A more casual voice continued, “When Omen, the queer heir, arrived at the Rhiz-Port, he spent three days with the Elders, who roasted him continuously. He’d already enlisted a white punk named Garlic to figuratively and actually flagellate him for inherited sins, so he had a high tolerance for rebuke.”

A fountain gurgled. I saw bodies moving in the Pleasure Gardens.

On the southwest edge, the Cloaking Mountain shot off mists. Flowered vines climbed across the low entrance walls. A circular building with smoke rising from its roof somehow smelled of rose and vanilla. I passed vegetable fields with stone-laid paths connecting them. Watched the spinning spits inside the Maze of Eateries. Felt a vertiginous pull as I stared into the rolling waves of the Lake of Release.

I lingered at the blinding white Cave of Re-Learning.

“Here, the Scholars gather the materials that have been discarded from official archives of nation and academy. The oral, the messy, the upending stories,” the original narrator added.

So that was where Stone would go.

When three bells sounded, the towers lost their glow.

“This is the evening call. All members walk to the Palace of the Elders for the daily bow. The Elders may come out if they wish,” the narrator continued.

“They do not need to do anything except exist in a realm of pleasure,” said the second voice.

The whole world flattened and was pulled back into the prism, which receded into the spine of the book. When I picked up the volume again, it had gone blank.

All at once, a deep sadness descended. Why hadn’t I known that such possibilities existed before? Why was my childhood a series of miseries and only in my most recent phase of adulthood did delight pop up?

Well, isn’t queer adulthood, if one is lucky, having the impossible childhood of your desires?

Stone returned, wearing a new sun hat and a white dress that accentuated her tan. She squeezed me in a hug when she found me at the baggage claim. Telling her about the book was easier than telling her that I missed her.

“Finally,” she said as bags started shooting out onto the belt. “It must be your time.”

“My time? Who decides that?”

“Well, I’m a Scholar. To become an Operatrix, which is better suited for your temperament, one of them has to notice some potential during a mission.”

“Who could have possibly observed my potential? The one I called a nightlife monk?”

She laughed.

“Does that mean they are going to recruit me?”

“The Rhiz does not have HR policies, but it seems like they are showing a sign of interest, yes.”

“Did you know that my time was coming?”

“I had some idea,” she said mysteriously.

“What about the fact that you’ve lied to me for so long?” I asked.

“Pen, I wasn’t gleefully obfuscating my relationship to the Rhiz. It’s part of the contract. It’s way beyond my personal preferences.”

Ugh, she was always so articulate.