It has been a hell of a three-day night. Three dog night? Whatever it was. Gwilym stirs, body as close to entirely limp as it is possible.

     "When do you get started? Right after Yule? Father Christmas Strikes Back?" Davydd cackles at that and reaches for his whisky. That was so good, he has to drink to it.

     She can get into the talk of art. It helps her to distract herself from how you look, sleepy or otherwise. Distract herself from her own imagination, the urges it inspires in her. The things she wants to do, such as plopping herself down in your lap, sleepy as you are. She is trying very hard not to think about that.

     A hand comes up, tugs lightly at your hair, and she sighs, going quiet. Love is a son of a bitch. Remind me, if I ever run into that fat diapered freak that's Cupid, to kick him in the balls...

     She's suddenly shy, taking the paper back and setting it aside. "I have a lot of faith. I mean, it's not religious faith; I don't know how you'd explain it. It's not religion, though. I just, I do believe there's something more to the universe than atoms..."

     She bends her head to peer blankly at the papers, golden hair falling in a veil before her eyes. "Thank you," she says quietly. "I'll ... see you in the morning, then."

     "Each day, he and his husband will have lunch. A private lunch. We will eat and make love before heading back to our respective businesses. So let it be written, so let it be done. So says the king."

     "No matter the temptation," Gwilym murmurs, "I do not want to hurt you, Prospero. Or us. I try to funnel my temptations into what you will not be harmed by, even if exasperation might occasionally make your eyebrows lift at me."

     "Ian and I leave tomorrow night. Would you care to join us for a drink tonight? We like to drink brandy while our servants pack for us. It makes us feel useful."

     ...But I will be your escape when you need it. That's what Black Jacks do best...

     "But," he exhales, a smirk trailing after his breath. "I cannot sit here while he is possibly bleeding somewhere, can I? So I will stay in the royal palace and demand special treatment from mother. It won't be a completely wasted endeavor."

...Rest assured that I have not forgotten you...

     His hand cups your face. "The best antidotes for ghosts is illumination," Agapios murmurs, his fingers stroking your cheek. "They cannot abide the clear light of examination. And so... we will vanquish her. I am confident of this."

     Where you touch, her hand upon your arm, there is a gentle connection, and an instantaneous soothing, spiritual balm. Zafirah wanders with you, content to walk in silence for a few moments.

     "My mind is... somewhat spinning," he'll admit that to you, if to no one else, "... from all she has told me. I feel like Mohammed or the Buddha, only without the foresight of taking notes."

     "I was kneeling in front of Io, realizing that this man, this king, was not but a handful of years ago by London's clock sitting in a wagon with my pilot cap on being pulled around by corgies. Now the corgies are dead, he and his brother are grown men..."

     "Would I be happier in knowledge or ignorance? Let's ask Adam, shall we? I believe that is the quintessential question of the universe, my brother. For now, give me the illusion of ignorance. If you are still seeing him in a year, then... come confess, my door will be open for you as always."

     "In these heels? The bull'd catch up with me and then where'd I be?" Fiona angles her face up to kiss you emphatically, a hand going up to your cheek.

     It is rightly thought that this is the last winter of my youth. The last season that can pass lazily by as uncomplicated as a child.

     Putting the hearth's poker back in its stand, Iowerth turns to you. "It is an outer cold," he assures. "Winter is a season for contemplation."

     It is a leap of faith; a gamble. But it is a calculated risk, based half on intellect and things-remembered and things-not-quite-said and not-quite-heard, and the other half on the desperation that a pair of eyes, a pair of hands outside these two plus two might make sense of something which he, Tiernan of Winter Diamond, Prince, aka Terry Winter, Esquire, has to admit to himself he no longer knows how to solve.

     "I told you I was moody." There; there is a faint quirk of a smile, and he sighs, turning and sliding his arms around your waist. "I am overreacting. I don't know why. Just ... it hurt."

     "...Duw... you look...I don't know that I've ever seen you this way," Iowerth remarks suddenly. "You are in your own power. You are radiating strength and confidence."

     "The last time, I ended up tied to the bed with my own necktie, you six months pregnant and ... wait a minute," he chuckles, "...that was a fan-fucking-tastic night. Alright, you drive a hard bargain. I'll sleep with you...but I want to be respected in the morning..."

