by Faye, Audrey
I’d lost an inner-planet citizen’s love of congestion living on Stardust Prime, so I was fine with avoiding the throngs, although the shuttle I’d ridden in on hadn’t been exactly empty.
Gerhart set down his mug again, and I noticed that the plate of dolmades was empty. I was pretty sure I’d been responsible for most of that. “Sorry—I don’t think I shared those very well.”
“There are plenty more where those came from.” His eyes twinkled at me. “Especially if you fix Greta’s oregano.”
It was at the very top of my list.
Or it would be, right after I found some locals who knew more about why I might need to be here. Gerhart was lovely company, but he was quite content to believe I was here for a vacation. If something deeper was rippling in his cozy little village, I wasn’t talking to a person who had their fingers on its pulse.
I was already prepared to lay my bets on Greta, though. After fifteen years of hanging out with the Lightbodies, I knew a few truths about small communities—and one of them was that good food and power tended to travel together.
7
Dancers have two fixations—moving and eating. So when I followed Gerhart’s directions and made my way along a meandering stone walkway to a charming house, I knew I’d arrived in heaven. Not because of the home, although its brightly painted curves and arches and whimsical details came straight out of a welcoming fairy tale.
It was the smell that told me I’d landed somewhere holy. The aroma emanating in waves from the open front door could only be chocolate chip cookies. The kind made with real butter and real chocolate and eggs that were recent kin to an actual chicken.
Fifteen years ago, that kind of smell only came from two or three of the most exclusive bakeries on the planet I called home, and my family couldn’t even spring for the air from one of those places, although I did have a cousin who got a wedding proposal embedded in one of their cupcakes.
Then I’d landed on Stardust Prime and Tee had spoiled me rotten. Right after she taught me how to look after the chickens.
I drifted in the door, toes light and fingers quivering. This mission had just upgraded from cushy and fun to something that was siren song after a posting to the Etruscan sector. I followed the smell past a pretty sitting room that matched the aesthetics of the outside of the house and into what I was pretty sure was the command center. The kitchen took up half the space of the main floor and was the biggest one I’d ever seen in a private home.
There was a couple seated at one of the tiny tables in a bubble nook that reached out into the back garden, and neither of them were looking out at the flowers.
I grinned. “Apparently I picked a good time to show up.”
“Oh, you did, dear.” The older lady sitting at the table smiled at me like I was five years old and precociously cute. “Greta makes the best cookies in the quadrant. I’m quite the galactic traveler, so I know these things.”
“Quite the cookie eater too,” said the man seated with her, his voice full of dry humor.
“Oh hush, Harold, or I’ll wrap yours up and mail them to Zachary.”
I had no idea who Zachary was, but I imagined I’d find out shortly. Fixers drooling over cookies made a very fine captive audience. I looked at the woman behind the large counter, who was currently shifting our upcoming snack from a cooling rack to plates covered in large, laughing flower faces. “You must be Greta.”
“I am.” She looked up from her work long enough to give me a quick, efficient once-over. “And you must be the Dancer.”
Friendly, but not effusive or remotely in awe of a Fixer in her kitchen. Good. “I am, with an appetite to match. The dolmades you sent over were fabulous, by the way.”
This time the smile was more personal. “I’ve heard you’re likely to eat a lot, even if you are a tiny thing. Not to worry—you’ll never go hungry in my kitchen.” She pointed her head at a cooler box tucked down at the end of the counter. “There are always snacks in there, anytime of the day or night.”
I could see apples and fruit cups and creamy pudding and something that looked like lemon pie. “Will you marry me?”
She laughed. “Have a seat—I’ve got some milk if you’d like it with your cookies, or tea in pretty much any flavor you can imagine.”
“I’ll just take water, thank you.” I reached for the pitcher on the end of the counter and one of the pretty fluted glasses beside it, and looked over at the guests. “Anyone else?”
Two faces politely shook their heads and then went straight back to ogling the cookies. I blessed Greta for providing an excellent distraction to cover my arrival, intentional or not. I was good at blending in, but sometimes getting through those first few minutes as a newly landed Fixer could be tricky, and quite frankly I just wanted a cookie.
I poured water and took a seat on a padded bench tucked under a window. It kept me separate from the other tables, but easily social. That way I could let my feet move around without endangering anyone else’s toes.
The woman sitting with Harold smiled at me, clearly stepping up as social convener. “I’m Magdalena, dear, but everyone calls me Magda. How long are you here?”
That was never an easy question for a Fixer to answer. “Long enough for cookie day to roll around again, I hope.”
She clapped her hands together and beamed at me.
I managed not to grit my teeth. While I looked a fair amount like a child, I never appreciated being taken for one. Flighty, ethereal, a little spacey, yes—but the adult version of those things. “How long are you here?”
She looked at Harold, clearly considering this question within his abilities to answer.
He smiled placidly. “Until Magda has soaked in enough art to be able to tolerate our next placement.”
She beamed at him, too. “Harold’s a very important diplomat.” Her voice lowered to a stage whisper. “We suspect our next posting will be to the Etruscan sector. Such a mess, and all those poor people who need his help.”
