"Not according to my mother." Rosalind was so glad to hear Taryn speak and sound even again, that she was ready to sprout wings and fly.

"Mrs. Olchawski can't be wrong."

"Oh, she was wrong about a lot of things. Don't get me started. Are you okay, sweetheart?"

Taryn closed her eyes and nuzzled against Rosalind's breast. "Yeah. Funny, I think I am. I've never done that before."

"Gone away?"

"No, I've gone away plenty. I've never gone away and come back. It just seemed like it was more fun to be out here with you than trapped in my head," Taryn said, grinning up at Rosalind.

"You can tell me, you know."

Taryn's eyes narrowed. "It's not such a big deal."

"So share it with me. Then it will be even less of a big deal," Rosalind said, reasonably. It worked, it was the right tone to take with Taryn.

Taryn sat up and wrapped an arm around her knees, looking across the room at the altar on top of the dresser. The headlights of a car going too fast up Mariner cut across the room, lit on the statue of the dancing Shiva, sending sparks from the bronze. For a moment the statue flickered, as if it were moving; the hands changed gestures subtly. From the darkness at the back of the altar the face of the b.l.o.o.d.y woman glared out, until it was still again, the trick of the light past. Taryn sighed. In that sigh Rosalind heard the span of years since Taryn had told this story. Who had ever heard it? Rhea, certainly. Rosalind couldn't imagine anyone else.

"My family lived in Lackawanna. Probably still do, but I wouldn't know. I was thrown out when I was sixteen." Taryn's voice was flat, unemotional. She spoke from a cool distance, as if describing a movie she had seen long ago.

Rosalind waited, biting her tongue, letting the welling silence encourage Taryn to continue. It was a silence with as much texture as language. Rosalind filled it with her presence, but kept her words out of it. The way Taryn spoke had the feel of events reduced to shorthand, a symbol removed from the actual blood and fire to become manageable. She let it unfold, knowing she couldn't change what had already happened.

"Ever been there? Don't bother. If a place can be depressed, Lackawanna is depressed. Not just economics, the feel of the place. Like hope died there a long time ago. Rhea says there's no love in Lackawanna. Anyway, my cousin came to live with us because his parents couldn't deal with him. Funny, my parents couldn't deal with me. They should've traded."

Taryn got up and padded to her suit coat, fishing out her lighter and cigarettes. She opened the window, perching on the sill. Her face was backlit by the streetlight, smooth and white; the smoke hung yellow in the blue light. "I was trouble. I never liked school. I got in a lot of fights. My parents wanted to send me to a counselor for my behavior problems. I kept dating girls and refused to look like one. I went once, for three sessions, but we didn't have the cash, and I was, quote, unrepentant.

"Anyway, Dean moved in. We...didn't get along. He would steal my stuff and hock it for crank. I found out and flushed his stash. We fought. One afternoon he raped me. Floor of the family room, by the pool table. I think he wasn't setting out to. He was just going to beat the s.h.i.t out of me, but I fought back. He got a pool cue and broke it across my head. It knocked me down. I went to my mother, told her to kick the son of a b.i.t.c.h out, you know? Know what she told me? I asked for it. She believed me, she just thought it was my fault. I was a truck driver, she said. A challenge to boys like Dean. They had to prove something on me. She told me to put on a dress, he'd be nicer to me. Nicer. I was sixteen."

Taryn tapped another cigarette out of the pack and lit it thoughtfully.

Rosalind sat up, watching her through the haze of smoke. "What about your dad?"

A smile twisted on Taryn's lips, bitter and full of bile. "This was his brother's son, who had been sent to him to keep out of trouble, and here I was making trouble. He actually told me to pack my s.h.i.t and get out. So I did.

"I knew some friends of friends in Buffalo. I stayed with them for a while. I moved around a little. I ended up working in this restaurant as a dishwasher. A gay boy, real sweet, by the name of Steve, was a waiter there. He let me stay with him. That was cool, until his boyfriend broke up with him and we both had to move out. I was bussing tables, thinking, oh s.h.i.t, now where do I go, when I heard something.