     But what's he to do? Force his way in? Reveal the forbidden relationship out of jealousy? That is not his way. You wanted to be with your General, he understands that. And your General wants you -- he can very much sympathize.

     Iowerth's eyebrows quirk up a little at the casual mention of his mother's nipples at the dinner table, but such is the conversation of new parents. "I'm starting to feel a little faint," he drolls. "Is this what I'm in for then?"

     It's in the heart of London; the irony appealed to him, inasmuch as anything has been appealing to him of late. Where does the man who's lost his heart go but to the city whose heart is stone cold uncaring?

     "I was angry. I swam out to sea. I became ...the dragon I am and opened my mouth for a great roar. I swallowed the pirates whole and coughed up treasure for about four hours. My throat is still sore. But.... it is what it is."

     He hangs his head with a moment of exhaled resignation, then sits back. "Not the birds and the bees speech, I hope," he murmurs and he smiles a little. No, he knows what is coming. For weeks, he's been preparing himself.

     "No no, Gwi, you're working too hard," Iowerth drolls low and wry, "...you should slow down, brawd, before you pull something."

     Without you, I do not think I could have survived. Hells; I know it. I would have been on this plane, not that, when she died, and it would have taken me with her.

     So goes the dictation on a busy, busy night. At the borders of the corrupted kingdom lies a great and untamed wilderness. No kingdoms or queendoms hold sway here, but the loose confederation of subjugated villages, villages that now suddenly find themselves free of their dark burden.

     Maybe that is what this is. He realizes it suddenly, even as he gives the sea back to the sea, salt tears finally falling as you kiss him. One gives oneself to the sea, and there is no turning from that. Everything else is worn away by the sea; the ocean will have its due.

     "Your mother has commanded a battle tonight," he begins, no time for endearments or blandishments now. Ramanthus outspreads his arms, his legs also as he stands. "We are raiding the corrupted kingdom of Winter Diamonds. In a matter of hours."

     Sitting in the chair, Iowerth lingers in his unsilent quiet, his weary brain pulsing with conversations and consequences.

     My head is swimming. I have navigated the worst seas imaginable and have kept my head while doing it. Only to lose my head on land.

     "Iowerth should be married in a year," dark green eyes find their way to you past the steam. "No more than two. If he wishes to carry on with his homosexual relationship beyond that, it'll be his wife's burden to bear..."

     The metallic steel crash of strings rattles through the amplifier in the flat above Black Jack Davy's. It's an hour past noon and Iowerth and his ... companion ... are out for the day. Gwilym Gwyn Garu is taking advantage of the opportunity to break the silence in a noisy fucker sort of way.

     "The realtor told me the previous occupant was ...quite artistic. He said the whole ship's painted rather fantastical, with blinking Christmas lights strung up year round." His mouth cuts a wry slant. "I'm not sure about that."

     He crosses to one of the other tables, sitting on the edge of it, letting his legs swing. "I'm scouting for an apartment over one of the little clubs. Music in the evening, cheap vodka, easy women - all the things mother'd warn me against. I don't plan on avoiding you, Io, I just ... I don't know. I have - things to figure out."

     You are leaving me...

     "My father was a canon, so I'm a son of a gun." Justyn receives a wicked smile, and Ramses lets his feet drop as he leans forward. "Solidly middle class and I ran with crowds above my station in life. I killed my father with disappointment by being so dissipated as to become a poet. Or maybe I'm lying through my teeth. You'll never know, and what does it matter? I'm who I am now."

     I'm lost, and I don't know how to find myself again...

     "An angel's feather falling, I have such, from the Plains of Chaos, the Outer Rim of The Great Marches." She makes a motion to the other woman. "It will be very dear indeed," she smiles beautifully, "... the most expensive item in the entire City, I should think. Second only to a night with me."

     If this is the seduction, if this is the information you wish, my spy... you will have it. More than you need.

     You will be the prince's favorite...the first courtier of his fledgling court... a prince of your own standing... it's our way to freedom, Tiernan. The hold of his arms tighten around your waist.

     Drink ... I need a drink. My head aches, and my mouth is dry - a hangover of the soul. I am restless. I hope someone attacks me tonight; I could use a good fight.

     And a week into this three-week trip, you have seen such sides of him, facets you may not have known existed. His humor, unbound. His love, unrestrained. His tenderness of heart, freed. You had been tied, bound in a thousand different, orgiastic ways -- but the one who was really restrained was Rhodri himself.

