There were no visible genitals. The smooth lavender rows of Shria’s abdominal muscles descended into a flourish of blue fur—the rounded curve of the underbelly, the smaller hump of an unmarked mons.

“Oh,” Fift said. “Uh . . .”

“Shh!” Shria said. “Watch this.” Ve stepped closer to Fift, half an armlength away. Ve closed all vir eyes.

The soft blue fuzz stirred, ruffled, and then separated into a forest of blue cilia, each half a fingerlength long, which rose and twined and waved in the air. They were beautiful—all the shades that are called (in defiance of the greenness of the sky) “sky blue”: from midnight, to clear morning . . .

“All right,” said Arevio, peering at Fift, who turned abruptly to inspect the vines again. “If you’re sure . . .”

Blue and blue and blue—so beautiful, and that feeling crashed through Fift again, like asteroids colliding in the space beyond the world. Ze balled zir hands into fists, but that was in the body in bed. The body in Shria’s operating studio in Stiffwaddle Somatic Fashions was reaching out—

Fift put zir hand in among the waving blue fronds, and they were soft as feathers.

“Oh,” said Shria, “OH!” Vir eyes flew open, and vir strong hand clamped around Fift’s wrist.

In the garden, Fift squeezed zir eyes shut. Thankfully, ze heard zir Father moving away, parting the vines.

The cilia twined around Fift’s fingers, threading through them, trapping zir hand.

“Fift,” Shria said, vir voice hoarse and urgent. “What—”

“I’m sorry!” Horror flooded through Fift, and ze tried to pull zir hand away gently, but the cilia held. Shria’s face was flushed, contorted. “I’m hurting you!”

“No,” Shria breathed. Ve closed vir eyes, and vir grip on Fift’s wrist loosened. The other hand on vir standing body grabbed Fift’s shoulder, slid down to grip zir bicep. “Oh—”

In vir sitting body, behind Fift on the couch, Shria said, “I just didn’t—are you sure you—”

Fift wiggled zir hand this way and that, trying to free zirself without hurting Shria. The cilia wound around zir fingers as fast as ze could push them away.

“Yes,” Fift said. “Yes, I—”

In vir sitting body, Shria made a guttural sound. Ve pressed vir standing body’s forehead into Fift’s shoulder, leaning into zir.

“I’m sorry,” Fift said, but ze wasn’t that sorry; the cilia were soft and warm and feathery-dry, and Shria’s warm strong arms pressed around zir shoulders, and it seemed like ze might be doing this right. Zir hearts were pounding, all three.

“Keep saying that,” Shria whispered in zir ear. “And keep . . . trying to . . . get away . . .”

“I’m sorry,” said Fift, moving zir hand. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”