Titania's Fancy
by Lori
Disclaimer: I have no claims, no stock in the company, no life. Sigh. I am a sad person. At least I have Pepsi (copyright the Pepsico Corporation). Somebody needs to design a filter that keeps me out of lyrics sites. My apologies to David Bowie, even if I do think he would make a cool Ryxian.
Warnings: Frivolity alert. Not a PWP, but very, very close. One detailed sex scene.
My apologies to any French-speaking readers in
advance. I don't pretend to speak the language, but I did the best I could thanks to a
translation program.
&%%&%%&
"Thank you, Counselor," Ray said. He smiled and leaned on her desk, looking down at her, not caring that she could sense his emotions -- empathy could be a damnable curse.
"Ril'thin is an excellent counselor. I think you will make excellent progress with him." She usually claimed it had been a pleasure working with the patient at this point, but in this case, it wouldn't be true. "I wish you well, Mr. Carruthers."
His brown eyes remained on hers, full of unabashed emotion. "Now that we are no longer patient and counselor -- "
"Would you excuse me? I have an appointment in a quarter, and I must review my notes."
He finally took the hint. Glancing back twice, he left, the door sliding shut behind him. She half-expected that he might come right back in, but long moments passed, and finally she allowed herself to relax.
Deanna picked up messages on her wrist comm. Smiling, she selected the one from Gwaheer first.
"D,
I realized today how right you were that we have become too caught up in our work lately. Last night I found you asleep, and then you were gone when I awoke this morning. I was up several times last night to check on the children, and apparently you slept straight through. Since that is so unusual for you, I can only guess that work is not only too much on your mind but demanding more energy than you can muster.
Zakhad came home from Edebarch this morning, and I am spending the day making her purr. We discussed your state of exhaustion; she had observed prior to her departure two days ago that you and she have been becoming less cordial because both of you are tired. Since she has too much work to catch up on and she has been concerned for your health, she has agreed that I should force my workload upon others for a while and take you on a holiday, then spend some time with her when she has caught up on her own work. The children will divide their time between Ka'zor's, Sakhara's, and Tormal's, with Zakhad checking on them frequently. I've taken it upon myself to contact the others in your group and rearrange your schedule for the next four days. When you get home, I will have something packed, and you will have just enough time to kiss your children good-bye and decide where in the known galaxy you want me to take you.
I will leave the nature of our adventure in your capable hands, and promise you the full attention of mine.
G."
Deanna used some of the tissues she kept on hand for patients, and was still grinning fiendishly and wiping her face when the gentle tone she'd set the annunciator to sounded. "Come in," she called.
Beverly had Felisa on her hip and a wet spot, probably baby spit, on the front of her forest green pantsuit. Felisa turned her wide green eyes on Deanna and smiled, waving her chubby fingers, and Deanna returned the wave. Beverly glanced out the window. "So this is the new office. Nice view. Deanna, have you been crying?"
"In relief. I thought being able to set my own schedule would be a great change of pace from the shift schedule we had aboard the *Enterprise* -- my innocence has been forever shattered. I think it's been a month and a half since I've had more than a day off at any one time, and my days off are spent with the children."
"Not even I'm that much of a masochist." Beverly sat in the chair Ray Carruthers had vacated. She had her long red hair tied back, and looked rested. Felisa grabbed the locket Beverly wore and tugged; Beverly took it from her with the nonchalance only a mother could manage. "Jean-Luc's gotten good at going solo with Felisa so I can have my own time. So you're taking a vacation, is that what I'm hearing?"
"I'm being taken on vacation. I have to figure out where I want to go."
Beverly grinned. "Nice to have someone who can really do that for you. Risa? Not Betazed, you've been there twice in the last year, and those weren't the most relaxing visits you've had, I'll bet. One of the gajillion planets in the Conglomerate? Or maybe, Earth?"
Deanna's chin dropped. "Bev, do you think Jean-Luc would mind if we stayed at the chateau? That would be so peaceful, and it would escape official notice completely."
"He wouldn't care a bit. And if he did, I'd just overrule him. How long are you going to be gone?"
"Four days."
"*Only* four days? Dee -- if you don't take two weeks at the *least,* I'm personally going to beat you up."
"'hiri can't be gone that long -- "
"So let him come home, and go back to pick you up later! How many patients did you say you had to reassign to other counselors in the last month?"
"Too many."
Beverly shifted Felisa to her other knee. "You're the first whole woman these guys see after they've been Borged for however long, and you're gorgeous enough to get a sane man's undivided attention into the bargain. You probably shouldn't even try taking male drones -- "
"Don't tell me how to do my job!" Deanna caught herself before she could keep going, and propped her elbows on the desk in front of her, knocking aside several padds. "I'm sorry."
"You see how it's getting? Stop making so many compromises and get that husband of yours to make you as shiny as he did that first week you were together. What you need is some serious recreational sex."
"I don't know if I'm up to it."
Beverly gaped. "My God -- who are you and what did you do with my best friend? Deanna!"
"I know, I don't feel much like myself any more, either. I go home to Zerin and Ke'stri, and spend the first hour just with them. Then we have dinner, and Zakhad may or may not be able to stay for the evening -- she's been taking a lot of night shifts to cover for others lately. 'hiri has a set schedule but tends to bring work home, and that works well since he spends so many days with the kids, but it means he also spreads himself thin trying to find time for 'khad when she's off and with me when I'm off, and then the kids are always there to interrupt."
"So what happened to the hierarchy of needs? Zakhad must be as tired as you to let him get away with neglecting the two of you this way. You tell that man he's going to give you -- and Zakhad, too -- a real vacation and that he's going to give you some quality time and attention. You and Zakhad need to sit on him and convince him you really need the time."
Deanna sat back in her chair. "You're right, Beverly."
"Of course I am. Now, where are you taking
me to lunch to pay me back for suggesting it?"
&%%&%%&
The firelight created dancing tongues of light across the floor. Settling on the carpet with her back against the sofa, Deanna stretched out her legs, wriggling her toes, and took the band from her hair, shaking out the curls. They spilled around her like a dark veil.
Cricket symphonies playing endlessly outside were the only sound other than the crackle of wood burning. Silence became a palpable thing, this far from mechanical things that hummed or chirped for her attention; the chateau seemed far removed from the technological world she'd known all her adult life. The few times she'd been in this house, Jean-Luc and Beverly had been home. It seemed strange to not have them there.
Pulling a cushion forward, she propped her head against it and closed her eyes. She started with the muscles in her toes and focused on relaxation, working her way up her legs, up her torso, up from the fingers to the shoulders, the shoulders to the neck, breathing in the nose and out the mouth. Centered. Open. No minds within miles, no emotions discernable to her beyond her own.
Upon arriving the previous evening, they'd put away the food and explored the house and the vineyards, then fallen asleep curled together on the bed. A measure of how they'd neglected themselves, Gwaheer commented when they had finally awakened to birds singing outside the window and half the day gone. Their first night away from children and work, and all they could do was sleep.
She opened her eyes. Yellow flickers darted across the ceiling. For the first time in weeks, she truly felt relaxed. The sleep, the food, the gradual unwinding, the quiet of the chateau -- oh, heaven.
Gwaheer's return brought an immediate inrush of emotion and presence. She heard the beating of his wings, the tread on the steps leading up to the front porch, and the rattle of the latch. He opened the front door and ducked inside. A draft swirled inside with him, creeping through the entryway into the living room and tickling the bare skin of her legs. He dropped to four legs and flowed into the room like a living shadow, the light from the hearth touching his features as he settled in front of the flame to warm himself.
She stared at him, seeing him literally in a different light; with the orange and yellow flickers casting shadows and dancing across his slender pointed ears and along his folded wings, he looked like the old human concept of a demon.
He turned his head to look at her. Putting his face in silhouette, the fire backlit his hair, still windswept and wild, giving him a halo. Her breath quickened. It would be easy to mistake him for a beast. When he abandoned the sedate demeanor he adopted in the presence of other species who might misjudge the feral quickness of the average Ryxian, she sometimes experienced an instinctual trepidation. Something in her evolutionary heritage announced loud and clear that here was a predator, be wary.
He waited for her to do something, holding out his palms to the flame. She could sense the expectation in him.
"How was the sky?"
"Different," he said, an ear moving slightly toward her. "The air feels different here. Tomorrow, I will go home and get your wings for you."
Deanna suddenly ached inside, suddenly found herself short of breath. "'hiri, please, come hold me."
He rose and looked down at her, then crossed the room and sat at her feet. They considered together for a moment. She moved forward, and he slipped behind her, opening his wings and holding them high, then folding them forward loosely around her.
"I can't play games tonight. I'm sorry. I just need to be. . . touched."
His arms across her ribs beneath her breasts, his tail looping around her bent legs, he kissed her neck. "Beautiful," he breathed. "So beautiful."
They sat together that way for a long time. The fire died down to embers while she leaned against him and occasionally rubbed his arm. It felt good to be there, touching the comfortable, familiar body of the man to whom she'd given herself. She knew every angle and plane of him, all the spots he loved to be touched, the tactile sensations stroking different areas would give her. The blue portions of his body -- tail, hands and feet, wings and connected ridges -- reminded her of the softest of leathers; the rest of his skin was close enough to human in texture that it usually felt no different than her own.
"I have been a poor husband to you," he said quietly.
Roused from her hazy, affectionate musings by the abruptness of the statement, she shifted and half-turned, propping herself against him shoulder to shoulder and bowing her head to touch her forehead to his chin. "Only when you say that. Why would you think this way?"
"It has taken me too long to realize how weary you were. Too long to do something about it."
"You've been so busy, and I didn't want to trouble you with my problems. There's been so much going on lately."
"A good zel pays attention to his own home first. I only recognized difficulty when Zakhad scolded me for not seeing how weary you both were. Why didn't you scold me as well?"
"Scolding you would only make you feel more of a burden -- "
His pain cut off her words, shocked her. "I have asked you before to tell me when there is something you want. I have tried to provide for you, Deanna, but how can I when you keep things from me? Do you not trust me? Four years, and you still hold things inside, things that I could help you with."
Deanna rolled onto her knees, careful to stay within the circle of his wings, and faced him, putting a hand to his face. "I was afraid of giving you too much to worry about, stretching you too thin -- I only wanted to help you." With no light, she couldn't see his expression, but she could sense his guilt and doubt. "I'm not pulling away from you, 'hiri. I won't leave you. I promised that I wouldn't. I'll try to be better about sharing my needs with you. But sometimes what I need more than anything else when I get home from a particularly-difficult day, is to forget about it for a while. I don't intend to hide it from you. I just want to be with my family and talk about other things."
"It doesn't seem so long ago, you know?" He nudged her with his tail, and she followed the motion into his arms, kissing his chin and putting her head on his shoulder. He nipped her ear and continued. "It doesn't feel like four years. Four weeks, perhaps. I lose track of time so easily."
"To you, four years isn't so long."
"No. But it isn't so short a time, either. Yet I remember the moment I knew I loved you so vividly."
"When I found you in my quarters, on the *Enterprise.*"
"No. When I teleported in the first time, to drop off those flowers from your mother, to make her feel better. I was so set on not interfering in your life in Starfleet that my only motivation was to appease her. I intended to put them down and leave at once. I didn't realize you would be asleep."
"What would you have done if I were there and awake?"
"I could have stood there with the cloaking device on until you left, or leave as suddenly as I'd come. But you were in bed, and I didn't notice you right away -- the whole room smelled like you, faintly. When I put the vase on the table you sat up, and I realized my mistake -- I meant to teleport away that instant. But you were rising, and I couldn't believe -- I'd seen pictures of you. Your mother was good about showing me pictures, of your graduation from the Academy and later ones she took of you. They didn't prepare me."
"I probably wasn't wearing much, either. That probably gave you a new perspective."
"It was more than that, Deanna. I wanted to touch you."
She moved her hand in slow circles on his chest. "Why does remembering it make you so -- not melancholy, exactly, more of an ache, a hollowness. . . ."
"That first time I saw you -- it was the same feeling I had when Rehia died. That aching emptiness that needed filling -- I needed you. I knew I couldn't have you. I kept telling myself I couldn't have you, because you had your career, and I'd decided that the differences were too great. I couldn't expect you to love me. But the ache remained. I was such a weak fool, finding any excuse to return to see you and pretending I could keep my feelings to myself."
"Weak is the wrong word."
"It is exactly the word. It is still the word, because you know I could not refuse you -- anything you ask, Deanna. Anything to see you smile."
Air passed her ear as he inhaled deeply, taking in her scent like a man gasping for oxygen. She pressed her palms along his abdomen, fingers splayed, pointing down. Ran them slowly over his hips, then the insides of his thighs, at which point his tail rose in a parabola and lashed once. His mouth fastened on her ear lobe and pulled.
"Anything." She felt his lip brush her neck as he whispered, and he sucked her lobe again. "Anything."
The strident summons of the comm unit in the study echoed through the house. Her first impulse was to run for it, to see what the emergency was, and though she swiftly corrected her presumption that the message might possibly be for them, it diffused her mood completely. Zakhad would have sent one of 'hiri's brothers in person, if it were that urgent; subspace communication would be too slow.
"I'll set it to message only," she exclaimed. "I can't imagine why it isn't already on it. Wait for me upstairs?"
He stayed close behind as far as the stairs, running a hand over her back when they parted ways. Deanna found her way in the dark and hit the glowing keys rapidly without checking to see who was calling. In the stillness the shelves and the desk were cast in shadow, and the swinging pendulum of a clock on the wall caught the moonlight at regular intervals. She turned, backed into something, and a book slid to the floor, falling open with a dull thud.
She bent to pick it up and bumped into the corner of the desk. Stifling a yelp of pain, she rubbed the spot on her hip, furiously blinking to do away with the watering of her eyes.
<Deanna?>
<I'm all right. I bumped into something. Hurts.>
<I can tell. Come here. I have a different sort of pain.>
She padded down the hall, the hardwood floor cold against the soles of her feet, her hair swaying around her. Her foot was on the bottom stair when laughter and a clatter on the porch startled her.
Gwaheer was down the stairwell in an instant. No question -- the predator was back, and on the defensive, head high, ears out, gathering himself to leap --
Deanna sensed then that the people on the porch were familiar. "It's Will," she said, and even as she said it he shared her realization and sat abruptly on the floor. The door swung open and Will stumbled through with Shehady as the two tugged at each other's clothing.
"Come here often?" Gwaheer asked laconically.
The couple froze and stared, their faces barely visible to Deanna in the dimness, but she could feel their shock.
"Damn," Will blurted.
&%%&%%&
Gwaheer woke and found that Deanna still slept. He tasted her shoulder, careful not to wake her. A minute amount of salt remained on her skin from last night. He wondered if she would remember whatever it was she'd dreamed about. She sighed, burrowed deeper in the pillow, and settled.
Winding his *nafta* around his waist, he slipped out and closed the door quietly behind him, then skipped the creaky stair on the way down. In the kitchen he found Shehady making coffee.
"Good morning. Coffee or tea?"
"Neither." He took down a glass and filled it with water. "Sleep well?"
"After a few glasses of wine, you bet. We appreciate your letting us stay the night," she said. "I didn't expect it, especially considering how we caught you. If Deanna had answered when we called, we'd have stayed on the ship and out of your way."
"It was no great hardship. We are here primarily for the rest.
"I'd say you need it pretty bad. Both of you look like you need complete bed rest for the next week."
"There's been an influx of new patients, for both Deanna and Zakhad. It's been a difficult year."
"What about you?"
He slanted an ear in her direction curiously.
"Gwaheer, you can't take care of a family when you're completely wiped out. And you look it."
It always took great effort not to lecture or reproach when someone so much younger than he offered such obvious advice. A measure of how comfortable Shehady had gotten with him -- she'd stopped thinking of him as a much-older alien and saw him as a peer.
