Terry Fisher

Women

CHAPTER ONE

The auditorium hummed with the bustle of the students taking their instruments out of cases and getting into seats. There were bursts of discordant noise as the various instruments ran short scales, loosening up, and there were occasional jokes and laughter, a murmur of conversation, and a rattle of chairs and music stands. The librarian trotted in a side door with an armload of music folders, followed by a couple of students with heavier loads, and they began working their way along the rows of the orchestra, putting the folders on the stands.

The concertmaster, a thin, nervous-looking young man of nineteen or so who had lank, black hair and a bad complexion, rose from his seat in the string section and walked to the podium, carrying his violin. He took the baton from the narrow shelf under the podium and rapped it against the side of the podium, and the conversation and movements slowly faded away. He replaced the baton and tucked his violin under his chin, then he slowly drew the bow across the strings and sounding a soft, clear A. The piano picked it up, chording, then the other instruments began to pick it up. The sound swelled, filling the auditorium as the instruments harmonized, and the concertmaster walked back to his chair. The A faded and the instruments began to noodle softly in a wavering blur of sound as the students loosened their fingers, with a background rustle from the percussion section as the drummer whisked at a snare with a pair of brooms.

The door at the other end of the auditorium opened and closed, and a woman became visible as she walked from the darkness along the center aisle toward the stage. She was a slender, lithe woman of medium height, and she was carrying a motorcycle helmet in one hand and an attache case in the other. Her brown hair was in a short, loose, casually arranged tumble of curls, and she wore flared slacks, a blouse, and a short jacket. The slacks hugged her slender hips, tiny waist, and full, smoothly contoured thighs, and the cuffs flapped around her short boots as she walked along the open space in front of the stage toward the steps at the side of it. Her features were exceptionally attractive, with large, grey eyes, full lips, and a small nose. At first glance her face seemed to enhance her attractiveness. Her eyes were large and required no cosmetic emphasis, and even from a distance her lashes were long and thick, with a natural curl. The contrast between the natural color of her lips and that of her skin approached that of a pale lipstick, and her eyebrows were dark and full. She wore no jewelry.

She walked across the stage toward the podium in a firm, determined stride, her hips swaying from side to side with a graceful, unaffected motion, and she stared straight ahead, not looking at the students. Her age was difficult to guess. The slender build and the way she walked was youthful and there were no hints of lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, yet there was a mature and experienced air of confidence and authority about her. The line of her lips also had the slightly tense, nervous firmness seen in those who have endured anguish or sustained months of pain. The students silently watched her, their expressions ranging from indifference to guarded apprehension. A couple of the male students stared at her speculatively. The harpist, a tall brunette of twenty or so, looked at her fixedly then glanced down with a slight flush on her cheeks.

She put the motorcycle helmet on the floor by the podium, opened the attache case and took a notebook out, then put the attache case by the helmet and stepped up on the podium. "Good afternoon."

Her voice was soft and well modulated, but it had a penetrating quality which carried to the back of the orchestra. There was a murmur of response from the students then a hushed quiet as she opened the notebook and jotted down check marks for attendance. There was complete silence in the auditorium except for the muffled movements of the librarian and the two students who were still moving along the rows and putting the music on the stands.

The librarian had arrived late with the music, and a frown creased her brow as she distributed the folders she was carrying and watched the two students with anxious glances. She was a blonde in her early twenties, and her long, thick tresses were tied at the back of her head in a ponytail. Her light cotton dress fit her well, hugging the swelling curves of her buttocks and her jutting breasts, and the male students glanced at her and exchanged winks as she moved from place to place, her long, bare legs flashing. She had soft, beautiful features and a smooth, creamy complexion, marred by her frown. The two students finished and she nodded for them to leave, then she walked down the steps to the podium with the master folder of music. The woman on the podium was still making check marks on the class roster as the librarian edged the folder of music onto the podium by the notebook. She glanced down at the librarian and gave her a perfunctory smile as she took the folder and pulled it to the center. The librarian smiled apologetically, started to say something, then glanced at the orchestra and closed her mouth as she turned away.

The woman on the podium finished with the notebook and put it to one side, then opened the music folder. Her fingers searched the shelf under the stand for the baton, and she picked it up and absently stroked it against the side of her face as she leafed through the music. The top pieces were the scores which the orchestra had previously studied and had presumably mastered, and in the back of the folder was the score for new music for the week. Her brow wrinkled in a frown as she looked at it. The Beethoven Pastoral. Beautiful music and a powerful composition, but excruciatingly difficult even for a symphony orchestra of seasoned musicians to master. In the time allotted for each new piece, in any event. She sighed with resignation, a mental picture of a dart board arrangement for curriculum selection fleeting through her mind. The students remained absolutely silent and motionless, watching her intently. She was somewhat of an enigma. One of the few well-known female conductors, she had arrived in the city a couple of years before to accept a post as assistant to the conductor of the local philharmonic, even though the prestigiousness of her doctorate in music from the university in Vienna appeared to outweigh the conductor's academic qualifications. At the same time she had expressed a willingness to take the local conservatory orchestra class, an offer which had been quickly snapped up by the conservatory. Her only interests seemed to be the philharmonic and her classes, where her performance was brilliant, and the rest of her time seemed to be spent in the quiet seclusion of her house in one of the better residential areas.

She was known to be pleasantly businesslike until aroused, but in common with other conductors her boiling point seemed to be constantly adjusted back and forth by some giant cosmic rhythm which worked in conjunction with artistic temperament. Her classes were disciplined sessions without general conversations, in contrast to other more relaxed classes where anything from world affairs to the weather might be entertained as a topic of discussion. Some students had ventured to ask her a question about herself and had been coldly ignored. An indication that someone had failed to completely study their score would bring an icy look or an acid comment, and an indication of inattention would result in a scathing tirade more than sufficient to rattle the composure of the most self-confident student.

"Let us work on the Beethoven."

The comment was in a low, quiet tone, and there was a flurry of movement and rustling of paper as they dug through their folders. She looked down at the score, her eyes moving over the familiar notes, and waited for quiet. There was a thump as the drummer, and awkward, overweight, red-faced young man of twenty or so dropped his folder to the floor, then a scuffling as he gathered it back up. She sighed almost imperceptibly at the noise; he periodically managed to drop his music, one of the sticks, or turned over his music stand. There was a muffled giggle which choked off as she raised her eyes and glanced around. Then silence.

"First violin?"

"Yes, Doctor Wycliffe?"

"Will you begin upbow or downbow?"

It was the concertmaster, and he pushed his hair back from the side of his face with a nervous gesture. "Downbow."

"Very good. The violin section will please annotate their scores. Cello?"

The first cello was a tall, blue-eyed German exchange student with flaxen-yellow hair. He straightened in his chair, coming to a rigid, straight backed position. "Jawohl, Fraulein Doktor?"

"Abstrich oder herunterstrich?" The German rippled with the ease of long practice. It had been the subject of a heated argument between the exchange student and several of the American students. The exchange student had adamantly insisted she was German-born because of her classical Viennese accent and had refused the evidence pointed out in the Biographical Dictionary of Musicians that she'd been born in Cincinnati. A student had asked her about it in class and had been ignored.

"Herunterstrich, Fraulein Doktor."

"Sehr gut. Cello will begin downbow – please annotate your score. Viol?"

"Yes, Doctor Wycliffe."

"Will you begin upbow or downbow?"

He was a tall, gangling man in his early twenties, and he was leaning on his instrument and nonchalantly chewing gum. He shifted his gum reflectively to the other side of his mouth and almost but not quite shrugged. "Downbow."

She looked down at the music in front of her, her face expressionless, and the silence slowly stretched out into long, taut seconds. The bass viol player moved his feet uncomfortably and stood more erect and he stopped chewing his gum. A couple of the other students glanced up at him furtively in sympathy then looked back at the conductress.

"Begin downbow and play the first two bars, please," she said quietly.

He straightened and shifted his shoulders, then the looked down at the music and began playing the notes. The moaning, rumbling sounds of the viol echoed through the auditorium as he sawed the bow back and forth and moved his fingers up and down the strings. Then his face tightened as he pulled the bow more slowly, trying to drag out a last note without reversing the direction of the bow, then he switched direction and there was a slight shift in timbre.

The baton rapped against the podium and the sound of the viol stopped. "Those notes are accoppia to, are they not, Mr. Butler?"

"Yes, but…"

"But what, Mr. Butler? Did you play the notes accoppiato, or did you introduce a break and play the second note accrescendo?"

"Well, I…" He shrugged and shuffled his feet as he fell silent.

"Do you propose to improve Beethoven, Mr. Butler or is it simply that you didn't study the score?" The volume of her voice was still low, but it was becoming more acid and penetrating, and the slightest hint of a German accent was beginning to creep into it.

"Yes, well, I studied it," he said defensively. "I studied it, all right."

Her expression was still neutral, but her lips were somewhat thinner as she looked at him. The silence in the auditorium and on the stage was taut and breathless, and the sound of a car on the street outside came clearly through the window. She looked up at him for a moment longer, then looked back down at the music in front of her. "Begin upbow, Mr. Butler," she said the tone of her voice less incisive. "And when you study your scores in the future, you might find it a not inconsiderable assistance to have your instrument available to examine the bowing technique in conjunction with your studying. I cannot overemphasize bowing technique – as you have just demonstrated, it is crucially important in string instruments. As important as tuning."

