Predoria reached into vir fabricator and began to pull out a quantity of fabric: velvety, luxurious, soft. Ve wound it and wound it around vir hands.

“—a, a sanctioned—”

“Fift,” Dobroc gasped. (What was Fift thinking, why did zir hearts leap, why did ze want to touch Dobroc’s lips, to touch them with zir own, to taste Dobroc’s speech, to drink zir up, wasn’t ze in enough trouble; hadn’t ze already screwed things up forever with Shria, Shria who was bleeding in Wallacomp, Shria who smelled like a wild surface forest; what was this strange toadclownish hunger in Fift, it was Shria’s fault, show me your fucking genitals indeed—) “Look at the whole reactants’ hall—!”

(How could ze ever be the same after having seen Shria gasp like that, and shudder, vir soft skin gleaming with sweat, vir face transformed, transfixed, and Fift the still center holding all that wild storm in one small hand—)

In the long, curving hall, maybe eight thousand Staids and Vails in all styles of dress pulled the same rich, luxurious fabric from their fabricators. Most of the remaining seats were now empty.

It was the soft, rich fabric Panaximandra had thrown.

(—and what would Dobroc say if ze knew? It’s not safe for me with you: if Dobroc could guess at the secret behind Shria’s words. Ze admired Fift’s honesty; ze imagined zir as Minth before zir hour of destiny. But did Minth ever have such secrets? Father Squell was right. Fift had lost the balance; ze was ruined, muddled up, not one thing anymore, infected with vailish hungers. Pressed against zir hip and shoulder, Fift could feel how Dobroc’s body was lithe and supple under zir shift; ze could feel the complex patterns of zir skin, could tell that Dobroc’s labyrinth extended beneath zir clothes, that you could travel its paths and furrows into Dobroc’s sleeves, along zir arms and down zir flanks and across zir belly, never leaving the maze. Dobroc was the same size as Fift, not bigger like Shria—if they lay nose to nose, embracing, their toes would touch; squeezed skin to skin, without their clothes, they could inscribe the inverse image of Dobroc’s map onto Fift, while Dobroc’s voice flowed over and through zir, and Fift’s hands

(—stop thinking this stop stop stop—)

In the goopfields of Tentative Scoop, the Peaceable straightened up. Ze stood next to Hrotrun, who drew vemself together to lunge. The Peaceable frowned, a small furrow appearing between zir brows. Ze shook zir head briskly, as if disagreeing with someone . . . and then, stiffening, seemed to resign zirself, as if preparing for a blow. A minute tinge of dread could be seen in zir eyes, in zir clenched jaw, in zir live-published emotional state. Ze closed zir eyes and drew in a deep breath.