“Yes. And grasping.”

“Grasping? Grasping? I’m shocked, Virisse! Am I really grasping?”

“Ha, I mean … hungry, given to clutching, gripping, even grabbing.”

“And now grabbing! Good gracious!”

“You grabbed me, don’t you remember? That first time, when we were in the garden of the parliament. That evening? You said you wanted to talk about some long-term aspect of her schedule, do you remember?”

“Of course I remember. Here is more comfortable, though, don’t you think? I swear if we weren’t all departing so shortly I might have to have this bed reinforced, just to cope with our exertions.”

“Her birthday, the following year. You said you wanted to plan something special for her because it would be her sixtieth. Then. That was when you grabbed at me, almost as soon as you had me alone, in that night-shady bower.”

“I grabbed you? Are you sure this was me?”

“Oh, now. Who else? You know this. You did.”

“I thought you wanted to be grabbed.”

“I might have.”

“Just as well I did, then, wouldn’t you say?”

“I think I will say anything, when we are like this, when you hold me like this.”

“Really? I must think up something extremely terrible, then, to exploit that admission.”

“You mustn’t. You can’t. I’m at your mercy; it would be cruel, wrong.”

“To the contrary! It would only be right. You offer me this, I must take it. You lay yourself open; I must in.”

“Ah. Ah … yes. Oh, dear Scribe … But … not anything. Not anything at all. I am not so totally … I am not so … I am not …”

“Not what, Virisse?”

“I can’t remember. I have forgotten what I am not.”

“Well. Better that than forgetting what you are.”

“You steal all I have away, like this, when we lie like this. I feel laid bare, all washed away.”

“Does she do this? Does she have that same effect?”

“Oh, my love, why do you always have to ask me to make these …?”

“Because I’m fascinated. Everything about you fascinates me. How can I not be consumed by … not envy, but interest, to know how you lie with her, how much of what you do with me is what you do with her?”

“Is it not enough to know that you and I do what we do? Do we have to compare? Must we always compete?”

“How can we not? The urge to compare and compete is as basic as any. As basic as this.”

“Must it be, though?”

“It is; that’s all that matters. And does she touch you like this?”

“Oh. Oh. Oh. Yes, yes she does.”

“How I’d love to compare. How I’d love to see. How I’d love to watch.”

“See, my love? Watch?”

“Is that too much to ask?”

“Prophet’s kiss, Septame! You want the three of us …?”

“Septame, is it, now! Why …”