"I looked up, and there was this woman with wild hair, like snakes, just looking at me. I had a bus pan full of coffee mugs. She was staring at me. So I said 'What?' She just smiled a little, came over and touched my cheek. She didn't say anything. When my shift was over she was there, standing outside. I went home with her. We were lovers for a year, then we were friends. Friends was better. She still gave me a home, but she started doing things like making me eat, making me read books she picked out. She had me take the GED when I was eighteen. I fought her, but Rhea isn't soft. She didn't put up with any of my s.h.i.t. She told me she was my family, and I could make all the noise I wanted to about it, but it wouldn't change. I've been here since." Taryn shook her head. "I don't know how I got off on all that."

She stubbed out the cigarette and came back to the mattress. "Changed your mind about me?" she asked, half c.o.c.ky, half defensive.

Rosalind reached out and took her hand, knowing Taryn wouldn't crawl right back into her arms just yet. "d.a.m.n them all for hurting you," Rosalind said, the words burning her throat. The anger was instinctive, hot, hard to contain. That wasn't like her at all.

"I'm okay," Taryn said stubbornly.

"I know you're okay, sweetheart. I still want to kill them all. It doesn't mean I don't see how strong you are."

"You think I'm strong?" Taryn asked, tilting her head.

"You survived and you kept going. I don't know if I would have in the same place. And you kept a sense of humor. Of course I see how strong you are." Rosalind held her arms open in invitation, and Taryn accepted.

She lay down with her head in Rosalind's lap. "I get jumpy about...letting go. But I'd like to. With you." Taryn gave Rosalind an open, pleading look. "You want me?" she asked, sitting up.

Rosalind gasped. Keeping up with this girl's moods would give her whiplash, she thought, but she wasn't complaining. She answered truthfully, letting the hunger show on her face. "More than you know."

Rosalind leaned forward and kissed Taryn, softly, then pulled back. Her eyes darted from Taryn's eyes to her lips. They were thin, sculpted, splendidly shaped. Taryn kept them parted invitingly. Rosalind leaned back in, magnetized, tasting them. She offered herself to Taryn's strength, coaxing it out, letting only their lips touch. Their bodies, so close, called out for more, but Rosalind kept back. In that kiss was the promise of surrender, the hunger of a woman. It worked its magic.

That kiss spoke to the things she loved best in Taryn-her confidence, her pa.s.sion, the way she accepted the mantle of control. It gave life to Taryn and offered her more. Taryn accepted. She leaned forward and took Rosalind into her arms, pulling the woman to her chest, kissing her with intent now.

Rosalind gave her every gift a woman could offer in the expression of her desire-her trust, the welcome of her body, her faith in Taryn as a lover. She gave these gifts consciously, deliberately, from love of Taryn. She gave them in the light of her love for how Taryn had kept her heart intact, despite the pain.

Rosalind gave wetness as a gift to her. Rosalind showed her in a hundred small ways-the movement of her hips, the tension in her thighs, the way her head arched on the pillow-that she was welcome. Expected even. When Taryn came into her body, it was like a woman going to her mystery. When Rosalind's skin was flushed and mottled, and her hands tensed on Taryn's shoulders, Taryn increased the speed of her plunging hand. When Rosalind called out her name, she thought that Taryn cried. Taryn looked up at her like the magic that made the world was closing around her hand. When Rosalind stilled and folded back from the arch of her climax, her hand pulled weakly at Taryn's shoulders.

"Come here," she said, her voice pa.s.sion drunk. Taryn covered the body of her lover, keeping her warm. "It just gets better with you," Rosalind said, her eyes still half shut, dreamy.

"I love you, Rosalind."

"I love you too, sweetheart," Rosalind said, opening her eyes.

"That's what I said in the car. When you asked me to say something in j.a.panese," Taryn said, nuzzling at her neck.

Rosalind's hands combed Taryn's hair. "Say it again."

"Watashi wa anata o ais.h.i.te imasu."

"That suits you. It sounds harsh and restrained, but it means something so beautiful."

"You won't leave me, right?" Taryn asked, out of nowhere.

Rosalind smiled, a lazy, satisfied smile that spoke of grace. She took Taryn's large hand in both of hers and placed it over her heart. "Meant only for kings," she mumbled, grinning.

Rosalind pulled Taryn's hand up to her lips, kissing Taryn's fingers one by one. She drew Taryn's index finger into her mouth, her tongue caressing it, tasting herself. The caress went from lazy to interested; she started to kiss her wrist, nipping at the soft skin under her hand.