"I believe I was attempting to do something about that," he said blandly.
"We'll be gone after breakfast, I promise."
<But not gone fast enough.>
Shehady left the cooking to Will, who came downstairs whistling tunelessly. Gwaheer glared at him; he stopped, then noticed Deanna's absence and winced. "Sorry." He whipped up a bowl of batter and made an interesting array of food items to go with the pancakes, and they ate quietly.
Jean-Luc hadn't mentioned giving the Rikers permission to use the chateau any time they were in the system, but it made sense, Gwaheer thought resignedly. Dumb luck, Will called it, that they had chanced to show up at the same time.
When Will and Shehady slung their bags over their shoulders and headed off to town to catch a transport for the coast, Gwaheer made sure the door was locked, then took a tray upstairs. She still slept in spite of the noise Will had made earlier. He put the tray on the table near the window and started filling the bath, adding some of her favorite bath crystals to the hot water, though it would certainly give him a headache. In anticipation of it, he opened the full medical kit Zakhad had jammed in their bag and took a painkiller.
At the sound of his rummaging through their bags, Deanna sat up at last, blinking in the sunlight streaming through the thin white curtains. "What time is it?"
"Time doesn't matter here. All you need to know is that it's time for breakfast, and bath. Will did the cooking before they left." He held up her robe, eyeing the bruise on her hip as she slipped into it. "Eat, and I'll check the water."
He turned off the faucets and dipped his tail into the bubbles. Not hot enough to scald, but hot enough to soothe. The smell of jasmine filled the small room. Giving silent thanks to the inventors of analgesics, he pulled a towel from the cabinet near the sink and tossed it over the back of the single chair beside the old porcelain tub.
"This is supposed to be your vacation, too," Deanna exclaimed, startling him. She stood in the door, arms crossed, her hair pulled forward over her right shoulder and blacking out half of the white robe.
"But this is what I wish to do. It's certainly easier than what I've got to face at the office, and seeing you smile is worth the effort. Will you let me take care of the bruise? You should have seen to it last night."
She opened the robe and watched him aim the regenerator. "I should have, but I was so tired I forgot. You brought my favorite bath crystals. I wish I had a memory like yours. 'Hiri, I don't deserve you," she exclaimed, taking the regenerator when he was done and stepping into his arms. "Thank you for not throwing Will and Shehady out last night. I knew you felt like it."
"You didn't?"
Deanna shook her head. "Of course I did. But they're good friends." Sighing, she looked at the tub. "I wish it were big enough for two."
He left her up to her chin in bubbles, eyes closed, hair spilling over the edge to the floor. Leaving the dishes in the kitchen sink, he poured the last of the coffee in a mug and took it outside.
Three men, the ones Jean-Luc had hired to keep up the vineyard, worked in the distance among the vines. Gwaheer watched them and wished he had been fortunate enough to have been assigned to observe more planetary lifestyles and fewer starships. Interesting as people could be, they behaved differently in artificial environments.
He sensed Deanna rousing herself from her calm soaking, and returned to the master bedroom to find her getting dressed. She paused to kiss him, leaving the taste of syrup on his lips. "Let's go for a walk in the woods. They aren't much of a woods, but it's peaceful and the fresh air will feel good."
Gwaheer slipped a wing around her and pressed
his face into her hair. "Anything."
&%%&%%&
It was like being a child again, Deanna thought happily. She had done this on Betazed with him before -- five years old and full of energy, wanting to play hide and seek all day long with her winged friend.
She snagged the skirt of her loose summer dress on a branch, freed it, and continued her scramble down the hill. The soft boots she wore barely made a noise in the moist soil and sparse green grass. Laughing, she leaped across a small brook at the bottom of the slope and followed a narrow, faint trail leading up the next hill at an angle. It took her through more trees, the dappled sunlight everywhere around her. Her eyes took in every detail -- fungi on tree trunks looking like fluted shelves waiting for something to put on them, wildflowers, small animals darting away from her, birds in the branches. She could easily imagine Jean-Luc playing in these woods as a small boy. That boulder over there would be a perfect starship, to a fertile imagination. Or a sailing ship, or anything at all, really.
Deanna heard other footsteps to her right and knew at once it wasn't Gwaheer. These were two-legged, shod footsteps. She continued on her way, jogging along the path and tossing her single braid out of her way.
A man stepped into the path in front of her. She froze, looking at him in surprise.
"Hello," he said, just as surprised as she -- he was noticing her eyes, she thought. Not too many humans had black-on-black eyes, if any did.
"Hi. Excuse me."
He caught her arm as she tried to pass, then let go as if scalded. "Sorry. But where are you from? Not that you aren't welcome here, it's just that not many people go walking through our woods without so much as a by-your-leave in this town." He had a thicker accent than Jean-Luc, even when the latter spoke French.
"My name's Deanna Troi. I'm staying at the Picard house, with my husband."
"You're a friend of Jean-Luc's, then? I'm Claude Lartet. I'm looking for my daughter." He held up a hand at about chest-height. "Blond, dark-eyed, and running like a pack of wolves was after her. We have travel plans, and she doesn't want to leave. You wouldn't have happened to see her?"
"No. If I do, I'll see that she comes home. My husband is out here somewhere, too. I'm sure if he came across her, he'd want to see her safely to where she belongs. How old is she, and what's her name?"
"Courtney. She's eight, going on thirty. I expect I'll find her close by -- she didn't have that much of a head start. Are you and your husband from off world? You have a very distinctive accent."
"I'm from Betazed."
His knowledge of off-world cultures must be limited; the expected trepidation didn't happen. He didn't know she might be empathic or telepathic, or both. "Is that a nice place to live?"
"It's very different than Earth." Deanna smiled and took a step, signaling the end of the encounter. "It's nice to have met you, Mr. Lartet. Perhaps we'll meet again. And I'll be sure to watch for Courtney."
He nodded and walked past her. She strode down the path, humming to herself, feeling his eyes on her back.
"A neighbor?" Gwaheer asked, startling her. She spun to find him sitting up the hill on a tree stump. "I'm sorry. I thought you would sense me."
"I would have, but -- "
<You were paying attention to him instead.>
Deanna looked back at Claude. He was walking slowly in the opposite direction, the sun on his broad shoulders brightening the white of his shirt. <He's looking for his daughter.>
<An attractive man, by your standards.>
She raised an eyebrow. <Jealous that I'm admiring a rugged Gaul, 'hiri?>
Gwaheer looked down his ridged nose at her, several feet of his tail twitching pensively, a sly smile on his lips. <You can window shop all you like, as long as you remember you've already made your final purchase.> Rising, he hopped down and half-slid in the dead leaves to join her on the trail. He stood nose to nose with her, and she traced his keel with a finger.
<A well-used final purchase at that. It's nearly time for a maintenance check, I think. Have to keep all the moving parts well-lubricated.>
His pleasure bubbled up and seeped into her, followed by desire, bringing her swiftly to arousal and making her forget wandering Frenchmen and other distractions. Gwaheer had already forgotten all else but her; his body language shouted what she already knew, that he wanted her taste in his mouth and her body against his. Wings opening, ears forward and straight, eyes on hers --
She looked around and saw no conducive trysting place in sight. Dead leaves were scattered all around on the ground, which sloped down to her left into the brook. He solved the problem by pulling her into his arms and wrenching them the short distance to the house, the dirt path beneath her feet replaced by the hardwood floor of the dining room. Teleportation was ever the convenience, she thought, smiling and running her fingers up his shoulders. He smelled faintly of the outdoors, of leaves and greenery he'd probably been running through during their game of hide and seek.
Deanna shoved two chairs apart as he pushed her backward and onto the table. The sturdy, hardwood Picard family dining table -- she wondered briefly if it had ever been used in quite the same way before, and abandoned that train of thought at the insistent pull on her panties and the rearranging of her skirt. He flipped it up over her face, putting it back when she shoved it down.
His hands, claws folded into his palms, searched briefly and disengaged her bra, and the dress was shoved further up as he hopped up and found a nipple with his mouth. She knew he must be holding on to the edge of the table with his feet -- there wouldn't be any other way for him to be standing over her this way. Her own feet dangled, the edge of the table pressing against the insides of her knees.
His hand still pushed at the dress while he suckled urgently. Raising her arms above her head solved the problem. In seconds she'd discarded the dress and was fondling his head, then grabbing those turgid neck ridges that came so easily to hand and made him so crazy when she pinched and played with them.
What he'd probably intended to be gentle turned desperate. She didn't care. Parting her legs for him, she shuddered under his initial onslaught. The sudden thrusting made her gasp; he wasn't usually so intent on putting as much of him into her as possible, as quickly as possible, this early in their lovemaking. Pulling his head to the side and down to her mouth, she bit the back of his neck harder than usual.
He thrust again, harder, hissing and grabbing her up against his chest. If not for his grip on the table's edge, he'd probably have shoved them both off the other side to the floor. She slipped her arms under his and wrapped her hands over his shoulders from behind, hanging on while he hammered away, losing herself in empathic reverberations of his passion and the feel of hard flesh sliding in and out, wet and hot. He caught himself, slowed dramatically to a more sensuous, less frenzied pace, and kissed her neck and face repeatedly, purring, paying close attention to her reactions to each stroke.
She moved her hips as much as she could without somewhere to put her heels. Her touch on his ridges wasn't accomplishing much at this point, so she slid her hands down his sides, heading for his hips.
He sank in and held himself there, sitting up and putting his hands on her breasts. Deanna could feel the slight pressure of his balls against her. She felt with her feet for somewhere to put her heels, but they slipped off the edge of the table too easily. Panting, she wriggled impatiently.
One of his hands fondled her breast, caught the nipple between his fingers, and he bent his mouth to the other nipple, teasing it with his tongue. "Ah-aaaah," she gasped, trying again for traction. The steady pull and tease put an arch in her back; she writhed again, grabbing his head, body begging for more and closing around his cock.
The whereabouts of his other hand suddenly came to her attention -- he pulled one of her hands from his head, and guided it down between them. She recognized his intent and went the rest of the way on her own, parting her outer lips further and slipping her fingers down around the base of his cock. Warm, sticky, hard, and as she touched it, moving. He pulled halfway out and let her hold him. She could sense how difficult that was for him -- he wanted nothing more than to continue toward completion, but in the openness between them through their bond, she felt his intent -- the game was hers, he was her toy. At least until next time.
Putting his hands in her armpits, he moved her enough that she could finally prop her heels on the table. Now he rested just inside her, and he held himself over her, trembling, waiting for her to do as she pleased.
She moved him around slowly, rubbing herself with him, listening to his breath catching, watching his face. Eyes closed, hands planted on the tabletop on either side of her, he continued the empathic encouragement for her to continue, to take him at her leisure.
She couldn't play very long. The need to be filled became too much to bear. Her wild imaginings of things to do with him would have to wait, and she knew there would be plenty of time for it. Guiding him in slightly, she began to pull at him as if milking him, trying to encourage him to get on with it. He endured, so she removed her hand and raised herself to meet him.
"Love me," she sighed.
He plunged in and wrapped his body around her, a desperate whirring bursting from him. Holding herself open and steadying him by the shoulders, she closed her eyes and let herself lose control along with him, moving beneath him and doing everything she could to take advantage of that driving, ecstasy-inducing cock that had become the center of the universe.
Her nails dug into the back of his neck. She kissed him hungrily, feeling the vibration of his cries on her lips and tongue, holding him against her and hearing the rhythmic, frenzied creaking of the table beneath them -- he convulsed once, slamming into her one last time. He threw his head back, grimacing and tightening his hands on her arms until she felt the points of his claws, and froze that way for a moment.
She hadn't expected ejaculation, not so soon -- orgasm, yes, but he must have been anticipating this too much. Putting her legs around his hips, she hooked her feet together and pulled him into her harder. The first pulse followed predictably; she felt the wave travel along the horizontal ridges of his cock and tightened herself on it repeatedly.
He fell into her arms and trembled, his wings open and draped over the table. "Deanna," he breathed against her hair. He slid his hands and feet beneath her and clung for a while, his grip loosening gradually as her own orgasm rose and fell and they lay together, afloat in the eddies of sated pleasure. It took him a long time to finish. Eventually, she could feel him losing the erection.
"Why the table?" she asked, tugging at strands of his hair.
"I neglected to get my bearings upstairs." He chuckled and tasted her shoulder. "Oh, I needed that. I'm sorry I was in such a hurry. I could have saved it for later, but you taste so good, feel so good. . . . It's been a while, hasn't it?"
"Not so long as that."
"Since you let go, I mean. It's been too long since you allowed all the tension to leave you, and give yourself so completely. And now you are sleepy."
"This vacation was a wonderful idea,
'hiri. I love you so much -- thank you for suggesting it." Deanna bit his ear and ran
her hand down the back of his neck. "But do you mind if we take a nap before
lunch?"
&%%&%%&
She woke to the distant pounding of someone at the door.
Gwaheer leaped from the bed and stopped himself on the braided rug next to it. "Perhaps you should go down, and I should not."
Deanna looked at her husband and felt a mounting frustration -- it was lunacy that in this century, this advanced age of mankind, some segments of humanity would be so close-minded that they might perceive Gwaheer as a threat. But the possibility was there. The discomfort of her fellow Betazoids had proved that; if the peace-loving, open-minded Betazoid population could look at a Ryxian and see something of which to be suspicious, what might an insulated segment of a human population do?
She slid from beneath the covers and pulled on her robe. No time to dress -- but perhaps a robe would throw whoever it was off guard and give her an excuse to send them away. Not being ready to receive visitors could be an advantage. She hurried downstairs, Gwaheer riding along with her in spirit.
The third pounding session rattled the door on its hinges. She shot back the bolt and opened it to find a shocked Claude Lartet.
"Mrs. Troi," he blurted.
She almost laughed -- Mrs. Troi was her mother, after all -- then remembered that had been the name she'd given him, then told him she was married. What else would he assume? "Is something wrong? I see you found your daughter." The girl stood at the foot of the porch steps, peering around a flowering shrub at them.
"I thought I saw -- "
Deanna crossed her arms. "Yes?"
"Nothing. It was nothing. A good day to you, ma'am, and sorry I bothered you." He half-turned, then stared at her for a moment as if expecting her to do something. "Jean-Luc isn't home, then?"
"He's still on Tannick. He said my husband and I could spend our vacation here, if we wished."
"Tannick -- I hear the people there have wings."
"Some of them do."
He nodded, wished her a good day again, and tramped down the steps. Deanna closed the door, locked it, and sighed.
Upstairs, she settled next to Gwaheer on the bed and put a hand on his hip. "He may have seen you in the woods, but I'm not sure. He was concerned and then curious. He was looking for Jean-Luc, I think. He didn't expect to see me at the door."
"He may have seen us vanish. You told him you were staying here, obviously. Informing his neighbor that his guest went missing in the company of a blue alien would seem logical."
"I think I'd like to go for another walk, this time into town."
"We can do that. You may wish to bathe first, however." He purred and peered through his eyelashes at her. "You smell like sex. I would want to taste you incessantly, if you went like that."
She showered, in the stall that was too small
for him to fit his entire body in at one time, smiling as she remembered his quiet
swearing that morning while he tried anyway. It was strange how, when the daily routine
was interrupted completely, all
the mundane sensations became new again. The softness of the thick green bath towel, the
feel of the anti-slip bath mat under her bare feet, the warm air against her skin --
without the constant pressure of her brain trying to solve problems or create a plan of
attack for the day's appointments, she experienced all these things as if for the first
time.
When she came out, he was asleep again, but dozing lightly -- the end of his tail moved restlessly against the bedspread. She stood at the end of the bed, hand on the footboard, looking at him.
