But He-Is-Accomplished was uncomfortable, for there was much doing and confusion among the circling worlds, so that He-Is-Accomplished suffered greatly from itchiness.
“There is peace in silence between the worlds,” he said, moving away from the worlds, “and that is where I will dwell.”
So Billa-needful encircled all, watching what occurred, while He-Is-Accomplished dwelt in silence and She-Goes-On-Creating dwelt in song, and so all was inhabited. So say all Gharm, so be it, coribee.
• The annunciator at the door brought all three of them to their feet. “Someone comes!” cried the mechanical voice, like metal foil, blowing in the wind.
Liva motioned the other two to sit. “I will see to it,” she said.
“Careful,” her mother said, out of habit. “Do not open unless you’re sure.” There was no such thing as safety, not even here in Fenice. Not when the men of Voorstod were determined upon killing every Gharm they could. How many of the innocent had died for no reason at all save the vicious pride of the Voorstoders? So now, Stenta repeated, “Careful.”
“So, Mama-gem,” Liva agreed. She peered at the door screen, noting the royal livery on the man carrying the package, the label and shape of the box he bore. “Your gown for the concert, Mama-gem! From the Queen’s own dressmaker.”
Liva opened the door, presented a finger for the messenger’s snipper to painlessly drag away a cell or two, and accepted the box. The royal page stepped inside and opened it for her, thus showing there was no danger in it. In these days of the Voorstod terror, so much was courtesy on Queen Wilhulmia’s instructions.
Liva carried the box in one hand, the frock over both arms as she returned to the inner room like a moving sheaf of diamonds, glitteringly resplendent, a preserved rainbow of light.
“Oooh,” breathed Stenta, who had been fitted only into the basic garment, before the Phansurian bead-artists had been at it. “Oooh.”
Upon the high-necked breast of the dress was worked the heads and bodies of two saber birds, facing one another. Their head and wing plumes arched away onto the shoulders and down onto the drooping, bannerlike sleeves of the dress. Tail plumes filled all the space to the hem, every plume with a gemmed eye. On the back of the dress, butterflies flew from the hem toward the neck, around a space of Phansuri silk at the hip and thigh, where Stenta would sit, filling all the rest with glittering beauty. The saber bird was the clan Tchenka of Stenta’s mother. The butterfly was the clan Tchenka of Stenta’s father. Stenta had been born out of the Butterfly people into the Saber-bird people, though there were neither butterflies nor saber birds where any of them had lived for generations. On the neckband of the gown was a tiny frog, worked in emerald beads. The frog was Stenta’s personal Tchenka. The dress was of scarlet and yellow and every shade between these two: wine and gold, pink and melon, orange and ochre.
The style was an adaptation of that traditional to the Gharm for festive occasions, though there had not been within living memory such a gorgeous or extravagant application of tradition. Sarlia stroked the beads, marveling at their chilly, heavy surface, like flowing metal.
“Mama-gem,” said Sarlia, “the sleeves are so heavy. Surely you will not be able to play, wearing this.”
Stenta came forward to peer closely at the garment. In a moment she found the seams she sought, opened them, and removed the sleeves. Beneath were other sleeves, close, light ones of Phansuri silk, red as new blood.
“I come on the stage all glorious,” announced Stenta with a straight face, walking with decorous steps around the room. “I glitter and shine and bow to the conductor, and he to me. I bow to the audience, holding out my arms so the sleeves hang down like flags. I wave my hands, so, showing yet once more how graceful we Gharm are. I go to the harp. I seat myself, being careful that under me is this place on the dress where there are no butterflies to make uncomfortable places on my bottom. I hold out my arms, straight, letting the sleeves glitter. A woman comes from the wings and leans above me, unfastens my sleeves, and takes them away. The undersleeves are red, very highly visible, so everyone will see how my arms move. So, now I may play. So we have rehearsed it, to make a show. The conductor says I am so small, I must shine like fire for them all to see me.”
“Beautiful,” said Liva. “I’ll hang it up, Mama-gem.”
“No,” her mother instructed. “The beads are too heavy, You must lay it flat, in the spare bedroom. The Queen’s dressmaker told me. Even so, it will stretch a little during the concert. It was made to wear only this one time.”
“And the bracelets?”
“What bracelets?”
“The ones in the box with the dress,” said Sarlia, drawing them out. They glittered with the same colors as the gown, though their faceted surfaces were set with gems rather than beaded.
“Ah, ah, how kind of the Queen,” said Stenta. “She does too much.”
“I’ll put them with the dress,” said Liva. “Then Mama can tell more of the Tchenka.”
She went off to the guest room, returning a few moments later to refill their teacups and demand that the story of He-Is-Accomplished and She-Goes-On-Creating be continued.
• She-Goes-On-Creating wandered a time upon the worlds and among the stars, singing as they sang, but the surfaces of the worlds were dull and uninteresting, like beads, while the surfaces of the stars were furious and uncomfortable. “I will sing life,” said She-Goes-On-Creating,
