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EIGHT

Cirocco left the table and climbed the main staircase of the big house, up to the third floor, which seldom saw use. Up here was a room Chris had set aside for her long ago. She did not know the impulse that had made him designate it “Cirocco’s Room.” He had been doing strange things at that time, like building the copper-clad shrine to Robin.
The room had bare wood floors and white walls and one window with a black shade which could be drawn. The only furnishing was a simple iron bed, painted white. The mattress was fat, bulging, stuffed with feathers. It was always made up neatly with bleached white sheets and one pillow, and it was so high she could see the springs beneath the mattress, and the floor under that. The only spot of color in the room was the brass doorknob.
It was a room where nothing could hide, or be hidden. It was a wonderful place to sit and think. With the shade drawn there were no distractions.
The light coming through the window reminded her of early morning. She remembered all-night sessions at college, returning to her room in light like this. There was the same pleasant weariness, the same ferment of ideas tossed back and forth, ideas still running around in her head.
It was not morning, of course. It was timeless afternoon.
Ciocco was used to that.
She missed little things. Sometimes she longed to see the stars again. Falling stars, making a wish.
She sat on the edge of the bed. What do you wish for, Cirocco? There’s no falling star, but make a wish anyway, who’s keeping track?
Well, someone to share this with would be nice.
She felt ungrateful as soon as she thought it. She had friends, the best in the world. She had always been lucky with friends. So the burden was shared.
But there was a special sharing she had missed. Many times she thought it might be possible, this might be the man. What is this thing called love? Maybe she didn’t know. She had lived long enough that she had run out of fingers to count the almost-loves. The first one, when she was fourteen. The guy in college  . . .  what was his name?
Thinking back, she wondered if that was her last chance. As a Captain and a candidate for command, there hadn’t been room for that. Plenty of lovers, in the physical sense, but falling in love would have endangered her plans. As a Wizard  . . .  something was always in the way.
She’d even been willing to stretch a point. When Mr. Right didn’t show up, why not Ms. Right? She had been so close with Gaby. It might have worked. And all the dear Titanides. Twice she had borne children, once in the Titanide way, with another as the hindmother. Once in the human way, nurturing him in her own body. She had not thought of him in a long time. He went back to Earth, and he never wrote. Now he was dead.
All right, Cirocco, so much for that wish. That three wishes business doesn’t work on stars—which you didn’t even see anyway—but we‘ll stretch a point and give you two for the price of one.
She realized that just having a lover would help.
It would be so easy to do.
She wiped a tear from her cheek. Five Titanides down there. Any one of them would gladly be her lover—in the frontal mode, too, which they did not do lightly. But it had been decades since she had made love to a Titanide. It wasn’t fair. All she had to do was put herself in their place and ask a simple question. Could they say no?
Conal . . .  .
She went to her knees on the floor and sat there. Her face was wet with tears now.
Conal was and always had been hers for the asking. And she could never, never take him to bed. She had only to think of what she had done to him and she felt sick. No man should have his dignity stripped from him like that. To become his lover after such a thing was a grotesquerie she could not imagine.
Robin  . . .  was so sweet Cirocco could hardly believe it. What a cast-iron, short-fused, piss and vinegar bitch she had been twenty years ago! Any sane person would have said she should have been drowned at birth. That’s probably why Cirocco had liked her so much. But with Robin there had never been that spark of attraction, not even as much as there had been with Gaby. Which was just as well. Robin was going to have enough trouble with Conal without an aging Wizard getting in her hair.
She put her hands on the cool, shiny, smooth boards of the floor and lowered herself until her cheek touched it. Her vision was blurred. She sniffed, and rubbed her nose, and wiped her eyes, and looked dully along the floor to the crack of light under the door. There was not a speck of dust to be seen. There was the smell of wood polish, sharp and lemony. She relaxed, and then her shoulders started to shake.
Nova  . . . 
Oh, god, she didn’t want to be Nova’s lover. She wanted to be Nova. Be eighteen years old, fresh and nubile and innocent and in love. In love with a tired old hag. It was bound to end in misery. But what a  . . .  sweet misery it seemed to be young and having one’s heart broken for the first time.
She was sobbing aloud now, not making a lot of noise, but unable to stop.
She thought of Nova slicing through the blue water, seal-sleek, of the big, awkward girl swinging at the end of her chute cords and then soaring like an angel without wings. She saw Nova devouring the Titanide feast, bright-eyed and laughing, and thought of her alone in her room, mixing the potion that was to bring her love. Cirocco gave herself over to her tears. She lay prone on the cool floor and wept for what had been and what was and what would be.
One tiny part of her mind said that she had better get it done with now.
There would be scant opportunity later.
 
