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that he'd begun. "Heard
rain. ... chanting."
    "Chanting?" Said with interest,
Ellen's eyebrows arching, her blue eyes wide.
    "It was just about that time that I
lost Cream."
    "Lost ... this kitty?" Ellen looked
concerned, even though Cream was clearly fine.
    "That's right. I lost her ... under
the stairs.
    "When I bought this old house, it was
unbelievable dry. No one had lived here for decades, probably
because of the house's evil reputation. Just walking around, Cream
charged herself with static electricity.
    "One day when I had the storage door
open, Cream darted in there ... and disappeared." John stopped.
Started again. "And here's the strange part. I couldn't see her ...
but I could hear her mew.
    "Crazy as it sounds, that gave me the
idea there was another 'reality' that could be entered by getting
charged up with static electricity and going under the stairs, that
space a kind of passageway between here and there.
    The hard part over, the rest of the
tale tumbled out. The van de Graaff. The dead Mage, Melcor. The
crystal. The bands, each with different gravity. Eyeland. Golden --
singer, gymnast, rope walker, knife thrower, burglar, and pretender
to the Malachite throne. Zwicia -- though who could explain
her?
    John's rambling coming to an exhausted
close, Ellen looked at Paul.
    "Not a joke?" she asked, the rich
timber of her voice sounding small, even in the quiet
room.
    Neither of the men spoke.
    "Not a joke," Ellen whispered. "Not a
joke ... and something more?"
    Without further explanation, John
stood. Walked to the package by the fire. Brought it
back.
    Unwrapping the paper, he took out
Platinia's black robe. Spread it on the coffee table.
    Paul bent to look at it. Shrugged.
"Woven. Looks like its been made by hand."
    Settling back, he grinned. "Could have
been woven by some Indian tribe in South America."
    "How about these?"
    John took out both his and Platinia's
hand-made shoes, putting them on top Platinia's robe.
    "Impressive, but ...." Paul waved them
away, as well.
    Like any good showman, John had saved
the best for last. "And ... this?"
    With a flourish, John took out
Platinia's under-robe of Cinnabar silk.
    Unrolling the robe fully, he floated
it on top the clothing pile.
    "Ah," Ellen said, bending over as far
as her "baby burden" would allow, first to smooth the white cloth
with both hands, then to feel it between thumb and forefinger.
"Look at this, Paul.
    Paul bent down to touch the robe.
Shrugged again.
    "I've never seen anything like it."
Ellen was impressed.
    "A robe's a robe."
    "But this is finer than silk. And I
know silk." She looked up at John, eyes sober. ""You get more of
this, and I'll open a boutique that will make us rich."
    "It's special there, too. Fit for
Mages. Kings. Etherials -- a title that needs explanation. It's
called Cinnabar silk. Comes from the band of Cinnabar; unknown
territory for the most part. Cinnabar's the outermost ring-country
of the other world. Super-light gravity to hear people tell of it.
Under a red sky. Most are scared to death to go there; talk in
mystic terms about 'The Cinnabar.' Call it the land of the
'flyers.'"
    "Wishing to convince us of your
travels," Paul interrupted. "Don't I remember that you have another
proof of passage?"
    He meant Platinia.
    And he was right. Time to produce the
girl, whether she liked it or not, Platinia the reason for this
"war council" after all, John needing all the advice he could get
about what to do with her. Quiet advice.
    "By accident," John said, aiming that
fib at Ellen, "I brought someone back with me. A girl. A girl named
Platinia. Only to find that I don't know what to do about her. And
to make things worse, she barely understands me with I try to tell
her something. It's a matter of the lack of magic here, magic
automatically translating foreign language there. You should have
heard me try to explain to her how to wear the clothes I bought
her. She had no concept of what goes on ... first." John felt
himself blushing.