From there it only made sense to sit up, so she could keep on exploring Taryn's arm-the bulge of the bicep in its bed of shadow, the face of Alexander watching her with wide, knowing eyes. Rosalind moved around behind Taryn, spreading her hands across the width of her back. She pressed her lips to the black eagle, ran her nails down the dagger with the bull of Knossos, left impressions of her own over the lines.

The draw of her hands was as persistent as the needle; the thousand sparks her fingers cast were a pleasure as constant as the pain, raising Taryn into another realm. Taryn closed her eyes and leaned back, as if giving over her control to Rosalind. It had been a night of firsts, many of them building to this one, and Rosalind knew that Taryn had an excellent sense of ritual. She must feel the perfection of the symmetry. When Taryn leaned into her hands, Rosalind hoped that she knew she'd be looked after.

Rosalind touched Taryn's body with proprietary interest, claiming the territory as she went-from the curve of her shoulders, across the blades, down the spine shielded by the columns of muscle in her lower back. She kept her pace slow, far slower than she wanted, after starting. She restrained the urge to claw down Taryn's back, rip her way through muscle and bone to her heart. There must be an invitation before she went inside.

She let her hands wander down to the base of her spine, to the place it vanished into secrecy and night, the curve into the top of her boxers. Rosalind let her hand draw slowly down to that point, waking all the flesh up in its path, then moved away. She curved her hands around Taryn's ribs, embracing her from behind, feeling her b.r.e.a.s.t.s press into Taryn's muscular back. Her lips found the hollow of her neck and lingered there, seeking to make the pulse dance under Taryn's smooth skin. It did.

When she heard the catch in Taryn's breathing, when she felt Taryn melt, all her tension go out of her, leaning heavily into her embrace, she knew it had begun. She moved with hesitancy, just enough to make Taryn confirm every new motion with her breathing, the ragged slamming of her pulse in the life vein. She risked sliding around in front of Taryn, where she could see her face, see her reaction. Rosalind risked looking into her eyes, the eyes of a girl who knew the territory she was only now discovering, the body of a lover, the body of a woman. She found only encouragement there, coupled with a pleading that nearly broke her heart. If anyone, ever again, hurt this girl, she would rip them apart with her nails and teeth. Pacifism be d.a.m.ned, this was love.

Rosalind could read every emotion. Taryn was a windswept plain, as empty and as complete. She hesitated, not wanting to trip over any broken bones of memory, not wanting to trigger anything that would make the girl hold back a portion of herself or fight to keep control. She knew what she wanted to give Taryn-a confirmation of her strength, even while asking her to surrender it. I know who you are, baby. Let me love every part of you. Let me draw you out, let me take you where you've taken me so many times. It is a gift, baby. No grief. You're still my boy, my king.

Rosalind saw the moment the decision had been made, the way Taryn's eyes swam half closed, the way she leaned forward, presenting herself. She kept her heavy-lidded eyes on her lover's face and reached for her boxers. Such a simple thing, to be the beginning. But in the hooking of her powerful hands around the waistband, in the impatient shucking of the cloth, a new world came into being. Taryn handed the boxers to Rosalind like a flag of victory, but her lover tossed them aside, not interested in a trophy. The real prize was yet to be reached.

Rosalind's eyes ran down Taryn's body, wanting to go slow, wanting to grant her a respectful time, but she'd waited so long. She saw the triangle of dark hair and felt a shiver run up her spine, then loop around the pulse in her throat and gallop back down to her groin. In the shadow of the curve of Taryn's hip, just below the bone, was her last tattoo. In a three-part black border, simple as the ribbon on a funeral car, was a yin/yang, the eternal turning of the balance of opposites. A common enough symbol, given personality and life only by its location.

It was the first thing Rosalind touched, as a promise, an understanding. She expected to feel the heat of Taryn's body on her open palm, but she wasn't prepared for the jolt of energy that slammed up her arm. She looked down at her arm, expecting to see a nimbus of fire running along it. Taryn seemed to feel it as well. She swayed, lips parting, and wrapped her hand around Rosalind's wrist.

"Is this okay?" Rosalind asked, her voice a stranger to her in its intensity and pitch.

"If you don't touch me soon, I'm not going to survive," Taryn growled, fierce even in surrender. Her voice worked wonders on Rosalind, who felt herself get wet again. This gave her a clue as to how to proceed. She wanted to know if Taryn was wet, if her arousal had traveled from her voice to the gate between her thighs. It was a lovely way to think of it, Rosalind realized with a shock, as her language expanded to match her experience.