The tension faded as she turned a page of the music in front of her, looking at it. The bass viol player started to chew his gum again, then he discovered that it wasn't in his mouth; he had swallowed it. He started to reach into his pocket for more, then he changed his mind and tapped his bow nervously against his leg, glancing around. The drummer's eyes met his, and they exchanged a wry grimace before looking back at the conductress…

She continued talking to the players of various instruments for a few minutes, then she rapped the podium with the baton and raised her hands. There was a quick rustle then absolute silence as they looked at her, waiting. Her hands swept down, and the auditorium was filled with the thunder of the first notes of the opening. She snapped the baton in a quick, whipping motion to set the driving cadence of the music and shot her left hand toward the kettle drums and lifted it, bringing in the deep, roaring rumble of the drums, then she suddenly dropped her hand,; and rapped the baton sharply against the side of the podium, frowning at the oboist.

Silence immediately fell again, and the oboist looked at her and cleared his throat nervously.

"Mr. Harcourt, your performance during class last week was not exceptional, but at least your oboe sounded like an oboe. Now it does not, Mr. Harcourt. In fact, with the possible exception of the primitive whistles made by some aboriginal tribes for uses in their ceremonies, it does not sound like a musical instrument, Mr. Harcourt. May I ask what you have done to your oboe to produce the sounds which are coming from it?"

There were muffled sounds of mirth and a quiet stirring in the orchestra, then absolute silence again. The oboist cleared his throat. "Well, maybe it's the reed…" he suggested weakly, then his voice died away and he cleared his throat again.

She looked at him in silence, then sighed and looked down at the music in front of her. "Mr. Harcourt, what is there about the reed you are using which would distinguish it from the reed you were using last week?"

"Well, I tapered it myself…"

A thin smile lifted the corners of her lips slightly… "I see. Your interest and enthusiasm is duly noted." She raised her head and looked around the orchestra. "Some of you might not be aware of the fact that most oboists in symphony orchestras cut and taper their own reeds to fit the individual requirements of their embouchure. However," she glanced at Harcourt and her slight smile returned, "they normally check the reeds to see how they sound before they try to use them." There was a murmur of quiet laughter from the orchestra, and Harcourt squirmed. "Do you have a factory reed in your instrument case, Mr. Harcourt?"

"Yes, well… yes…"

"Please replace the reed in your instrument, Mr. Harcourt, and you might check to see if Professor Leibel will have an opportunity to work with you on cutting and tapering your own reeds – he is a brilliant oboist, and I'm sure he does his own." The oboist began digging in the instrument case by his chair, and she looked up at the drums. "Please watch my left hand, Mr. Campbell, and bring in the roll as I raise my hand. But that is only for the volume, not the tempo. You must be very careful about the tempo as you increase the volume watch the baton and the notes on your score."

There was a rattle as the oboist put the mouthpiece back on his instrument, and she almost smiled again as she glanced at him, waiting for him to get ready. He adjusted it and dampened it, nodding to her, and she raised her hands and poised the baton again. "Very well. Tutti." She swept the baton down, and the swelling throb of the entrance to the first movement filled the auditorium once more.

She drilled them on the first movement of the symphony for the entire class period, going over and over it and occasionally stopping to correct wrong notes and technique. By the time the end of the period approached the music was beginning to flow and she was working in the pitch and balance of the various instrument sections, refining it. Finally she glanced at the clock over the exit and rapped the baton against the podium.

"Very good – that will be enough for today. Please go over your scores very carefully tonight and we will work on the second movement tomorrow." She slid the folder of music to one side and stepped down from the podium, opening the attache case and dropping her notebook into it. "Good afternoon," she said, picking up the motorcycle helmet and walking toward the side of the stage with her quick, firm stride.

There was a murmur of response from the students, and they started moving around and getting out of their chairs as she left the stage. Some of them began putting their instruments in their cases and others began collecting in groups to chat. The tall, slender brunette who played the harp remained in her seat and watched the conductress walking along the center aisle toward the other end of the auditorium. Her long, sensitive fingers moved on the strings of the harp, barely touching them and making a whisper of a low, plaintive melody as her cheek rested against the frame of the harp and her eyes followed the conductress with a deep, hungry sight in their depths. The conductress faded into the darkness at the other end of the auditorium, and she dropped her eyes and sighed. Her fingers moved restlessly over the strings in a whirling cascade of rolling notes, then she stood up and began gathering her things together.

"Doctor Wycliffe?"

Janice stopped and turned as she crossed the foyer of the auditorium toward the front entrance. It was the librarian, getting up from a small couch at the side of the foyer; she had apparently been waiting. Janice smiled perfunctorily. "Yes?"

"Doctor Wycliffe, I'm Celia Thompson," the blonde said, walking toward Janice and pushing nervously at loose strands of hair which were hanging around the sides of her face. "I wanted to apologize for being late today with the music."

"That's quite all right, Ms. Thompson. You didn't disturb the class."

"Yes, well, I've been told by the head librarian to have the music in place before class starts, and…" She shrugged, smiling wryly. "Well, I'd hate to get a complaint or something – I really need the money I get working as a librarian…"

"I'm not given to complaining about trifles, Ms. Thompson," Janice said, a note of reproof in her voice. "Now I've gone and put my foot in my mouth again," Celia sighed. "Look, what I meant was… well, I was up until all hours last night working on a lesson for my comp class, and I didn't even get to bed until four this morning. And then I had an eight o'clock class…"

"I understand," Janice said, moving toward the entrance. "And it's quite all right, Ms. Thompson."

Celia started walking with her and stepped forward to open the door for her. "I understand that your compositions have been performed in all the big concert halls in Europe."

"Thank you," Janice murmured, walking through the door, then she paused and waited for Celia, her eyes coolly surveying the sidewalk and street outside the auditorium. "Have you found that your work with the library has helped you in your studies?"

Celia looked at her, puzzled then discomfited by the bland disregard of her comment. She cleared her throat self consciously and nodded. "Yes, well, it's… well, I've become familiar with the composers and their works…"

Janice gave her the cool, level smile which seemed to be natural with her as they started walking down the steps toward the sidewalk. "Not an inconsiderable advantage, surely."

Celia shook her head and looked down at her feet. "No, it's helped me a lot in history, and… yes, well it's helped. Comp is giving me a fit, though."

"Composition is a difficult subject," Janice murmured, nodding, then she sighed. "And even more difficult in practice."

There was a massive Harley-Davidson motorcycle parked by the curb, a long, heavy machine with glittering chrome exhausts and brightly shining enamel. She walked across the sidewalk to it, lifted the top of one of the contoured plastic saddle bags over the rear wheels and dropped the attache case into it, then she turned back toward Celia as she lifted her helmet and slid it onto her head. "But I'm sure you will master composition if you persevere, Ms. Thompson," she said smiling.

Celia smiled and nodded, glancing at the helmet again. It was large and heavy, looking almost outsize on Janice, and the bright pattern of orange and yellow flashes seemed to contrast with her sedate, reserved manner. "Yes," she said, smiling absently and nodding, still looking at the helmet. "Would it be cribbing if I asked you to give me a little help with…?" Her voice faded away as her attention seemed to snap back to what she was about to ask, and she flushed with embarrassment. "Hey, listen – I must be losing my mind. Every student in this whole conservatory would be after you to…" She broke off and started moving away. "Hey, look, I'm sorry about being late with the music, Doctor Wycliffe – I won't do it again not to you, anyway."

"It isn't that it would be too much trouble, Ms. Thompson…"

"…was out of my mind for saying something like that to you…"

"…please listen to me. Composition is a very personal, highly individual part of music. All anyone can do is simply point out that there are certain accepted conventions, rules, and practices to be observed in the various forms, and then you're by yourself – all alone. There are, of course, certain mistakes… pitfalls in the process, but the interests of education are possibly better served by one's finding them and dealing with them alone."

Celia nodded with a confused, flustered smile on her face as she moved back toward Janice, and she impulsively took Janice's hand in hers. "Well, I lost my head for a minute there. Everyone talks about how busy you are with the phil and everything, and how you like to be left alone…" Her voice trailed off as she realized she was holding Janice's hand, and she flushed deeply as she quickly released it. Her mouth opened to say something else, but she turned her head away in embarrassment, clearing her throat.

Janice had stiffened imperceptibly when Celia took her hand, and she had clamped a firm control over her reactions to keep her hand limp and unresponsive. When Celia released her hand, Janice began fastening the chin strap on her helmet, and she glanced at Celia thoughtfully. She looked away again, pursing her lips and thinking, and there was a moment of strained silence as Celia still looked away, trying to regain her composure. "How many students are in your composition class, Ms. Thompson?"

She cleared her throat again, almost glancing at Janice but dropping her eyes before they met Janice's. "Twenty-six," she murmured in a weak voice.

"And who is the instructor?"

"Ms. Carlin."

Janice's mouth tightened slightly; her impression of the woman was highly negative. She thought again for a moment, still tugging at her chin strap and looking along the street. "Perhaps I could help you a little, then, Ms. Thompson. But it would be… something I wouldn't want… to become common knowledge."

