Her fingers lightly caressed a button on the long table as she half-turned toward him. At this moment, she was glad they still wore the semi-barbaric accoutrements donned for last night's festivities, commemorating the conclusion of the final war—weird, fantastic trappings, selected more for adornment than for approximations of ancient military dress—for he would not notice that she was trembling. When at last she spoke, her voice was steady.

His hand made as if to clasp her arm, then dropped to his side. For an instant he stood there, words welling to his lips, then, with a half shrug he turned away. She did not move as he strode toward the doorway, glanced out the window; her back was a picture of composure.

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