"What is theater if not a spectacle or entertainment?" Linda asked her.

"It was great performance. It gave a promise, drew you in, fulfilled it, then gave you what you weren't expecting," Ellie said, leaning forward on the table. "I send my students out to see drag shows in my basic acting cla.s.s. They can learn more about presentation, gesture, about being responsive to their audience, in one night than a week of exercises can teach them."

"Willing suspension of disbelief. Drag has its own culture built in. The audience is in on the joke, knows what to expect, and feels included. The perfection of the illusion is admired, but not needed. If it were truly about the art of it, the perfection, it would be different. A perfect illusion is more real than the real article," Marilyn said, her gentle tone making the words seem inoffensive. Rosalind wondered why they sent her back up, immediately.

Linda snorted and put her beer down on the table. "Listen, I grew up in Buffalo. It's a blue-collar town to the bone. You can talk about levels of sophistication in an audience, suspension of disbelief. What I saw when Taryn came out on that stage, when she pulled Rosalind up there with her for a kiss, was theater. Buffalo is no arts capital, but it is full of communities that do theater, that give time and effort to put their own representations onstage. Lemme give you an example. There ain't that many Puerto Rican/Haitian d.y.k.e professors walking around for me to bond with, you know? But when I go to Ujima and see some Ntozake Shange, I'm at home. Part of me is up there, giving back."

"Validation. When you see a reflection of yourself, larger than life, it creates as much hunger as it feeds. It's like being...praised, for having the courage of your desire," Rosalind said.

Linda looked at her, amazed, then gestured with her beer bottle. "Yes! That's it. Having the courage of your desire. I looked at those women's faces when Taryn threw you the wallet and pulled you up there. I thought I'd see a lot of disappointment, but it wasn't that. These women were eating it up, the sight of the two of you. There was something genuine and powerful. Like it wasn't something they got to see before. Not that way."

"People know when something's real, when they get to see the heart, not something made up to satisfy them. When it's done for love, look out," said Ellie. "An image like that has the power to move the world."

Linda nodded, lifting the bottle to her lips.

Marilyn's silvery laugh cut the silence that had settled on the table. "You are visionaries, more than I expected to find in such a city. It's refreshing to listen to you speak."

"Come on now, Marilyn. Tell me that it didn't knock your socks off when Taryn kissed Rosalind. We can be all sophisticated and all that, and still have a primal need to see our own desire reflected," Linda said.

"It was engaging, of course. Desire reflected is powerful," Marilyn said, her eyes on the candle.

"It was more than that. I think there's something there, waiting. Egyptia had a good idea, but it was only half an idea," Linda said thoughtfully. She looked like a woman in the grip of a vision, at the beginning of something that will change many things. She paused, letting the words form in her mind before she spoke again.

"I sense a project," Ellie said, glancing at Rosalind.

"Yeah. A project. That audience was hungry, and they got an appetizer. What if we gave them a whole meal?" Linda drawled, leaning back in her chair.

"You mean-" Ellie started, but Marilyn cut her off.

"A whole show. All women."

"You're with me now. A little att.i.tude, a little feast for the eyes, some performance. The whole spectrum. High femme, pa.s.sing drag. Drag kings. Plural." Linda's excitement made the words run together.

Taryn, who had been silent for the entire exchange, leaned forward. "A women's drag show?" she said slowly, as if learning the words.

"Exactly. You saw those women tonight. They were eating it up! Imagine giving them a whole show. The house wouldn't be left standing. Listen, it's something unique we can give back to the community. How'd Rosalind put it? Having the courage of your desire," Linda said.

"That'd be some work to take on," Ellie commented.

"I'm a director, you teach acting, Marilyn has a cla.s.sical dance background. n.o.body can teach movement like she can. And, she has to do a project for her residency at Arts.p.a.ce. Why not this?" Linda asked, looking across the table at Marilyn.

"I bow to the enthusiasm of the visionary. It would be quick. We'd have to have auditions right away, workshops, begin training. Taryn would train the kings, naturally."

Rosalind watched as something in Taryn caught fire and burned. The light shone from her face, poorly masked with instinctive att.i.tude. Despite the curl to her lip, the surprised curve of eyebrow, she shone like steel in the sun.

