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Sixty-One

The winter sun lay low and crimson through the bare trees. Droplets of water were strung in icy beads along the branches and the feathers of the long grass. The air smelled of snow.

"God, it's cold," Robin said. She flung her arms around herself for warmth. Beside her, Mhara was scenting the air; Robin watched him curiously. The long braid had come undone and the dark hair streamed down his back. He gathered it together, absently, with one hand.

"Not so far now, Robin."

She smiled. "I don't even know where we are. I thought we were in Shai, but—" She looked at him questioningly, but he did not reply. Instead, he took her cold hand and led her through the trees, toward the sun, and she saw that the trees were blossoming. They were not thousand-flower, but the sweet scent was the same, spilling out into the air.

"If I look," Robin said. "Will I find a star?" She smiled at Mhara.

"You might," he agreed. "But what do you really want to do?"

"I want to go home," she told him.

"You're sure, are you?"

"Quite sure. There's nothing for me in Heaven. I want another life, another chance. Other choices."

"You've always had those." He spoke quietly, as if there was something she should have realized, but she did not know what it might be.

"I know," she said. "But I made the wrong ones. It's important, in Taoism, to place oneself in harmony with one's innermost beliefs, isn't it? I haven't really done that in my life. I haven't done anyone any good."

"Who can say?" Stepping behind her, Mhara put his arms around her waist. "Robin," he said into her ear, "it's winter here. Look—the air's full of snow. We should get moving."—and after a moment she put her hands over his.

"We should," she agreed. She could not tell whether it was snowflakes or flower blossoms that drifted through the frosty air.

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Framed