be some alcohol.”
Nova was going to say she meant the gum resin, not the crystal, but decided against it. She hurried away and upstairs to the infirmary, which she had already located and raided for other ingredients.
Back in her room, she shut the door, pulled the drapes, lit a candle, and stripped off her clothes. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she tapped out portions of her new acquisitions into the small metal dish she was using as a crucible, added some water, and stirred it with her finger. She used a pin to draw blood from her thumb, and dripped it into the aromatic mess as it began to bubble from the heat of the candle. When it was going well, she plucked three pubic hairs, singed them in the candle flame, and added them to the crucible.
A dollop of vodka nicked from the cabinet in the living room soon had the mixture sizzling with a blue flame. She continued to cook it until she had a few ounces of grayish powder. She sniffed it, and made a face. Well, she wouldn’t use much. She fretted for a moment about the benjamin, and the fact that the recipe called for mushroom liqueur instead of vodka. But this was supposed to be sympathetic magic, not literal sorcery, so it ought to do.
She began plucking more hairs. She plucked until she was sore, and then wound them together and tied them up into a tiny, golden brush. Pulling on her shirt and pants, she peered out the door. When she was sure she was unobserved she hurried down the hall to Cirocco’s room.
Inside, she used the brush to dab tiny spots of powder onto the bedposts and under the pillow. Under the bed she drew a five-sided figure and left a pubic hair in the middle. Then she retreated to the door, leaving an infinitesimal dab every three feet.
Down the hall she went, dabbing her brush in the pan and leaving little dots of powder in a trail to her doorway.
When she closed her door she had to lean against it for a moment. Her heart was pounding and her cheeks were hot. She tore off her clothes and jumped into bed. She used the brush to make a mark between her breasts, then thrust it down between her legs, muttering an invocation. Then she set the pan on the floor near the wall, where Robin would not see it. She pulled the bedclothes up to her neck and took a deep, shuddering breath.
Be still, heart. Your beloved will come.
Then she leaped out of bed and flung herself at the huge, wondrous vanity table with the wavy mirror. She dug into her cosmetics, heedless of the fact that some of them might be irreplaceable. She made up her face with infinite care, applied her best perfume, and jumped back into bed.
What if the perfume covered up the scent of the potion? What if Cirocco didn’t care for lipstick? She wore none herself. She didn’t wear any cosmetics, and was the most beautiful woman Nova had ever seen.
Sobbing, she flew down the hall to the bathroom. She scrubbed it all off, then was sick in the toilet. She cleaned it up, brushed her teeth, and hurried back to bed.
This must be love; what else could hurt so much?
She wept, she moaned, she thrashed the sheets to ribbons, and still Cirocco did not come.
Eventually, she cried herself to sleep.

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SIX

Cirocco felt tired after her swim in the fountain. It hadn’t always been that way. When she was younger, it had left her so full of energy it was almost painful. She had not needed to eat for two or three days. Chris said it was still that way for him. He was only forty-nine. It would probably be like that for Robin, too. But for the last fifty years or so, Cirocco needed to lie down for a few hours after a rejuvenation.
She did not do it at the fountain. It was the principle of the water hole. There were enemies who could come into Dione. They might come to the fountain, knowing Cirocco had to visit it once every three kilorevs.
So she went to a secluded lake she knew, about five miles from Tuxedo Junction. There was a beach of black sand, fine as powder, and warm from sub-Gaean heat.
She stretched, rested her head on her pack, and dozed.
 