"I don't train anybody," she said.

"Come on, you're the original! The King of kings. Who else would give that enthusiasm and experience?" Linda said.

Marilyn looked across the table, directly into Taryn's eyes. "You have the gift. You are raw and untrained, yet you understand gesture and movement, stance. You have the presence. I can give you the craft, voice and character. A whole performance."

Taryn quickened. Her posture didn't change; the lazy slouch of indolent youth didn't alter so much as an inch, but her attention was riveted. "So I get trained while I'm training?" she asked Marilyn.

"As is always the case," she said with the ghost of a smile.

"I know some students that would love to get in on this," Ellie said to Linda.

"We can hold a workshop, get a feel for the talent pool. A drag king workshop. Think you could lead one?" Linda asked, her voice teasing.

Taryn shrugged. "Yeah. I could show the new boys a thing or two."

The conversation took on a momentum of its own, pulled along by the idea, the lure of the project. Rosalind saw it happening, saw the words being strung together, until the show was real, the date had been set, the workshop organized.

This was how things got born into the world, she thought. One person spoke, and the idea burned in the air like a grail. So a conversation, in the back room of a bar on an autumn night, might herald something remarkable.

It gnawed on her, inside of her ribs, a monster that lacked only a fragment of attention to become a Leviathan, the way Marilyn looked at Taryn. Rosalind clenched her jaw against the pain and refused the beast. If Taryn was being seduced by anything, it was the idea held out to her-performing, training others to perform.

Rosalind looked at her lover and saw Taryn fall in love with the idea, bit by bit. It's my job as your lover to make sure you get to look that happy. She softened.

In the middle of a sentence Taryn turned and looked at her, her uncanny eyes reaching right into Rosalind. Anything, Rosalind vowed in that aching silence. I will give you anything you desire.

"This has been awesome, ladies. But I'm calling it a night. There's the matter of a winning bid at the auction to be seen to." Taryn stood and gave them a bow. She held out her hand to Rosalind.

"So, you down with Thursday?" Linda asked.

"Yeah, Thursday's good. I'll be there."

Chapter Thirteen.

Back at 34 Mariner, Rosalind sat on the bed, hugging her knees, and watched Taryn pace. She'd taken off her suit coat and shirt and now prowled the attic in her gray pants, the belt hanging undone. It was an invitation too splendid to ignore, but Rosalind controlled herself, careful of Taryn's mood. There was a manic energy to her, an excitement that wouldn't let her rest.

"Imagine. Me training a bunch of boys." She walked the length of the room and stood in front of the window, hands in her pockets.

"You'd be perfect. You do it for love, that's the strongest reason there is. They'd learn a lot from you," Rosalind said honestly.

Taryn's head turned, looking off into the shadows of the room.

Her stance reminded Rosalind of the statue of David-the width of her shoulders, the way her arms seemed weighted down by her hands. Her eye followed the tattoo of the bull dagger down Taryn's back, across the column of muscle that disappeared into the black leather belt. "You're like a cat in an electric storm," she said, half to herself.

"Hmm?" Taryn turned.

"You're so excited, you're giving off sparks." Rosalind folded the sheets back and patted the bed invitingly.

Taryn raised an eyebrow at her. She prowled across the floor, hands extended like claws. "A big cat. A sleek, deadly beast, a killing machine, a n.o.ble black panther," she purred as she approached, her feet as silent on the hardwood floor as the mythic panther.

Rosalind enjoyed the approach and found the comparison to be apt, with the easy play of muscle under her skin, the deceptive smoothness of her movements. But she'd be d.a.m.ned if she'd feed Taryn's ego any more; she was already impossible. "Morris. Self-satisfied and sarcastic," Rosalind said archly.

She never saw her move, never saw the gathering of her legs under her, only felt the rush of air, the impact of something striking the bed. She blinked, finding herself flat on her back, Taryn sitting triumphantly astride her hips. Taryn was grinning from ear to ear, well pleased with herself.

Taryn leaned down, slowly, her eyes narrowed down to slits of balefire. She opened her mouth, achingly near to Rosalind's lips, then turned, her teeth closing on the skin of her lover's neck. She bit, and Rosalind arched her neck.

