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his positioning hers on the rock, the warmth and scent of him. She stepped back, studied her creation, then shoved it all into the sludge bucket.

Round he throws his baleful eyes,
That witnessed huge affliction and dismay,
Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate.
    T hough he burned for the encounter, it could not be rushed. There was a purpose larger than he, a reason for his existence that could not be put aside. He must allow for both. The journey serving the end. But how?
    He rubbed his chin, pondering. And then it came—prepare the way. Yes! What before was done in secret, he would document and demonstrate, and when the time came, they, each, would know the other. By their deeds, they’d be known. They’d be judged.
    He had no newscasters, no TV cameras. His message would be subtle, a whisper, not a shout, a dim reflection of the other’s glow, a moon to his sun, a shadow in his mind.
    It required preparation, one thing he lacked especially. Not an obstacle—thieving was as simple as breathing when people left doors and cars unlocked, and even locked he found ways—not greedy, needy. No remorse for the wealthy ones whose insurance bought newer, better. One small loss against his myriad.
    That would wait for dark. Until then, his mission called. Silent cries of desperation. They were everywhere, the broken, neglected, hidden among the fortunate. Seeing the one playing alone, he approached. The face tipped up had not yet turned to stone, not abandoned hope. He held out his hand, and it was taken.
    Where were the forces arrayed, the avengers, the guardians? He gnashed his teeth. At some point they would wonder. But would it be too late?

Four
    A fter tucking her stick under her arm, Fleur reached for the door, but heard it swing open before she turned the handle. “Ms. Reeve?”
    “Natalie, please.” Her voice was warm and young.
    “I’m Fleur Destry. We have an appointment?” She indicated the portfolio under her arm that held one loose canvas and photos of the rest.
    “You’re the painter.”
    “Yes.”
    An understandable pause, then, “Thanks for postponing yesterday’s appointment.”
    “Sure.” The door swung wider, releasing tones of hammered dulcimer and flute.
    “Come in, please.”
    Tap. Tap. Stone or ceramic tiles on the floor. The air was freshened with a hint of apple underlaid by juniper. Fresh potpourri, she guessed, although imitation fragrances were hardly discernable from the real thing anymore.
    “Bring your portfolio to the table here. The light is good and we can spread out.”
    Though covering well, her surprise was still apparent. “You didn’t expect me to be blind.”
    “I haven’t known any blind artists.”
    “I didn’t tell you on the phone because I want you to see paintings, not a blind person’s paintings.”
    “I will, then.”
    “I lost my sight when I was fourteen. I see now with my mind’s eye.” She tapped the table leg and reached out to the surface. She laid the portfolio down and opened it. “I set up my palette in a certain order, so I know which colors I’m putting where. It isn’t random.”
    “No, I see that. The structure is dynamic.”
    “Thank you.” She’d been hoping for something like that. “The other canvases are much larger, but I’m told the color in the photos is accurate.”
    “Fleur, these are wonderful. I’d love to represent you in the gallery.”
    “Really?” The music changed to a lively jig of tin flute and Celtic fiddle.
    “I’ve been overwhelmed with landscape artists, and while some were quite well done, that isn’t what I’m looking for. These will be a striking complement to my sculptures.”
    “Would you mind if I examined one?”
    “Not at all. Come this way.” After several steps, Natalie stopped her. “The platform is waist high. The sculpture is an arm’s length in front of you.”
    Carefully, she reached out and found the cool, smooth, and rough shape. She ran sensitive fingers over it. “What