He appeared fragile, yet she knew he was resilient and as strong as a human male of the same height. Stronger, if one considered wing muscles. She knew she could pick him up bodily if she had to, thanks to hollow bones and other adaptations to flight, though the number of limbs to control was too daunting to do it often. Conversely, though he could lift her body weight, he couldn't hold her up; he would topple over, because as Shehady had noted before he was top-heavy and easily overbalanced.
It really was a herculean undertaking, to overcome all the small differences between them. She wondered whether, if she'd really thought about the sheer number of them, she would have chosen to marry him. His reluctance at the outset to attempt a relationship with her made more sense the longer she lived with him. Walking in public with a husband who moved on four legs had been her first truly disturbing confrontation with how off-putting such things could be. She'd also had to overcome her reactions to discovering those rows of extra nostrils along his ribs she'd thought were markings, not to mention the astounding variety of purrings, whirrings, and deep-chested chucklings Ryxi made without really thinking about it, the constant motion of the tail, and 'hiri's habit of teeth-gnashing in his sleep. Funny how she could get used to Klingon snoring, yet that quiet champing woke her sometimes in the silence of the night.
He'd been right in the beginning, when he'd expressed his concern over her ability to adjust. He had to suppress so many things when dealing with humans just to make them comfortable around him. At home, he relaxed and those things came out, and as his wife she should grow accustomed to them. And so she had. Most of them, anyway.
And then there was Zakhad, who could be wonderful, and playful, and at times frightening. Gwaheer's other wife showed surprising turns of mood sometimes. Unlike Gwaheer, who could be angered but wouldn't lose control, Zakhad would lose her temper.
Gwaheer snorted in his slumber and put out a hand, flexing his fingers, then turned his head; she saw his nostrils flutter. He was looking for her. He so rarely slept alone, and had mentioned that staying away from home for more than two nights left him exhausted and irritable. Moving quietly around the bed, she put her hand under his nose. His mouth opened, tongue moving over his bottom lip, then his eyes flew open and he lunged and bit her fingers, pressing his teeth along her knuckles gently.
"I should have known you were trying to lure me in for the kill," she said, sitting down and removing her hand. "How long were you awake?"
He rolled on his side, sleepy-eyed and moving lazily. "Not long. Do you love me, Deanna?"
The timing of the question seemed suspect. Had he sensed her thoughts? Or was this one of his games?
She didn't realize that her feelings showed on her face until he pushed himself up and reached for her, kissing her shoulder, pulling her against him. The bond flared between them; he opened himself completely, exposing the fear her reaction to the question had engendered.
"I was taking inventory," she said, clearing her throat to rid it of the huskiness. "I was thinking about all the things we've overcome -- that I've overcome, while living with you. I was making an accounting, and reminding myself of how much you really mean to me. Yes, I love you, 'hiri. I'm sorry I haven't been showing you how much, lately."
"We are both tired, and it shows. It feels good to be with you, knowing there will be no interruptions."
They fell sideways into bed. She closed her eyes and focused on him, her sense of his emotions. "We don't have to go if you don't want to," she said. "If it would make you uncomfortable -- "
His breath ticked her ear as he interrupted. "I am inured to staring and the discomfort of others, kahzan'kahli'i. I understand why humans would have difficulty seeing me as a person. They see me as a collection of animal parts, forgetting that they themselves share much of the same physiology as other mammals."
"I know that. But this is our vacation. If my uneasiness causes you discomfort, we shouldn't go. It frustrates me that people will judge you merely by your appearance."
He raised himself to look down at her, tracing whorls around her nipple and down between her breasts. "I think that perhaps it will be easy to set minds at ease, if you are with me. Certainly if we walk among them and they can see that you are entranced and infatuated with me, they will know that I'm not dangerous or malicious."
"What if all they can see is how you're enamored of me?"
"They will expect that. No man with a pair of eyes could resist your charms."
"Hm. How did it come about that I slept alone so many nights, then, before you came along and made me so happy?"
"Intimidation incapacitates the weaker specimens."
Rolling her head to look up at him, she shivered at his continued, feather-light tracings of her side. "You are stronger than those inferior males, then?"
His pupils constricted until the golden rays in his eyes were at their straightest and longest. His right ear twitched, then folded back against his hair. The light teasing tone he'd begun to take was gone. "I was, until you smiled. Until you looked at me, and smiled, and the sweet perfume of you made me forget how to speak."
He tasted her cheek, lips following the touch of his tongue to turn it into a kiss. <I have something for you. Open the drawer.>
The only drawer in reach was the one in the nightstand. She pulled it open, and found a wrapped box inside. Intrigued, she sat up. Gwaheer dropped to the floor at her knee, watching her pull off the red paper. The lid of the shallow black box opened at the pressing of a latch; against black velvet, a pair of diamond earrings and a diamond pendant glittered from gold settings.
"You got this last night, didn't you?" she whispered, wide-eyed and suddenly breathless. "That's why you were out so long. You came in the back and put it here, then came in the front, and I never heard you do it. It's. . . they're extraordinary. How did you know what to get?"
"I told the jeweler I wanted something to match the glow of joy in eyes like the night sky." He touched her face, then ran a finger through her hair. "Something that would call attention to a woman and announce that she is cherished beyond measure."
"I wondered why Jean-Luc looked so sly. You must have exchanged more currency than -- where are you going?"
He rose and opened the armoire where she'd hung her clothes, and extricated a garment bag. Laying it across the bed, he smiled and went in the bathroom.
Deanna stared at the bag. "'hiri," she wailed, opening it eagerly. Midnight-blue velvet met her fingers. Velvet. Like his voice. He knew how she loved his voice when he let it drop to sultry tones; she'd told him once that she wanted to take that soft, textured baritone in which he murmured endearments and wrap herself up in it.
The dress she pulled out looked too small. But, after rummaging for appropriate underwear, she slipped it on and managed to fasten it. She turned in front of the mirror on the inside of one of the doors on the armoire. The dress fit her like paint. Strapless, sleeveless, apparently seamless, with a half-sunburst of gathers radiating down from between her breasts, and the hem just north of her knees. She put on the necklace and found that the pendant, a cluster of stones grouped around a single large one in the shape of a teardrop, fell neatly into the hollow of her throat. The matching earrings swung heavy from her lobes but complimented the necklace and dress perfectly. Against her skin, in contrast to her hair and the velvet, the flashing diamonds glittered like stars.
The bathroom door sighed open again. She stared at her reflection, shaking her head, and put a hand to her cheek. "I can't believe you did this."
"We're going out for dinner tonight, and I believe that I will receive far less attention than you will."
"But I thought we were staying in, resting, doing as we pleased."
He came up behind her and traced along the back of the dress. Though she knew it was low, she hadn't realized it dropped *that* low; his finger dipped to the small of her back and up again.
"Does this please you?"
She ran her hands down her sides, turning. This couldn't be authentic velvet. It allowed here a range of movement that real velvet couldn't. Tight as it was, the dress shouldn't be this comfortable.
"What made you think of doing this for me?"
He kissed her bare shoulder, moving aside her hair. "I think you should wear your hair down. That way onlookers will have to watch for glimpses of your skin."
She looked at him, narrowing her eyes. "You want people to look at me, don't you?"
"Oh, no. Not at all." He lowered his voice to those velvet tones that matched the dress and made a heat start between her thighs. Taking her hair in his hands, he buried his face in it, nosed through it, kissed her shoulder blade, ran his tongue up her spine, and kissed the back of her neck.
"I want them to worship you," he murmured, and pressed his body against her, running his hands down her arms and nibbling up the side of her neck. "I want men to see you and think wistful, indecent thoughts. To follow the graceful way you walk, drinking in every movement, imagining how smooth your skin, how your lips taste, how your fingers leave trails of fire in their wake."
He slid his palms down the velvet, along the curve of her waist, up her nearly-flat belly to cup her breasts. "I want you to notice them and smile mysteriously, and turn away, leaving them hypnotized by the sway of your hips. I want them to worship you, and make you feel as sensual and sexy as you are."
Deanna looked at them in the mirror, at Gwaheer molding himself to her body, his blue hands bright against the darkness of her dress and hair -- at the contented smile on her lips and the joy in her eyes matching the flash of the diamonds. Resting her head against his, she swayed, savoring the pressure of his body against hers.
"And when we are through looking at one another across the table while the men are staring and the women glaring, when we are weary of being parted from one another, I'll bring you home. I'll remove the dress and the jewelry. I will enjoy the smoothness of your skin, the softness of your lips, trace the curves of your body, and lose myself in you. I will make you feel sensual, and attractive, and loved."
She bent back her head, closing her eyes. His lips brushed the curve of her exposed throat, and his warm breath caressed her.
"You're too late," she whispered.
"I already do."
&%%&%%&
Lunch took longer than expected -- it was interrupted by too many kisses and too much laughter at nothing. They departed at two o'clock and dawdled along the road to town, stopping to look at cows, wildflowers, and anything else that seemed new and unusual to them. Holodecks aside, Deanna hadn't seen cows in person. Her visits to Earth had mainly been in San Francisco; the exceptions had been one tropical beach she didn't recall the name of, and a short time in New York on a holiday while she was still in the Academy.
Gwaheer relished being outside, where he could move freely and stretch his wings. Humming, he turned his face into the wind whenever it blew. Clouds had gathered overhead. She wondered if they might have some rain soon.
They meandered down the road and saw no one, and Gwaheer hummed and whirred half-melodies and arpeggios. Finally she had enough. "Sing, already," she exclaimed. "You have something to say."
He stopped walking and looked at her, tilting his head, pleased and happy -- this was the way she loved to see him. Relaxed. Being himself, not the *kreh'talliath,* not the instigator of anti-Borg strategies -- just Gwaheer, holding his tail above the ground and curling it to and fro as he walked along the dirt road, exploring the countryside of France at his own leisurely pace.
He took her outstretched hand and improvised a few dance steps. She pivoted twice on her toes with her skirt flaring around her -- she'd put on a white peasant dress, a blue vest, and her boots -- let go of his fingers, and kept walking, hands behind her back. When he began to sing, she glanced back at him and smiled, slowing so he could catch up.
"Love me, love me, say you do
Let me fly away with you
For my love is like the wind
And wild is the wind
Give me more than one caress
Satisfy this hungriness
Let the wind blow through your heart
For wild is the wind.
You touch me, I hear the sound of mandolins
You kiss me, and with your kiss the world begins
You're Spring to me, all things to me
You're life itself
Like a leaf clings to a tree
Oh, my darling, cling to me
For we're creatures of the wind
And wild is the wind, the wind
Wild is my love for you."
"That's more like it." She held out a hand to him and he gave her his tail. Swinging it, she looked up the hill at a horse grazing near the top.
"Deanna, what do you think that is?" He pointed at the town ahead of them.
"You mean the tall structure above the trees? I think it's a steeple of a church. Where people go to practice their religion."
"I've heard of that. Do you think it might be open to tourists?"
"I'm sure it would be. Beverly said the whole town has become tourist-oriented. Because it's Jean-Luc's home town, there's been a lot of interest in it, especially since the Borg attacked."
As they rounded a curve in the road, she saw two people ahead of them, a man and a boy.
"That would be your friend from the woods," Gwaheer said.
"I don't think so. This must be someone else. Lartet had brown hair, not black."
"They don't appear to realize it's raining."
Deanna looked up, and a drop hit her cheek. "It is, and me without an umbrella."
He chuckled and opened his wing with an audible snap, holding it at an angle and over her head. "What did you say?"
"You're such a *useful* husband to have."
"You find so many uses for me." He laid on the velvet and purred, curling his tail in the air behind him in what she knew was a provocative manner. She exchanged empathic kisses with him. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, smiling cannily.
The rain fell in earnest now, pattering on his wing membranes, and he hummed again as they proceeded down the gentle slope of the hill, matching steps to keep her under her impromptu umbrella. They caught up with father and son. The two stood beneath an arch that seemed to be someone's front gate, in a narrow dry spot, trying to stay dry. They stared at Deanna and Gwaheer, and she realized that both were in a state of shock.
When they were around another bend in the road, she turned to Gwaheer. "That wasn't just the usual surprise of seeing a winged man unexpectedly."
"I know. I wonder what it was about." He glanced over his shoulder uneasily.
By the time they reached the edge of town, the rain had stopped, and he'd furled his wing. Sunlight broke through the clouds. One of the first buildings they passed was the church they'd seen from the road; it was a grey stone chapel, and as they reached the corner and turned along the street on the northern side of the church, the bell began to toll, and the doors opened. People flooded out and down the sidewalk, arranging themselves in lines two and three people deep.
Gwaheer put an arm around her and they watched as a group of women in blue dresses came out, accompanied by young men, and then a couple who was obviously the focal point of the whole group. Everyone waiting outside began throwing minuscule white objects that made pattering noises on the sidewalk, and joyous laughter broke out as the woman -- the bride, Deanna realized -- began hugging people. While the couple was so occupied, a horse-drawn carriage came around the corner opposite and rolled up to the front of the church.
The groom helped the woman up into it, the driver lending a hand, and when they'd arranged the voluminous white skirts and settled in the back, they waved as the horse trotted off pulling them. Long strings of shoes had been tied to the back, and bounced and thumped along behind.
"An interesting ceremony," Gwaheer mumbled while the crowd of people dispersed, most of them walking off down the street. Obviously most lived nearby in town. "I've read about human weddings. Traditional ones, that is."
"I've never been to one that hasn't been Starfleet," Deanna said. "That was a beautiful dress. And the couple were obviously so much in love with each other. . . he was so handsome, so young. It makes me feel so old. . . ."
The shift in his mood distracted her; she turned to him, and took his hand again. "What's so funny?"
"Whenever you complain about being old, I can't help it. I will never see you as old."
"Oh, fine, Mr. Fossil. Remind me of how old you are all you like -- I still feel like an old woman when I see a young couple like that. They couldn't have been much more than twenty."
He stepped closer and held her. Kissed her, the way she liked him to, with a measured, yet urgent thrust of his tongue. Holding his face in her hands, she savored the moment. He'd brought his wings forward to hold her within them, surrounding her with himself -- she loved that. Loved the smell of rain mixed with his faint muskiness.
<You make me feel young, kahzan'kahli'i. Anything.>
His constant refrain, anything. The short version of the vows he'd taken for their Betazoid wedding, a reminder that he would even sacrifice his dignity to give her what she pleased. He loved completely when he loved at all, and she knew he would move galaxies for her or die trying, if it were something she really wanted. The wedding had been wonderful to a point; though no one had brandished a phaser as had happened at Shehady's and Will's, it had been fraught with its own tensions and small disasters. Not the least of which had been their son's brief disappearance.
She sensed that they were being observed, and pulled back. Some of the people from the wedding were staring at them.
"'hiri," she whispered anxiously. "It's the same. They're shocked. Not surprised to see you, just shocked -- and angry? Why would they be angry because we're kissing in public?"
"Have we missed some cultural taboo? Jean-Luc would have said something -- he knows us well enough to warn us about something like that." Gwaheer turned, gathering her under an arm protectively. "Let's keep walking."
As they passed the rear of the church, someone came out of a small house behind it and approached. A priest, in his traditional cassock, crossed the lawn and stopped on the sidewalk in front of them.
"Good afternoon, Father," she said. The white-haired man studied her a moment; she wondered why it was her that he scrutinized, when certainly he had never seen a Ryxian before, and she passed as human. Then he smiled pleasantly.
"We seem to have a good many young couples in love wandering about town this spring," he said. "I'm sorry, but I noticed you standing here and curiosity got the better of me -- you are Ryxian, are you not?"
Gwaheer smiled; he kept an arm around Deanna and reached to shake the priest's hand. "My name is Gwaheer. This is my wife, Deanna. We are friends of the Picards, who offered us the use of the chateau for a vacation. You must be Father Cambon."