"Still Morris?" Taryn purred, her tongue snaking out to taste the salt on Rosalind's skin. "You've graduated to Fritz," Rosalind said, closing her eyes.

Taryn stopped and sat up. "Fritz?"

"Before your time. I forget how young you are, sometimes." Rosalind reached up, soothing the lines around Taryn's eyes, caressing the familiarity of her face, the strangeness of it.

"I'm old enough to know better but too young to care," Taryn said, kissing her.

Sleep was reluctant in visiting them, as if a warding had been set against it. Rosalind held Taryn and stared up at the ceiling arch, lost in thick crow-winged shadows. She knew that she should be drifting off into blissful, exhausted slumber as her lover was. She should be reaching for the vault of heaven, not sitting the death watch. Cold water ran along her veins at that thought.

Hadn't she read somewhere that death could not take you if you saw it first? That had to be an old superst.i.tion. Ancient. The Egyptians believed in seven souls; maybe death could pluck them off one at a time like flower petals. Where had that thought come from? She'd never done much reading on old Egypt. Now she was feeling that they were neighbors of hers. Seven souls was typically Egyptian and extravagant. Any educated person knew that there was only one soul, winged to ascend toward the G.o.ddess.

Rosalind's hand found the tattoo of the black eagle and felt a jolt of pain move up her arm. The drifting quality to her thoughts fled. What the h.e.l.l was going on? Grief came and settled on her like the folding of great, dusky wings. Tears moved down her face, she had no idea why. The pain in her head was a song. She couldn't focus around it. There was no need to feel bereft. Taryn was just sleeping.

Rosalind took a moment to calm herself as she would a frightened child. There was nothing wrong. See? Your lover is right here. She could feel Taryn's breath on her arm, feel the warmth in her skin. Her mind refused to accept these proofs, insisting that disaster had struck. There was no turning aside of fate.

Taryn turned over and buried her head in the pillow. The tattoo of Alexander regarded Rosalind with his deep-set eyes. Remember my choice, he seemed to say. A short life filled with glory and everlasting fame, rather than a long life of obscurity.

"Your lover was already dead when it was your turn to go. I bet he'd disagree with you if he'd lived," Rosalind said, aware that she was talking only to herself.

At last she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.

The dreams were immediate. She saw the study, the fireplace, the chair with the book of Alexander's conquests. This time she was in the room, standing by the window. She caught a glimpse of herself in the snowy pane and thought, I never wear my hair back like that. The room was all warmth and invitation, but she stood rigid against the cold stone of the window. She was steeling herself against the familiarity of this room, knowing that it was the last time she would ever visit here. The weight of grief descended on her. She had to turn and wipe away tears.

The door opened and a woman walked in. She was tall and rangy, with a body like knit steel from a lifetime of labor. Her black hair was clipped short, unheard of in this day and age. In trousers and a loose work shirt, she was often taken for a man. Rosalind knew this, from the times they had walked down the street together, arm in arm. She didn't want to look at the woman. She was afraid of the welcome she'd see in her eyes.

Sound was m.u.f.fled in the room, from the snap and hiss that should have come from the fire to the sound of human words. Rosalind knew that she was speaking, but couldn't hear what was being said. From the woman's face she could read them. The look on her face went from welcoming to disbelief. For a moment there was a look of such open need it made Rosalind falter, but her dream self had been expecting that. She watched as her loved began smashing everything within reach in the eerie silence of the dream. Gla.s.s shattered and arched as the lamp was hurled from the table.

Only when that sinewy hand picked up the red leather book did her dream self move, seizing her wrist. At the touch the tall woman crumpled to her knees. She saw the woman's head rise, saw her lips move. It was like fire being lashed along her nerve endings. Rosalind watched, helpless, as her dream self backed toward the door. The black-haired woman stayed kneeling in the wreckage of the room.

Rosalind woke, shivering from more than mortal cold. She inched away from Taryn, unable to bear what she had seen. She sat on the floor by the bed, her head folded down on her arms. The door in her head opened; the pain was no longer enough to keep the memories back. She sat rocking as they flooded back. She couldn't bear to be in the room.

