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That was what was missing. The Scribe Virgin’s birds were no more, the tree’s branches empty of their color, the still air devoid of their cheerful calling.

In the relative silence, the loneliness of the place sank into him, the hollow sound of water falling amplifying the emptiness.

Oh, God. That was the sacrifice, wasn’t it.

She had given up her love for his.

In her private quarters, the Scribe Virgin knew as soon as V left. She could feel his form go back over to the world outside.

The Chosen Amalya approached quietly. “If it would not offend, I would speak.”

“You have no need to. I know what he said. Leave me now and return to the sanctuary.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Thank you.”

The Scribe Virgin waited until the Chosen had retreated, then she turned and looked across the white expanse of her suite. The rooms were largely for naught save pacing. As she did not sleep or eat, the bedroom and dining area were but square feet to travel over.

Everything was so silent now.

She floated from room to room, disquieted. She had failed her son in so many ways, and she couldn’t blame him his refusal of the name. Yet the hurt was there.

Joining another.

With dread she looked to the far corner of her quarters, to the place she never went. Or least, had not been for two centuries.

She had failed another, hadn’t she.

Heavy of heart, she went over to the corner and willed free the double-locked door. On a hiss the seal was broken, a fine mist wafting out from the shift in humidity. Had it truly been so long?

The Scribe Virgin stepped inside and regarded the shadowed form that hovered in suspended animation over the floor.

Her daughter. V’s fraternal twin. Payne.

The Scribe Virgin had long subscribed to the notion that it was better and safer for her daughter to so rest. But now she was unsure. The choices she had tried to make for her son had ended badly. Perhaps it was the same for her young of a different sex.

The Scribe Virgin stared at her daughter’s face. Payne was not like other females, hadn’t been since birth. She had her father’s warrior instinct and urge for battle and was no more content to dally with the Chosen than a lion could be caged satisfactorily with mice.

Perhaps it was time to free her daughter, as she had freed her son. It seemed only fair. Protection had indeed proven to be a dubious virtue.

Still, she hated to let go. Especially as there was no reason to expect that her daughter would have any greater love for her than her son did. So she would lose them both.

As she struggled under the weight of her thoughts, her instinct was to go out to the courtyard and be soothed by her birds. There was no succor awaiting her therein, however. No cheerful calls to ease her.

And so the Scribe Virgin stayed in her private quarters, floating through the still, silent air in an endless track through the empty rooms. As she passed the time, the infinite nature of her nonexistence was like a cloak of needles lying upon her, a thousand little pinpricks of pain and sadness.

There was no escape or relief in sight for her, no peace nor kindness nor comfort. She was as she had always been: alone in the midst of the world she’d created.

Chapter Fifty-four

Jane had been in Manny Manello’s apartment once or twice. Not often, though. When they’d been together it had always been at the hospital.

Boy, this was serious guy stuff here. Serious guy stuff. Any more sports equipment hanging around and it would have been a Dick’s.

Kind of reminded her of the Pit.

She went around his living room looking at his DVDs and his CDs and his magazines. Yup, he would get along just fine with Butch and V: He evidently had a lifetime subscription to Sports Illustrated, just like they did. And he kept the back issues, just like they did. And he liked his liquor, though he was a Jack man, not into the Goose or the Lag.

As she bent down, she focused her energy so she could pick up the most recent issue of SI and realized that she’d been a ghost for exactly one day.