Odd. When I was really small, Grandfather was very open about everything. Never avoided any subject. Then when I hit puberty and I was feeling touchy and shaky about anything sexual, he kept things very low-key, and very clinical, and never brought it up unless I did. He never said anything about David or Saul or even Ridge, and I thought for sure he’d have a few choice comments about Ridge! But now, especially lately, it’s like living with a New York street crew! He’s flinging innuendoes at me all the time! Why? Is it because I can handle it now? Or is he trying to tell me something?

Like maybe I could use a good, therapeutic—

She shook her head, and bit her lip. No, it can’t be that simple.

Mooncrow had not said or done anything “simple” for the past four or five years. Whatever he was trying to tell her, it must be something else entirely.

She shook her head, loosening her neck muscles. Maybe he’s trying to tell me I should become a nun, she thought wryly. Shoot, I might as well, for all the action I’ve had lately. The safest sex there is—none.

Now she was feeling sorry for herself. Any more, and she’d start playing Morrissey records.

Sauna, then shower. Just sauna, simple steaming out of nerves and anger, no sweatlodge stuff. Then I’ll see if I can’t get some direction in dreams.

The sauna made her relax in spite of her tension, and the shower, turned to “massage” setting, pounded out every muscle in her neck, shoulders, and back. She concentrated on making everything that was bothering her wash out with the water and run down the drain, in one of the oldest cleansing rituals there was. Her people had always been ones for cleansing by water, both spiritually and physically; that was one reason why they always tried to camp beside running water. Even in the dead of winter, Osages would bathe.

Breaking the ice to take a bath. Glad I’m not living back then. I’d never survive a winter.

The missionaries had been appalled. They had been certain that so much bathing was immoral.

She came out of the steamy bathroom to find that Mooncrow had anticipated her needs, and had left a hot cup of—well, “tea” wasn’t exactly the right word for what was on her bureau. It was black, so dark it looked like strong coffee; redolent with two or three dozen different herbs and plants, it was without a doubt exactly what she would need for a minor vision-quest among her dreams.

She lifted the cup in an ironic salute to the electronic beeping in the living room, and downed it in as few swallows as she could manage.