"I am more often called Father Andre. We are very much an extended family here in Labarre. A pleasure to meet you -- it isn't often we seen non-human tourists who are quite so obviously non-human."
"A very politic way to say alien. I'm impressed." Gwaheer's tail coiled; Deanna stroked the inside of his wing, the closest she could come to stroking his back, and smiled at the priest.
"Would you like to come in for a drink? I've recently purchased some of the finer Chateau Picard, which is my favorite, frankly, but I also have some wonderful blanc from Bergerac. After the excitement of the wedding, some casual conversation and relaxation would be more than welcome."
"We'd love to," Deanna said, knowing it to be true for both of them. A friendly face made a welcome change after all the hostile staring.
Father Andre showed them into the house behind the church. The rectory was made of the same grey stone as the chapel -- cathedral, she supposed it must be, though she'd imagined cathedrals as much larger. The nuances of human religion weren't something she knew well. All she knew was derived from books that described such things in generalities.
The house was small, the furnishing plain and a little worn, and Gwaheer seemed too large for the living room yet managed to maneuver with his usual grace and precision. As always, he had trouble finding a place to sit, and settled at last on a footstool in front of Deanna. The priest kept smiling at them as if infinitely amused and pleased by what he saw.
"Forgive me, but I see my initial assumption about you was incorrect," he said, bringing them glasses of wine and handing the first to Deanna. "Your eyes -- you aren't human, either. I thought there was something about your accent."
"Betazoid," Gwaheer said. "And half human. And the finest example of the best of both."
Father Andre left the room briefly and returned with his own glass, and a tray of brie and slices of a baguette. He put the tray on a small round table between his wingback chair and Deanna's, moving aside a pile of books to do so, and retrieved his glass from its temporary spot on the floor. He raised it to them. "To new friends."
Gwaheer smiled over his shoulders at Deanna as they raised their glasses to the priest's. She touched his long hair where it hung between his folded wings, running her fingers along the twisted six-strand braid she'd put it in that morning.
The wine left an interesting melange of flavors on her tongue. "Jean-Luc is right when he complains about replicated wines being inadequate. It really does taste different."
"Very different," Gwaheer said. "The subtle chemical differences are many. This is good. It has much of what Jean-Luc calls oak. Medium-bodied, and a fruity blend with cloves and spices -- chardonnay, I think. Not blanc."
Father Andre's bushy white eyebrow twisted upward. "If I required proof of knowing the Picards, that would be it." He smiled, looked at Deanna. "How long have the two of you been married?"
"Four years, roughly."
"Children?"
"Two." Deanna contemplated mentioning Zakhad, but thought that would be unnecessary. His interest seemed cursory.
"I thought so. I can usually tell, after all the years I've spent in this parish watching couples pair off and marry. Human or otherwise, there are some constants that always apply. You seem very comfortable with each other. Your marriage is quite successful, I'd say. A rarity. So many people succumb to love's first blush and see the relationship die because one or both of them can't quite meet the other's expectations."
"I think it may have helped that both of us are in the counseling profession -- or rather, she is, and I have been." Gwaheer spread brie on a piece of bread. His hand motions caught Andre's interest, as they often did the interest of anyone who hadn't spent much time with a Ryxian -- watching a four-fingered, dual-thumbed hand maneuver with all four fingers folded neatly with the claws tucked into the palm was nearly a conversation-starter in itself.
"So you could appreciate fully the difficulties of relationships in general. I have counseled many young couples. Never cross-culturally -- that must have been an interesting challenge for you to take on. Betazoids have very different customs than Ryxi -- I'm fascinated by the intricacies of Ryxi culture, or at least the ones I've been able to read about. Xenosociology would have been my field of study if not for the priesthood." He paused. "I'm sorry, you probably hear this sort of thing from everyone you meet."
"It isn't often that people we meet feel they can discuss it," Deanna said. "We receive a mixed response, when we're anywhere but Tannick. The Ryxi accept offworlders with more ease, possibly because their home planet had three very different indigenous species on it and they've had eons of hammering out their differences with them in which to learn how. Still, even some Ryxi can react badly to a mixed marriage."
Father Andre took his turn at the cheese and bread. "Yet you overcome such things well enough to be overtly affectionate in public. I know my people. You must have had at least a few less-than-approving stares since you've been here."
"It wouldn't be the first time. We followed 'hiri's customs first, and had a Betazoid wedding as well -- the bad reactions of others are usually only initial ones, and only because they do not know what to make of 'hiri. He speaks Standard too well, and Betazoid nearly as well but with an accent. He knows human and Betazoid habits and perspectives well enough to know how to approach anyone from either species, and make them feel comfortable once the initial shock of his appearance is over. But there are some who will not give him the chance." Deanna felt Gwaheer's tail sliding up the back of her calf and suppressed a smile.
"I had wondered about that. You both have less of an accent when speaking Standard than I do." Father Andre chuckled and sipped his wine. "I have to admire your courage and devotion to one another."
He paused, and Deanna sensed it was a pause -- he had more questions burning in his bright blue eyes, and glanced back and forth between them as if unsure of what to ask whom.
<You like this man, 'hiri. I like him too.>
<Perhaps we should ask him over for dinner later this week. After his curiosity is satisfied, he would be a most entertaining guest, and Jean-Luc holds him in high esteem.>
<And of course that is an endorsement you couldn't refuse.> "You shouldn't feel you will embarrass us by asking questions, Father. We've heard all of them, believe me."
He sat up, blinking in dismay. "Oh, dear. You're telepathic, aren't you?"
"No, empathic -- 'hiri is telepathic but too polite to peek."
"So. . . you must be what's called bondmates. I've read that happens sometimes, between telepaths. It must be why you seem so attuned to one another. I hadn't realized that could happen cross-species."
"Attuned?" Gwaheer's ear swivelled toward Deanna, and he looked back at her out of the corner of his eye. "You could say that. What puzzles me is that you were able to tell."
"Body language can be subtle but telling. As I've mentioned, there are some constants." He laughed, shook his head, and settled back into his chair. "Ah, but I'd love to hear your love story. I hear love stories, sometimes. Sitting in the tavern listening to men pouring out their broken hearts over beer is more common, however. Lovers tend to keep their stories to themselves, which is as it should be, but the heartbroken want to share their pain with the world."
"Have you no wife?" Gwaheer raised his head. Deanna knew he was testing the air for signs of another occupant of the house.
"Priests, ones who remain true to the traditional ways, do not marry. We are a study in extremes, you and I -- I had read Ryxi are not monogamous."
The question implicit in the statement made Gwaheer smile. "Marry well, and spend many years surrounded by the love of kahli and their children. It is not hard to love completely when one has chosen well, and it is difficult to be civilized without love. Deanna is my third wife. I was well-trained by my first, who was lost to us in death, and by my second, who remains to keep me well in hand to the benefit of the third."
Intrigued, Father Andre rose to fetch the bottle and refill their glasses. "That was nearly poetically spoken."
"He is thinking in Ryxi. Whenever he speaks of his wives, he returns to his native tongue, as it's the most natural for him in which to express his feelings. Ryxi is almost poetic in form, full of metaphors." Deanna sat back with her full glass. "I sometimes play word games with him in Ryxi. I've been trying to learn the language since we were married."
"Absolutely fascinating. Do the Ryxi have poetry?"
"Not as humans would understand it. Things are rarely expressed the same way twice -- the aphorism 'form follows function' seems to be what they live by. They choose words to follow emotion or intent." Deanna nudged Gwaheer with her foot. "Speak a song to me, about the rain."
Gwaheer tipped his head back, an indication of deep thought. The expected whirring began in his throat. Father Andre set aside his wine glass and held his hands together in his lap, watching raptly.
"Your words, they fall as soft as tears of a new spring, shed for joy. I cannot count them. Your words fall into my heart, seeds of devotion to grow and flower, to blossom and adorn my life in all the beauty you impart -- the air I breath becomes more words to fall, softly, upon your heart, to green and blossom there. We share this rain of love, this necessary rain, you and I."
Father Andre felt a delight Deanna hadn't expected. He looked at her, and picked up his glass to raise it. "You are indeed very fortunate, having a poet for a husband."
Deanna leaned forward to stroke the back of Gwaheer's head and tug his ear. He still whirred quietly, probably caught up in more song-making but politely refraining. Given his emotional state, the rest of his song would likely be inappropriate for public presentation.
"Oh, yes. He spoils me, terribly."
"And you do not spoil me?" Gwaheer ceased his whirring and turned to catch her fingers in his mouth briefly, shaking himself from the mood.
Conversation turned to local sights and activities; Beverly had been right about the tourist trade affecting the sleepy little town. Starting in spring, there were many small celebrations and events designed to keep tourists busy. A Renaissance festival had been planned for the upcoming weekend, and Gwaheer's requests for details drifted into areas she found of no interest. She let her mind wander to other things, and before long found herself coming back to a conversation she didn't recognize.
"She looks a little tired," Father Andre was saying. They were looking at her.
"The length of days here is shorter, and the schedule of nights and days a little different than we're accustomed to," Gwaheer said. "Plus she has been working very hard with no time off for too many months. Deanna, do you wish to return home and take a nap before we go out tonight?"
"I think that might be necessary. My body thinks it should be night time, right now."
"You're going out?" Was it her imagination, or did the priest sound a little anxious? "Might I suggest Pichette's? Excellent food, and wonderful staff. I'm biased, I suppose -- I spend a lot of time there myself."
"Thank you, Father. We appreciate the suggestion." Deanna smiled and put her empty glass on the tray with the remnants of the brie and bread.
When they were outside and walking down the street toward the edge of town, Gwaheer said, "It's almost four. By the time you put on your dress, it will be dinner time."
"You said we were going at six."
Purring wildly, he nibbled the nape of her
neck. "You wanted a nap. And there may be a delay between the undressing and the
dressing."
&%%&%%&
She loved this. Gwaheer could see it. He could sense her pleasure in the way she looked in the dress, and in his appreciation of her wearing it.
They lingered at the bar, waiting for their table, aware of the scrutiny of men all around them; though her affection was lavished upon him, her body language singing to him to 'pay attention, here I am offering my body to you,' she was also sensing the observation of others. He'd been correct in his assessment of the situation. Since she was so obviously with him, it kept all other men at bay, and their admiration from afar stroked her ego until he thought she might purr.
Her fingers kept drifting to the necklace. He felt mildly ashamed of himself for not catching the clue earlier in their relationship that such tokens were of greater importance to her than she claimed. Zakhad simply announced what she wanted. Deanna wanted the surprise as well as the gift, wanted to know that he'd thought it all through on his own without any help from her.
Comprehending the concessions Deanna had made without informing him of them had taken too long. She wouldn't complain, and would set aside what she wanted to accommodate what she thought Gwaheer and Zakhad would want. Of all the difficulties the clash of their cultures caused, that one bothered Gwaheer the most.
The breakthrough had come when, on the Picards' first wedding anniversary, Jean-Luc had presented Beverly with glittering jewelry, and she'd outshone the gemstones and kissed him in front of the party guests, her ecstasy overwhelmingly obvious. She hadn't even hinted, she'd told Deanna proudly, and Jean-Luc had managed to get the perfect gift for her.
With that clue, Gwaheer had extrapolated, and tried to discover gifts Deanna would like without her finding out. Luckily, kahli talked about things they didn't discuss with zel. Zakhad had been of considerable help, though she'd been confused by the need for secrecy. His first few gifts had been met with happiness, but this trip, this dress, this jewelry, had elicited the best response thus far. He was beginning to understand -- it was not the item itself, though there were categories of items considered appropriate, and categories within categories. It was the thought and effort put into it that mattered, the intent with which it was given, the message the gift imparted. And the more of a surprise it was, the more she loved it.
"I think Venice would be a good place to see," she said, looking up from one of the brochures she'd picked up in the foyer. "They've rebuilt the canals and restored it to its former glory. I could see us in a gondola, floating down the streets, with the gondolier poling the boat along."
"I could see us on the beach south of here."
"Because it's a nude beach?" Her voice rippled with amusement, and she drew a finger down the inside of his leg.
"You like beaches," he said, smiling, ears back and up in contentment. Teasing and flirting with Deanna -- it had been too long since either of them had been able to relax into the game.
"But what would you like to do? That's what I'm trying to figure out. How about Rome?"
Gwaheer rubbed the lacquered cherry wood bar absently and glanced at the bartender. "What do you think, Jacques? Is Rome worth seeing?"
"That depends," the man said, eyeing Deanna with affable appreciation. He was a suave young man, good-looking, apparently. Deanna and the other women in the bar seemed to appreciate him. "Paris is the city for romance. Rome is a bunch of ruins and Italianos."
"Fallen arches," the man behind Gwaheer added, rolling a cigar between his fingers. The woman sitting at the bar behind him laughed.
"Try London, if you like history and bland food," the woman said, leaning to look at Gwaheer around the portly gent between them. She gave him a narrow-eyed, sultry lip-licking look, startling him. Deanna was trying hard not to laugh; he could sense the rippling of her amusement.
"I prefer spicy," he replied, one ear traveling forward in spite of his better effort. The woman slid off the bar stool and stepped out to give him a full view of her body, which was covered somewhat by a red dress with a scattering of sequins. She didn't look nearly as good as Deanna -- but then, he supposed, that was an entirely subjective assessment.
"Paris is the place to be," Jacques insisted, putting a glass in front of Mr. Fallen Arches. "Good food, high fashion -- the beautiful cherie could buy more dresses and you could take her to a new restaurant every night to put them on display. You could go to the Palais du Louvre and shame the Venus de Milo, Mademoiselle."
"The Venus de Milo?" Gwaheer glanced at Deanna.
"A statue," the woman in the red dress said, sounding displeased. She stepped along, her shoes clicking quietly on the hardwood floor, and took up a pose beside Gwaheer. "One without clothes on, which is probably what dear Jacque finds so attractive about her."
"Julietta has little appreciation for art," Fallen Arches said. "Faites-vous, mon cher?"
"Oh, hush, Jean-Pierre." Julietta ran a fingertip down Gwaheer's arm. "I'm certain I could develop an appreciation. For art."
Gwaheer wrinkled his nose and tried not to appear amused. "S'il vous pla\xEEt, j'ai deux dangereuses \xE9pouses."
The woman stared at him so blankly he thought he'd muffed the sentence beyond making sense. Then she turned and walked out without a word, and as she strode stiffly out of view the people around the bar burst out laughing.
"Good one, monsieur," Jacques said. "Vous connaissez les fran\xE7ais?"
"Tr\xE8s peu, les anglais s'il vous pla\xEEt. I am afraid I will ask someone for their underwear if I continue my feeble attempts."
"Ask Julietta in any language and she'd have given 'em to you," Jean-Pierre said, chortling and causing another round of laughter. "What did you say your name was?"
"Gwaheer. And this is Deanna."
"Jean-Pierre Vendine. Pleased to meet you. Been in Labarre for long?"
"Only two days. We have been staying at la maison de Picards."
"Ah, Jean-Luc Picard's place. Haven't seen him around much. Figures you'd be friends of his -- not that there's anything wrong with that. If he has more friends like Mademoiselle, here, ask him to send guests around more often."
"Please -- I think it would be madame," Deanna said. "That would mean a married lady, I believe?"
"Well, well," Jean-Pierre exclaimed, cuffing Gwaheer on the shoulder. "Congratulations, M'sieur Gwaheer." He paused. "Were you serious about having two wives?"
Gwaheer turned to look more directly at the man. "I was serious about having two *dangerous* wives. I did not bring both of them because I feared it might be too intimidating for any prospective third wives I might meet."
Jean-Pierre's watery brown eyes bugged out slightly, his cheeks reddened beyond the flush of slight inebriation, and he burst out laughing. "Mon dieu! Vous des \xE9trangers avez les meilleures coutumes!"