Nova saw them when they reached the bridge. For a moment she didn’t know who it was walking with the big hairy man, but there really could be little doubt. Robin wore only shorts, and the tattoos that made her body unique were visible. The snakes seemed almost alive. Robin glowed with vivid colors Nova knew only from photographs of her mother as a young woman. If anything, the colors were even brighter now. Patches of gold seemed to glitter, and reds and violets and greens and yellows shimmered like precious jewels. She looked like a little brown Halloween egg.
Brown?
Nova looked again. Sure enough, Robin had managed to get a sun tan. It was a neat trick in this buttermilk sunlight. Even neater to do it in just two hours and not burn in the process.
She kept watching the other end of the bridge, but Cirocco did not appear. She sighed, and went down the stairs to meet them.
It was shocking to see the change up close. Robin had shed five years. Nova had begun to realize that Cirocco was a very powerful witch indeed, but this was almost beyond belief. It irked her in some way she wasn’t proud of to see how fresh and happy her mother looked. She just didn’t have the right to be that happy when Nova was so miserable.
A meal was served, and still Cirocco didn’t show.
Robin and Chris went off together somewhere. Nova watched them go, then hurried up to her room. In a short time she came out again, and went to the kitchen. Serpent was alone in there, mixing something that smelled like cookie batter in a big bowl. He glanced at her, then looked back to his work.
She wandered over to the tremendous spice rack on the wall. Hundreds of blown-glass bottles contained leaves and powders and crystals and some items Nova thought best left unnamed. Many were of Gaean ancestry. The problem was she knew there were many Earth spices in there, but they were all labeled in Titanide script, engraved on the glass. By lifting the stoppers and sniffing a few likely candidates she managed to locate aristolochia root, then after more trial and error something that smelled like powdered extract of cubeb. It was the right color, and it tasted right. But after that she was symied.
“Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
She jumped in surprise—which was no small matter in the low gravity. She had been trying so hard to ignore the Titanide’s existence that she had forgotten he was there.
“I doubt it,” she said. For some reason, she was embarrassed when these outlandish animalls talked. They pretended to be human, and did such a poor job of it.
“You could try,” Serpent suggested.
“I was wondering if  . . .  if you had any cardamom.”
“Great or small?”
“What?”
“We use two varieties: the Greater—”
“Yes, yes, I know. The small.”
“Do you want the dried rind or the crushed seed?”
“The seed, the seed!” Nova regretted being drawn into the conversation in the first place. But Serpent handed her a jar, and she tapped a portion onto a slip of paper and twisted it shut. Then he helped her find the cinnamon. She could see he wondered what she might be cooking, and that whatever it might be, he didn’t approve.
“Anything else?”
“Uh  . . .  would you have any benjamin?”
Serpent pursed his lips primly.
“You’d have to look in the medicine cabinet for that.” It was clear his opinion of her recipe had dropped even lower. “It will be labeled in English, as ‘benzoin’ “ He paused, seemed about to ask a question, but Cirocco had warned him to tread on eggs when dealing with this human. “If it matters,” he went on, “there won’t be any potassium cyanide left in the solution, but there might be some alcohol.”
Nova was going to say she meant the gum resin, not the crystal, but decided against it. She hurried away and upstairs to the infirmary, which she had already located and raided for other ingredients.
Back in her room, she shut the door, pulled the drapes, lit a candle, and stripped off her clothes. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she tapped out portions of her new acquisitions into the small metal dish she was using as a crucible, added some water, and stirred it with her finger. She used a pin to draw blood from her thumb, and dripped it into the aromatic mess as it began to bubble from the heat of the candle. When it was going well, she plucked three pubic hairs, singed them in the candle flame, and added them to the crucible.
A dollop of vodka nicked from the cabinet in the living room soon had the mixture sizzling with a blue flame. She continued to cook it until she had a few ounces of grayish powder. She sniffed it, and made a face. Well, she wouldn’t use much. She fretted for a moment about the benjamin, and the fact that the recipe called for mushroom liqueur instead of vodka. But this was supposed to be sympathetic magic, not literal sorcery, so it ought to do.
She began plucking more hairs. She plucked until she was sore, and then wound them together and tied them up into a tiny, golden brush. Pulling on her shirt and pants, she peered out the door. When she was sure she was unobserved she hurried down the hall to Cirocco’s room.
Inside, she used the brush to dab tiny spots of powder onto the bedposts and under the pillow. Under the bed she drew a five-sided figure and left a pubic hair in the middle. Then she retreated to the door, leaving an infinitesimal dab every three feet.
Down the hall she went, dabbing her brush in the pan and leaving little dots of powder in a trail to her doorway.
When she closed her door she had to lean against it for a moment. Her heart was pounding and her cheeks were hot. She tore off her clothes and jumped into bed. She used the brush to make a mark between her breasts, then thrust it down between her legs, muttering an invocation. Then she set the pan on the floor near the wall, where Robin would not see it. She pulled the bedclothes up to her neck and took a deep, shuddering breath.
Be still, heart. Your beloved will come.
Then she leaped out of bed and flung herself at the huge, wondrous vanity table with the wavy mirror. She dug into her cosmetics, heedless of the fact that some of them might be irreplaceable. She made up her face with infinite care, applied her best perfume, and jumped back into bed.
What if the perfume covered up the scent of the potion? What if Cirocco didn’t care for lipstick? She wore none herself. She didn’t wear any cosmetics, and was the most beautiful woman Nova had ever seen.
Sobbing, she flew down the hall to the bathroom. She scrubbed it all off, then was sick in the toilet. She cleaned it up, brushed her teeth, and hurried back to bed.
This must be love; what else could hurt so much?
She wept, she moaned, she thrashed the sheets to ribbons, and still Cirocco did not come.
Eventually, she cried herself to sleep.

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