Last day of
the summer festival. Marianne admired the … maypoles … lining the city
square. No more new poles were being woven, but people were skipping in circle
dances to lively music emanating from the sunken theater at the center of the
square. She headed that way.

            A woman in
the medium purple of the musician caste played an instrument that looked and
sounded very much like a Celtic harp. Her fingers dancing on the strings, she
smiled as she played – a Tolari smiling easily! – and the crowd in the theater
reacted to cues Marianne couldn’t see or hear.

            The
festival had been such a revelation. She’d still call the Tolari reserved, but
the city residents had really let their hair down – she stifled a giggle,
amused at the appropriateness of that image for the long-haired race of
humanoids. Still, even their clothing had more variety than that of the
stronghold’s somber inhabitants; although the same castes wore the same colors,
some individuals wore robes so short as to be more properly described as long
shirts.

            “Do you
enjoy yourself?” The Sural’s voice came from behind her.

            She spun,
finding herself nose-to-chest with the tall Tolari leader, who was carrying his
infant daughter, Kyza. Marianne backed up a half step. “Yes, very much!” she answered.

            Kyza babbled,
pointing at Marianne.

            The Sural turned
a warm smile on his daughter. Marianne shook her head. The Sural, smiling in
public.

            Wonders
never ceased.