It was Royce Eggers who first brought it up. Everyone was sitting around after dinner as usual, lingering at the table to plug into the current of conversation that was always the best thing about Millbrook—and Zihuatanejo and Newton before it—when Royce, who’d been seen conferring with Tim earlier, tapped his glass with a spoon in order to get everyone’s attention. “I have a proposal,” he announced, as the conversation subsided around him. “And it has to do with the meditation house pairings—or it’s the next logical step beyond them, by way of extending the familial experience here . . .”

As soon as he mentioned the meditation house, everyone’s ears pricked up. It happened that Royce’s wife, Susannah, was out there that week, in the company of Ken Sensabaugh, and there was all sorts of speculation as to what was going on between them, not simply with regard to sex—if there was any, and that wasn’t a given—but with the larger notions of spiritual exploration and the fusing of personalities. They hadn’t seemed especially close in the way of some of the others, men and women both, who seemed to seek each other out over meals or group activities or the bullshit sessions around the fire that went on till all hours every night of the week, and while Ken would have been ready for anything, Susannah was probably the most conventional of the women at Millbrook. She was the prototypical housewife and mother of three who as far as anybody could see would have been perfectly content in her own kitchen in her own home if she hadn’t been swept up in the revolution they were all living—and she was a bit older, too, at forty-one. She was attractive enough in her way, but she was no Fanchon. Or Joanie. Not to mention Flora Lu, who was another species altogether. Still, it wasn’t looks that mattered, Fitz reminded himself—it was purpose. And if Royce had a problem with his wife being out there in the meditation house with Ken Sensabaugh, it was everybody’s problem.

What Royce was proposing, with the backing of Tim and Dick, was to establish an improvisatory sleeping arrangement on the third floor, where most of the rooms were unoccupied simply because they were farthest from the center of things. Mattresses would be laid out and whoever chose to spend the night there was at least tacitly agreeing to sleep with whoever came along. Or not, no compulsion, of course—just openness.