The blonde turned and looked at Janice, blinking rapidly. Her eyes moved over Janice's face as though she were actually seeing her for the first time, and her eyes involuntarily fell to Janice's breasts which bulged out in the light jacket. She flushed darkly and looked away again. "No, look, I can't ask you to do that…"

"Well, it could be that I would be of no assistance whatsoever…"

"No!" Celia almost shouted, her head snapping around, then she cleared her throat and looked away again. "Sorry. It's just that," she made an aimless motion with one hand, "I can't imagine anything that you couldn't do better than anyone else…"

Janice chuckled, and her attractive face suddenly became dramatically beautiful as the wide smile spread over her features and the edges of her white, sparkling teeth became visible between her lips. "Well, hardly," she murmured, taking her keys from her pocket and looking down at them, separating the key for the motorcycle. "What are you doing tonight, Celia?"

The blonde's head snapped around at the use of her first name. She frowned thoughtfully, then her eyes became bold as Janice continued to look down at her keys. Celia looked at Janice's face, almost hidden in the large helmet, then her eyes dropped to Janice's tiny waist and gracefully contoured hips and buttocks. She licked her lips and swallowed. "Nothing, Doctor Wycliffe. Nothing tonight tomorrow night, or any other time…"

"I have a self defense class tomorrow night, but I'll be…"

"Self defense class?"

Janice's lips tightened in irritation at herself, and she turned her head and looked at Celia. "That is something else I wouldn't want to become common knowledge," she said quietly.

"No one will ever hear about it from me, Doctor Wycliffe. Honest to God, I'd never tell."

"Please call me Janice," Janice said with a sudden smile. Celia seemed to be suddenly breathless as she looked at Janice's smiling face, then she smiled widely in response. "Yes… yes, all right," she murmured. "Thank you very much… Janice."

"Bring your notes and come by at eight. I live at…"

"I know where you live. I followed you home one time. It was… last month… the afternoon you conducted the matinee performance… Saturday…"

"At eight, then."

Celia continued to look down at her, a flushed smile on her face. "…best performance the phil ever gave… head and shoulders over what Doctor Jannison could get out of them on the best day of his life… it was a performance I'll always remember… just followed you home…" Her voice faded into silence and she looked down at the sidewalk, still smiling as she scuffed at the pavement with the toe of her shoe.

Janice straddled the motorcycle and plugged the key in, turning it. "I'll see you tonight, Celia." Celia's blue eyes sparkled as she nodded. "All right. And no one else will know." Janice touched the starter, and the engine snarled to a roaring start with a plume of smoke coming from the chrome tailpipes. Then it idled down and chugged smoothly as she tilted it to one side and kicked the stand up. "Bye for now."

Celia stepped back, smiling radiantly and waving her hand. "Goodbye… Janice."

The motorcycle accelerated sharply away from the curb, the engine winding up with a snarl, then the roar of the engine died and began winding up again as Janice shifted gears. Celia stood on the sidewalk and watched the slender woman expertly driving the long, heavy motorcycle down the street, then it turned the corner and the sound of its engine died away. She drew in a deep breath, and a sudden shiver raced through her as though a frigid breeze had touched her. She shrugged her shoulders and collected herself, turning to go back into the building, and she whistled tonelessly to herself and smiled as she walked up the steps.

Janice drove the motorcycle along the street of a quiet, suburban residential area and turned in at the driveway of a small, neat, brick house. She stopped the motorcycle on the driveway and propped it on the kickstand, then took the keys out of the ignition and opened the garage door. Half of the garage was occupied by a low-slung, racy-looking red Camaro. She went back to the motorcycle, started it and drove it in beside the Camaro, then turned it off, came back out and locked the garage door, and went around the walk to the front door of the house.

It was tastefully if somewhat sparsely decorated and furnished. The living room was massive, and it was organized around a concert-sized piano. A couch and chairs were arranged around the fireplace on the other side of the room, and the wall decorations were poster-size scenes of landscapes and European castles. She dropped the helmet and her jacket on the couch and walked to a wooden cabinet behind the piano. The shelves of the cabinet were stacked high with sheet music, and she thumbed through the stacks and selected a score.

There was a music stand leaning in the corner and she picked it up and carried it to the piano, shaking the legs to open them. She put it down by the piano and put the sheet music on it, glancing at the large, framed picture on the piano. "Guten abend. Lisa."

She returned to the cabinet and took a violin and a bow from the bottom shelf, inspecting the bow critically, then she put the violin down and began rubbing resin on the bow as she glanced at the picture again. It was a black and white picture with a subtle tone of sepia, a portrait photograph of a dramatically beautiful woman. The hair was long and thick, tumbling over the shoulders in gleaming masses, and the eyes were large and seemed lustrous even in the picture. There was the smallest hint of up tilt to the ends of the brows and the outside corners of the eyes which indicated East European ancestry, a characteristic which was accentuated by the slightly high cheekbones. The full, delicately molded lips were curved in a smile showing the edges of perfectly spaced even teeth.

Janice finished putting resin on the bow, then opened the keyboard on the piano and firmly fingered an A chord. The clear chime of the piano filled the room, and while the note was still ringing in her ears she tucked the violin under her chin and delicately slid the bow across the strings in an A note. Satisfied, she ran the bow back and forth across the strings in a scale, adjusted one of the pegs fractionally, then ran the scale again as she walked to the music stand. "Schumann," she murmured, glancing at the picture once more and tucking the violin firmly under her chin.

The violin began to sing melodiously in the ripple of the opening notes of the entrance, rising and swelling upward, and Janice swayed slightly as she fingered the strings with the sure, confident touch of a master and swung the bow with a loose, effortless movement of her arm. Her eyes moved along the notes on the score amid the confusion of bowing and accent annotations, some of them hurried scribbles in a square, childish hand with pencil, and some them neat, bold marks made by an adult hand in ink. The melancholy wail of the violin soared to embrace the theme, and her arm and fingers moved faster as the tempo quickened into a series of shelving climaxes. The feel of the violin and the spontaneous joy and personal involvement of the opus drew her back in time, and her eyes involuntarily moved to the picture. She blinked her eyes rapidly as she looked quickly back at the score, concentrating on the music again. But the concentration on the music and on the picture were one.

Her lips began trembling, and she pressed them together tightly and blinked her eyes rapidly again as her fingers flew nimbly through a soaring trill in the score. The muscles at the corners of her eyes quivered, and she suddenly struck a wolf a harsh discordant scraping sound. The bow stopped moving and she stood for a moment with the violin under her chin, her lips trembling uncontrollably and a tremor racing through her body. A tear dropped from the corner of her eye and fell on the violin, and she took it from under her chin as her features began crumbling. She stood in front of the music with the violin in her left hand and the bow in her right, her shoulders slumped and shaking, and the tears began pouring from her eyes. She turned and stumbled to the bench in front of the piano, and she sat down on it heavily and bent over as bitter sobs began shaking her.

CHAPTER TWO

Celia sat at the piano in shorts and a light cotton pullover, bending over the keyboard and looking at the laboriously hand-scribed score sheets on the music board as she played. Janice stood behind her, her arms folded. She frowned thoughtfully, sight reading the music and listening as Celia swayed back and forth, playing, then Celia came to the end of the notes and dropped her hands from the keyboard, shrugging helplessly and looking up over her shoulder at Janice. "See what I mean? It just doesn't go anywhere. It just sort of mills around for a few minutes, then it dies out from its own inertia. Just blah. Just nothing."

Janice nodded slightly, turning away and walking back and forth a few steps as she looked down in thought. She was dressed in a pair of loose, silky lounging pajamas in a muted blue color, and the cuffs flapped loosely around her soft shoes as she walked. "Well, I believe you started off wrong, Celia," she said, turning back and looking at her. "You don't seem to have a full and complete grasp of the theme."

Celia shrugged again and smiled wryly. "Something's wrong – there's very little doubt about that," she murmured.

"I believe it's the theme," Janice said, walking toward the piano. "I'm sure it is. Whistle it for me."

Celia blinked at her, then turned and began rustling through the sheets of music.

"No, don't read the music. Forget the music. Look away from it and whistle the theme."

Celia giggled and shrugged, then she puckered her lips and frowned in thought as she began whistling. The thread of music coming from her lips went up and down, then she stopped whistling and raised her eyebrows. "Like that?"

Janice nodded firmly and gathered up the sheets of music then she walked away from the piano and riffled through them. "Again. Whistle it again."

Celia whistled it again, more confidently this time, and Janice walked around the room and looked at the sheets of music as she nodded her head in rhythm with Celia's whistling. Celia finished and fell silent, and Janice smiled slightly as she looked at the music and nodded.

"What is it? Let me in on the secret, Janice."

Janice looked at her and chuckled, then walked toward her. "I said you didn't have a firm grip on the theme, and I didn't realize how right I was. Look, here's the theme – right here." She sat down on the bench by Celia, spreading out a couple of the sheets on the board, and she pointed to the notes with her left hand as she chorded them on the keyboard with her right. "But that isn't what you were whistling. Here's what you were whistling." She chorded the piano again in a slightly different tempo, striking a couple of notes in the series which were subtly different and seemed to lend a more lively, brighter tone to the series. "See? It's different."