More raucous laughter around them. Gwaheer, utterly baffled by the slurred exclamation, glanced at Deanna. She shrugged -- pleasant as that was, it was no help.
The head waiter came to escort them to their table at last, and Gwaheer rested a proprietary hand in the small of Deanna's back as their progress to the back of the restaurant drew stares from other patrons. After a bit of rearranging of seats, they sat at a table for two alongside a window overlooking the river that ran along the west side of town. The golds and oranges of sunset tinged the slow-moving water and most of the sky visible beyond the treetops and roofs of houses.
"I'm glad you thought of this," Deanna said softly, her pleasure glowing in her eyes. "Julietta has no idea what she's missing."
"Which is as it should be. I don't think she was wearing underwear, anyway."
They spent some time in silence, looking out the window and at each other, eating the appetizers and pondering the menu items. It felt good to be together this way, comfortable enough to enjoy each other without speaking.
"I like the idea of Rome," he said at last when the waiter had refilled their wine glasses and taken the menus away. "So much human history took place there. And Greece isn't far away, either. Paris sounds equally appealing because of the art and culture -- Jean-Luc gave me a list of places we should see if we happen to go there."
"I can imagine you leaping from the top of the Eiffel Tower and scaring the other tourists." Deanna held up another brochure with a picture of a clock on the front. "London wouldn't be so bad as all that, either."
"Berlin, or Brussels, or Dublin -- or what about touring the English countryside? We could see Stonehenge and the reconstruction they've built of it."
"Or what about Egypt? The tombs, the library in Alexandria, the Nile river. . . . 'hiri, do we have to go home?"
Gwaheer pondered. "You really like the idea of exploring Earth, don't you?"
"I wasn't really aware of all there is to see, I suppose. Being in Starfleet kept my focus on new worlds. But reading these brochures, seeing what life is like here -- the people are really different."
"They aren't Starfleet, you mean. I must admit the adventure is tempting. But we can always take other trips to other parts of Earth -- there will have to be other vacations like this, Deanna. Spending our off time on Tannick hasn't been enough, I see that now. Getting you completely off the planet and away from the comm and those emergency calls has rejuvenated you."
"You've relaxed, too. I hate to say it, but. . . 'hiri, I love this. I love having you all to myself. Zakhad and the children are so important to me, and I wouldn't want to be without them. And I know your career is important in so many ways. But just having your complete attention for a few days makes me feel. . . special."
"Then we should do this more often." He nearly purred in satisfaction with himself. Yes, the gift was well-given, the sacrifices he'd made to bring her well-made.
He heard the approach of a different set of footsteps -- it wasn't the waiter. He looked up to find Father Andre, smiling and wearing a black jacket-white shirt combination that humans considered formal.
"Good evening," the priest said. His eyes fell on Deanna as he stepped up to their table -- and stayed there, somewhere in the vicinity of her chest, Gwaheer thought. Human men were so obsessed by breasts. There were more interesting parts of the female anatomy, certainly. And just the thought of them brought up a memory of how one of them tasted.
"I see you like the dress I bought for her," Gwaheer commented lazily, asserting his claim and reminding the man of where his attention shouldn't be.
"It's quite appealing," Andre said.
Deanna smiled. "It's nice to see you again, Father. We would ask you to join us, but. . . ."
"I understand. Have a good evening." Andre moved off and apparently went to the bar, from the direction he took.
Dinner arrived shortly. It reminded him of Jean-Luc's initial complaints when he'd begun working at *Jhegwa,* about all the undecipherable menus and unidentifiable foods. Gwaheer couldn't be sure what half the ingredients were, and a few were completely new to him. As a whole, human food tended to be bland by his standards, so the taste didn't come as a surprise. But the tastes here were different than the tastes he remembered from the *Enterprise.* He understood the salad, but the entree seemed. . . pink.
"It's fish," Deanna whispered. "Salmon, with avocado mousse."
"Fish." It didn't smell like the fish he knew.
Conversations had been going on around them since their arrival; he'd been ignoring them in spite of being able to hear most of them. But the sudden mention of a familiar name made his ear twitch.
* -- Margaretha Lartet. Il ne pourrait pas \xEAtre elle -- *
He turned his head slightly in that direction. Deanna noticed immediately. <Why alarmed?>
<In a moment.> The voice was female. Directly behind him, about a wing length away -- two tables over.
A male voice murmured, answering the female. *Pourquoi elle serait avec un \xE9tranger?*
His simple understanding of French included *\xE9tranger* -- foreigner. If he understood enough of the rest, the man wanted to know why the woman thought Margaretha Lartet would be with a foreigner.
<I'll be right back.> He smiled benignly and rose, leaving Deanna with questioning eyes, and went to the bar.
Father Andre was sitting with Jean-Pierre and holding a glass of ale. Both men were surprised to see him. "A question, if you will," Gwaheer said softly, tipping his head to the left inquisitively. "Does my wife resemble Margaretha Lartet, by any chance?"
Andre and Jean-Pierre exchanged glances. "We were just remarking on that ourselves," Jean-Pierre said. "But Margaretha is Portugese, and has a completely different accent. I think your wife's hair is longer, and if you get closer, you can see she's different in the face. But from a few paces -- "
"Then it would be easy to mistake her for Mrs. Lartet. Which could explain why people have been staring at us all day. Thank you, gentlemen."
He returned to the table and noticed more stares as he did so. The dining room wasn't full; there were, he estimated, eight people present other than himself and Deanna.
<What was that about?> she asked, obviously aware of his concern.
<You look like Lartet's wife. Apparently, we're the talk of the town.>
She gaped, then snapped her mouth shut and glanced around nervously. <You mean everyone thinks she's having an affair with an alien? What can we do to correct this?>
Gwaheer tossed his head and rearranged his wings, rustling them audibly, and heard the conversation behind him falter. Pitching his voice a little louder than necessary, he said, "Deanna, be a love and pass the breadsticks."
She caught on to the game quickly. "There's only one left. Would you like me to order more?"
"Oh, no. Just the one will be fine." He took the covered basket and set it aside, noting that it was empty. Whatever. "So Rome, or Paris?"
"Venice."
"I don't like boats. Or water."
"Come on, Cowboy, where's your sense of adventure?"
"I realize, Deanna, that your father raised you on westerns, and that you're fond of them, but I'm *not* a cowboy."
"But you're such a good rider," she crooned, giving him one of her sly looks.
"Jean-Luc did not mention that impromptu seductions over the dinner table were a side effect of French cuisine." Gwaheer flaked off some salmon with his fork. "I shall have to ask for recipes."
"Cowboy. I'll make it your new nickname."
"I am most displeased by that," he said lazily, with no displeasure whatsoever. "And I refuse to wear the hat."
"It wouldn't fit anyway. But those little French hats. . . berets, the ones with the. . . . " She cupped her hand and held it over her head. "One of those would work. It wouldn't be a cowboy hat, that's true, but it would be cute."
"I am not 'cute.'"
"Oh, well," Deanna leaned forward, flashing him a good view down the front of her dress, "that goes without saying. The hat would be cute. You. . . are so many other things."
Gwaheer put down his fork, kept his eyes on Deanna, and listened. The conversations around them had died down. A quick sampling of the emotional currents revealed curiosity, intense and in some cases quite sharp-edged.
"And what things would I be?" He purred as he said it, leaning forward. She met him halfway and kissed him, not sparing the voltage.
<I think we have a rapt audience, 'hiri. How far are you going with this?>
<Not as far as I'd like to, for a variety of reasons. This table is too small and covered with too many pointy objects. I also question whether the waiter would allow me to remove your clothing. And I believe we would start our own series of rumors.>
They settled back in their chairs but still leaned toward one another, Deanna doing that caressing-you-with-my-eyes expression that tied his tail in knots. She played with her food, eating slowly and propping her chin in her hand, elbow on the table, glancing away from him only briefly.
"We'll have to thank Jean-Luc and Beverly for suggesting this trip, I think," he said, still purring.
"Rome," she said. "Rome, and a balcony overlooking the sea. We could sit outside and watch the falling stars."
"I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to see the stars."
"Oh, Cowboy, you can't be going blind -- I've done absolutely everything in my power to prevent that."
She was playing with old human cliches again. He could do that, too.
"I would not be able to see the stars because I am blinded by the ones in your eyes."
Whispering broke out. Guessing it to be about the right time for it, he shifted in his seat and turned to look, and in return received stares from two couples at the two tables behind him.
"Bonjour," the nearest woman said. She had a wide smile, a tanned, finely-lined face, large brown honest eyes -- open, was the word. "Do not allow us to interrupt you, s'il vous pla\xEEt. I was. . . enjoying your conversation. I hope that does not offend, but you were speaking quite loudly."
"My wife is not Margaretha, despite whatever rumor may be circulating. I have no idea who Margaretha is."
The woman at the far table blushed a furious shade of red and put her hand over her mouth. She rose and approached slowly, crossing her arms across her stomach. "I am sorry, so sorry -- of course you must have heard me," she whispered, eyeing Gwaheer's ears. "It's only that she looks so much like Margaretha, and I couldn't help but wonder -- "
"It is not important. I did not wish to inadvertently create a local scandal, for anyone. Mr. Lartet least of all -- he is my host's neighbor, and I do not wish to cause bad feelings between the Picards and the Lartets."
"I'm Genivee Pommereau. That's my husband, Christien." The man waved, looking amused by his wife's flustered scramble to overcome her embarrassment. She gestured at the couple directly behind Gwaheer. "And these are the Moutons, Claire and Robert. Please allow us to buy you a bottle of wine, as a way of apology. I truly did not intend to -- "
"There is no need, Madame, there has been no harm done. But thank you for offering. My name is Gwaheer, and this is Deanna."
"Have you had dinner yet?" Deanna asked suddenly. "If you haven't, perhaps we could eat together. Switch to a larger table."
"I would not wish to intrude -- you are obviously on a honeymoon -- "
Gwaheer smiled. "No, not this time. We have been married four years, as of three days from today."
Genivee grinned. She looked much better when not scrambling for words; she smoothed her flyaway blond hair back into place, tucking loose ends into her bun, then nodded. "I would like to dine with you, then."
"Excellent," Gwaheer said, rising.
"Because as any man will tell you, there can be no such thing as being in the company
of too many beautiful women."
&%%&%%&
"That was very gallant of you," Deanna commented at last.
They'd been walking in the quiet of the night, listening to the sounds of frogs, crickets, birds, and livestock stamping in the fields on either side of the road. Walking was her idea. It was too beautiful under the stars to not experience the night. And though the breeze was a little chilly, Gwaheer's wing made an excellent wind breaker.
"The Moutons and the Pommereaus were pleasant company, and it was an opportunity that would not have presented itself twice. Making new friends is always a satisfying pursuit."
The last bend in the road lay ahead of them. She stroked his side, from shoulder to hip, getting his attention. "I love my dress."
"One of my better choices, admittedly."
"I love my necklace, and the earrings."
"It pleases me that you enjoy them."
"There's only one other thing I can think of that I really, really want."
"A cowboy?"
She giggled and shook her head, stepping around a small puddle.
"A. . . bouquet, of roses, possibly."
"That would be nice, but not so nice as what I want."
"How about some chocolate?"
"Mmmm. Tempting. But that isn't it, either."
They crossed the yard and stepped up on the porch. The breeze rustled through the trees softly, and set the porch swing swaying. He furled his wing and opened the door for her.
"A chocolate-covered cowboy with a rose in his teeth?"
She laughed -- it felt good to laugh that way. "You're getting better at this, 'hiri. I'm impressed -- was it a correspondence course in romance, or were you hiding this side of you from me all this time? I know you've gotten better at gift-giving, but this vacation, and all the things you've surprised me with -- this is extraordinary."
Just inside the door, she kicked off the high-heeled shoes and reached for the light. And stopped. Holding her breath. Something was different. The inside of the house smelled like --
When the lights came on, she saw it at once. A trail of red petals led from the mat across the floor and doglegged right, then up the stairs.
Gwaheer waited for her reaction, locking the door in the interim.
Giving him a wide-eyed glance, she hurried upstairs, following the trail, not to the main bedroom but to one of the others. She opened the door. "Ka'zor?"
"I'm not here," he said, turning from lighting one of the myriad of candles. He blew out the taper he held and vanished, teleporting away home, no doubt.
Gwaheer came up behind her. "My slow brother promised he would be gone. I had him light them when he sensed we were at the door."
"You had your brother do this, for us?"
"I couldn't think of anyone else I could bribe who could be in and out of the house while it was locked. The largest problem was that he simply couldn't comprehend why -- but forget about him. I'm sorry -- "
"No, 'hiri, this is -- your idea? All of this?"
"The implementation of it. I am not yet so well-versed in such things that I can improvise, yet."
Deanna walked into the room, and turned in a circle. Candles everywhere, on the floor and on top of the dresser, on the table near the window -- but all conspicuously placed far enough from the bed to avoid burns. Rose petals strewn on the floor and the covers. Not original, but far more than she would have expected him to come up with on his own.
"You are crying?" he whispered.
"I'm remembering your reaction when I did something similar, a long time ago. You didn't understand. . . do you understand what this means to me, now?"
"I am trying. I think I do."
"'hiri, what you must have gone through to arrange all of this -- "
At her faltering words, he stepped in, carefully raising his tail high to avoid candles. "Chocolate?"
He picked something up from the night stand. The flickering candlelight gleamed in his eyes as he held out a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries.
Deanna took the plate and put it on the bed. Her attempted approach was thwarted when he held out two glasses of champagne.
"You aren't going to let me touch you, are you?"
"Some things are meant to be savored.
Candlelight and tears of joy glittering in your eyes is one of them. The way you look
tonight is another. Sit, cherie, and let me sing to you of rain."
&%%&%%&
Deanna put on an apron she found in the closet. This could be dangerous, but it was what she had at hand -- fixing him breakfast in bed was the best she could do at the moment. Surprising someone like Gwaheer could be monumentally difficult.
Sheer good luck that she'd awakened before him for a change. Yesterday she'd slept like she was in stasis, until he'd roused her in time to catch the first transport to Italy. Though she certainly couldn't complain of why, she thought, smiling as she tied back her hair. He had claimed he would give her the full attention of his hands -- she should have known he meant it literally.
After the overwhelming series of surprises he'd sprung on her, and a day of exploring in Rome, and returning for a late dinner at the Pommereau's with some other people from town, and two nights of his methodical, thorough attention to her body -- this could become her favorite vacation spot.
Chewing the inside of her cheek, she contemplated her menu options. Not too much to go on. Hot chocolate with cinnamon was a no-brainer, but food -- she didn't have the ingredients for a Betazoid breakfast, and wasn't certain how to prepare some of the items on hand. There was the replicator Beverly had insisted upon, but that felt like cheating. Genivee had given her some eggs and a loaf of her homemade bread, and Alair, Genivee's sister, had given her some butter and fruit. Pulling a cookbook from the shelf near the sink, she crossed her arms and leaned on the counter, browsing the pages for inspiration.
"Hello, the house!"
She leaned to peer out the kitchen window. No good. Couldn't see the front porch from this angle. Hurrying around to the front door, she had it open before realizing that she'd not bothered with clothing, just the apron.
"Mon dieu, I can see why your husband is so happy all the time," Genivee said with a merry laugh and flushed cheeks. She held an armload of books.
"I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting anyone -- come in and I'll just run upstairs and change."
Sneaking in to get clothes without waking 'hiri was impossible. He woke and watched her pulling on one of her comfortable summer dresses. "Deanna?"
"You aren't supposed to be awake."
He blinked and rubbed his eye with the back of his hand, a gesture that reminded her poignantly of their son, Zerin. "Aren't I?"