Conal had been talking to Robin for what seemed like hours.
The talk had drifted away from Cirocco’s plan—which still seemed slightly unreal to him—and into other things. Talking to her seemed easy, lately.
He noticed she seemed to be getting sleepy, and realized he was, too. Nova still slept curled up in her big chair. But all the Titanides were gone. He hadn’t seen them leave. Now, Titanides could certainly move quietly, but that was ridiculous. Five of them, and he hadn’t seen them leave?
He saw Robin was smiling at him.
“Where have our minds been?” she said, and yawned. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m for bed.”
“Me, too. See you later.”
He sat for a time after Robin had left, amid the ruins of the meal. Then he got up and headed for the stairs.
Virginal was standing like a statue in the center of the next room. Her ears were pointing up and forward, and she looked at a spot on the ceiling with an awful intensity. Conal was about to say something, but Virginal noticed him, gave him a brief smile, and went outside. He shrugged, and went up the stairs to the second floor.
And there were Valiha and Hornpipe, just as still. Their ears were up, too. They looked like they were in pain.
Neither of them noticed him until he was walking by, then they just glanced at him with no word of greeting and began to move slowly toward the stairs he had just climbed.
He couldn’t figure it out.
He shrugged, and went into his room. He thought about it, and opened the door, stuck his head out. The two of them were back in their listening posture. Rocky was on the stairs, also listening, also looking up.
Conal studied the ceiling that seemed so interesting to the Titanides. He could see nothing at all.
Were they listening to something, up there on the third floor? All those rooms were empty. He heard nothing. Then Rocky started to sing, softly. Pretty soon Hornpipe and Valiha joined in, then Serpent came up quietly to join Virginal. It was a whispered song, and made no more sense to Conal than any of their songs did.
He yawned, and closed the door.