Taryn was the union of opposites-pale white skin like alabaster, the darkness of her hair curling around Rosalind's fingers. The skin on her inner thigh was so soft it stopped Rosalind, stroking it with curious fingers, enjoying that, until Taryn squirmed. Her hips pressed forward, seeking Rosalind's hand. She obliged, pressing her palm down, letting herself feel for the first time the heat and the wetness. Lord, Taryn was as excited as she was. She wondered if this was how Taryn felt, the mix of pride and triumph, every time she became aroused in response to her caress. She hoped so.

"Sweetheart, there's something I'd like to do," Rosalind said, looking up into Taryn's face. She expected a clenching, a momentary shift into uncertainty, but Taryn's face was calm, easy, even with the tension gathering in her body. It was a compliment that Rosalind felt to the core. She knew Taryn's answer before she spoke.

"Whatever you like."

"Okay. Um, you'll have to lie down."

Taryn lowered herself to the mattress indolently, first easing down on her elbows, then lying flat, a smile of invitation on her face. Rosalind's hands parted her thighs, lingering on the muscles shifting under her skin. Rosalind climbed between Taryn's legs, not familiar with the maneuvering yet, landing on her calf. She let the smile sneak across her face, the warmth she felt having everything to do with affection. Her lover returned the smile. Taryn could tell she was nervous; Rosalind knew it from that smile. Rosalind knew she could supplant that smile when her hands closed on Taryn's thighs, parting them farther. The warmth Taryn was about to feel had to do with much more than affection.

She waited and hung there in midair, until she knew Taryn could feel her hot breath, then the touch of her lips. Rosalind kissed her. It was just that at first, the embrace of her lips, the offering of love first, before all else. She felt her wetness all over her cheeks and moved side to side in it, wanting to be covered in the evidence of desire.

Taryn was so wet, it was astounding. All this, just from making love to me? Rosalind thought. Well, sure, some from her touching Taryn, she could admit that. But to have this immediate and overwhelming effect on another person was staggering. The power of it, and the fact that she'd longed for just that power, wasn't lost on Rosalind. She had wished to have Taryn in her arms, shuddering and undone, just like Taryn made her. Now, here she was, her hands, her lips, on her, and it sure looked like exactly that.

This was the moment of truth. Could she be the lover of a girl dedicated to pa.s.sion, who delighted in loving women often and well? The voice in the back of Rosalind's head asked her what made her think that her clumsy attempts at lovemaking would ever be enough to hold the interest of this splendid youth. For all the clarity her love gave her, she still feared the difference in their experience. Rosalind had mocked her for it, but Taryn was an experienced lover. How could she be happy with a novice?

In the chorus of doubts, the wetness on her face gave her something to believe in. There was no shame in her desire. Taryn wanted her. So Rosalind bade the voices in her head be d.a.m.ned and made love to her girl. The first stroke of her tongue made Taryn sigh in relief, the second took that relief away. Taryn's hips pressed down toward her; Rosalind had to grab her thighs and hold them apart to keep from being crushed. There were mechanics she learned, quickly, like not getting her nose in the way of Taryn's snapping pelvic bone, how not to nick sensitive flesh with unshielded teeth, how to bring pleasure to the point of pain by denying it, repeatedly. There were other flourishes inspired by a playful mind, a careful watching of her response, a delight in exploring her body, claiming it.

There are moments when you know why you are alive, when the reason behind all things becomes clear and the veil fades away like smoke. In those moments you see why you chose to come back into the flesh, and the only emotion big enough is grat.i.tude. All things make sense. The profound becomes simple and reachable. It was a moment of such clarity for Rosalind. Everything made sense, and everything was perfect.

Rosalind knew why she was alive at long last. She was almost sorry when Taryn started coming. She didn't want to stop. Taryn came, one hand clenched in the sheets, the other on the back of Rosalind's head, calling out her name. There are times when words aren't enough to convey the whole of an emotion, when the lightness of freedom can only be expressed in the shy smile of a lover.

