“I didn’t mean to insult you. I just heard it somewhere, before.”

The edges of his eyes tightened then, and he stared, not at her, but past her, through her. Her stomach muscles clenched and she felt the old familiar terror, ten years left behind since she took holy orders and rebuilt herself: of being made, placed, pierced, identified as something she wasn’t. She remembered the anger that followed, and prepared herself against it. But he only stared, bowstring tight, and said, in a voice of dust, “The poem is mine. So’s the line.”

“It’s new? Is there something special about it? Any reference, any story?”

“Do I know you?”

“No,” she said. “I just had to ask.”

He shook his head, and the shake moved down to his whole body. Then he recoiled from her, shouldering off into the crowd faster than she could follow.

“Hey!” She staggered after him on three legs, one arm raised. “Hey, I was just asking!” But the crowd was thick, and a big Kavekanese in a black shirt turned to say something to a friend and struck Kai a glancing blow with his shoulder, which would have been fine, but she tripped over her own cane into a waiter, who stumbled himself but did not fall. The martini glasses he carried on his tray were not so lucky.

Neon green cocktails fountained through the air. Two landed in the sand. One landed on a table, and broke into a jade fireworks display. The last struck a tourist in the back of the head and splashed, sticky and emerald with sugar syrup and artificial coloring, down her neck and into her white blouse.

The tourist stood and cursed in Kathic. The waiter stammered an apology. And two rather large gentlemen in black shirts materialized to either side of Kai, fast as if summoned by Craftwork. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“There’s no reason to get upset,” said the rather large gentleman on the left.

“I’m not upset. I’m fine, I just tripped.”

Meanwhile, the waiter retreated toward the safety of the bar while the tourist pursued, stabbing the air with her finger as if she were being attacked by invisible sprites. On the stage, the Glebland poet had stopped his tirade to stare befuddled into the audience.

“You shouldn’t be worried about me,” she said. “Look at her.”

“Ma’am, please. Remain calm.”

“I just wanted to talk with that guy.” Pointing to Margot, who sat now, she saw, among his ragged poet friends, pointedly ignoring her.

The rather large gentleman on the right took her arm, and she pulled it away, sharply. “Don’t touch me.”