"But it couldn't be…" Celia murmured, her voice fading away as she looked at the music, frowning, then she shook her head. "I've made a mistake somewhere, or I've changed it…"

"Your mistake was in not clarifying your theme. In your mind before you began," Janice said sliding off the bench and walking to the cabinet against the wall. She opened the door and took out several sheets of lined music paper and a couple of pencils, then came back to the piano. "Let's begin over. Put down the theme, then work in an introduction later when you see how the variations are going to turn out."

Celia nodded, taking a pencil, and she wrote in the notes as Janice chorded the theme again with one hand. Janice finished and sat back, then Celia clamped the pencil between her teeth and leaned over the keyboard, tentatively putting her fingers on the keys. "OK, now," she murmured around the pencil. "I'll run through a series of variations in flats and sharps, and then link them up…"

Janice smiled quietly to herself in satisfaction as she slid off the bench. She went into the kitchen and put a kettle of water on the stove to heat and she listened to the piano as she took cups and saucers from a cabinet. There was a trill of music from the piano, then a burst of full, melodic harmony as Celia began using both hands in constructing a bridge between two of the variations. The next variation was spontaneous, springing to life under Celia's hands, then Janice could sense that the music was finally beginning to quiver to life, gathering the strength and vitality to surge and leap forward with its own impetus. The piano began thundering in the living room, and Janice smiled to herself again as she dropped tea bags in the cups and poured in the hot water.

"Time for a break," Janice called over the sound of the piano as she put the tray on the coffee table. "Come on and have a cup of tea, and it'll give you a moment to back up and look at what you've done so far."

Celia looked at her and smiled, then gathered the scribbled sheets of music into a stack and dropped them on top of the piano as she got up from the bench. "It's done, for all practical purposes," she smiled, walking toward the couch. "It's moving by itself now, and I'll be able to finish it in less than an hour." She patted her head. "It's all in here now – every note of it."

Janice dropped her eyes to the tray as Celia got up from the bench; she had found the shorts and skimpy cotton pullover unsettling when Celia had come in. Her legs were long, smooth, and beautifully shaped, and her breasts jutted straight out against the tight material of the pullover. "What do you like in your tea?" she asked in a murmur.

"Just sugar please," Celia replied, sitting down on the couch. "Janice, I don't know how to thank you – it's been really wonderful of you to help me this way."

Janice stirred the tea and handed it to her, then sat down and picked up her own cup. "You really did it yourself dear, which is the way it should be. Sooner or later you would have found the problem with the theme yourself."

Celia nodded and looked across the room absently, thinking, then she smiled. "Now I'm wondering what to call it. Do you have any suggestions?"

"I'm rather given to austere titles. I think I'd call it 'Sonatina for Piano'."

Celia's smile faded and she looked down at the floor, sipping her tea. "I like short titles," she said, a tense note suddenly in her voice as she put the cup on the coffee table. "I'd like to call it 'Janice' but that would be presumptuous of me, wouldn't it?"

Janice smiled and shook her head, glancing at Celia. "Not at all, Celia. I'd be flattered. But someone might… misunderstand."

Celia flushed and shook her head, rubbing her hands together nervously. "No," she said quietly. "If they managed to figure out why I wanted to name it after you, they'd understand perfectly how I feel." Her face flushed darker and she cleared her throat, pushing her hair back from the side of her face with one hand as she looked away. "And having said that, I guess I'd better leave. I've made you mad at me now after you're being really nice to me, but I couldn't help saying that…"

"…don't have to leave…"

"…but it's just the way I feel, and I can't help the way I feel. God knows I don't want to make you mad at me, but I had to say it…"

"…not angry at you, Celia…"

"…first time I ever saw you – and that's been over a year ago – I knew then how a guy feels about a chick he really digs. You're like a little doll, Janice, so beautiful and…" She broke off and wheeled toward Janice, looking at her in breathless silence. "What did you say?" she blurted in a demanding tone. "What was it you said to me?"

Janice took another sip of her tea and put the cup on the coffee table. "I said I'm not angry at you, Celia, and you don't have to leave."

Celia looked surprised, then an expectant, hopeful smile spread across her face as she put her hand on the couch and leaned toward Janice. "But…"

Janice chuckled and put her hand on top of Celia's. "But what? I like you, too, Celia."

Celia clutched Janice's hand in both of hers, gripping it and squeezing it with a hard, tight pressure as she looked at Janice, her eyes moving from side to side as she studied Janice's face, then she slid toward Janice, hope still quivering on her face. "Janice, I don't know if you're talking about the same thing I am, but…"

Janice looked at her and smiled silently, and Celia threw herself at Janice, clutching her and burying her lips in the soft hollow at the base of Janice's throat. She whimpered and turned her head from side to side as she dug her fingers into Janice's shoulders. "I've got to do it… go ahead and get mad at me and throw me out… I'll leave if you say you hate me… I'll leave if you say you don't want me to… but if you don't throw me out then I'm going to kiss you and hold you…"

Celia crushed herself against Janice, putting her arms around her shoulders and gripping her tightly, still kissing her throat. Janice leaned back against the couch, relaxing in Celia's embrace, and she stroked the side of Celia's face with a slow, gentle motion of her fingers as she looked up at the ceiling, her eyes half closed and her head turned to one side as Celia kissed her throat. "Gently darling," she breathed. "No need to rush… no need to hurry…"

A whimper came from Celia's throat, and she raised her head and looked into Janice's eyes. Celia's face was flushed and pink with arousal, and her eyes were glittering with a burning need. Janice looked into her eyes, smiling and caressing her face, then she leaned over and put her lips on Celia's. Celia's arms slid around Janice again her fingers digging into Janice's back, and she opened her mouth wide, kissing hungrily. Janice opened her mouth wide, and her teeth brushed against Celia's as she turned her head to one side and sucked Celia's lower lip between hers, fondling it with her tongue. Celia's tongue lapped at her lips, and she opened her mouth wider and sucked Celia's tongue into her mouth. A surge of breath came from Celia's nostrils as she probed her tongue deeper into Janice's mouth, running her hands up and down her back, then she wrapped her tongue around Janice's. Their tongues entwined between their open lips and their saliva blended, dampening their lips as they kissed passionately, their bodies crushed together.

Their hands began to move over each other urgently and their breath came in panting surges as they became more aroused. Celia moved her lips over the side of Janice's face and slid one hand up, groping for her breasts. Celia's hand brushed against one of the resilient, jutting mounds, then her hand clamped over it as though it was drawn by a magnetic force. She groaned, kissing and lapping, at Janice's cheek, "Oh, God, I knew you didn't have a bra on," she breathed in a trembling voice, her hand kneading Janice's breast frantically. "When I first came in and looked at you, it looked like you didn't have one on, and I couldn't keep my eyes off them. I just couldn't keep my eyes…" She began fumbling with the buttons on the front of Janice's pajamas. "I've got to have them," she whimpered passionately. "I've got to see them… got to see them… feel them… kiss them…"

"All right, darling," Janice whispered, tugging at her buttons and unfastening them. "You may have them… going to get them… let you have them all you wish… do whatever you wish… let you do anything…" She got the last button loose and spread the top of her pajamas wide, baring her firm, thrusting breasts, twin mounds of silky flesh tipped by the dark rose of her jutting nipples. "There, darling… they're yours… take them…"

Celia lunged forward, opening her mouth wide and taking one of Janice's breasts between her lips as she cupped the other one in her hand, squeezing and fondling it. Janice threw her head back against the couch and closed her eyes as she sighed with the sensation racing through her, and Celia sucked her breast as hard as she could, moving her head up and down and pressing her forehead against Janice's chest. She let Janice's breast slide from her mouth and cupped the base of it in her hand squeezing it, then she stuck her tongue out and trailed the tip of it around the hard nipple. Janice sighed again and put her hand on the back of Celia's head, tugging at her, and Celia leaned forward, opening her mouth wide, and took Janice's breast between her lips again.

Janice whimpered and moaned from the sensation of Celia sucking and fondling her breasts, and she quivered as Celia's hand moved down her flat stomach to the waistband of her pajamas, fondling her satiny skin. Celia's fingers wormed under the elastic waistband then under the thin fabric of her panties, and her hand slid on down until the tips of her fingers were combing through the triangle of crisp, curly hair between Janice's smooth thighs. A gasp came from Janice as she put her arm around Celia's neck, clutching her closer, and she slowly spread her thighs apart. Celia's hand moved on down to Janice's vulva, cupping it and feeling it, and she let Janice's breast slide from her mouth as she looked up at her. "I want that, too, Janice… want you there… want to have that… want all of you, Janice… want to make love to all of you… want you all the way…"

Celia's face was tense with arousal, her damp lips parted as she panted raggedly and her eyes bright and gleaming. Janice looked at her, nodding breathlessly, and she opened her legs wider and winced with sensation as Celia pressed her finger into the crack in her vulva. "All right, darling," she whispered. "We'll go all the way – we'll do it all together. And I want you too, darling. Take off your sweater and bra for me. Take them off so I can see you and feel you."