     "Brother," he drawls, "I do love you dearly, much as it pains me to say it, but what pains me more is how everyone keeps insisting you're the smarter of the two of us. The obvious escapes you."

     "We will have to conspire against her for your freedom or your joy, I'm afraid. And will likely need assistance doing it. Either you betray her with subterfuge or direct defection. But either way, Tiernan, to love me is to turn away from her. There's no avoiding that..."

     I love the rebel in you. I should kiss you now, my rebel queen. But before Lord Arundel can think that Davydd is forgoing his dinner to eat his daughter with his eyes (if nothing else), Davydd looks to Fiona's father and takes a bit of the salmon and asparagus. "That is one of the many reasons we love your daughter. It's never a dull day with Fiona Arundel. Another scotch?" he offers.

     The electric flamenco stops and Rhodri unjacks, slides the guitar around the back and comes over. "No one pays attention to the ramblings of the lead singer," the lilt and drag of the un-English displays itself. Not Irish. Not Scottish. Something Other.

     "...All of this, it was built for you. For us. And we will invest in these things that make sense in a new age. For us. For me. So...that is what we are celebrating, oui? The start of a new day. The culmination of all my work, here and now. And the start of ... something new."

     A sudden grin flashes at Edward's lips though his eyes remain closed. "Ami...don't worry," Edward says again. It's an exercise in futility for you, his smile says, but for him, it is the exercise that keeps him on the Brujah path.

     In an inherited ap Owain motion, Rhodri saves the beer from the sudden motion of you on his lap, his one arm cradling you as his other spreads out to hold the Guinness at a safe distance. He chuckles, "Well, I guess it was a bit foolish to think he'd be right back."

     Davydd lowers his head, red hair vibrant against your ivory skin as he bends down, kisses travling southward. "It doesn't matter where," he breathes between your breasts. You feel a sudden unhooking as his fingers make the fabric give way. "Here is good," he chuckles.

     It's been a long time since there was a king. Not a king of mere kingdom - someone who could merge with the land, and more than the land. Someone with the power to command souls. Too long, mayhap. I don't know that we're still what we were, when we were, then.

     It is the kingdoms of fairy and dreams dotting the Imaginary Landscape, with the dark oceans of future dreams dotted with heavenly stars and creatures. There, the plains of chaos, roiling midnight blue clouds of Unknown Possibilities -- both Good and Evil -- both unformed and waiting for God... or the dreams of Man... to shape them.

     "I fought my demons literally. My selfishness, my fear, the nine-headed beast of Chaos. I even burned in the sun once. Unpleasant, but you know... I needed it. I needed to just be... reborn. So... I was. Again... and again...and again...sacrificing myself over and over, only to rise again the next evening and assess my state." Dark eyes lift to you. "It was my bridge, I guess."

     "...I broke a friendship of lifetimes because I thought someone else was going to do some... thing. When... yeah, yeah... I'm a regular Dorothy. I had the power all along."

     And you are in a low time now, yes? So how could I ever think to leave you for something as trivial as swordplay and politics...

     She sighs, going silent, tipping her head back to look up at the sky. "I once told you," Fiona says finally, "that there would be a war coming. You didn't believe me, then. But there will always be wars, Davy. Right now, your war is with yourself. I can't win that war for you..."

     "Both of your children are healthy. And growing." Both. Two. "As befits a queen with two husbands, you are having two children. Two boys. An heir, my lady, for each king. Because you cannot choose between them, your heart a matter of loving two equally, now you do not have to choose."

     "Mind my delicate skin," William drawls, preparing to step out after you. "I bruise easily."

     "Oh my god," Hwyll finally says, "... that means we have less than nine months to plan a fairy wedding. I think I'm going to faint.

     "You smell of adventure," Alire continues quietly. He closes his eyes and he sighs, making a sound of delight as he does. "Coffee... limonata...sunlight...you passed by a garden... I will say in the old quarter of Cannaregio. Hmm... and a branch of lilac brushed your shirt...I can smell it from here..."

     "As for why it's you..." The smile begins to wander and the emerald eyes begin to glint. "Because you are unique... you are yourself... you weren't trying to impress anyone. Mostly, when I saw you, you wanted to be left the hell alone. You have a certain... fox-like quality... that I recognize in myself.

