Adrian’s face lit up. “Thank you.” He pulled off her high laced shoes and they went over the side, too. Then he lifted up her gown and her two petticoats, and his head disappeared.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
The brush with danger was having a strange effect on him, she thought worriedly; it had disordered his wits. She felt his mouth on the inside of her thigh and gasped. It was warm and barbaric, simultaneously. The movement of his tongue called up confused images of being made love to by a giant, dark panther.
She ought to climb down, call in the counselors for help … the poor man.
Although, she seemed to be the one feeling lightheaded. …
Keylinn and Spider sat at ease in the main room of Howard and Dominick’s compartment, contentedly replete with butterscotch cake. Why Howard and Dominick never gained an ounce was a mystery to Keylinn.
She held out her cup of hot chocolate. “To Dominick. Congratulations.”
He smiled and wheeled his chair a few inches in mild embarrassment.
“To Dominick,” said Spider and Howard. Howard added, “And to An Answer to the Dead.”
An Answer to the Dead was Dominick’s new play. Word had just come from the company that morning that it would be in this year’s repertory. Dominick had not had a play accepted in some time, and Howard had taken to the news like a tonic, inviting them both to a private party and telling Spider to “feel free to bring a gift.”
Spider’s gift, whatever it was, had been passed to Dominick in private and cheered him up considerably.
Then Spider recited the gossip from G level and the court both, some of which he had to have learned from Tal, and Howard contributed some scandals from the player’s company that had to be of interest to any breathing humans, regardless of whether they knew the people involved or not.
Now Spider sighed happily and sipped a third cup of chocolate. “And Tal is downhill, far out of range. I never hear from him.”
“I wonder how he’s doing on the trade team,” said Keylinn.
“Endearing himself, no doubt. Explaining to everyone in exquisite detail how wrong they are.”
She smiled. “Adrian wouldn’t have sent him if he thought Tal couldn’t keep his ego in check.”
“Huh!” said Spider, seeming to feel that was all that need be said.
Dominick said, “Do I understand Adrian’s demon has a slight problem with discretion?”
“Not discretion exactly—” began Keylinn.
“It’s his bloody sense of superiority,” said Spider.
“We all feel superior,” said Dominick. “The point of socialization is to learn to conceal it.”
“No, no—” said Spider, but Keylinn interrupted.
“He’s right. Three Cities people feel superior to Outsiders; Outsiders think Cities people are hicks. Graykey feel superior to non-Graykey. Apheans feel superior to humans. Maybe it’s just something tied in with our genes, ! that we can’t get rid of.”
“I don’t feel superior to anybody,” protested Spider.
“That’s because you’re the most mature person I’ve met here.”
Spider glanced at her face, but she did not appear to be joking. Howard said, “I know. Spider is wise where the rest of us are merely clever.”
“What’s a Graykey?” asked Dominick.
“An Outsider philosophic school,” said Keylinn. “It’s rather dying out now, I believe.”
“And how is the ‘favored couple’ doing?” asked Howard, returning the subject to its proper nature, gossip. “Has anyone heard? Millicent Greeve told me the other day that she was told that Adrian’s been seen on Requiem Row.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Dominick.
“You’re a romantic,” replied Howard.
“No, I just believe Adrian would have better sense. It’s too close to the wedding.”
“What about you, Keylinn, what do you think?” Howard appealed to her.
Even over gossip and butterscotch cake, a Graykey tried to be accurate. “I suppose it’s possible. But I agree with Dominick that he’s probably too sensible of how people would take it.” She considered her few encounters with Adrian and what rumors she’d heard. People seemed to like him; she liked him herself. Adrian was a Mercati, and expected to be eccentric, though he compensated well; Iolanthe was given to migraines and black depressions. What would the children of that union be like? They were both bright enough, but back home two highly strung thoroughbreds would not be encouraged to mate.
Not that there was much to choose from on the Diamond; the centuries had taken their toll in mental health. Was it any different on Opal? The representatives she’d met—like Stockton and Hartley Quince—seemed normal enough. Amo she dismissed as a statistical factor; fanatics popped up everywhere.
She was unaware of how far her thoughts had taken her from the issue at hand, and found herself grinning. It seemed that Spider and Tal were the sanest people she’d found, so far—what a telling statement about the Three Cities. Tal was at least normal for an Aphean—as well as anybody could tell—and Spider was—well—
“Spider’s all right,” she said.
“This we have already established,” said Dominick. She smiled. “I was thinking about the nature of people on the Diamond.”
“Only a single nature?” inquired Dominick. “People are like poems, you know, each unique.”
“I can’t say it’s a comparison I ever thought of.”
“Oh, yes. And you may not always know what a poem says, but you can generally tell the form. Take you, for instance.”
“Take me, then.” A haiku? She’d been brought up on them, and foreigners generally found the Graykey subtle to the point of opacity.
“A sonnet, definitely a sonnet. A strict and classical form. By the rulebook, A-B-B-A, or you’ll know the reason why. I think you’d die before you broke meter.”
She froze, and then laughed, a little uncomfortably, and Spider laughed with her although he’d never heard of a sonnet. They taught grammar and spelling where he’d gone to school, not poetry. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t forget Spider,” she said.
Dominick fixed him with a measuring look. “A limerick.”
He put down his cup with a thud. “Now that I have heard of,” he began to protest.
Dominick