Celia drew in a deep, ragged breath and nodded, sliding her hand back out of Janice's pajamas and sitting up, and she seized her sweater in both hands and pulled it off over her head, shaking her head to free her long hair from the neck. Janice leaned forward and put her arms around Celia, kissing her throat and feeling for the fastener on her bra, and Celia put her arms around Janice and held her, kissing her face tenderly. The bra came loose in Janice's hands, and she pulled it off Celia as she sat back, looking at her. Celia's breasts were small and hard, standing straight out from her slender chest in youthful, virginal beauty. Janice leaned forward, feeling one of them and kissing the other one, and Celia whimpered as she curled around Janice, sliding her hand back into Janice's pajamas and nuzzling her face under Janice's arm to get to her breasts. They writhed and moaned on the couch as they fondled each other and sucked each other's breasts, their muffled whimpers and movements becoming more and more urgent.

Celia started trying to get Janice's pajamas and panties down over her hips, and Janice put her hand on Celia's. "Come on and let's go into the bedroom, darling. We can take everything off and get into bed together."

"God, it burns me up to hear you say that," Celia moaned in a quavering voice, standing up and pulling at Janice. "I'm melting for you, Janice."

"And I want you, too, darling," Janice murmured, standing and putting her arms around Celia.

They embraced and kissed, standing in front of the couch, then they turned and walked into the hallway, their arms around each other and their hands fondling each other's breasts. Celia was a couple of inches taller than Janice, and she had her arm around Janice's shoulder while Janice held Celia close with her arm around Celia's waist. They went through the door into the bedroom and moved away from each other, Janice walking to the bed and pulling the covers down as Celia flipped on the light and unfastened her shorts. Janice turned away from the bed, pushing her pajamas and panties down and stepping out of them, and she looked at Celia as she straightened up from stepping out of her shorts and panties. Their eyes met, and they put their arms out toward each other as they rushed together and embraced, their lips searching hungrily. They kissed passionately, their hands moving over each other's bodies, then they moved to the bed and lay down on it.

Celia mouthed Janice's breasts and moved her lips down Janice's body, caressing and feeling her thighs and buttocks with her hands. Janice sighed and whimpered, quivering from the feel of Celia's hands and lips on her, and she turned onto her side, curling around Celia and tugging at her thighs. They both turned on the bed, their lips moving down each other until they were kissing and nibbling at each other's thighs. Celia pressed her lips to the triangle of hair between Janice's thighs and cupped her buttocks, and Janice moaned louder and spread her thighs apart from the feel of Celia's hot breath against her pussy. Celia's fingers dug into Janice's buttocks, gripping her tightly, and Celia thrust her head deep between Janice's thighs and covered her vulva with her mouth, sucking on it and flicking the tip of her tongue across it. Janice opened her mouth wide and uttered a whimpering wail of ecstasy, then she thrust herself at Celia and burrowed her head between Celia's thighs, lapping eagerly at her pussy.

They lay against each other, their fingers digging into each other's buttocks and their bodies quivering with sensation as they licked at each other avidly. Janice stiffened her tongue and worked the tip of it into Celia's pussy, wriggling it from side to side, and she felt Celia's body going limp in her arms from the sensation. There was a pressure against her vulva from Celia's tongue, a groping, searching touch, then the swift, soaring thrill of penetration. Celia's tongue probed deeper, moving and wriggling inside, and she opened her thighs wider as Celia began moving her head back and forth, sliding her tongue in and out. A fiery heat seemed to spread through her limbs, tingling outward from the focus of sensation at Celia's tongue, and she began thrusting her hips and driving her pussy at Celia's tongue in response to the feelings swelling up inside her. It mounted higher and higher, enveloping her in a warm, dizzying cloud of pleasure, and she drove her tongue deeper into Celia and began moving her head back and forth, and she could feel the muscles in Celia's buttocks rippling as she began undulating.

Janice slid her tongue across Celia's clitoris, and a shuddering spasm raced through Celia's body. She began flicking her tongue back and forth over it, and Celia squirmed against her in ecstasy, pressing her pussy harder against Janice's mouth. Then Celia's tongue groped again, and a battering shock of sensation wrenched every muscle in Janice's body as Celia's tongue passed over her clitoris. It began flicking rapidly back and forth, and every nerve in Janice's body came to life as the agony of pleasure gripped her and began wringing her. She concentrated on Celia's pussy, titillating her and trying to drive her into an orgasm, but the cloying, heady impulses building up and surging higher within her kept dragging her mind into the misty softness of the pangs of pleasure which were racing through her. She fought harder, flicking her tongue over Celia's clitoris as rapidly as she could, but she continued sliding deeper into the ecstasy which was enveloping her. Tension began building, the taut, ringing tension of a string stretched too tightly. Her body was a springboard drawing down to rocket her mind into lofty regions of ecstasy as she felt the hesitant, trembling quivers of an approaching orgasm churning within her. She clamped down on it, trying to hold it back and bring her lover to the ultimate peak of pleasure. It trembled and shuddered, slowing and remaining in the shadows of her mind for a moment. But the tension kept building. Grinding, snapping, and crushing her under it suffocating weight.

Celia shuddered and trembled, and the sensations racing through her seemed to build up and burst, blossoming into an abrupt explosion of ecstasy. It happened in an instant, throwing her into wracking convulsions, and she screamed raggedly, her wailing shriek muffled between Janice's thighs as she kept flicking her tongue back and forth over Janice's clitoris. The orgasm was again shuddering on the brink of bursting loose in Janice, and she abandoned herself to it as she kept numbly flicking her tongue over Celia's clitoris to drive her on through her orgasm. She was dimly aware that her hips were thrusting madly and crushing her vulva against Celia's mouth as the spasms seized her in rolling waves of motion which rolled down through her and wrung her with ecstasy.

Janice tumbled through the breathless, soaring pleasure of orgasm, the excruciating sensations battering her. She reached the towering peak, the feel of Celia's body in her arms and the need to keep driving her tongue a shadowy thought on the edge of her consciousness, then she plummeted. Celia collapsed limply in the same instant, her head rolling from between Janice's thighs as she turned onto her back, panting with quick, shallow gasps. Janice relaxed and pillowed her head on Celia's smooth thigh, her head swimming dizzily and her breasts heaving as her lungs gasped for air. Celia gathered her strength with a groan of effort and turned on the bed, and she snuggled against Janice and put her arms around her. They held each other, both of them struggling for breath and their hearts pounding madly.

Later Janice lay on her back with her head on the pillow, looking up at the ceiling. She had her arm around Celia's shoulders, and Celia was lying on her side facing Janice, looking at one of her breasts and fondling it. "I'm not making your breasts sore, am I, Janice?"

Janice shook her head absently, a faraway look in her eyes. "No," she breathed.

Celia glanced up at her face then looked at her breast again, slowly closing her hand around it. "I'm not the only one, am I? I mean, you've done this with others – others here in the city."

Janice's eyes focused and she glanced down at Celia, then she looked back up at the ceiling again and nodded.

A long moment passed as Celia looked up at Janice's face, then her eyes moved down Janice's naked body. "I thought so," she murmured. "You're so beautiful that everyone would be after you. But I'll bet there hasn't been very many who got you, because no one knows anything about you and everyone is sort of afraid of you. You're not going to be able to get rid of me, though. I won't tell anyone anything, but I'm going to be like a little puppy dog after you."

Janice looked down at her and smiled, then she put one arm under her head as she put her other hand on Celia's head and caressed it, combing her fingers through Celia's blonde hair. "It's good between us, Celia. This won't be the only time for us."

Celia raised her head and looked at Janice's face again, smiling with pleasure. She slid one hand down Janice's body and cupped her vulva, squeezing it, and she stretched across Janice to run the tip of her tongue around on Janice's smooth armpit. Janice shivered and smiled, opening her thighs wider, and Celia moved back and put her head on Janice's shoulder. "I still can't believe this. I've seen you dozens of times and longed for you, but you always looked so… unapproachable." She moved her hand back up to Janice's breast, fondling it and looking at it. "The picture on the piano. Was she your lover?"

A long moment passed, then Janice sighed and nodded. "Yes. She was my first lover."

"Would you tell me about her?"

Janice moved her head and looked down at Celia's face again, her face serious and unsmiling but her expression gentle, and she began stroking Celia's hair again. Her lips silently formed the word. "Why?"

"I know you don't like to talk about yourself, Janice – everyone knows that. And no one knows anything about you. But I want to know about you. I want to know about you so I'll never do anything to make you mad at me or make you disgusted with me. I want to know about you so I'll never say anything to hurt you. And I want to know what to do to please you. You know I'll never say anything to anyone about… us, and I'll never say anything to anyone about you. Please tell me." Janice put her hand on Celia's head and pulled it back down to her shoulder, and she looked up at the ceiling again as she stroked the tips of her fingers over Celia's smooth face, caressing her. Celia put her hand on Janice's breast again, squeezing it and fondling it. The seconds ticked by in silence, turning into minutes as Janice looked up at the ceiling, thinking, and Celia lay with her head on Janice's shoulder and her hand on Janice's breast, waiting. Finally Janice cleared her throat with a soft sound, then she licked her lips and swallowed. She began talking.