I rejiggered my first impressions of both of them. Harold might be doing a fine impression of a man led around by the nose, but senior Federation diplomats weren’t biddable unless they wanted to be, especially ones on tap for the sector I’d just come out of. And their partners generally weren’t decorative either, no matter what vibe they happened to give off.
Something a Fixer in a sundress should understand as well as anyone.
Greta carried over small plates of cookies and set two on the table and one on the tray at the end of my bench.
I studied Magda and Harold a little more closely and realized the dense threads swirling around both of them would have snagged my Talent’s attention if I hadn’t been drugged on cookie fumes. Likely not the reason I was here, given the transient nature of their stay—they’d be gone by the time anyone could respond to my observational report. But it did help to dispel the sense that this mission was busywork.
I picked up one of the cookies and took a bite, walking the delicate line between declaring truce with my taste buds and leaving most of my brain neurons functioning. It was every bit as good as Tee’s baking, and that was saying something. I glanced over at Magda, who’d gone far deeper into sugar coma. Her husband’s threads spoke of fairly straightforward power, but hers were more complex. “You like art?”
“I do.” Her hands waved a cookie around, a bit like the conductor of an orchestra. “The music here is absolutely wonderful, and Harold tells me the painting is as well, but my first love is watching the dancers.” She was beaming at me again, but this time my insides didn’t want to chomp her. “You’re so lucky to do what you love, dear.”
It sounded like a simple statement, one she’d likely said to a dozen artists during her stay here already. But I could see the threads around her quivering in a pattern I recognized, even if I didn’t really want to see a kindred spirit in a woman who kept trying to pat me on the head. “You’re a dancer.”
I saw Harold’s eyes flash and then hide his s
urprise. One diplomat who definitely wouldn’t be falling for my ethereal gypsy act after this.
Her cheeks colored. “Oh, no. I’m just a very appreciative audience.”
I studied Magda more openly this time. “Your hands move like a dancer.” One with training long forgotten, but there were hints. And like me, she clearly had trouble sitting still.
“It was a long time ago.” Her voice was softer now. “I took some special schooling, and I was considered quite good.” She patted her husband’s hand. “But then Harold got the most wonderful posting halfway across the quadrant, and I was a young woman deeply in love, so I went with him.”
And now he brought her here so she could fill that part of her soul. I could feel my cookie-crumbed fingers fluttering, honoring that love—and my Talent, wanting to protest, because my Dancer heart knew that when a body needs to move, watching can never be enough. Magda’s threads spoke of that need, long dormant, tugged on by the energies of this place.
I sighed. My next move was going to reinforce her impression that I was five years old, but I was going to do it anyhow. I slid to my feet, arching into an exaggerated stretch. “I think we should dance for Greta to thank her for these cookies.” I put my hands into motion, just the way I would with a class of tadpoles. Calling on their desire to wiggle. I tugged a little on Harold’s threads too—diplomats didn’t generally pirouette their way around kitchens, but this one was married to a woman who needed to.
Everyone in the kitchen stared at me, including Greta.
I swept forward, rescuing the large plate of cookies in her hands—it would be criminal if they got dropped. Then, amusing myself, I dropped into a deep bow in front of Magda and held out my hand to escort her out of her seat.
Her cheeks were very pink, but her eyes were twinkling. She waved a cookie at me in some kind of strange version of a tango.
I laughed and engaged—if we were going to be absurd, we might as well go all the way.
It was a short dance, and not exactly one of my better choreographed numbers, but this wasn’t about me. It was about a slightly annoying galactic traveler remembering part of who she was born to be. Harold and Greta watched us, tolerant and amused. I brought us to a halt while there was still laughter and Magda hadn’t yet remembered her age, her manners, or exactly how long it had been since she’d done this.
I bowed again, cookie-crumbed corps member to prima ballerina. “You belong on a stage.”
“Oh, no,” she said, quite certain, even as the light in her eyes dimmed. “I could never dance with real dancers.”
I managed to bite off the words that wanted to stomp their feet. I wasn’t a real dancer, not in the professional sense she was thinking. Fixers were often quite beautiful dancers, but in the raw sense. We learned from the energies we worked with, and while that was powerful, it generally didn’t resemble classical training. People didn’t tend to think of us as artists.
Especially when we were covered in cookie crumbs.
Harold, ever the diplomat, had caught every nuance of my reaction and carefully commented on none of them. That didn’t bother me overmuch—I wasn’t the Fixer anyone sent in when a poker face was required.
And I’d found a bit of a purpose to guide the rest of my afternoon. I resolved to keep my eyes open for a place here where Magda could dance. There must be one. Some dancers were loners, but many of us were teachers, deeply happy to share what we loved with anyone willing to put their toes on the ground and give it a try. My little gift to a couple who might be heading off to the Etruscan sector. The passive use of Talent that was permitted on an observational mission, so long as I didn’t let it get too out of hand.
I tried not to wince as I imagined the report I was going to need to write up on the little tableau that had just happened in this kitchen. It couldn’t be avoided, not with Harold and Magda’s role in the universe, but I was going to be sorely tempted to edit out the cookie dance. Yesenia demanded honesty from her Fixers, but we also had a very clear mandate to be dignified.