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EIGHT

Cirocco left the table and climbed the main staircase of the big house, up to the third floor, which seldom saw use. Up here was a room Chris had set aside for her long ago. She did not know the impulse that had made him designate it “Cirocco’s Room.” He had been doing strange things at that time, like building the copper-clad shrine to Robin.
The room had bare wood floors and white walls and one window with a black shade which could be drawn. The only furnishing was a simple iron bed, painted white. The mattress was fat, bulging, stuffed with feathers. It was always made up neatly with bleached white sheets and one pillow, and it was so high she could see the springs beneath the mattress, and the floor under that. The only spot of color in the room was the brass doorknob.
It was a room where nothing could hide, or be hidden. It was a wonderful place to sit and think. With the shade drawn there were no distractions.
The light coming through the window reminded her of early morning. She remembered all-night sessions at college, returning to her room in light like this. There was the same pleasant weariness, the same ferment of ideas tossed back and forth, ideas still running around in her head.
It was not morning, of course. It was timeless afternoon.
Ciocco was used to that.
She missed little things. Sometimes she longed to see the stars again. Falling stars, making a wish.
She sat on the edge of the bed. What do you wish for, Cirocco? There’s no falling star, but make a wish anyway, who’s keeping track?
Well, someone to share this with would be nice.
She felt ungrateful as soon as she thought it. She had friends, the best in the world. She had always been lucky with friends. So the burden was shared.
But there was a special sharing she had missed. Many times she thought it might be possible, this might be the man. What is this thing called love? Maybe she didn’t know. She had lived long enough that she had run out of fingers to count the almost-loves. The first one, when she was fourteen. The guy in college  . . .  what was his name?
Thinking back, she wondered if that was her last chance. As a Captain and a candidate for command, there hadn’t been room for that. Plenty of lovers, in the physical sense, but falling in love would have endangered her plans. As a Wizard  . . .  something was always in the way.
She’d even been willing to stretch a point. When Mr. Right didn’t show up, why not Ms. Right? She had been so close with Gaby. It might have worked. And all the dear Titanides. Twice she had borne children, once in the Titanide way, with another as the hindmother. Once in the human way, nurturing him in her own body. She had not thought of him in a long time. He went back to Earth, and he never wrote. Now he was dead.
All right, Cirocco, so much for that wish. That three wishes business doesn’t work on stars—which you didn’t even see anyway—but we‘ll stretch a point and give you two for the price of one.
She realized that just having a lover would help.
It would be so easy to do.
She wiped a tear from her cheek. Five Titanides down there. Any one of them would gladly be her lover—in the frontal mode, too, which they did not do lightly. But it had been decades since she had made love to a Titanide. It wasn’t fair. All she had to do was put herself in their place and ask a simple question. Could they say no?
Conal . . .  .
She went to her knees on the floor and sat there. Her face was wet with tears now.
Conal was and always had been hers for the asking. And she could never, never take him to bed. She had only to think of what she had done to him and she felt sick. No man should have his dignity stripped from him like that. To become his lover after such a thing was a grotesquerie she could not imagine.
Robin  . . .  was so sweet Cirocco could hardly believe it. What a cast-iron, short-fused, piss and vinegar bitch she had been twenty years ago! Any sane person would have said she should have been drowned at birth. That’s probably why Cirocco had liked her so much. But with Robin there had never been that spark of attraction, not even as much as there had been with Gaby. Which was just as well. Robin was going to have enough trouble with Conal without an aging Wizard getting in her hair.
She put her hands on the cool, shiny, smooth boards of the floor and lowered herself until her cheek touched it. Her vision was blurred. She sniffed, and rubbed her nose, and wiped her eyes, and looked dully along the floor to the crack of light under the door. There was not a speck of dust to be seen. There was the smell of wood polish, sharp and lemony. She relaxed, and then her shoulders started to shake.
Nova  . . . 
Oh, god, she didn’t want to be Nova’s lover. She wanted to be Nova. Be eighteen years old, fresh and nubile and innocent and in love. In love with a tired old hag. It was bound to end in misery. But what a  . . .  sweet misery it seemed to be young and having one’s heart broken for the first time.
She was sobbing aloud now, not making a lot of noise, but unable to stop.
She thought of Nova slicing through the blue water, seal-sleek, of the big, awkward girl swinging at the end of her chute cords and then soaring like an angel without wings. She saw Nova devouring the Titanide feast, bright-eyed and laughing, and thought of her alone in her room, mixing the potion that was to bring her love. Cirocco gave herself over to her tears. She lay prone on the cool floor and wept for what had been and what was and what would be.
One tiny part of her mind said that she had better get it done with now.
There would be scant opportunity later.
 
Conal had been talking to Robin for what seemed like hours.
The talk had drifted away from Cirocco’s plan—which still seemed slightly unreal to him—and into other things. Talking to her seemed easy, lately.
He noticed she seemed to be getting sleepy, and realized he was, too. Nova still slept curled up in her big chair. But all the Titanides were gone. He hadn’t seen them leave. Now, Titanides could certainly move quietly, but that was ridiculous. Five of them, and he hadn’t seen them leave?
He saw Robin was smiling at him.
“Where have our minds been?” she said, and yawned. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m for bed.”
“Me, too. See you later.”
He sat for a time after Robin had left, amid the ruins of the meal. Then he got up and headed for the stairs.
Virginal was standing like a statue in the center of the next room. Her ears were pointing up and forward, and she looked at a spot on the ceiling with an awful intensity. Conal was about to say something, but Virginal noticed him, gave him a brief smile, and went outside. He shrugged, and went up the stairs to the second floor.
And there were Valiha and Hornpipe, just as still. Their ears were up, too. They looked like they were in pain.
Neither of them noticed him until he was walking by, then they just glanced at him with no word of greeting and began to move slowly toward the stairs he had just climbed.
He couldn’t figure it out.
He shrugged, and went into his room. He thought about it, and opened the door, stuck his head out. The two of them were back in their listening posture. Rocky was on the stairs, also listening, also looking up.
Conal studied the ceiling that seemed so interesting to the Titanides. He could see nothing at all.
Were they listening to something, up there on the third floor? All those rooms were empty. He heard nothing. Then Rocky started to sing, softly. Pretty soon Hornpipe and Valiha joined in, then Serpent came up quietly to join Virginal. It was a whispered song, and made no more sense to Conal than any of their songs did.
He yawned, and closed the door.

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