lived. Their ten-foot oars were propped up against the walls and their nets hung off the eaves in loops of mesh. The lake spread out before her like a sheet of carbon. The edge rippled against the flinty shore. She wondered what stirred the water: maybe the motion of the Planet.
Saba was coming along the shore toward her. She stopped playing to warm her hands in the sleeves of her tunic. Although she saw him often enough in the street, he had never seemed to notice her before. He came up beside her.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m just sitting here.” She picked up her flute again. “I like it here.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Talk.” She blew six quick rising notes on the long black flute.
He sat down on the ground beside her and stared across the lake. She played the dream sequence from Alfide’s
“Look,” he said. “I want you to do something for me.”
“What?” She lowered the flute.
“If you do I’ll take you to Vribulo.”
“I can go to Vribulo by myself whenever I want.”
“I’m in love with this girl who lives in there.” His head jerked back toward the tenements behind them.
“Oh.”
“I’ve never felt like this about a girl in my whole life.” His hands rose off his knees. “But I can’t even talk to her. Her husband keeps her locked up. I’ve only seen her face three times. I’m going crazy.”
“Oh.” She turned to look back at the tenements, draped in nets. “Is he a fisherman—her husband?”
“Yes.”
“What is she like?”
“She’s beautiful. And she’s so young, and soft, and—” He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “Ive never felt like this before. Take a message to her for me. You can talk to her without anybody noticing.”
“What message?”
He sat back straight, smiling. “I knew you’d do it. I’ll buy you anything you want.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said.
In the middle watch she went to Illy’s house, where Boltiko was fitting a dress to the young wife. Paula sat in the fur chair drinking kakine while Illy turned slowly around, her arms out, and the prima wife tacked up the hem. The dress had three sets of sleeves, one snug to the wrist, one slit to the elbow, one open to the shoulder, in three different kinds of cloth. The rest of the dress was black.
“How does it look?” Illy asked Paula, high-spirited.
“It’s beautiful. Tiko, it’s stunning.”
Boltiko said, “Neither of you thinks I can do anything.” Kneeling, she sat back on her calves to look, her moon-face placid with a smile.
“Wait until he sees it,” Illy said.
The prima wife held out one hand, and Paula got out of her chair and helped her stand, her fat hanging in layers off her bones. “He won’t be seeing too much at home, unless I miss the signs.”
Illy’s hands paused, unfastening the clips down the front of the dress. “What?”
Paula curled up in the soft white chair again, her head on the arm. Boltiko said, “He won’t be sleeping with any of us for a while, that’s what. Here, let me have it.” She removed the dress from Illy.
Surprised, Paula watched the young wife’s face drop open with alarm. “He has another woman.”
Boltiko was folding the new dress. Smoothing the cloth under her hand, she laid her gaze a moment on Illy. “Put your clothes on.” She turned to Paula. “Am I right?”
Paula nodded. Illy turned away, one hand out for her yellow robe. Boltiko stood watching her back, her vast face soft with sympathy.
“Child, you will never learn.” Her hand stroked and stroked the dress hanging over her arm. “Well. I have work to do.” She went heavily out the front door.
Illy sat down in the other sling chair. There were tear slicks down her cheeks. “Who is she?”
“A girl in the Lake District.”
“How can he do this to me?”
Paula sat up and filled her little cup again from the jug of kakine. Illy said, “Is she young? Have you seen her? Is she younger than me?”
“Yes. She’s very young.”
The Styth woman’s eyes overflowed with tears. The bright robe hung open. Under it she wore white underclothes like harness. Her body was beautiful, like her face, even crying.
“How can he do this to me?”
“Come on,” Paula said. “I’ll rub your back.”
Illy took her into her sleeproom. The windows were screened off with long panels of silk embroidered with rose-flies, their wings edged in gold. The room was dim as a cave. Illy lay down on the broad bed; while Paula stroked her back, she opened most of the tight white underclothes. Illy wept as if she enjoyed it. Quieting, she lay still and Paula ran her fingers up and down the soft skin of her back.
“He’ll come back to me. He always does.”
Paula bent and kissed her neck. “I think you’re beautiful. Don’t cry.” Paula pressed her mouth to the soft black cheek. “You’re much more beautiful than she is.” Illy turned toward her. Paula put her arms around her and kissed her mouth. “Don’t cry.”
The Styth woman’s lips parted. Saba had taught her how to kiss. The two women lay side by side, their mouths touching, Illy’s skin warmed, her breath came fast. She had no scent. When Paula touched her breast, Illy rubbed against her hand.
“Let me go get the kakine,” Paula said.
She locked the front door, brought the jug of liquor back to the sleeproom, and took her clothes off. Illy watched her.
“I’ve never done this before.”
The room was freezing. Paula climbed onto the bed and pulled the thick cover over her. She touched Illy, who lay down again on her back.
“This is bad, isn’t it?”
“It’s the same as with him.” Paula gave her the jug. She dipped her finger into the thick sweet liquor and drew in green kakine on Illy’s breast and licked it off.
“I never did that with him.”
They painted each other with kakine and sucked and kissed and licked it off. Illy’s skin softened and warmed. Her voice fell, husky.
“I wish he was here now. Don’t you want him?”
“We don’t need him.”
Illy’s thighs stroked together. Her pubic hair was shaved. Her hips were smooth, full arches. Paula spread kakine over her slit and the tiny nub at the top. Illy opened her legs.
“Please—”
“Do it to me.” Paula ran her tongue over the soft folded flesh.
“It tastes bad.”
“It tastes fine.”
“Oh.” Illy moved, offering herself. Her hands slid down over Paula’s legs and rump and her claws worked. Paula drew back.
“Oh,” Illy said. “Don’t stop.”
“Do it to me.”
“I can’t—I—”
“Do it. Use the kakine, if you don’t like the taste.” Paula fingered Illy’s body, and the Styth woman reached for