     "Behold, the coming of the answering of Dreams! That which is sought will be found; that for which you labour will be fulfilled! But every man and woman turn their eyes to the wayward West, and you will find Truth!"

     "...Tonight...for the Holly King... it was a night of sacrifice. Giving up the present," his dark green eyes settle on you, and he is sad. "... for the promises of the future."

     From the moment I brought him into the material realm, my hands guiding him from the safety of his mother's womb to a wild world, I have loved him. He is my best work, my best mark upon the earth, the best thing I have ever made or accomplished.

     "But our future is out there," Edward's head rolls to the sky again, "...somewhere. Sometime." It's not here yet. He doesn't know what it is, but it does not lie with London.

     "...I have unfinished business with Rosamund. And... I am going to see her to close the book on it. I want you to hear that from me, not her. I won't be fucking her."

     "...Ron? Don't tell me - you didn't." Hermione Granger has put two plus two together and come up with eighteen. Exasperated, the wand is lowered the rest of the way. "Honestly! Did you really think that those stores wouldn't protect themselves legally one way or another?"

     "Living arrangements?" they both say at once, Rhodri looking intrigued and Davydd looking confused. "Don't we have enough houses? I'm going to be broke at this rate..." Such grousing. You'd think you asked him for his wallet or for alimony...

     You speak. He writes. "I do not think it is so simple. Your gifts are your gifts. Your skills, your skills. You should not compare yourself to Nathaniel," the way he speaks that name. An obvious attempt at being civil, but he does not hide the partial frown.

     "I would ...respect her enmity and her power, but I would not as of yet worry about it. We will arm as any kingdom should, and prepare as any kingdom should."

     The kettle starts whistling again as he sets it on the burner, a wolf call of sorts, one that matches his suddenly sparkling look. He ignores it, patently, and moves to you. Just shy of your embrace, Rhodri pauses and he makes a courtly bow, 17th century for yours in return.

     "Now... it feels right and complete." His hand strokes the side of your face. "We love you. You love us. We need not keep this," the love in triplicate, "...for special occasions. We are married. It is as simple as that."

     I still love you. Fiona brings things round to what she suspects might be the best thing to say first, to get it out of the way. We're still getting married. And I don't think Davydd is going to try to kill you.

     You seem to have something to say and he's waiting to hear it, the sound of the other shoe dropping. "I don't want you to wait a hundred years in solitude," Davydd shakes his head slightly, tapping away the ash again.

     "Oh, and one other thing," Fiona adds, leaning back so that she can see your face, read all the expressions written there, see your eyes and the worlds that lie behind them. "Yes..."

     "Fear searches, it is searching, it has searched and will continue until it finds the one who is trying to leave the Darkness behind. They have a ...traitor... and they are combing the lands invisible for any and all who may be hiding or helping him. It is taking our power and our concentration...our kingdoms on the fringes..."

     His fingers lace against his metaled stomach. "I am hearing in the air the subtle sounds of a Proposition..." The smile alights on his face. "You thought of me... I am flattered. How may I be of assistance to you?"

     There's a smirk for your callousness and a roll of his eyes. "Don't hold your breath counting on it, dearie. I'm as like to steal what I want as to wait for it..." And he likely means that. And has likely done just that in his day.

     From crescent to quarter to full, the moon will show its variable face, donning one mask after the other. So, too, myself, but in terms opposite.

     He looks at you as though he were peering over a professor's glasses, then smiles. "It appeals to the Scientist in me, however poor or mechanical, to be able to help you by sorting things out into groups, categorizing and being able to help you find a way that works for you, yes? Some better understanding..."

     You know, it isn't you, amours. I do not need to impress you. I am not trying to impress you. It is worse even than this. I want a ghost to be proud of me. And it is something I shall never feel. A validation I am doomed never to receive.

     "Well," he exhales, pausing to remove the jacket after a moment later, losing nothing by the shedding of a layer. "I think it is a meaningless challenge."

     Glass is complex. Lines and mathematic, chaos and error abound even in the most beautiful creations from Murano and Limoges. But they are the most perfect, the most beautiful creations to the trained and untrained eye.

     The more peaceful on the exterior, the more tumultuous the internal. The more hectic, war-crazy the exterior, the more peaceful he is within. That is your man there...in all his paradox...

      Only one horse? What do you suppose such young men do out in the woods needing only one horse? And with an extravagant amount of hounds. Clearly, they are sleeping together.