"I was sixteen when I went to Vienna. My parents had been killed several years before and a law firm was trustee of my estate…"

CHAPTER THREE

She was finally in Vienna, but it wasn't at all as she'd expected. There had been visions of living in a sublime atmosphere of devotion to music, breathing, eating, and thinking of nothing but music in the surroundings where the masters had lived and created the immortal compositions, but it wasn't at all like that. What was supposed to have been quaint and old world was, at first hand, simply squalid and dirty. The cheerful camaraderie she'd had with teachers before had been replaced by a cold, impersonal discipline, rigid and ruthless, and the lessons seemed to have nothing to do with music. Even if she'd been able to understand them, which was another problem. Her two years of conversational German were absolutely useless, because they seemed to be using a different language. One of the professors was using a dialect which was about half German and half some Slavic language, and even the Austrians had difficulty in understanding him. Others rattled in accents and dialects in which she would identify an occasional word which had meaning. And everyone seemed to think her ventures into the nightmare of German syntax were utterly hilarious. She couldn't ask the location of a class without someone exploding into laughter. A language in which the noun for little girl was masculine gender, and they thought it amusing that someone would have trouble with it.

The picture of the rooming house in the brochure had looked so romantic and different, but it was simply small, cramped, and cold. The gleaming walls, shining tile floor, and acres of glass which meant classrooms in her mind had been replaced by old, rickety warrens which seemed to have corridors and stairways going of in directions which formed no pattern. And the looks on the professors faces when she finally found her classrooms and tried to creep quietly to a seat would melt a stone statue. And the food was sparse, tasted strange, and it made her feel faintly ill. They laughed at her if she ordered milk but if she drank the wine she couldn't even eat without getting half clouted. She longed for a milk shake, a hot dog, and a bag of popcorn. She was catching a head cold. She was so heartbreakingly, unspeakable lonely. She buried her face in the pillow and cried.

There was a soft knock on the door. She raised her head, scrubbing the tears from her cheeks with her hands, and looked at the door. The knock came again, and she slid off the bed and walked to the door, opening it a crack. It was a woman standing in the darkness of the hallway. She opened the door wider, and the woman stepped forward with a smile. Janice's mouth fell open as she stumbled back a step. The woman's beauty hit her with the stunning force of a physical blow. Dark, thick masses of gleaming hair falling in thick tresses around a lovely, triangular face. Massive dark eyes with the barest suggestion of a dramatic upward taper at the corners, contrasting sharply with her smooth, stark white skin. Lustrous, evenly spaced teeth, and full, smiling lips. She was three or four inches taller than Janice, and dressed in a chic, expensive-looking dress and high heels. A striking figure, slender but fully developed, with large breasts and a small waist swelling out to gracefully curved hips and thighs. There had been times before when she'd felt a stirring quiver at feminine beauty, tugging strongly at her, and she had quickly smothered it and pushed it to the back of her mind. But that had been nothing compared to this. She felt a swelling, something throttling her and taking her breath away, and the fiery tingles racing out to her limbs made her feel giddy and faint.

The woman was standing just inside the room and smiling, and Janice caught the word "Uhr" in the rapid flow of German as the woman laughingly explained something in a self-deprecating tone; apparently her watch had stopped. Janice glanced at her watch, translating in her mind. "Es ist sieben uhr junjimdvierzig."

The woman's smile became thoughtful as she looked at Janice more closely, absently murmuring, "danke," then she smiled wider again. "Bist du eine Schulerin?"

She was asking Janice if she was a student, and Janice nodded. "Ja. Ich bin ein Schulerin."

The woman nodded, murmuring "eine Schulerin" and correcting her grammar absently as her eyes moved over Janice's face, then she lifted one white, smooth hand and touched the trace of moisture on Janice's cheek. Her smile became soft and solicitous as she asked another question. Janice couldn't understand the words, but the beautiful woman's expression was more eloquent than any words; she was asking why Janice had been crying. Tears of choking self-pity swelled up in her eyes, and she looked away as she shook her head rapidly in a negative. The woman moved closer, putting one hand on her shoulder and the other one on the side of her face, turning it up as her tone became more insistent. Everything seemed to swell up at once. The appalling loneliness, the inability to understand anyone, the frustrations, the disappointments, and the heartbreak. It combined with the lovely woman's nearness, the strange quiverings she felt stirring within her, and the offered sympathy. She burst into tears, throwing her arms around the woman's neck and burying her face against the soft, downy fragrance of her white throat.

The woman reached back and pushed the door closed, then she led Janice toward the bed with her arms around her and one soft hand patting her face, murmuring in a soothing whisper, and she sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling Janice down beside her. It all came out in deep, bitter sobs as the woman held her and calmed her. Then she became aware that her tears had stained the shoulder and neckline of the woman's dress, and she tried to apologize in a stammer of broken German. The woman waved it off, questioning her again on what was bothering her. Janice began to try to explain, searching her mind for words, and the woman nodded in comprehension as she wrinkled her smooth brow slightly in the effort to understand Janice's German. A couple of the concepts – loneliness and homesickness – were beyond her vocabulary, and she got up to get her phrase book from the top of the dresser. They weren't in it – nothing she really needed ever was – and when she turned back the woman had taken her books and study pamphlets from the nightstand and was spreading them out on the bed.

Janice was delighted to learn that the woman apparently had a broad grasp of music, but somehow her problems with school meant less to her than to intrude on the woman's time. She got that across, and the woman waved it impatiently aside as she leafed through the books to locate her daily lessons. One of the worst assignments was a long list of incomprehensible, unpronounceable technical terms which had seemed to bear more relation to anatomy than to music, but they became a velvety melody in the woman's mouth. She went over the list with what seemed to be indefatigable patience, correcting her pronunciation with an untiring smile, and Janice found herself exerting herself to the utmost, trembling with anxiety and sweat breaking out on her palms to win a smile of congratulation from the woman. Then – amazingly – the entire list was firmly entrenched in her memory along with the meanings and the woman was turning to the lessons on theory. The words she'd memorized proved to be the key to what had been a total mystery before, and all the lessons for the past week fell into place as they went over them.

The history hadn't been as much of a problem as the others, but she reviewed it with Janice anyway, smiling and nodding when Janice rattled off the names, dates, and places, occasionally correcting her pronunciation. The prospect of going back to class the following day rapidly began to look much less ominous as they finished. The woman began looking through the rest of her papers and notes as she snapped out verbs and nouns for Janice to conjugate and decline, and she listened to her going through them, nodding or correcting her as she leafed through the papers. Her attention focused on a sheet, and Janice looked to see what it was. It was her class schedule. Janice's attention wandered and she began to try to decline a noun in the wrong class and the woman corrected her with a murmur, still looking at the paper.

Janice's mouth fell open in shock when she glanced at her watch; it was almost two o'clock in the morning. She began to apologize profusely and tried to thank the woman, but she shook her head and turned it aside as she stacked the books and pamphlets back on the nightstand. The woman patted Janice's shoulder as they started walking toward the door, then she laughed and stopped, looking down at Janice. "Ach. Amerikanerinlein, ich vergass. Wie heisst du?"

"Janice Wycliffe."

The woman looked down at her, blinking, and Janice repeated it. She tried to pronounce it, but the "j" and "wy" sounds were difficult for her. She made a try at it, then shrugged apologetically, and Janice thought of her middle name, Irene. The woman looked blank when she said it, then she spelled it, using the German pronunciation for the letters. The woman smiled and nodded. "Irene," she said, pronouncing it "ee-ray-nah".

"Sehr gut, Irene."

"Wie heisst du?" Janice asked, then she suddenly realized she had spoken in the familiar form and started to apologize. "Es tut mir leid…"

She waved it aside with a smile and a chuckle. "Annalisa Grevenburg. Auch Anna oder Lisa. Liebchen."

It was the second time the woman had addressed her with an affectionate form, and what had once been a dull grammatical oddity now seemed pregnant with meaning and strangely thrilling. "OK. Lisa."

"OK." Lisa repeated with a chuckle, walking to the door, then she turned arid smiled at Janice before she went back out into the hall. "Auf wiedersehen. Irene."

The direct force of her smile was like a hard punch in the stomach, and Janice felt weak and shaky as she shuffled her feet awkwardly and nodded… "Auf wiedersehen, Lisa…"

She was almost totally exhausted when she went to bed, but sleep still evaded her because her head was spinning with what had happened and from the brutal force of the crash lessons. The peculiar, unsettled feeling in her stomach was still there, not unpleasant but very disturbing. Janice was surprised that she wasn't shocked with herself when she identified it as sexual desire for Lisa. The tantalizing, alluring scent Lisa used seemed to be lingering in the room like a haunting reminder of her thrilling presence, and Janice carefully examined her memory for how it had felt to rest against Lisa with her smooth, white arm around her shoulders. The memory was fragmentary and dim because of the outburst of emotions while she'd cried, but there were tiny remnants of sensation. She savored them, smiling to herself in the darkness. Then she finally slept and dreamed of making love with Lisa.

Janice got up late the next morning, and she raced to her first class. It was with Professor Klampfurt, a particularly stern, stone-faced man, and her heart pounded with trepidation as she ran up the stairs a few seconds after time for the class to begin. The class was already seated when she sidled in the door, and all the seats in the rear were filled. And the professor was taking the skin off the ears of a red-faced, trembling Austrian youth for coming in late. Janice experienced a moment of panic as the professor's eyes turned toward her, but he simply nodded neutrally to her and indicated a vacant seat near the front. She tiptoed down the aisle as he made a few final acid, cutting remarks to the student, and she sat down and humped up, waiting her turn. But the professor simply began thumbing through his notes and organizing them for the lecture. Several of the students glanced at her than at the professor in mild surprise, then dived for their pencils as the lecture began.