Taryn opened her arms, Rosalind climbed up her long body, watching the muscles still dance and twitch. The drag king wrapped the professor in a possessive embrace, tucked her head into her shoulder, and wept, softly. Just a few tears, blending into the sweat-damped hair of her lover. They both fell asleep, holding on to one another.

Chapter Seven.

Rosalind woke first. A glance at the window showed the glow of dawn. They hadn't slept all that long. She could have sworn a single chime of a bronze bell had woken her. The sound echoed in the room, but wasn't repeated. Taryn was sound asleep, curled on her side, pressed up against Rosalind's arm. Rosalind reached out and stroked her cheek, drawing the back of her hand over the sharp cheekbone, down to the soft flesh in the hollow of her throat. Taryn stirred, smiled, and slept on, pleased by whatever she was dreaming. Rosalind couldn't bear the thought of waking her, but found she was fired with energy, unable to rest in the warmth of the blankets. She slid out carefully and pulled the covers over Taryn's naked shoulder.

It was cold in the room; the wood floor chilled her feet after being trapped under a blanket with a heat source like Taryn. Rosalind selected a pair of sweatpants from the dresser and a heavy maroon sweatshirt with a Harvard logo on it. She raised an eyebrow at it in a perfect impression of Taryn, wondering who had left it here and how long ago. She sniffed at it, but it only carried the scent of her, a scent as familiar to her now as her own. It was cold, the sweatshirt looked warm, so she shrugged into it, promising herself she'd ask Taryn about it when she woke. Have to get this mess cleaned up. I can't be hopping around town in all the clothing of her former girlfriends, Rosalind thought, then stopped. A huge grin worked itself across her face, met by the first rays of the sun coming in the window, striking her face.

Former girlfriends. Past tense. That part of Taryn's life was over. She was Taryn's girl now. She laughed, then covered her mouth at the thought. I'm a grown woman, a professional. I've been married and divorced, for Christ's sake. There's no call for me to be weeding the wardrobe of my lover because I'm jealous of her former girlfriends, Rosalind told herself reasonably, but it didn't help.

The language was silly, applied to her. Girl indeed. But there was fun in it. Play. She certainly wanted to lay some public claim to Taryn. Wonder if I can make her wear my college ring on a chain around her neck?

Rosalind glanced at the mattress, at the sleeping bulk of Taryn under the blankets, the shock of black hair against the pillow. She had the oddest urge to find a teddy bear and tuck it in with her. Taryn didn't seem like the teddy bear type, though. Nothing in her room was stuffed; a statue of a dancing Hindu G.o.d wasn't quite the same. She looked back at the sleeping Taryn and pictured a dog, a Lab, curled around her, head on the pillow, snoring away. It made her smile. She would have to get them a dog someday. Taryn had never had one.

She looked around the room for a stuffed anything, convinced she wouldn't find it. Something caught her eye on the floor of the closet, in the back. It looked like it had fallen off the shelf and laid there, forgotten, for a long time. What was it? A snake? An alligator? Rosalind fished it out and held it up by the wings. It wasn't plush, didn't have any fur, but it was made of cloth, and, when she squeezed it, Rosalind could feel the stuffing. It was a pterodactyl, something from a science museum gift shop, she thought. It wasn't cute or cartoonish, it looked rather naked in its ivory cloth skin and bat wings, but it was a toy. She returned to the mattress and tucked it in, setting its pointy head on the pillow next to Taryn. It would have to do, for now. Not a dog, but a start.

She pictured Taryn waking to coffee and found she liked the idea. She eased out of the bedroom and padded down the hall, past closed doors. The floor was familiar enough to her that she could manage it without creaking, a feat of no small skill. She snuck down the back staircase to the kitchen, listening for sounds of inhabitance. She heard nothing. Joe must not be up. Funny, she had expected him to be. Like a kitchen elf or a household G.o.d, he was always there, preparing something.

The party must have gone on late into the night, following the ritual. The kitchen was dark. Rosalind crossed to the wall of coffee mugs and turned on one of the overhead lights. It lit the center of the room, leaving both ends in elliptical shadows.

She spied the blue coffee pot on the shelf above the stove and reached for it, stretching up on her toes. There was a water purifier attached to the sink. She ran the water into the pot, enjoying the mechanics, and lit the flame on the cast-iron stove. She felt like Joe for a moment, savoring the joy of being the only one awake in a house full of people, knowing that she was preparing to surprise them when they woke.

