John and Tygo were handed clubs and balls by a servant as soon as they stepped through the rickety gate and onto the course. From across the grass Alyson, dressed in loose white pants and an egg-colored tunic, lifted her own club and smiled at them. “I suppose we’re actually doing this,” John said dully, not even wanting to look at his companion in case Tygo was smiling effortlessly. He’d never walked on such perfect grass before and now regretted his choice of heavy boots.
“Just be yourself,” Tygo said, stifling a chuckle. “I’m sure she likes you fine.”
“I have no thoughts on that subject,” John snapped. “I’m concerned that we actually have nothing of note to tell her, since all we did last night was become drunk.”
Tygo swung his club in a shallow arc as they walked toward her. “That’s not all I did.” Then he said, “Tell her anything, man. You don’t have to be nervous. She doesn’t care what you say. She only wants someone to talk to her. For godsakes. It’s incredibly obvious.”
John snorted.
“Suit yourself.”
He whacked his club on the ground, discontented, and said nothing.
They reached her at the seventh hole, concentrating on hitting the ball a short distance into the cup, having evidently forded the valleys and sand-spots within the enclosure in previous strokes. She didn’t look at them until she’d hit the purple ball into the hole. When she did, her face seemed held together by strange smears of makeup. A cosmetic glaze one shade lighter than her actual skin hid her freckles, her eyebrows darkened with brown pencil. This mask moved barely at all when she greeted them, except her lips pursing into that bud. She leaned on her club and said, “I’ve been waiting all morning for you.”
“We got drunk last night,” blurted Tygo, before John could even open his mouth.
She appraised him with what John could clearly see was approval. “Very nice. I hope it won’t affect your game. I hope one of you will beat me, no one ever does.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Tygo.
“I’m tired of going against my girls, I know all their moves. Most of them are up in bed with cramps, anyway. So when is the bleeding supposed to stop?” She swung her club and turned to Tygo. “Do you like my makeup? We were bored this morning waiting for you.”
Tygo pretended to hit a ball. “I don’t know. It looks a little … like you’re trying. You know?”
Her eyes endless green phosphorescent nuggets. “We were trying! I was thinking I could surprise Michael with it.” She turned her cheek to Tygo. John watched his assistant pull suddenly back to make it seem like he did not wish to be close to her, but then bend forward from the waist to study the spackle on her face. Alyson asked, “Well?”
“Eh,” said Tygo. He removed a rag from an inner pocket and dangled it for her to take. His hands were still shackled. “You want to wipe some off?”
She swatted him away. “My best handmaid did it, the one who does my hair.” She gestured to the length of brown silk falling down her back, but didn’t ask what they thought of that. She gazed again at Tygo, not at all offended. “You’re mean,” she said, smiling. “Michael never criticizes me.”
“Well, you asked,” he said. “I just said what I think.”
She continued to look at him, a half-smile trapped on her lips. “Why don’t they unchain you?”
“Shall we play some golf?” he asked brusquely.
“If you’re prepared to lose.”
“You win because you’re good, not because you’re the queen and no one is allowed to beat you. Right?”
“I always tell everyone to do their best,” she exclaimed, delighted. “If you can’t compete, you probably shouldn’t play.”
And so John found himself, just as he’d feared, an observer to their coy match, a third when clearly no one needed one—O, he played with them, and quite glumly, but inside he alternated between seething embarrassment and dismal self-pity. Though neither he nor Tygo knew the rules to the stupid game, they kept whacking at the ball, which John surmised was meant to symbolize the moon or some other heavenly body. What other purpose could it possibly serve?
Alyson was correct, however; she was very good. None of Tygo’s taunts, no matter when during the course of her stroke they were uttered, seemed able to upset her. Her concentration for this game flabbergasted John, but he reminded himself that people’s talents could lend themselves to unexpected pursuits; one could never quite be sure who would be good at what.
At last Alyson, perhaps bored of showing off, placed herself directly in front of John, her square elegant head coming to his chin, and locking her eyes on his, said, “Well? When is the bleeding going to stop? I asked you once already.”
“Ah. Well. We did an experiment last night that involved Tygo Brachio entering the trance state, but the information we received was hardly clear, and it shall need extensive study before we could possibly begin to—”
She pouted. “Then why did you even come here? If you don’t know any more