Not knowing where else to go, Rosalind fled down to the kitchen. Rhea sat at the table holding a cup of tea. The sight of the witch was oddly comforting, despite her anger at being manipulated. Slowly, deliberately, Rosalind walked to the teapot and poured herself a cup in Taryn's blue mug. She sat down opposite Rhea, staring like a gunfighter at her opponent. Rhea hadn't reacted to her entrance. Rosalind thought that she was expecting it.

"When did you start remembering?" Rhea asked softly, looking down into her tea.

"The morning I picked up a book in a used book shop. I think we used to own it. It opened a door in my head."

Rhea nodded. "I didn't expect that this soon, not with the fog I cast around your memory. You're stronger than I remember. So you recall the conversation we had."

"All of it. Pieces of the last time, too. I keep seeing a study."

"Have you seen her?"

Rosalind nodded stiffly.

"How old was she?"

"In her thirties, I'd say."

"Ah. That memory. You're moving quickly. You saw the fight?"

"In pieces. I know I went there to break up with her. Tell her I was getting married."

Rhea sighed, a sound that a woman in terminal pain might make. "You never see the rest. You never see her kill herself. Stubborn, willful child, no matter her age. I, naturally, have to watch, helpless, having already pa.s.sed."

"Why did you cloud my memory?"

"You know why. To give her a moment of peace. But now you remember, now the cycle begins, the Wheel of Fate turns. The dying starts."

"That's why so much seems familiar. It's the echoes, the things we've been through before. It's happening all over again."

Rhea looked away, then down at her hands. Her eyes were rimmed with red when she looked back up. "I've known Taryn since she was sixteen years old, when she was all anger. I saw her grow up, saw some of that change, saw her get a handle on her temper. I saw her learn to laugh again. But I have never seen her as happy as I have with you. If I could wish you gone, Rosalind, you would be gone. But I made my vows so long ago, and I will never be able to deny her what she loves."

"Are you sure?" It was the first thing that came from Rosalind's lips, followed by shocked silence.

"When you are as old as I am, you learn a few things. No sense in wasting time resisting. Things change. I could never forestall your coming. You belong here. I saw something, watching her and Joe wrestle that bed up to the third floor. I did exactly what I was supposed to do in warning her against you. And she did exactly what she was supposed to do in running toward you with her arms open. And you are doing exactly what you are supposed to do. The cycle is turning. My anger didn't serve any purpose. Fear, I suppose, the same old mortal fear of death and change. We don't rage against the coming of winter," Rhea said, her voice easy, amused.

"Rhea, are you sick?"

"I have cancer. That's the expression it took, this time around. We don't die of arrow wounds as often these days. I don't know how long, and I'm not sure I'd like to. Yes, Joe knows. No, Goblin and Laurel don't." Rhea pushed away from the table and walked to the stove. Her back was very straight, the dress draped on her like a cloth on a statue, a dull red the color of garnets.

"Taryn should."

"No." It was flat and brooked no argument.

Rosalind argued anyway. "Rhea, she worships you. You can't keep this from her."

"It is still my life, Rosalind. I won't have her knowing. It wouldn't change anything." Rhea turned around and leaned against the stove, folding her arms. "Some knowledge changes you, and you can never go back. She doesn't have to live with Death yet. It's my final gift to her."

"She doesn't need a final gift from you. She needs you. There are so many things she-we could do, so you aren't alone. I'm not at all convinced this is a death sentence. Do you have a doctor?"

"So Western, even now. But your line always was. Hidden off in the temple with your scrolls and tablets, the collected learning of the known world. No wonder you still yearn for that environment. I should have known you'd be a professor this time. You always loved to lecture. I do have a doctor. I also have a homeopath, and other sources. That is my gift to my body. You won't understand this yet, but you will remember it for when you need it. This isn't about the body, isn't about this incarnation. Old webs are dragging me down. It is what must be," Rhea said, and crossed her arms over her thin waist.

"I don't believe that. We can set our own destiny."

"Perhaps you do. Perhaps you always did. We disagree on that, but we've never had much of a chance to get together and discuss it, have we? You are the fall, Rosalind. You herald the coming of winter."

"Are you sure? Things are different already, this time. That could change, too. Tell Taryn what's going on, and let us help you," Rosalind argued. She was surprised by the sudden flaring of anger.