"Coffee is in the fridge. Back of the top shelf." A voice from the darkness at the end of the room spoke, frightening Rosalind.

She whipped around, eyes wide. She wasn't alone. There, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, she saw a shape at the table at the end of the room. It was Rhea, sitting half in shadow. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table, a teacup clenched in her hands. She must have been there, in the dark, since Rosalind came into the kitchen. The thought unnerved her. "Been there long?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Rhea's face was in shadow, just catching splinters of light from above. "Long before you arrived," she said, and Rosalind knew she wasn't just talking about the kitchen.

Rhea reached behind her and turned on the light. The single bulb over the table revealed a weary looking woman in a brown robe, her hair in disarray. In the light of the kitchen, Rhea didn't look fierce; she looked haggard, worn.

She extended a hand to the chair opposite her. "Have a seat." Her voice was the only part of her that held her normal spark and emotion, layered in between the words. Rosalind found her feet moving. She sat at the table facing Rhea. Rhea sipped thoughtfully at her tea, watching Rosalind over the rim. "Making her coffee. That's good. She'll like that." Rhea squinted, crinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes. She looked long at Rosalind, then shook her head. "It's happened already," she said, to herself or to her teacup.

Rosalind knew she wasn't even in the conversation Rhea was having, but she wanted to be. She'd recovered from the shock of finding her sitting in the dark and calmed down, observing this woman. She saw the fragility of Rhea for the first time, like the brittleness of steel. It's still bright, and hard, and sharp enough to lay you open to the bone if you grab it with naked hands, but a tap at the right angle will shatter it. "What's happened?" Rosalind asked, proud to find her voice steady.

Rhea sipped her tea. "Her energy is all over your aura. Threaded through, actually. You couldn't tear them apart without causing damage."

"How do you know it's hers?" Rosalind asked, knowing she was leading up to the hard question. This cryptic conversation, in the semidarkness of early morning with the witch former lover of Taryn's, was taking on a life of its own.

Rhea smiled, deepening the wrinkles around her eyes. "There's none like her. You can't mistake that signature. And...it fits yours perfectly." Rhea's voice dipped down into sadness at this last admission.

Rosalind found the strength to ask what she wanted to know. "Why do you dislike me, Rhea?"

Rhea raised an eyebrow at her, then sighed and put the teacup down. "Your coffee is ready."

"I'd like it if you answered my question," Rosalind said, surprised at herself.

"No, you won't. But go get yourself a cup of coffee and come sit down. I'll tell you."

Rosalind did. She didn't hurry in pouring the coffee from the enameled pot into the blue gla.s.s mug with the gold stars. She didn't remember that it was Taryn's mug until she sat down, but Rhea did.

Her smile was secret and layered with bitterness. "If I had the luxury, I would hate you, Rosalind. But you are a part of someone I love, unto my own death. I know you, and so I fear you. I know who you are, and I know who you were. And I know what it means for Taryn that you've finally come back."

"I don't understand what you are saying," Rosalind said, and Rhea snorted.

"Don't be dense. You're thinking from your academic training. Stop. You're smarter than that. You always were too hung up on the formal organization of knowledge. If it wasn't written in the temple scrolls, it didn't exist under the sun. When you met Taryn, in the first moment, you knew her, yes?"

"I...yes. There was a recognition there," Rosalind admitted.

"So. Of course there was a recognition. She felt it too, she just likes to forget. It's harder for her. I saw it in her the next morning, when you first spent the night. You two have old, unfinished business. It's tangling you up."

"You mean reincarnation? Old souls, past lives, all of that?" Rosalind asked, afraid and terribly excited. She wasn't sure if she believed in any of it, but something in it spoke to her, called to that same part of her that was able to see the G.o.dhead in a snake in a dogwood tree. To her surprise, Rhea laughed.

"Taryn, an old soul? She's an eternal adolescent! No, you two only go back a few lives together. You are both fairly recent. We are going to play a game. I will begin a story; you will finish it, with whatever comes into your mind. Don't think about it, just speak." Rhea waited to see if she argued.

Rosalind sat back and curled her hands around Taryn's blue gla.s.s mug as if it were a talisman. There was a red candle burning on the table. When had Rhea lit that? The flames distracted her, making the room unreal as Rhea began to speak. Rosalind started to see the images Rhea invoked, between the dancing spatters of light.