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experience of the world, before she has to settle down. Just be careful.”
    Now perversely, Orb had a second thought. “But you, Mother—can you manage without me? I mean—”
    Niobe hugged her. “I love you Orb, but I can manage. Here, the Magician left something for you.”
    It turned out to be a carpet: a beautiful small silken one that nevertheless supported her weight lightly enough. “Oh, it’s absolutely lovely!” Orb breathed ecstatically. “But that means—”
    “That he knew you would be going,” Niobe finished. “He cares for you, Orb, as he does for Luna; he just doesn’t show it often. He told me where to take the two of you to obtain your instruments. I think his neglect as a baby caused him to lose facility for the expression of love, but he feels it.”
    Orb did not comment. Niobe was the Magician’s mother; if she had neglected him, she must have had good reason. “I will use it to visit him and Luna!” she exclaimed.
    “You will not!” Niobe snapped. “This is not intercontinental tapestry! You would perish in some storm far from land. No, this is strictly a local transport, close to ground. You’ll have to take a scientific airplane to cross the ocean. But you don’t need to visit them so soon anyway; go about your business and see what you can find.”
    Orb nodded. She had never spoken to her mother of her longing for the Llano, but evidently Niobe knew. So she flung her arms about the older woman and just hugged her, and that was enough.
    But Niobe was not done. She had a gift of her own: a cloak that would garb Orb in whatever manner she required, so that she would not need to tote a suitcase of clothing. “Return when you are ready, dear, and I will be here.” Perhaps significantly, she did not mention Pacian.
    Orb hugged her again and shed another tear. Then she packed some food and her little harp, took a good map of Eire, and settled herself on the carpet. It lifted with her thought, being one of the refined modern ones that responded only to the owner and needed no spoken commands.
    She hovered for a moment, blowing a kiss to her mother. Then she was off, sailing up to treetop level, the wind taking her cloak but not threatening her. She was on her way.
    She was looking for the Raggle-Taggle Gypsies that she had met as a child. They had told her what they knew of her real objective, the Llano, but perhaps they could now tell her where to look for it.
    First she went to the swamp where the old water-oak stood, to consult with the hamadryad. She and Luna had visited often in the summers when they were young, but seldom in the later years. Nevertheless the dryad welcomed her immediately, even coming down from the tree to hug her as she got off the carpet.
    “But I’m adult now,” Orb protested, pleased. “How can you approach me?”
    “You are still an innocent,” the dryad said. “Besides, I know you. There is no music like yours.”
    Orb elected to ignore the slight about her experience, for the dryad had been a precious friend. “What I really want is to find that song, the Llano,” she confessed. “So I’m looking for those Gypsies, because perhaps they can tell me where to look.”
    The hamadryad frowned, not liking the Gypsies who had threatened to chop down her tree. A threat of that nature was never forgiven by her kind. But she recognized Orb’s need, so she helped. “We have watched that tribe, my sisters and I. It is now south, in Cork.”
    Orb thanked her and resumed her journey, after a parting almost as poignant as the one with Niobe. The flight was long, and night was coming, so she ate sparingly from her stores, then lay down on the carpet and slept while it continued its travel. Her cloak kept her warm, and she knew no one would bother a solitary flying carpet; they were, after all, common enough. This really solved the problem of nights, for she was as safe here as she could be anywhere—at least when there was no storm.
    In the morning she found