     "...What other arms should I want to be in, but Edward Meurelle's? Where is there a better man for Valan Montague... where is there... a better man..." Period.

It's not What you thought When you first began it

     "I have a job for you. I need you to drop whatever it is you are doing for this. It is something that must happen immediately... if it is to succeed..."

      "We embrace him," William murmurs. "We solve a multitude of wrongs, of problems, we halt a multitude of suffering. For everyone..."

     Davydd pauses in the public sitting room downstairs. A glance in reveals no one. Frown yet in place, he heads to the sofa and table, looking for something to write on perhaps. He checks his pants pockets for anything handy, finding only a tenner.

     He smiles, but you don't have to miss it. It presses at you, making itself known beneath the surface of your skin, felt in the five senses as the picture of it comes into view behind your eyes. I'm looking a little Oxford Professorish tonight...

     The woods shivered with a large wind (me) and we stood upon fertile ground of a different ... View of Wales, Cymru. The red-towered castle still there, still symbolic, flowers and green grass everywhere. And there he was, the Oak King himself, bending to kiss the slip of a girl....

     She's shifted gears on him. It takes him a long moment to catch up. Plans? What plans? I seem to have forgotten everything but this pen. Brilliant he may be, attentive, however, is something else.

     Yes yes. This is all very nice, my dear, sweet Victoria. But it doesn't help me one whit. You see, I need something to do. I can't kill people. Toying with you is now libel to get me into more trouble than I really want, just now-- don't worry, we'll come back to that at some point.

     "When I saw him, he promised me pay in exchange for trumpeting the end of his Exile. The Oak King's exile is at an end, Your Majesty, Your Highness; three years in Cymru, and at the end, he has emerged."

     "We will figure it out, and piece these things together with logic. There has to be an order, a pattern. You and I will find it, Giancarlo."

     He remembers the look on her face when her little summoning of a demon actually worked, so many centuries ago. And again when she was first sent to kill her first man. Good times -- good times.

     "I merely wanted to make sure you were well after that ordeal in the Garden." It was rather... well messy. Lowe nods to the older woman as he takes Wendy's order for tea and adds, "A teacup for me as well with a little brandy in the bottom please." See at least he's not drinking a lot.

Ceylon Vanilla
...for the Love of His Excellency, 1661

     Mentioning Valdemort is rather like screaming Macbeth! in a theater. Some names are curses of their own.

     One fingertip taps on the table absently, the lone drummer of a vanished army. "If Il Dignitaro will permit, I will examine - however, some materials for initial examination will be required."

"They love all night and with the dawn,
the lady wakes and her Davy is gone
What a fool she's been to have tagged along
And be known as the Black Jack's Lady..."

     "I don't think I gave you permission to be in my country," comes the rush of amused Welsh, the low and long vowels, the tripping of a lilting consonant, the trill of 'Rs', "... on national Welsh TV no less, high and mighty we are, speaking the language of the Blessed on the Island of the Mighty..."

     "Very well, then I consider our pact sealed." But he sighs slightly, "You know, you really take all the fun out of having a soul bond sometimes. You know that?"

     "That's not what has you upset, dear Victoria. That's not it at all. What has you upset is that that decision is so far out of your hands, you can't even imagine what it would take to make it come about." Mick watches her evenly.

     It's an echo that quivers, but an echo - caught in the stones, as it were, as if a shell being lifted to one's ear, miles and miles from the shore.

     Girault looks between the two of you for a moment and then he exhales, "I will apologize for my tone. I do not wish it to seem that I am some Svengali, keeping Ms. Whitethorne in a gilded cage, not allowing her the freedom to move, or to visit friends..."

     "I was glad you could make it though. I wasn't sure if you'd want to or not." Again, honesty. What's gotten into Rose some might ask. Or, it could be that she's also at least a little curious to see if Davydd warned you off after the coffee encounter.

     There is the delicate rise of vanilla in the air, with a hint behind it of something more exotic, Eastern. Ceylon Vanilla, it is called, and distilled by the hands of only one woman in Europe, Constanz deWitt.

     He lifts a hand, he puts it gently to your face and he kisses you once, briefly. "I love you. Find me." And with the trailing touch, his hand falling away, Pharzuph turns to go. Follow me, he pleads. Even as his eyes plead such a case before, he pleas again. Follow me.