"'hiri, how am I supposed to bring you breakfast in bed if you're not in bed? Go back to sleep."
"Why are you angry? I didn't intend to wake up."
Deanna sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm just a little frustrated. You've done so much for me, surprising me with the vacation and the gifts -- I just wanted to surprise you a little in return."
He smiled and purred. "I can sleep a little more. For some reason, I seem to need it."
"Don't start, 'hiri. Genivee is downstairs. I'll be back up in a little while with breakfast."
"Why is Genivee here?"
"I think she brought something for me to look at. She won't stay long."
When she returned to the kitchen, Genivee was leaning against the sink and looking through the cookbook. "You were fixing breakfast. Perhaps I should come back later."
"What are these for?" Deanna touched the cover of the top book on the pile on the table. "Elizabethan costumes? Are you planning something for the Renaissance festival?"
"Oh, yes -- the Moutons, and the Remillards, and Christien and I are all on the committee that arranges the festival, along with Father Andre and the Rivards. We had a meeting this morning -- allow me to help you fix breakfast while I tell you, so I do not keep you from it." Genivee closed the cookbook and reached for the hand soap. "The committee thinks we should change our program to include you and your husband as the main event of the festival."
"I'm flattered, and surprised -- I thought Renaissance festivals were about Earth history. 'Hiri isn't exactly human and neither am I."
"Oh, but that's the best part. Do you know anything about Shakespeare?"
"Jean-Luc is very fond of his plays, and we staged quite a few of them on the *Enterprise.* My favorite was 'Midsummer Night's Dream' because it was so much fun. I played Hermia."
Genivee's grin put deep dimples in her cheeks. "Well, cherie, that's a perfect bit of coincidence. How would you feel about playing Titania the Fairy Queen this time?"
"Titania. . . . For the festival?"
"The Fair Folk are otherworldly, so certainly the two of you would be perfect as Oberon and Titania -- you would be a beautiful queen. My Lisette and Clarissa are dying to be fairies, and Henri Mouton already wants to play Puck to your husband's Oberon. The children are so fascinated by Gwaheer, especially the boys."
"But I thought you were going to do something like the visiting queen of Spain or -- "
"Visiting queen of Scots, but Claire was to be the queen and she doesn't mind at all. In fact, she wants to be one of your fairies in waiting -- Peaseblossom, or Mustardseed. She wasn't managing a Scots accent very well, anyway."
"But costumes -- aren't all costumes supposed to be made of natural fibers, as authentically as possible? The festival is tomorrow. Do you have a fairy queen costume already?"
Genivee laughed. "The Fair Folk are otherworldly! We can replicate anything we need, and dress you in any synthetic material we choose. If you want to wear one of the latest Betazoid styles, it would work just as well. And Gwaheer is his own costume. Some body paint and some ribbons and props, and you won't find a finer Fairy King anywhere."
Deanna opened the book of costumes and studied the pages, or pretended to, assessing what she sensed from her new friend and trying to think of what to say. "Genivee, I'm sorry -- you're putting a very good face on this. But why are you afraid?"
Genivee was taken aback completely. "Oh. . . oh. Yes. You did explain you are an empath. . . . I'm sorry, I did not wish to -- Deanna, it's the Lartets. You know you look like Margaretha. What we did not tell you was that Margaretha has a long history of alleged affairs, and that when Claude takes their daughter to see his parents, Margaretha sometimes has visitors. Usually at the Lartet house, which is close enough to this one that people are making little of the idea that you are staying here as proof that you are not her. They say it would be simple enough for you to come here then return to the Lartet home through the forest in back. They are viewing this as Margaretha's biggest transgression to date -- she has never flaunted her 'lovers' in public, and they have never been -- non-human. Margaretha isn't home, though -- I've been up there to ask her to come out and meet you in public, to dispel the rumor. I think she's gone with Claude this time."
"So you want us to participate in the festival and put me in a position to speak in public, so people will hear my voice and see that I'm not her."
"That isn't the only reason. We would have asked you to participate anyway. It's that good of an idea. . . but yes, that was my first thought when Christien suggested it." Genivee sighed and rolled up her sleeves. "Claude is a friend of Christien's. He doesn't have many friends, he's quite reclusive, but Christien sells him supplies for his vineyard and sometimes we are invited out for a holiday dinner. Margaretha and Claude operate a travel agency here in town, in addition to their small vineyard, and much of the tourism we have here is facilitated by their agency. They do not talk of how the gossip affects them, but I am afraid that this may be the final straw."
"I don't understand. Do you mean the gossip affects their business?"
Genivee searched and found a mixing bowl, then a spoon and the flour, and took out some eggs and milk. "They are quiet people, but they wish to be a part of the community. I personally think that Margaretha's supposed affairs are not affairs, but clients or relatives, or just friends. But people will grab any small thing and blow it out of proportion, you know?"
"Why haven't you just talked to her about it?"
"Because it's just been idle gossip. The Lartets are not open people, like you and Gwaheer. With you I feel I could tell you what people say about you, and you will not react badly. You feel no intrusion. Even when Claire asked quite bluntly what your husband was like in bed -- " She blushed and mixed furiously, then smiled in amusement at the memory. "Margaretha is difficult to know. Difficult to talk to. I think she feels like an alien here, unsure of herself. Claude lived in Portugal with her until her parents died, and they moved back here two years ago. I'm afraid this will hurt them -- I don't like to think of their returning to face more staring, possibly even accusations -- some of the mothers have been keeping their children inside because they do not wish to them to see 'Margaretha' with her lover kissing in public. I think, if she were here, I would talk to her about it directly -- people seeing you in the open with Gwaheer has made those mere rumors seem like truth to many."
"Then I have no problems doing the festival to help dispel these rumors, and I doubt Gwaheer will. Plus I think it sounds like a lot of fun." Like a holodeck simulation with real people, Deanna thought, grinning.
"I knew you would like the idea. I have some fantastic ideas for your costume, and I'll call Claire and have her start re-replicating the programmes. You and Gwaheer should come over after breakfast, and we'll sit down with Gwaheer and go over the scenario together. It will be a wonderful and entertaining surprise for everyone. But why are you looking this way? Is something wrong?"
"No -- you're making crepes?"
"Is something wrong with that? You wanted something else?"
"No, that's fine, but -- could you teach
me how?"
&%%&%%&
"I'm not so sure we'll be welcome," Shehady said.
"If we're not, we can just go back to the ship. It just seems a little unfriendly not to say good-bye before we ship out again. We don't see them that often."
Shehady looked around on the way through town from the small shuttle port. "Nice little town. Looks like something's happening over on main street. See the banners?" She pointed at a pennant hanging from a street light.
"Looks like a Renaissance festival. Want to go see? I went to one a long, long time ago. People dress up and behave like characters from the Renaissance era of Europe. There could be some good food, and it's a great chance to see what people were like in that time."
"Sure, why not?"
They walked up to the next corner. Will grabbed her elbow suddenly and pointed. "Does that couple look familiar to you?"
Shehady saw the red hair first. "Jean-Luc and Beverly?"
The Picards saw them as well and approached, halting on the corner of the sidewalk. "Funny finding you here -- we came for the day to see if Deanna and Gwaheer were getting on well enough. They were concerned about the reception they might receive from the people of Labarre. But they aren't at the house, and they must be here in town -- it's not hard to see Gwaheer's been walking along the mud in the road."
"Both ways," Beverly added. "What are you doing here?"
Will jabbed a thumb toward the sounds of people laughing and stringed instruments being strummed. "We're going to the Renaissance festival. Maybe they went, too."
"So why are you in the neighborhood?" Beverly asked, tucking her arm through Jean-Luc's as they walked with them down the street.
"We were going to take you up on the offer of the chateau when we were in the system, and busted in on some nudity in progress," Shehady said. "So we went down to the coast for a few days instead. We're on our way out and thought we'd drop in during the day this time, hoping they'd be wearing something, and take them to lunch. Looked like they were planning to shut themselves in for the duration, if you ask me."
At the next corner, children raced past them, laughing. "How cute, they're dressed like little street urchins," Beverly said. "Oh, my."
They turned the corner and were met by booths, jammed along the sides of the street -- a tattoo booth, a weapons booth, an armory, a clothier selling period-authentic costumes, food booths. . . . And everywhere they looked, people in costume and in present-day garb.
"Tourists," Jean-Luc sniffed. "They do these things for the tourists. Oh, damn -- and the tourists are here because -- "
"No one will recognize you if we dress you up, Jean-Luc." Beverly grinned and ran her hand over his head. "You should put on a hat anyway. We didn't bring sunscreen. And it's handy that Will and Shehady aren't in uniform. Look, here's a programme."
A woman in peasant garb strolled up, smiling pleasantly. She bobbed a curtsy and held out a basket of parchment papers, and Beverly took one, thanking her. Shehady took one, too, and opened it, trying to read the unusual text.
"My. . . God," Will muttered. "Look at the list of actors and actresses."
Jean-Luc and Beverly looked up from their programme, as shocked as Will. "I think we found out where our errant friends are," Jean-Luc said.
"Jean-Luc?"
Shehady turned with the others, and saw a man in black robes with a stiff white collar and white hair approaching. "I thought it was you," the man said.
"Father Andre," Jean-Luc exclaimed, then introduced Will and Shehady. "You wouldn't happened to have seen -- "
"Your house guests," Andre said. "Oh, yes. I'd say there isn't a soul left in the town who haven't. The last time I saw Oberon he was recruiting a little fairy army to mount an assault on the forces of the fairy queen. Completely un-Shakespearean of them, but for the purposes of the festival it was the best they could do at the last minute. I believe the great war is scheduled to take place in about an hour, in the park."
"You've met them too, I imagine."
"We had a nice chat at the rectory. I found them kissing on my lawn outside the church. Quite a lovely couple they make, once one becomes accustomed to his appearance. I can't understand why you don't bring more of your friends home with you, Jean-Luc -- you should have seen Jean-Pierre, strutting around the bar at Pichette's trying to convince the ladies he'd elected for a second citizenship as a Ryxi, and would they like to be his wives. He had the lot of us in stitches, especially when Maudie showed up, boxed his ears and took him home."
"I must say, I'm a little surprised." Jean-Luc glanced at Will, then at the revelers in the street. A lady in a puffed-sleeve dress strolled by, accompanied by a gent in similar garb only with pantaloons. "And they're participating in this. As the main attraction."
"It wasn't intended that way, of course -- Claire Mouton was supposed to be Mary Queen of Scots visiting from Scotland, and we were going to hold a pageant. But Genivee Pommereau suggested Midsummer Night's Dream because of Gwaheer, and we couldn't resist the opportunity -- how many festivals could boast a real fairy king?" Father Andre grinned and gave a quick shake of his head. "And oh, what a fairy queen we have! Come, I'll show you."
"What's Midsummer Night's Dream?" Shehady asked as they followed the priest.
"A Shakespearean play -- a comedy about lovers and mistaken identities, and fairies." Beverly looked at her sharply. "You know who Shakespeare was, right?"
"I remember Hamlet, from a production some of us went to at the Academy. So what's a fairy?"
It took the duration of the long wander around booths and crowds of people for Will and Beverly to explain. Along the way, the men picked up tankards of mead -- whatever that was -- and Beverly slapped a red hat with three points and jingle bells on Jean-Luc's head, selected a matching shirt with long pointed tails in front and in back, and grinned.
"This is a fool's costume," he complained.
"I'll wear one of these if you wear it," Beverly said, pulling down a green and white dress. Jean-Luc stared at it for a moment.
"I think I could be a fool for that," he said, startling Shehady.
"You want one, Shades?" Will asked.
Shehady looked at the array of brightly-colored clothing, and down at the pictures of people wearing some of the costumes available that the vendor had spread on the table. "If I wear one, you can wear this."
He looked at the picture. "You had to select that one. It says that's a Russian barbarian. I don't know Russian."
The vendor leaned across. "You don't have to speak. The barbarian generally wanders about looking menacing. To really complete the look, you'd need a quarterstaff, which my friend here in the next booth would be happy to provide."
"If you want me to wear a costume, it's the barbarian and the staff," Shehady said.
"I'll wear it only if you wear *that.*"
She looked at the picture to which he pointed. "Ha! Why not?"
When they emerged from the nearby public restrooms, Shehady and Beverly looked for Will first and foremost. He wasn't out yet. "You'd think if all he has to put on is a pair of pants and boots that it would take him less time. You look smashing, Bev."
She wore a green brocade, with a loose white blousy-looking thing under it to cover her chest and arms. It accentuated the bust as much as Shehady's did, but showed less of it. Shehady wriggled and tied the drawstring a little tighter in front.
"You have to admit, it's pretty obvious why Will wanted you to wear it. How'd you get it to hang there without falling down over the nipples?"
"I'm not sure it won't do that. But I don't care, either. If Renaissance humans were so nonchalant about showing off their breasts, why is it such a big deal now?"
"In some parts of the world, it isn't. I like the burgundy on you. That particular shade works really well with your hair."
The door of the men's room opened, and Will came out, carrying his former clothing in one arm. Shehady held open their bag and he dropped them in, then slung the bag over his shoulder. Shehady grinned and took a moment to run her hand over his chest admiringly, tweaking a few hairs to make him wince.
"Nice tan," Beverly said. "The riviera must be nice this time of year." Will thunked his quarter staff on the sidewalk and looked stern. Beverly laughed. "Oh, God, you remind me of Worf when you do that."
"Exactly who I was thinking of," Will said. "You say barbarian, I say Klingon. Good thing I didn't let Shehady shave off my beard."
Jean-Luc and Father Andre waited around the corner in the shade of the building with their mead. When they saw the three of them, both men went wide-eyed, then looked at the front of Shehady's dress. Now, there was a nice change, Shehady thought wryly, wondering if she could slip the specs for the dress into the official Starfleet dress code.
"This is the king's end of the park," Andre said, pointing. "I'll leave you here, then. I'm supposed to perform a mock-wedding at the church in two hours." The priest turned and went the way they'd come.
The park was large, with lots of trees and shrubbery and paths winding through it. A wildly-colored tent had been erected on a lawn near the sidewalk, about ten yards from where they stood. Children wearing gauzy material in all colors of the rainbow over leotards were running, dancing or sitting around it, painting each other's faces and filling water guns from a hose. Some of them had toy phasers, which shot harmless red or green beams of light.
"Looks like the fairy king is amassing the troops," Will muttered. "Think we could get away with stealing a look at him? Got to wonder what they would do for *his* costume."
But as they approached the tent, the boys sitting or wandering on the grass turned frowning glitter- and paint-covered faces on them. One of the larger boys stepped forward with a staff. He took his role seriously; he had painted his entire body in green and yellow whorls, even over his white leotard, and had clipped leaves and flowers in his hair.
"Who dares approach the Lord Oberon's fairy castle? Know ye not what powers my lord doth possess? Begone!"
"I am Hippolyta," Beverly announced boldly. "I demand to see Oberon."
"Puck!" came a shout -- familiar voice, but Gwaheer never shouted, under normal circumstances. The boy turned and raced into the tent, the others scrambling out of his way and standing at attention.
"Who knew it would be this hard to see a fairy?" Shehady commented. "So who am I, m'lady?"
"You could be my handmaiden, Beatrice the fair, since we're making this up off the cuff. Worf. . . Will, I mean, can be Vladimer, my barbarian bodyguard. Good Amazon queens can have those if they want, I'll bet."
"I suppose it's obvious who the fool is," Jean-Luc quipped with unusual good humor. He was loving this, he just didn't want to show it too much.
The tent flap was flung open, and Puck stepped out. "His Lordship the Fairy King, Oberon, will now grant audience to the travelers from afar!"
