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    “That sounds wonderful,” she agreed. She hesitated a moment, then added: “They have a way of cooking glith steaks that is delicious.”
    “I remember,” I said softly. She caught her breath sharply. I took her hand and made her stop walking, then drew her around to face me. “Illia, are you nervous about being out with me tonight?”
    “I—yes, of course I am,” she admitted. I thought she sounded relieved that she didn’t have to pretend. “It’s—well, it’s very strange, knowing you and not knowing you.”
    “Please don’t be afraid of me.”
    “I’m not. It’s just …” She took a deep breath. “Do you remember … everything about Markasset?”
    I thought about lying to her, but I decided she deserved at least honesty from me.
    “I remember every moment you and Markasset spent together.”
    “Oh, dear.”
    She turned away abruptly, and we walked along again. But she didn’t take her hand away, and this time the silence was more comfortable.
    In a few minutes, she began to talk of ordinary things: the fruit she and her mother had been preparing for the drying oven that morning; her sewing projects; her work as a teacher in a school for young children. I realized that she wanted to deal with only the present, and not to contend with our “mutual” past or the uncertain future. That suited me perfectly, and I set myself to keep that tone in my end of the conversation.
    It was one of the most enjoyable evenings I have ever spent. We had a wonderful dinner at the Moonrise, then went on to a dance hall, where we sat at a numbered table, sipping faen, until our table’s number was called. Then we joined the other couples on the patterned dance floor and performed the stylized, intricate dances of Gandalara. There were about a hundred tables, and only twenty couples danced each dance, so we were able to rest well between sessions. Markasset had been a good and an energetic dancer, and I loved dancing with Illia.
    There was one awkward moment when, after recognizing us, the band—a harp, two flutes, a clarinet-looking instrument, and bongos I might have bought in Santa Barbara—changed their schedule to play our “favorite” melody when we reached the dance floor. We studied the painted wooden tiles with great concentration while we danced, and burst out laughing as soon as we were seated again.
    Just before dawn, we finally left the dance hall. As we walked back toward Illia’s house, I tried to think of a way to tell her I was leaving.
    “Zaddorn stopped by my house this evening,” she said suddenly. “He told me that you’ve been asked to join the Council. He also said he wants you to work for him. Which will you do?”
    “Neither one, I’m afraid. There are … circumstances Zaddorn doesn’t know about. I’ll be leaving Raithskar for a while.”
    Her hand gripped mine more tightly. “How soon?”
    “Tomorrow.”
    “Did you know this when you came by this morning?”
    “If I had known it then, I would have told you,” I said.
    “Yes. I believe that.”
    We walked together quietly, then, until we reached her home. She didn’t take me to the house door, but led me through the gate into the back yard. I followed along with her, busy with my own thoughts, until I realized where we were going. Behind her father’s bath-house and storage shed, there was a grassy area that was hidden from all the houses nearby, but was open to the sky. It was a very private place—and very special to Markasset.
    I stopped; she stopped and turned to me. Her face and hair were pale, and her eyes reflected the glow of the moonsoaked clouds above us.
    “You don’t owe me this kind of goodbye, Illia,” I said.
    “Isn’t it more of a greeting … Rikardon?”
    Markasset’s memory of his last night in Raithskar brought me tender images of Illia’s body, its sweet eagerness, its beauty in the moonglow. If I had been Ricardo, in a human world, it would have been easy and natural to