     A crystallization of Valan Montague. Part truth, part fiction, part pure myth. But it happens to everyone, doesn't it. Everyone for whom the clock no longer ticks. Outside of that most human of states, time-bound civilization and reality, We become Something Else.

     Your spouse wanders on the parapets tonight, blue and scented smoke trailing his slow stride. It is a way of connecting, disconnecting and imprinting. It is a lord's walk, a prince's walk on the walls, walking among the tower. Below the lights of the ville twinkle and the lights on the Vienne and the bridge that crosses over it.

     Aloud, again, she recites a cellphone number, and she sits seiza, closing her eyes. Emotion rushes forth to fill a void, and then, Fiona Arundel, known to some as Drancy of no other name, watches candles burn out to blackness.

     "You talk too much," Ian whispers and smiles softly. A slight pull of his lips. He sighs then, expecting some response will come.

     And all this is saved and stored in his vast memory. Saved for later, and then sent Below when called for. Alexander is exceptionally loyal, for a demon of Secrets. Which isn't actually saying much.

     Alexander finds himself a chore which will give him good vantage of the room. Sweeping it is, again. Easy work, and work that others don't really like to do. But it lets him roam, and listen, and watch.

     "What th--" he starts, leaping from his seat to grab the duffle bag. "What the fuck?" he finally gets out, shaking the bag to and fro until the file comes out. The bag's tossed aside, and Edward stands, flipping through the folder.

     Kit smiles and he nods, raising his glass. "And to the faith of good friends..."

     "I just thought I would pay you a visit... Many are concerned about your Patron." Another drag form his cigarette before adding, "Andrealphus." As if he needed that explained to him.

     Yisun stands and smiles, her hand coming out. "Yisun Inkhe," she says, natural and native Mongolian accent on Mongolian syllables and then: "Pleasure to meet you," English accent having a war with something almost ...American.

     "Here is her name," Soldekai flashes, pages opening, a book from the Library. An image of eyes scrolling. Arundel. Fiona. London.

     I plan for the inevitable... hoping to subvert it. No different from Prince Theseus...

     Annabelle Deschamps' arrival in town always makes for an interesting time, and always causes ripples.

     "Goddammit," Edward says, sitting up from the bench near the Sforza fountain by his room. "Does this place ever shut up?" He glances at his watch, then shoots a look over where the end of prayer is being sung, far across buildings and walls.

     Her dark hair pulled back, slicked back in a bun, she wears a white shirt silken and loose over black leather trousers, high black boots cover her calves and up to her knees. And a prized black bull, one of your beauties no less, is bowed before her. Standing, she faces him, he faces her. Her silk cape is lowered, her right hand extended. There are no swords, no whips. They are not needed.

     The way I have been. The stress. The...whatever it is... that makes us fight from time to time. My uncertainty. "Also... I will say... I wish I could go with you," Valan whispers. "I wish I were a warrior suddenly. I ... am worried." A pause. "I am frightened. A little. For you."

      "What did Maria say," Edward keeps rambling, "...when you said you'd be staying here with her for a few nights?" His earlier explanation of a friendly family visit apparently wasn't taken as truth, somehow.

     "Anything," Soldekai grins. "We return...Sakir..." he has such a hard time calling him by a name, "...and that is it. We have located where he might spend his time," a grin at Jonathan, "...not a hard operation. After that...who knows. Maybe Americas for a bit. Then...we decide what to do about the valley. How's that for a plan?" Soldekai glances around to each of you, waiting to hear suggestions or other ideas. "Put it this way...if there is something in the Valley," he explains, "...then it is better that we find it...instead of the others."

     Nicu sets his coffee down. "I believe that it may be one offending individual... and one... facilitator of some fashion. Immortal, Watcher," he shrugs. "This I do not know. There is much more to discover. And not a lot of time."

"...A time will come soon, bella, when we will have to leave Ireland... and face our foe together. We should... take this time now...just for us..."

     Effortless. So effortless. Grace and magic and some subatomic communication. Knowing. In an instant, where each will be. And fingers of the justicar moved, and fingers of the Dignatary were poised and waiting. In seconds between seconds. Even to you, such motions are apparitions.

     Sudden is the thought that comes to him then. Iain. His hand stills.

     "Why should I have ever thought I could hold Starlight," he whispers, this time to himself.