People were gathering along the edges of the park to watch, having noticed the activity near the tent. Shehady stayed behind Will, unsure of what the little boys might try next -- the announcement had whipped them into a frenzy. They danced about wildly, hooting and yelling and waving their weapons about, but at Puck's imperious clapping settled into rank and file and stood at attention. Four of the bigger boys, again at Puck's direction, pulled back the sides of the tent on a rod -- curtains.
Gwaheer leaped out into the fray. The sight of him put Will into shock -- Shehady glanced at the Picards and saw the same was true of them. The Ryxian had a lot of body surface to paint, and someone had done it very artfully, accenting his already-bright blue wings with streaks of gold sparkles and applying more blue to his tanned chest in a fleur-de-lis. Along the leading edges of his wings he'd clipped ribbons and bells, and braided them into his hair as well.
He leaped again, and danced among his subjects with his wings partly spread, ringing the bells, and it was easy to see where the boys had gotten their odd, jerky dance steps -- he must have performed this way for the crowds every so often all day. Sweeping up to his guests, he came to a halt in front of Beverly and looked down his nose at her, haughty as a king might be.
"Well met, m'lady," he said, suddenly all smiles and bowing to her. "Are you perhaps seeking to become my consort after all?"
"But m'lord, the Queen Titania -- "
Gwaheer rounded on Puck, who had come up behind him to stand guard. "My queen! My queen, who forsook me and wanders the world enchanting mortal men to do her bidding! What fealty do I owe her? Yet -- " He paused and looked away across the park at the trees. "Yet I would have the Changeling. Yes, the Changeling -- such a pretty little thing he is. I would have him for my henchman. You would like that, Robin Goodfellow, wouldn't you?" He put a hand on Puck's head. "I should then set you free to make your mischief. But the fair Hippolyta -- have you come, then, to tell me that you have changed your mind? That Theseus is not, after all, to your liking?"
He made a grand turn, tail sweeping in an arc that nearly took down a whole row of his fairy attendants, and held out his hands to Beverly. "Or do you bring me this fair creature as a plaything, perhaps?" He turned to Shehady.
Will swung his staff with the finesse of years of ambo-jitsu and blocked Gwaheer's attempt to reach her. "This barbarian displeases me," he announced pompously, and a dozen jets of water pelted Will. Painted boys dragged at his arms and pulled at his staff; he gave a token struggle, but was overwhelmed quickly. A boy on his back and others yanking him by the arms, he was taken away around the tent, a goofy grin on his face.
"You are estranged from your queen?" Jean-Luc asked, striving to keep a straight face.
"What know you of the queen?" Gwaheer bellowed, swinging round again and making a hoard of attendants duck and scramble away from his wings. "Speak, fool!"
"Nothing, nothing at all!"
Shehady rolled her eyes at Jean-Luc's unconvincing hysteria. Beverly giggled and composed herself quickly when Gwaheer shot her a searing glare.
"I do not believe you," he intoned menacingly. "I think you are spies, sent here by Titania. Robin Goodfellow -- this man behaves a very ass, let us make him one!"
The boys whooped and raced about in circles, then swarmed at Jean-Luc. Puck dashed into the tent and returned with a convincing donkey's head mask.
Shehady couldn't help laughing when the boys wrestled poor Jean-Luc to his knees and plopped the mask over his head. They spent a few extra minutes fastening it to his clothing, and replaced the fool's hat, pinning it between the long floppy ears. The crowd was laughing too, and taking pictures.
Beverly held her hands over her mouth. When the boys backed away, she took his arm. "Well, now no one will know who you are, Jean-Luc," she said merrily.
His response was muffled by the long neck of the mask; his eyes weren't visible behind what must have been the eye holes, two dark patches in the donkey's throat. "Bloody hell. I can't breathe!"
Gwaheer lost a little of his fairy royalty and chuckled. "You think having dried paint all over your body is fun? The only real consolation in all this is the person responsible for it will have to help me wash it all off."
"Dee put you up to this?" Beverly exclaimed. "You seem to be having some fun with it."
"It's had its moments, but yes. One mustn't argue overmuch on one's anniversary."
"Hey, he's right," Shehady exclaimed. "Is that why you wanted to come take them to lunch?"
"It was, but I'm thinking now of throwing them out of my house."
"Cheer up, Jean-Luc. You haven't yet seen what's in store for the great war. You may think yourself lucky yet." Gwaheer looked down at his minions, and threw his arm out, jabbing a finger at the park beyond. "Go! Find out what Titania plans! And go quietly, lest ye be seen!" The boys romped and scurried away across the grass, laughing, some of them going back to the hose and starting to fill water balloons.
"You realize Titania was supposed to turn Bottom into the donkey," Beverly said.
"We're improvising a lot of this. Mostly because there were far too many fairies to go around, and not enough people who knew all the lines to the play." Gwaheer sighed and gestured them into the tent. "I hope Deanna is enjoying this."
"If you're turning people into donkeys," Shehady put a hand on top of Jean-Luc's mask to push him down to avoid hitting the curtain rod, "what's Deanna doing?"
"Entrancing the entire male population of the town, for all I know. One of my spies brought back word that she'd hypnotized the schoolteachers and had them all feeding her grapes and waving fans. The kids loved that." He closed the curtains, sat on the grass next to a big water jug, and picked up some paper cups. "Want some water?"
"Right. Just pour it in the nostril." Jean-Luc's clipped tones made Shehady wonder if they wouldn't need some of those little bodyguards with squirt guns.
Gwaheer tapped a spot on the side of his own neck. "There's a panel that opens, right there. Will, I know you're back there, duck on in."
Will rolled under the back curtain, dragging his staff. "I've never been kidnaped by fairies. That was interesting. Very polite fairies, though, once they had me back there."
"It's been a hectic morning at Starfleet Academy, Fairy branch," Gwaheer said, handing him a cup. "But I was very careful to explain the rules of the game. Anyone gets poked with a stick or hurt in any way, their little fairy butts get expelled from the legions of Oberon."
"I can't believe you're doing this. Do all the villagers know you? How did you manage this in just a few days?" Jean-Luc set his empty mead tankard on the grass and took a cup of water, sounding better now that Beverly had opened the panel.
"That's a long, long story. Let's just say it's Margaretha's fault."
"Margaretha? My neighbor's wife?"
"Have you ever seen Margaretha?"
"I can't say that I have. I've only spoken to Claude twice, over the back fence."
"His wife looks like Deanna, evidently -- everyone who saw us around town the past few days thinks Margaretha is having an affair with me. This fairy thing was something Genivee hatched up to convince everyone otherwise before the Lartets get back from wherever they are and suffer the consequences of all the rumor-mongering. Evidently, Margaretha's Portugese and has a completely different accent, so putting Deanna in public and letting her make royal pronouncements is the goal."
"I don't get it. Why not let Margaretha defend herself?" Shehady asked.
"It's not the only reason Deanna wanted to do this, or that's exactly what I would have said. She's having far too much fun with this. I hope no one is recording this, and I hope that if anyone is, they'll hide the recording where Lwaxana will never see it. I can't decide if her daughter's imitation of her would impress or offend her."
"Oh, I've got to see this," Beverly blurted. "Hey, maybe she'll change you back into a fool, Jean-Luc."
"I love the new look," Will said, grinning so wide all his teeth showed. "You could say he's turned you into a pompous -- "
Shehady threw her water in Will's face. Jean-Luc sniffed. "Thank you, Shehady. I appreciate that."
"I was just getting him back for swiping my bikini yesterday."
"You didn't care, you walked through in the nude anyway," Will said, blowing drops of water off his nose.
Shehady retorted, "And the waiter dropped an entire platter of pasta down that poor man's clothes, and -- "
"I'm very glad to hear I'm not the only one who has these difficulties," Gwaheer put in with a smile. "If your vineyard workers ask, Jean-Luc, the naked woman they saw picking flowers isn't available. And forgive them for the few vines they likely butchered while they watched. I'll compensate you, of course."
"Merde."
&%%&%%&
"M'lady, we are ready," Genivee said, still wearing the same irrepressible grin she'd had all day. She stepped closer and whispered. "You have some surprise in store for us all, don't you? That's why you wanted to sit on the roof?"
They had erected the Fairy Queen's headquarters on the roof of Bayard Mouton's bar -- tavern, for the purposes of the festival in progress. The bar had the advantage of being across the street at the far end of the park from the king's tent, and having a flat roof. Genivee had refrained from asking about it for the sake of staying in character, as everyone else had.
Deanna eyed her with a regal disdain and stepped up to the edge of the roof. It made everyone nervous that she kept doing that; with no safety net two stories below, it would be a hard landing on the pavement if she fell. It helped the image she was maintaining, and the height didn't bother her.
Her costume, a gossamer gown under which she wore a pale metallic-green leotard, was topped by a high-collared robe. With Genivee's help she'd arranged some of her hair into an elaborate braid that fell to her shoulder, then allowed the rest of it to cascade free in a long sweep of curls down the front of her gown, with silver streamers woven into it. Genivee had applied an intricate bird's-wing design on her cheeks and around her eyes, in teal and silver glitter. The result was spectacular, she thought. It certainly seemed to impress everyone she met. And the whole outfit reminded her so much of her mother that she'd even begun to sound like Lwaxana -- the Daughter of the Fifth House demeanor worked, so why not?
She wished she could spend more time relaxing in the shade, however. Enchanting men at random from the audience and turning them loose again after they'd performed a few dance steps with a fairy or done some other trifling thing was becoming boring.
The street below was getting more crowded with onlookers. Several people waved -- Deanna nearly lost her regal attitude in surprise. Will and Shehady -- she wanted to laugh at Will, in a barbarian's costume and carrying a bag over his shoulder. Shehady looked the image of a middle-class Renaissance woman, her saffron hair in a knot on her neck and the burgundy dress so tight around her midriff that her bust looked bigger by comparison. And there was Beverly, in a similar green outfit, clutching the hand of -- an ass?
"Peaseblossom!" Deanna cried loudly, drawing looks from the assembled audience. One of the many fairies darting around in the crowd showing off their sleight of hand and wearing fantastically-colored glittery outfits came to attention. "We see before us a poor soul obviously transformed by my pernicious ne'er-do-well husband -- release him from the spell he is under!"
Lisette Pommereau giggled loudly as she ran to where Deanna pointed and threw gold glitter at Jean-Luc before removing the mask and returning his hat. Then the teenaged girl took off with the mask, laughing, brandishing it at onlookers as if trying to choose the next victim.
"Thank you, Your Highness," Jean-Luc said loudly, bowing low. He looked nearly as red as his costume; the mask must have been hot.
Deanna strode along the edge of the roof, head high, and gestured with one hand imperiously, as she had done every hour all day. "Music! Thou wilt dance for our pleasure, fool, to repay us for our generosity."
For once, Jean-Luc didn't shrink from the request -- he grabbed Beverly's hand as the group of musicians she'd had at her command struck up a merry Renaissance tune. Shehady was caught up by a nearby peasant who had been standing around gawking -- Jacques, the bartender from Pichette, Deanna realized -- and soon a number of couples were doing a romping two-step on the pavement, with other people clapping. Will crossed his arms and did a priceless imitation of Worf brooding. The barbarian costume must have been Shehady's doing -- Deanna approved of it as well. Her fairies danced as well, and flitted around the crowd picking pockets then presenting their victims with their own purloined items.
A hand on her arm brought her attention back from the scene on the street below. She stepped backward and turned.
Genivee gestured, and Deanna looked -- Claude Lartet stood under the awning with his daughter and a dark-haired woman who looked strangely familiar. Deanna approached slowly, too surprised to be the queen any more.
Margaretha Lartet looked less like her as she approached -- but still, the resemblance was striking. Her eyes were dark brown, not black, and her hair less full and quite a bit shorter, but no less curly. Her face was less rounded, her chin tapering to more of a point -- but her figure couldn't have been more than a few centimeters different one way or the other.
"Amazing," Deanna said in spite of herself.
"Yes," Margaretha said. Her voice was the biggest difference of all. She was a soprano, and had a definite difference in accent. "Genivee left a message for us to come meet you if we returned home -- she says there have been rumors."
"Yes -- I'm sorry, I had no idea -- "
"It's quite all right," Claude said. "I wondered, when I saw you and your husband in the woods, if something like this wouldn't happen. He was your husband, wasn't he?"
"Yes, his name is Gwaheer. I'm sorry if we startled you -- "
"It's all right. I have since learned more about the Ryxi than I knew before. Genivee says part of the reason you are doing this is to diffuse the rumors. Thank you."
Deanna smiled, shaking herself out of her surprised staring. "Madame Lartet, this is too good to pass up -- today is my fourth anniversary, and I've been trying to think of something to surprise my husband with. I have been thinking in terms of gifts, but I think that he would appreciate a joke just as well -- would you be willing to help me?"
Margaretha looked at Claude. Both of them smiled and nodded.
Genivee giggled and clapped her hands to her
mouth. "Are we going to need the replicator again? I'll go downstairs and ask Bayard.
. . ."
&%%&%%&
Gwaheer waited out of sight in the trees, and watched the fairies and sprites battle merrily across the lawn with water guns and toy phasers. It made for a messy and spirited fight, with the gathered onlookers being sprayed more often than not. The crowd wrapped around the end of the park on three sides, along the streets and sidewalks, made up of equal parts tourists and townspeople.
He watched Deanna standing on the roof of the tavern, looking as queenly as he'd known she would. Her earlier good-natured Lwaxana-ish behavior was gone. She'd divested Jean-Luc of his donkey's head, as he'd guessed she would.
A rustle in the leaves, and Puck arrived. "Here," he said, holding up a cord. "The microphone. When you go out into view, it will be turned on."
Gwaheer ducked his head and let the boy put it around his neck. "Is everything ready?"
"Papa says yes. It will be a spectacular show, I'll bet." Henri grinned. "I can't wait to see it."
"Get out there and call a halt to the fight, then. May as well do this and get it over with."
Puck raced out of the brush, pumping his hand over his head, the signal for the queen to issue the final challenge.
"Enough!"
Deanna's voice was amplified as well -- since they were Fair Folk, otherworldly things like speakers and holo-emitters were acceptable. The twenty-fourth century was, after all, worlds away from Renaissance Europe. Magic, the other festival participants were calling it, with alarmed rolls of their eyes. At least that was the plan.
"Enough," Deanna repeated, thrusting an arm skyward and letting loose a spray of otherworldly special effects -- beams of orange and red that shot up and faded quickly. The fairies on the battlefield scurried into the crowds, hiding behind onlookers, peering out as if afraid for their lives.
The Fairy Queen shrugged off her cape and stood on the edge of the roof, her hair blowing in the wind -- she'd set it free from the braid, he noticed. "Oberon, show yourself! I grow weary of these games."
Leaping into the tree branches overhead, Gwaheer climbed higher and forward, then vaulted through the leaves, spread his wings for a single braking flap, and landed on two feet in the grass at his end of the sloping lawn. It startled a lot of the audience; ladies were clutching the fronts of their shirts, and some of the children who weren't fairies had jumped visibly.
"Titania," he called, and heard his voice ringing across the square. The microphone was on. Taking a few dramatic steps, he raised his hand in a casual tossing movement, and a dozen doves seemed to fly from his fingers. The images would happen as he gave the proper cues. The holo-emitters had been worth the quick trip back to Tannick; the Federation didn't have emitters that worked in open air yet, and gasps from the crowd testified to that.
"My queen," he purred, flinging more doves from his other hand. "Why hast thou wandered so far from thy husband? Why dally with the likes of these mere mortals? Why should I, Oberon, battle for that which you shouldst give me freely -- hast thou become so petty that you would deny thine own husband such a trifling gift as a mere Changeling?"
The Changeling, one of the town children, of course, stepped up alongside Deanna and leaned into the glimmering folds of her costume. The Fairy Queen shook her head indignantly. "Thou speakest of dalliance -- what of your idle pleasures among mere mortals? Should I turn a blind eye to such as Hippolyta?"
