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given the same opportunity. To counteract these suspicions, Marguerida had done her best to pretend she was a proper Darkovan woman, interested in domestic matters, not those of state. She readily admitted she had not succeeded very well. She was too strong-minded to sit quietly during Council meetings, even though she promised herself each time that she would.
    It was funny, really. She and Javanne were very similar in disposition, and while Marguerida had the advantage of a Federation education, her mother-in-law knew Darkover down into her aging bones. So, they disagreed on almost everything, often painfully. Javanne just could not understand that the Federation had to be dealt with; it could not be wished away or sent off.
    Even when they were in agreement, as when the Station Chief had installed some media screens in taverns in the Trade City, and Regis had ordered them dismantled since they violated the treaty with the Federation, it was grudging and unpleasant. Something niggled in Marguerida’s mind as she thought about this incident and she wondered if Belfontaine was about to attempt another intrusion into the Darkovan way of life. There was no information she had to suggest such a thing, but sometimes her unconscious mind seemed much more canny than her waking mind.
    Of course, there were those odd disturbances this past summer. A small riot in the Horse Market, and all manner of rumors, which had come and gone like the clouds across the sky. It had been a summer fever, and the usually peaceable populace of the city had turned ugly and resentful for a brief time. But why should that trouble her just now, when she had a few uninterrupted hours to work? She felt a frisson of unease, not the first since she had sat down, she realized.
    Something was troubling Marguerida, and it was not the Federation or her children, or Mikhail or anything she could put her finger on. She had just the hint of a headache, and her belly was queasy, almost as if she were pregnant again. Since she knew this was not the case, she could not account for the unease, unless she was coming down with some medical complaint. She dismissed the idea abruptly and turned again to the work on the desk.
    She really must bear down and focus. Marguerida had a self-imposed deadline to meet. In three weeks it would be Regis’ birthday, and it had become the custom to present an evening’s entertainment of music for the occasion. She planned to premiere her opera then, since the subject was the legend of Hastur and Cassilda, the legendary forbears of his house, as a gift for him. It was fortunate that an increase in the number of musicians coming to the Castle was a perfectly normal part of the preparations for the event, and more fortunate yet that the singers and players of instruments regarded Marguerida as an ex officio member of their Guild. Thus far, the whole project had remained a secret from Regis, although she was sure he suspected something was going on. In a castle containing many varied telepaths, it was difficult, but not impossible, to plan a surprise.
    Marguerida closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. Once again she let the Alton Gift reach out, seeking the source of her unease. She had discovered this particular feature of her Gift years before, in a long-destroyed keep, in the distant past, where her life had changed forever. Nothing seemed to be wrong, so she decided she was just being foolish, shrugged her shoulders, opened her eyes, and picked up a pen.
    Dipping it into the inkwell, she started to copy the first page. Darkovan musical notation was unlike the form she had learned at University, but after all this time, it was quite familiar to her, and easy to do. Yes, she had been right to do this herself—there was a place on the page where it was unclear what she had intended. Hardly surprising, since she had edited the original half a dozen times. She hummed the notes to herself, vocalized a stanza softly, and made the