He seemed to speak more deliberately, not remarkably so but at a pace that she was able to follow by working furiously on her notes. She looked over her notes in satisfaction as he closed his notebook and walked from the lecture podium to the desk, the usual preliminary to dismissing the class. There was a surreptitious shuffle of papers as students quietly began to get ready to leave. The professor looked down at his desk, then turned. He waved to the class in dismissal, and looked at her. "Fraulein Vy-cliff-eh. Bleiben sic, bitte."

All of the students looked at her as they got up to leave, and there was more than mild surprise on their faces. He had addressed her in the formal manner, mandatory for students to use in addressing professors but unheard of in the other direction. Also, private conferences with professors for beginning students were unknown. Their shortcomings were a matter addressed in a loud tone and at long length by the professors in open class. A cold stab of terror dug through Janice as she held her books in her lap and waited.

The professor gathered up his notes and books as the class filed out the door. He glanced around the classroom, then looked at her and asked in slow, clear German if she had understood the lecture. She swallowed and licked her lips dryly. "Jawohl, Herr Professor," she squeaked, then quickly added, "dankesehr."

He nodded slightly and looked down at the floor, thinking for a moment, then he looked back at her and asked in the same slow voice if she had any questions. She was becoming more terrified, and she also wanted to go to the bathroom. She shook her head rapidly. "Nein, Herr Professor, dankesehr."

He nodded again, then cleared his throat and gave her precise direction for getting to her next class. When he finished he asked if she understood the directions, and she nodded wordlessly, feeling her face alternately flushing and going pale. His face almost relaxed in a wintery smile as he dismissed her, and she fled in panic.

She got to her next class on time for a change, even though she'd had to make a side trip to the bathroom, and she was still wondering about Professor Klampfurt's strange behavior. Not that she didn't appreciate it, but it was completely out of character. When she came in the classroom the other students were getting seated and shuffling their books and papers around, and the professor was at the lecture podium, arranging his notes. He looked up and his eye caught hers, and he beckoned her down to the front row and pointed to a seat. Another student, a young Austrian with a crew cut, was walking toward the seat. The professor gave him a cold look, and he hesitated. The professor kept looking at him, and he turned to get a seat in the back. Janice paused, and the professor motioned her toward the seat again. She got in the seat and took her notebook out, feeling almost naked as the students around her glanced at her, and she dismissed it from her mind as the professor began lecturing.

Then it happened again – all of it. She managed to get a good set of notes from the lecture, and the professor kept her after he dismissed the class to ask if she understood the lesson and if she had any questions. She was becoming more and more puzzled by the strange, unexpected turn of events, but she couldn't muster the courage to ask him what had induced him to keep her and ask her. She replied as she had before, then he gave her directions to her next class and asked her if she understood them. She thanked him politely and told him that she did, and he dismissed her.

It happened all day, and by the time she got back to the rooming house that evening her head was swimming. On top of that, the landlady intercepted her on the stairs and said that she had a better room for her and she could move immediately if she liked. It was almost too much, and she asked the landlady why she'd suddenly discovered a better room for her. The fat, red-faced, congenial woman smiled and shrugged, saying that the room had recently come available, and she took Janice's arm and led her on up the stairs and along the hallway to show it to her. It was a much larger room with better furniture, a larger bathroom, and a good view from the window. Most of all, it had a tiny fireplace to supplement the largely ornamental hot water heating system which seemed to be ages old. She put her books on the nightstand and thanked the landlady, and the woman smiled and left the key in the door as she walked back out of the room.

When Janice went to her room to get her things and move them, there was a small square of cardboard on the bed. She picked it up and looked at it; it was a ticket to the Staatsoper for that evening. She looked at it closer. It was a box seat ticket. She slowly walked over to the window and looked down at the street. There had been tenuous, half-formed plans in her mind to go to one of the smaller concert halls that evening because it was Friday and she didn't have any classes until the following Monday. But not to the Staatsoper and certainly not a box seat. It must have cost a hundred shillings or more, and anything she spent over her weekly allowance had to be individually itemized and explained to the trustees. And if they didn't agree, it was deducted from subsequent allowances.

Then she thought of Lisa. Perhaps Lisa had bought the ticket and left it as a present. It was a lot of money, but the way Lisa had been dressed and nuances about her attitude indicated that money wasn't a problem for her. She would move, then she would find Lisa and ask her.

It took less than an hour to move all of her things, and in the process of moving she picked out a nice dress she would wear to the Staatsoper. A few minutes after she had finished the landlady came up with a man who was carrying a large scuttle of briquettes for the fireplace. He put them down and left, and the landlady asked if everything was all right. Janice told her yes and thanked her, and asked if Lisa was in. At first the landlady didn't know who she was talking about, then it finally registered on her and she seemed slightly surprised and somewhat offended by Janice's familiar reference to her. "Nein. Fraulein. Fraulein Doktor Comtesse Annalisa van Grevenburg ist nicht hier."

The door was closed before Janice got her mouth closed. The battery of titles and honorific reference had been almost overwhelming. Being entitled "doctor" simply meant that she had a degree, because a baccalaureate was normally addressed as "doctor". But only a countess was addressed "comtesse" and it was rare to come into contact with the titled European aristocracy. She thought about it, looking at the ticket, then she brightened. Perhaps it was a very subtle invitation, and Lisa would have the adjacent seat when she got there. She took the dress out of the wardrobe and hung it on the door, then walked toward the bathroom, undressing.

The dress was dark blue velvet, and when she got there she was glad that she'd worn the long white gloves, matching shoes and hat, and carried her best purse. Almost all the Friday evening crowd was formal, the men looking uncomfortable and pompous.)n their stiff collars and tails, and the women looking soft and feminine in the low-cut dresses as they chatted with each other. She looked at the posters as she walked through the massive entrance lobby, trying to translate the script letters. The program was Beethoven, and there was a guest conductor from Brussels. She followed the crowd toward the doors, and a doorman in a gaudy uniform glanced at her ticket and imperiously beckoned an usher over. He snapped an order to the usher and turned to her, bowing sharply, clicking his heels together, and motioning toward the usher. The usher whipped out a program and offered it to her, and he bowed and clicked his heels as she took the large, embossed velvet folder from him. He motioned toward the wide, winding staircase at one side of the entrance, and she followed him up to the box seats.

It was a small box with a dozen seats in it, and the only other ones in it were an old couple sitting on the other side. The woman was in a white evening dress and was wearing a glittering tiara in her hair, and the old man had several medals dangling on the left front of his tuxedo coat. There was a dizzying atmosphere of luxury and pomp as she followed the usher down the tiny aisle in the center of the box. The sides of the box were hung with thick, heavy velvet drapes and tassels, the carpet underfoot felt as thick as a pillow, and the seats were upholstered in thick velvet. The old man heaved himself to his feet and bowed to her with gracious, old world courtesy when she got down to the railing, and the old woman leaned forward in her seat in a bow. Janice smiled and bowed to them, then turned and walked to the seat the usher was holding down for her. She sat down, he clicked his heels and turned away to leave the box and she sighed with excitement, looking around. There were several seats, and perhaps Lisa would be in presently.

The musicians were already in place, and they were noodling on their instruments, loosening their fingers and lips. Janice opened the program and squinted at it in the darkness of the box, trying to read the script letters. A hush fell over the orchestra and the audience, and the applause signaling the entrance of the conductor began to swell. Janice let the program fall to her lap and began quietly patting her hands together as she sat forward in her seat and looked down at the orchestra. Her hands slowly stopped moving as her mouth fell open, and she sat and looked, frozen. The reason for the strange events of the day became clear. She knew why all the professors had gone out of their way to help her, why the landlady had found her a better room, and why the ticket had been in her room.

It was a guest conductress, not a guest conductor. And it was Lisa.

Janice was so excited that she hardly heard the music at first, then the swelling majesty of Beethoven superbly performed penetrated, gripped her, and held her spellbound. The magic of Lisa's genius wove a spell throughout the audience. She cracked them from their supercilious, musically knowledgeable shells with the heady draught of thunder and lightning which she wrung from the orchestra, and the staid, reserved audience came to its feet with a roar of applause and ringing shouts of "bravo" at the intermission. Janice was on her feet and pounding her hands together in a frenzy of excitement. The orchestra was also applauding, a rare accolade. The violinists rapped their bows and the other players scumed their feet, looking at Lisa as she stood by the podium and bowed, her beauty a poignant, heart-wrenching agony. She turned and bowed to the orchestra then walked toward the wing, motioning for the house lights to stop the applause. It swelled higher as the lights came up, shouts still echoing across the massive hall, and she stopped at the edge of the curtain and turned. She bowed to the audience, turned slightly and bowed to the orchestra, then she looked up at the box where Janice was. Her glittering smile crossed the distance between them, and Janice felt weak and giddy, almost feeling the touch of her warm hand. Lisa's white-gloved hand came up to her lips and she threw a kiss at Janice, then she disappeared behind the curtain. Janice fell back in her seat, almost fainting from joy.