I shrugged inside my head and reached for another cookie. At least she wouldn’t be able to accuse me of hiding in the shadows this time.
Greta was still watching us from behind the counter. She reached for a pretty flyer sitting in a basket. “Gerhart indicated that you were a painter. Persephone Cooperative just down the street has agreed to grant you temporary membership during your stay.”
I had the odd sense that had taken some work on her part.
“Oh, they make such pretty things there.” Magda laughed and patted her husband’s arm. “Or at least Harold tells me so. I can’t paint a stick figure our grandchildren can recognize.”
I was better than that—and having a paintbrush in my hand was good camouflage. A way to become part of the scenery of Thess without hiding in shadows.
I wrinkled my nose. Yesenia’s words had me second-guessing even the most basic groundwork on this mission. Which probably wasn’t unintentional, but I was going to mentally curse her for it anyhow. I smiled at Greta while I did it. “How do I find Persephone?”
“Oh, you can’t miss it, dear.” Magda was right back to figuring I needed a keeper. “We’ll walk you down—we were headed right that way, weren’t we, Harold?”
He was smart enough to agree with her, even if it wasn’t the truth.
I tucked my travel bag under the window seat and grabbed one last cookie. If the residents of Thess had any sense of smell at all, there wouldn’t be any left when I got back.
8
I looked at my fingers and snorted quietly. First cookie crumbs, now paint—this was turning into quite the messy assignment.
I had a brush—a half dozen of them, in fact—but that never seemed to stop the splotches from getting to my hands.
I’d been welcomed to the painting studio by someone with a stilted smile who had gotten me situated with an easel, canvas, and supplies faster than I could catch her name. Efficient, but not welcoming. I hadn’t minded—I’d been too busy absorbing the muffled sounds and bright colors of artists at work.
My impression so far was that I was the anomaly, at least at this time of year. I wasn’t seeing the threads of uncertainty that a visitor or timid painter might have. Just the easy vibrations of people who knew what to do with color and brush and felt very comfortable here. That was a vibe I was happy to soak up for a while, even if it made me wonder just what this town might have against amateurs actually doing stuff.
I picked up my palette board and grinned. My Fixer credentials might have gotten me an easel here, but I was plenty amateur. And one in an interesting mood—I’d mixed up a range of oranges that nicely matched my new boots. This wasn’t going to be a quiet painting.
I’d taken the shortcut my greeter had offered me, possibly to get me off her hands as quickly as possible, and selected an already prepped canvas. As a dancer I always started from the very beginning, warming up every muscle. In the rest of my life, I deeply appreciated things that skipped over the boring beginnings. Instant gratification. I dipped my brush in the most screaming of my versions of orange and slopped it randomly on my canvas.
It looked wet and bright and slightly surprised to be there. I added some neighbors before it could get too lonely, enjoying the lighthearted feel of a process that involved little more than deciding where to dip my brush next. After the Etruscan sector, it was therapeutic to be doing something where very little could go wrong no matter what choices I made.
I worked my way out from the center, a drunken meandering of shades of orange that blended mostly by accident and occasionally by judicious addition of a finger or two. I loved the slick feel of paint under my hands, wet and slinky and full of possibilities. I contemplated ditching the brushes for a moment and decided against it—fingers were fun, but I wanted more texture in my splotches. The brushed ones looked a little like an orange bear had accidentally walked across my painting and left furry butt imprints behind, and I wanted more of them.
I wasn’t sure how much later it was when I reached the edges of my canvas. My den of orange bears had taken a long time to work their way around to my satisfaction. A forest of orange that pulled the eye in every direction and in none.
I smiled. I’d wait for it to dry and then paint the silhouette of a dancer over top, one who could forever meander with my orange bears. I might just have to give her a pair of really cool boots, too.
I let the energy of the studio slowly seep back into my senses, aware that I’d wandered away from my assignment parameters and deep into a zone of purely personal pleasure. That was okay—I was a Fixer who understood that I needed to be a steady human being as well as an efficient KarmaCorp cog. But now that I’d fed my soul, I could take some time to see what I could learn from the vibes in the air around me.
There were three painters on easels fairly close to me. I couldn’t remember if they’d all been there when I’d gotten started, but judging by the state of their canvases, they were regulars here. One man had an intricate, detailed study that looked like something on one of Tee’s microscope slides. A smorgasbord of irregular green and blue circles, worked with the very finest of brushes.
A second artist of indeterminate gender painted a puppy so real it nearly leaped off the easel to lick my nose.
The third person noticed me looking. Her smile had a tinge of royalty greeting the peons.
I decided to be graceful. She likely lived here, and that made her a valuable source of information, even if she might be a snob. “Hi. I’m Iggy.”
She inclined her head slightly. “I’m Elena Orich.” She paused a beat, like I might know who she was, and then made her way over to take a look at my canvas.
I reached for one of my smaller brushes and added another splotch in the bottom corner of the painting, in a deep rust that looked like it belonged there.