"I see I must needs enchant my queen anew," Gwaheer rumbled. The octave change impressed the audience, from the blinking and surprised glances at one another.
He shook his wings, and music began, low pulsing tones that trembled and set the mood. "How you turned my world, you precious thing," he sang, despairingly. "You starve and near exhaust me!"
Flinging both hands in the air sent up streamers of bright sparks, visible even in daylight. "Everything I've done, I've done for you! I move the stars for no one!" With twists of his wrists, more sparks shot up, apparently from the backs of his wings, and danced around over his head in dizzying patterns.
"You've run so long, you've run so far, your eyes can be so cruel. . . " He drew the words out, putting some of what Deanna called velvet into them. "Just as I can be so. . . cruel. . . ."
He took another few steps, starting to play to Deanna alone, losing awareness of the audience. "Though I do believe in you," he half-whispered, letting his movements become more natural. He stalked sinuously, tail moving in slow arcs. "Yes I do, Live without the sunlight. . . Love without your heartbeat. . . I, I can't live within you. . . I can't live without you. . . ."
Deanna stood unmoving, holding the Changeling's head against her leg, and as the music dwindled Gwaheer remembered the act and flourished his fingers before him, making the image of a tiny white horse appear in his palm. He blew on it and it leaped from his fingers, whinnying, growing larger as it ran forward. At the edge of the grass it sprouted shimmering wings, leaped into the air, and vanished in a burst of sparkles against the building at Deanna's feet.
Puck appeared from the crowd with the disappearance of the horse, right on time. "M'lord Oberon, methinks the lady might be impressed by a little more magic than that."
Still rumbling along the lower limits of his vocal ability, Gwaheer laughed, keeping his ears against his head in what Genivee had claimed was a most demonic angle. "You remind me of a babe," he growled, sweeping his arm up dramatically and waggling his fingers.
Puck jumped back a step. "What babe?"
"The babe with the *power!*"
"What power?" Puck cried, getting into this as much as Gwaheer was beginning to.
"The power of VOODOO!"
"Who do?" cried ten fairy boys, tumbling out of the audience.
"YOU do!" he roared, flinging golden sparks over them.
The images of boys sprouted wings, their legs turned from human to Ryxi, tails lashed, and the ten little hybrids ran up to him two-legged.
"Do WHAT?" they chorused.
"Remind me of the babe!" he finished, turning and beginning a stately, tail-coiling wander back and forth across the grass. He half-spoke, half-sang as a syncopated tune began to play.
"I saw my baby,
crying hard as babe could cry
What could I do?
My baby's love had gone
And left my baby blue
Nobody knew -- "
Puck sang, "What kind of magic spell to use?"
"Slime and snails," one fairy held up both items and grinned, smearing the slime on his face.
"Or puppy dogs' tails," a squirming puppy appeared in the second fairy's arms.
The third fairy dodged a lightening bolt Gwaheer threw, yelping, "Thunder or lightning -- "
Gwaheer growled, "Then baby said -- "
"Dance magic, dance
Dance magic, dance
Put that baby spell on me
Jump magic, jump
Jump magic, jump
Put that magic jump on me
Slap that baby, make him free!"
While the fairies sang the chorus and jumped and danced around Puck, who appeared to be leading the group but was actually following the pre-arranged steps, Gwaheer opened his wings and fanned them, trailing green sparks in their wake, then set about the appearance of plucking more fairies, and goblins, and gnomes, out of the grass. Fifty dancers later, he was surrounded and laughing as he indulged in dancing himself, first with a fluttering fairy buzzing around him, then with a slobber-mouthed goblin. His wanderings took him close enough to the crowd that he remembered he should encourage audience participation. He grabbed the hand of a little girl in modern dress, obviously a tourist, and led her out onto the grass to the delight of her parents.
"I saw my baby,
trying hard as babe could try
What could I do?
My baby's fun had gone
And left my baby blue
Nobody knew -- "
He pointed at the girl, leaning close with the microphone, and she sang in a wobbly little voice, "What kind of -- magic spell to use. . . . "
The fairies sang with her, and she got braver. "Slime and snails, or puppy dogs' tails, thunder or lightning -- "
Gwaheer laughed and swung the little girl into the air. "Something *frightening* -- "
"Dance magic, dance
Dance magic, dance
Put that baby's spell on me
Jump magic, jump
Jump magic, jump
Put that magic jump on me
Slap that baby, make her free!"
He danced around wildly until the little girl was laughing joyfully and hanging on to his neck, the whole group of holo-dancers flinging 'pixie dust' in the air around them, holo-fairies with dragonfly's wings zooming around them, and Gwaheer pointed a few times to make more creatures appear.
The music began to die down, his cue to finish the sequence. He slowed and put the little girl down, sitting on the grass in front of her to be at eye level. "You remind me of the babe," he said, still in a velvet bass.
"What babe?" The girl had lost her timidity. Her high-pitched enthusiasm made an excellent counterpoint to his low tones.
"The babe with the power."
"What power?"
"The power of voodoo."
"Who do?"
"You do."
"Do what?"
He laughed, turned her around, gave her a push toward her waiting parents, and sang fondly, "Remind me of the babe."
With a sweep of his wing that left trails of red sparks, all the holo-creatures disappeared. Puck had taken up his assigned spot on top of a post, crouching, grinning and watching Gwaheer to see what would happen next.
Deanna still stood unmoving, staring down from the roof. "Is that all?" she said haughtily. Disapproval from the crowd, mumblings and a few 'boo' noises.
Gwaheer smiled up at her. "No, my queen. It is *not* all."
A surreptitious twitch of his tail started more music, a jaunty tune that bordered on parody. Since the play upon which all of this was so loosely based had been ridiculous, this would be ridiculous, too. It had taken him but an hour to program in all the imagery involved, and since the poem was of about the same century as Shakespeare, it was as applicable as any.
"Come live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield."
While he sang each key word, the item appeared behind him -- hills and valleys, then dale and field, which shifted to craggy mountains.
"There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals."
Large rocks appeared close behind. He sat on his coiled tail, a position he could only hold briefly, but it would make him appear to be sitting on a boulder. A river appeared, bouncing down the craggy mountains into a falls to his right, and birds flocked in from nowhere, swooping around the falling water and warbling melodiously. Shepherds wandered into view, coalescing at the edge of the emitter's range and shooing little white sheep ahead of them.
"There will I make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle."
At the sweep of his hands, the grass before him became beds of wildflowers and red roses appeared in midair in little puffs of gold glitter to fall to the ground. A few of the dragonfly fairies swooped in bearing the cap, kirtle and more blossoms to sprinkle around.
"A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair lin\xE8d slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold."
During this verse, lambs sprouted alongside the flowers and gamboled up to let him pull wool, and another fairy darted in with slippers and laid them on the posies alongside the cap and kirtle. With a shake, the handful of wool he'd gathered became a white gown. He almost grimaced at the silliness of this -- but the crowd was laughing, and someone called out 'aw, come on, m'lady, give the guy a break!' It was hard to keep singing over the resulting applause, but the clapping died down quickly.
"A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Lo-oo-o-o-- "
He drew out the final word into a rising series of arpeggios, climbing higher and higher, the shepherds leaping around with the lambs and the fairies, all of which sang along in six-part harmony with him. Even the lambs -- he'd programmed their lips to move right along, which resulted in more laughter from the audience as they noticed.
Gwaheer stopped singing and let the foolery continue around him. The lambs bleated higher and higher, the shepherds sang in falsetto, while he slowly stalked down the lawn until he stood a wing's length from the front row of people on the sidewalk. With a single backward slap of his wings, the images all vanished along with the song, startling everyone to silence as he'd intended.
"What say you, my Queen?"
Deanna looked down at him -- still disdainful! She wasn't supposed to do that. She stared in silence, until some of the onlookers shifted uncomfortably -- of course, being an empath she would sense exactly when she'd achieved the maximum impact of a dramatic pause.
"You expect me to be impressed by all this nonsense?" she exclaimed, not quite scornful but close. "Dancing trolls, singing lambs -- what magic is this for the King of the Fairies?"
Gwaheer smiled his wily way, dropped to sit on the ground with hands between his feet, and the image he'd thought he might not get to use formed over him with a shimmer, subtle at first, but solidifying quickly. He'd programmed the dragon to be a full story tall, blue as his own wings, and to respond in tandem to his own movements.
Since he could see one-way through the image, vaguely, as if through a blue curtain, he would be able to respond well enough. He paused a few moments beyond the set time the dragon would be done, sitting with folded wings, watching the crowd react. Most were backing up in alarm.
Gwaheer stood slowly, reached with one hand, then the other, planting the images of the dragon's hands slowly along the roof of the tavern. He growled, low and soft, and the computer compensated for his draconic appearance by turning up the volume.
"Are we impressed yet?" he rumbled, and as the dragon's mouth moved, flickers of fire licked around its lips and smoke began to trickle from its nostrils.
Deanna stepped back from the edge of the roof -- he couldn't see her face through the blue haze, but her posture still spoke defiance. Her words, however -- "I am impressed, m'lord."
Gwaheer straightened, pulling hands from the building and holding them over his head, and laughed -- the booming amplification of it nearly hurt his own ears. Opening his wings, he slapped them together and the image rapidly dwindled, appearing to be sucked back down into Gwaheer's body, disappearing and leaving him in the same position as the dragon had last taken.
"TITANIA!" he shouted, flinging showers of sparks from his fingers into the air.
She smiled, and abruptly vanished.
It was so unexpected that he shook his head and took a step backward, and it registered seconds later that she had appeared on the grass several paces in front of him.
He backpedaled, hearing laughter from the crowd -- they thought this was another image, probably. She sidled up to him and took him by the ear, and pulled. Not hard, thank goodness, but he let his head follow the movement, bending him slightly sideways. He looked up at her face and did another double-take -- this wasn't Deanna!
"Margaretha," he whispered, in spite of himself. The microphone picked it up, of course. Someone in the crowd gasped.
The woman shoved him away roughly. Deanna's voice came over the speakers, and Margaretha moved her mouth without making a sound. "So this is how it is to be! You call me by your lover's name." Margaretha's hand dropped to her hip -- he saw a cloaking device there, one of Ryxi design concealed beneath layers of fabric, and almost laughed himself at the joke Deanna had managed to play -- and then the woman was invisible, and Deanna had reappeared on the roof.
"I knew I could not trust you," Deanna cried. "Who is Margaretha?"
"My wife! Margaretha is my wife!" Claude Lartet, in peasant garb, ran out of the tavern, pointing at Gwaheer. "He cast a spell on my poor Margaretha and made her fall in love with him!"
What they were doing came clear at last. It took all his effort not to grin, but to adopt a penitent expression and slip to the ground, sitting up with arms outstretched. "My lady, my queen, it is but a misunderstanding. The lady Margaretha looked so much like my queen that at first I believed her to be you -- I was so overcome by her beauty that I -- "
"Release the woman to her husband, Oberon!"
Gwaheer paused, unsure of how to do that -- where in the world was she? Then again, she couldn't have gone far, even cloaked. With a wave of his hands that sent up more colored sparks, he provided special effects, and predictably Margaretha appeared -- this time acting confused and looking down at her queenly garb in dismay, then turning to see her husband and running, overjoyed, into his arms.
Deanna stepped up on the edge of the roof. Gwaheer saw Genivee rush forward in alarm and stop short. "My King," Deanna cried, spreading her arms. Gwaheer saw the glint of metal in her palm and grinned.
"My Queen!"
He spun about and leaped, flew low over the grass, then soared over the treetops of the park and banked over the roofs of the buildings, passing behind where Deanna stood, her teal artificial wings unfurling from beneath the layers of shimmering material she wore. He circled again and found her circling behind him, laughing.
Four years of practice had seen marked improvements in her flight skills, and she performed her spirals and rolls with him flying counterpoint. With his maneuverability and instincts he did the fancy work, diving and looping around her and buzzing the heads of the crowd.
Finally, Deanna glided to the grassy space and landed, and he executed one of his dive-loop-flip-stall and drop maneuvers, landing next to her on two feet and cuing the final dance sequence with a flick of a wing. Holo-fairies and a variety of mythological creatures sprang out of the grass around them, including a gryphon and a small version of the blue dragon, and the piping to which Puck pretended to play a set of pan's pipes began.
Deanna laughed and grabbed his hand, pulling him into her arms. "Surprise," she said, kissing him. Her voice didn't project through the speakers; Bayard Mouton must have turned off the microphones when they'd taken flight.
"Aren't you a sassy wench?" Gwaheer grinned. "So ditch the whole end sequence and the silly Changeling for impromptu acrobatics and Margaretha? You could have warned me."
"But then it wouldn't have been a surprise, would it?"
He laughed, tail coiling in pleasure. "No, it wouldn't. It was a good surprise -- I thought you'd learned to teleport! But I knew at once she wasn't you." He nipped her ear and purred. "So do you have any other surprises for me?"
"Jean-Luc -- "
"Yes, I spoke with them earlier. They're here to take us to lunch, for our anniversary."
"Isn't that sweet? Genivee and the others wanted to take us for dinner."
"So much for romance, I suppose."
Deanna giggled. "Oh, no. We have wings, remember? Think we could make it to the next town by dinner time?"
Gwaheer looked around them at the bacchanalia in progress -- the crowd spilled onto the grass, some taking pictures of each other dancing with the holo-creatures. Jean-Luc and Beverly were laughing together and trying to dance, ignoring the fairies they danced through. Will and Shehady were talking to Claude and Margaretha.
"Genivee knows how to turn off the holo-emitters, and I'm sure she'll take care that no one makes off with them, don't you think?" he asked. "Do you want to go back to the chateau to change?"
"No. I want to go just like this. I think I've gotten used to the face paint. Don't you think we make a lovely couple, teal and blue?"
They turned as one, walking away from the others for wing space. He let her take off first, and followed swiftly. Behind them he heard applause and catcalls, which swiftly dwindled. They gained altitude rapidly, and the patchwork of the French countryside drifted beneath them.
<Did you enjoy the festival, 'hiri?>
<Actually, I did. Very much. More than I thought I would.>
<So you're glad you went along with me on this one, in spite of not quite understanding it all?>
<Yes. So you see that telling me what you want even when *I* don't think I'll enjoy it is important?>
She folded her right wing slightly and veered, rolling, then straightened her course toward the city of Bordeaux on the horizon. Staying behind and above her was easy enough.
<I talked to Jean-Luc, too, and Beverly. I have another surprise for you when we get back to the chateau.>
Gwaheer smiled. <Whatever tickles your fancy, dear queen.>
<Oh, I think it'll tickle yours, too.>
He flew steadily behind her, keeping up easily, watching the ripple of the gossamer material over her trim form, and laughed as a thought struck him. <Ever hear of the mile-high club?>
<No. What is it?>
Catching up with a few flaps, he rolled and
goosed her with his foot lightly. <Nothing you could manage, but we could come close. .
. .>
&%%&%%&
Labyrinth was one of my favorite fantasy movies, because David Bowie made such a great troll king. {trivia note: Gates McFadden did the choreography of the Muppet characters for Labyrinth!} The first two songs Gwaheer sings in the festival are from that soundtrack.
'Come Live With Me and Be My Love is a poem by Christopher Marlowe, written in the 1500's. My college choir did an absolutely hilarious spoof of it as a song -- I nearly put in the little holo-fairies singing "myrtle-myrtle-myrt-myrt" in memory of that spoof, but it doesn't come off quite as well as words on a page.
"Wild as the Wind" is a Johnny Mathis tune.
And I think David Bowie would be an *excellent* Ryxian, if anyone ever made the movie version of Kerzoinky Blue.
As if. {sigh}