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dashing hero of the French Revolution in his black-and-white harlequin suit, long-nosed white domino mask, sword and plumed hat striking a regal pose at the top of the poster--battling the silver-clad and silver-wigged nobleman who was also his half brother, at the bottom of the holo). Bracketing both, the two mid-twentieth-century versions of The Prisoner of Zenda, both of which she'd seen and adored equally: The acting in the black-and-white version had been somewhat better, but the swordplay in the second--and the black-haired actor from Scaramouche --
    had given her delicious chills. Swashbuckling. Swordplay. Things that are not what they seem ? Magdalena eyed Rob consideringly. Don't go romancing, you, she ordered herself. He put them up because he knows I like those particular movies.
    She settled her shoulders more comfortably as Rob dropped into his chair, leaned back to place crossed feet on the desk, and smiled at her. Bast rose from behind a stack of files, papers, and books--Magdalena privately suspected Rob assembled the chaotic mess deliberately, in order to relax students who were themselves often disorganized. The black cat stalked across the desk to walk down his shins and sprawl across his thighs.
    Absently, he stroked her plushy fur.
    Magdalena's eyes went beyond the school's director to the posters, and she smiled at Leslie Nielsen, whose dark eyes seemed to meet hers. As did Ronald Colman's from the black-and-white Prisoner of Zenda poster. But the tiny holo-print defeated her. She sat up, leaned forward and peered at it.
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    Rob smiled lazily as he petted the cat. "Would you mind doing the honors?
    The tea and biscuits are already programmed. And go take a look at that."
    He nodded toward the small holo-print. "If you like it, I had a copy made and framed for you, in honor of last night."
    Magdalena flowed to her feet and fussed with cups and plates for a moment, then set tea and warm rounds of black-seeded bread where he could easily reach his share before going over to study the little holo. She caught her breath sharply. "Ohhhh," she whispered. "It's a Degas!"
    "Madame has a book of them--" he began.
    She nodded, her eyes fixed on the small replica of a water-color print: a dark-haired young ballerina in a long, sheer skirt and pointe slippers. Her eyes seemed to be gazing at the floor, but Magdalena knew her attention was turned inward as she visualized the steps she must execute. "I know she does," the student replied softly. "I've borrowed it, several times. This particular dancer, though--she's always been my favorite." She gathered up her own sweetened tea and plate of biscuits, settled herself comfortably once more, and took a deep swallow of the warm, fragrant beverage before she dared trust her voice. "How did you know that?"
    He shrugged, smiled, drank tea. "Madame lent me the book some time ago, and I knew you'd borrowed it. I didn't know you were fond of that particular print; but she reminds me of you, the way you concentrate on any task, including dance." He bit into a biscuit. "I know you'll be getting high marks in ballet for last night, and that ovation at the end must have felt terrific--but I thought a little solid something would be nice, too. I enjoyed the concert, especially the duets. You and David move so well together--what?" he asked as Magdalena sighed, very faintly. She shrugged, drank more tea.
    "Anything you'd like to talk about, maybe?"
    Magdalena frowned; she couldn't help it.
    "Keeping in mind," Rob calmly added, "that I've already heard about the argument last night, up in the Spiral Arm."
    "You've been listening to gossip," Magdalena said mock-accusingly but then she groaned, set aside her cup and plate, and buried her face in her hands.
    "Oh, God, I didn't even
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    think about people hearing that] I thought we were being quiet... !"
    "David was," Rob replied with a faint chuckle. Her fingers parted so one dark eye glared at him briefly, then again vanished behind