Night had descended over Varoonya. It lay upon the city like black velvet, elaborately decorated with stitches of magical lights in myriad colors. Too weak to even let one read by, these lights were subtle fireflies, shining in their own beauty while leaving the dark of the night intact. Their gleaming threads followed the lines and curves of ancient lanes, crawled up buildings to lace a turret here, a winding staircase there. They guided nocturnal wanderers through the city, but they also drew up images for them, weaving a fairytale tapestry of secret gardens and forgotten passages, of tamed animals and bewildering humans. A richly embroidered cloth, hiding innumerable and unimaginable tales in its depths.

But yarns were also being spun inside the mansions.

In the theater room of the Singing Phoenix, the curtain dropped. Gradually, people came back, still half dreaming, somewhat reluctantly emerging from a world of fairy realms and dormant miracles. The last charms faded away in a wispy haze.

Then the curtain rose again, and as the music grew into another sweet, glorious crescendo, Yoor appeared on stage. Still half-caught in the otherworld, the audience practically sang to him. Amidst the applause, they called and cheered, they laughed, and some cried. Only a little, though. They brushed their tears away and joined in the hailing and clapping, only to find yet another clear little drop hanging on to their lashes a moment later.

Yoor bowed. He waved. He offered a flourish to the left, a flourish to the right. His pearly hair fell forward as he bowed one last time, disappearing behind the falling curtain.

In his dressing room, Yoor still beamed as brightly and happily as ever. He loved this. He loved the stage, the illusions, the magic. He loved the legends he told, the dream worlds he created. He loved people loving him. He just felt utterly, fully, entirely in the right place.

When he stepped out into the street, a bright half-moon had risen above the roofs. As usual, a few people were waiting for him at the back door, those who wanted to see him, to touch him, to speak to him before he left. Yoor turned to them genially. He smiled and chatted, kissed and hugged, laughed and held hands. Satisfied, people strolled away. In the end only one was left, a dark-eyed woman who felt vaguely familiar to Yoor, as if he had spoken to her moons before. He remembered her delicate body, her warm voice, the typical braided pattern in her hair. And wasn't she living with one of the Council members?

"I have a request," Qin Roh said. "Not something you'd likely want to do. But then again, who knows? I just thought I'd try."

* * *