The applause began swelling up and filling the hall again as Lisa came back in after the intermission. She was businesslike, unsmiling. She bowed shortly to the audience and stepped up onto the podium, ignoring the applause as she raised the baton and her left hand. Silence abruptly settled. She looked like a poised, slender Goddess as she stood motionless for an instant, gathering the orchestra and bringing them to the edges of their seats in an agony of expectancy. A quick movement, and they were unleashed. It began again, the magic spell of wailing strings and sobbing woodwind, rising to choking, rending torrents of fire and fury as she led the orchestra and the audience into Beethoven's soul.

The audience went wild at the end, when she stood on the podim for a moment with her shoulders slumped, looking down. Then she stepped down from the podium and turned to bow to the audience. She was tired, almost exhausted, and she stumbled slightly as she turned to bow to the orchestra. The applause verged on hysteria as she walked toward the wing. Her face was drawn, unsmiling, and she turned at the edge of the curtain to bow again, to the audience then to the applauding orchestra. She disappeared behind the curtain and the applause swelled even louder, beckoning her out again. Her hand touched the curtain as she came back out to bow to the audience and then to the orchestra, and she turned and disappeared again. To be called out again. And again. And for the fifth time. Then the sixth. And seventh. On the tenth bow she motioned for the house lights, and she finally raised her head and looked up across the open distance to Janice. Janice's hands were stinging as she pounded them together, the sound lost even to her own ears in the noise which swelled upward from the main auditorium. Lisa smiled. She threw another kiss. Then she disappeared…

Lisa's attention hadn't been lost on others in the audience. People pointed to her from the main audience floor and the other boxes, they murmured to each other, leaning and turning to look at her, and tiny opera glasses came out of glittering handbags to focus on her. The old couple in the box was walking to the tiny aisle in the center of the box when Janice turned, and they smiled and bowed to her. Janice returned the salutation and motioned them ahead of her, touching off more bows. She followed them up the steps to the door. There was a tall, powerfully built usher waiting just outside the door, the deep saber scar down his cheek standing in bold relief in his granite face, frozen in teutonic rigidity.

"Fraulein Vy-cliff-eh?"

Others turned to look, and Janice almost jumped from the ringing sound of his voice. She turned and looked up at him. "Ja?"

He bowed and clicked his heels together sharply. "Kommen sie mit, bille."

CHAPTER FOUR

It was late, very late, and the utter quietness had the hushed quality of the frozen static hours of early morning. They were both tired and sleepy but still awake in the relaxed somnolence of lovers who are reluctant to abandon their nearness for the small death of sleep. Celia smiled drowsily at Janice and spoke softly. "You lapse into German about half the time, dearest, and I can't understand you. What did the usher say?"

Janice smiled tiredly, still looking up at the ceiling. "Do I? I didn't notice, darling. There was a time when German was… well, that's later. He told me to follow him…"

The corridor behind the stage leading to the dressing rooms was an utter bedlam. It seemed that half the audience had somehow managed to get into it, and in the midst of them workers were struggling back and forth, flowers were being delivered, and musicians were trying to get through. The hubub of noise swelled in her ears as she followed the usher into the crowd. He glanced over his shoulder at her, frowning thoughtfully, then he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him as he began backing into the crowd, forcing a path for them with his brawny shoulders. He smelled faintly of beer, tobacco, and sweat as Janice was crushed against him, and she gripped his lapels and shuffled her feet rapidly to keep up with him as he pushed through the crowd.

It was absolutely jammed as they approached Lisa's dressing room. Tall, paunchy, red-faced men, in cutaways and women in evening clothes were chattering to each other, apparently oblivious of the pushes and shoves which surged them from side to side and crushed them together. There were shouts of a couple of policemen trying to clear the corridor, but the normally disciplined, authority conscious Austrians were completely ignoring them in the continuing excitement of the moment. The usher began to struggle harder, and his arm tightened around Janice. She was dragged for the last few feet, then the usher finally levered her around in front of a door and planted his massive body between her and the crowd in the corridor, placing his hands on the door jamb and pushing back to make a few inches of room for her. She suddenly had breathing space between the door and the wide wall of his uniform in front of her, and he pounded on the door imperiously with his fist. Over the deafening noise in the corridor there was a faint sound of a voice from the other side of the door. "Fraulein Vy-cliff-eh!" the usher bellowed at the top of his voice. A key rattled in the door and it opened a crack as he braced his hands harder against the doorframe to keep the surging masses back from the door, then it opened, Janice was snatched inside, and the door slammed behind her.

The room seemed calm and peaceful after the uproar of the hall and the jammed bedlam of the corridor. The woman who had snatched her inside was a large, buxom, red-faced woman who had a harassed expression on her face as she turned the key in the door again. There were trunks and suitcases scattered around the room, some of them standing open, and the woman was holding a long, velvet evening dress in her free hand. She pointed to the door on the other side of the room and told Janice in broken, French-accented German to go through it. Janice could hear a murmur of conversation as she approached the door. Another workwoman was puttering with the cosmetics on the table in front of the massive mirror along one wall, and Lisa was lounging on a couch on the other side of the room. She pushed herself up from the couch and walked toward Janice, smiling and holding out her arms.

They fit perfectly, beautifully. Janice's lips were even with the white throat, Lisa's breasts were against her shoulders, her arms slid naturally around Lisa's waist, and Lisa's arms went effortlessly around her shoulders as her lips touched her hair. Not a trace of awkwardness or groping, and Janice felt enfolded, enveloped as her lips buried in the moist silkiness of Lisa's smooth, fragrant throat. Lisa was moist and warm, white and soft, and there was a faint, underlying hint of perspiration which blended intoxicatingly with her perfume. Lisa's dress swept sharply down in the back, baring her almost to her waist, and Janice's hands clutched greedily at her smooth skin as she tingled from the resilient feel of Lisa's breasts against her.

Then Lisa was effortlessly out of her arms and was leading her toward the couch by her hand as she told the workwoman to see if her bath was ready. The woman disappeared through a door, nodding, and Lisa sat down on the couch and pulled Janice down beside her.

"And school was less difficult for you today, little darling?"

"Lisa, I thought I was losing my mind. I couldn't understand why everyone was being so considerate, and then when I saw you coming onto the stage…"

"You weren't unhappy with me were you, little darling? Angry that I did what I did without asking you first?"

The German seemed to be singing in her head, coming to her effortlessly. "How could I be angry with you? But I was astonished. When I realized who you were, I was surprised beyond measure that you spent so much time with me last night and went to so much effort in my behalf."

"You were so unhappy, little darling. And I must confess that there was nothing wrong with my watch. I'd seen you before in the hallway, and then I passed your door and heard you crying…" She broke off and looked at the workwoman who came back in and rattled a sentence which sounded like French but wasn't. She patted Janice's hand as she stood up. "Wait for me a few minutes, and then we shall go to dinner together, little darling. Would you do me that courtesy?"

"I am delighted beyond measure."

Lisa gave her the breathtaking smile as she went through the door and disappeared, and Janice sat back on the couch. The excitement bubbling within her seemed to be a small, joyous thing with a life of its own, dancing and singing inside her, and she shivered as she clenched her hands together on her lap.

The other workwoman came in from the other room, and the two women moved a couple of large suitcases into the other room. Janice noticed the letters stenciled on one of them. "Grevenburg – Symphonique Bruxelles." Then realization of the obvious dawned on her with a stabbing pain of disappointment. Lisa was a guest conductress and the women were chatting in Flemish. Lisa was from Brussels. And apparently her luggage had already been brought from the rooming house. The mountain of hopeful expectations which had yet to be completely defined in concrete images suddenly collapsed within her.

Lisa came back in from the bathroom, adjusting her dress; she had changed into a street dress, a light-colored woven wool which hugged the full curves of her slender body. She smiled at Janice as she leaned over in front of the mirror to put on lipstick and touch her face with powder, and her smile disappeared as she looked at Janice more closely. "Is there something wrong, little darling? Are you unhappy about something?"

"I just realized you weren't from Vienna you'll be leaving here."

Lisa looked back at the mirror and sighed as she pulled a comb through her hair; the thick tresses seemed to fall into place at a touch. "There are some people in the other room we must spend a few minutes with, then we will go to dinner," she said quietly.

"When do you have to leave?"

"We shall discuss that at dinner." She dropped the comb and turned away from the mirror, holding out her hand. "Come. A few minutes with the people in the other room, and we will go to dinner."

There were a couple of dozen people in the room, and Janice felt gauche and awkward among them. The women were faultlessly chic in their sparkling diamonds and trailing evening dresses, and the men were suave and worldly, all of them smoothly continental and making Janice feel like a country bumpkin. The room was choked with baskets of flowers and buckets of champagne, and a couple of the ushers were serving the champagne around. Lisa dragged her along at her side, carrying a glass of champagne, and introduced her to person after person with a ripple of titles and names. Janice stumbled around and tried to keep out of the ushers' way, careful not to bump into anyone or spill her champagne on anyone. They worked their way slowly across the room to the door into the corridor, then suddenly they were in the corridor and still carrying the glasses of champagne as they walked rapidly toward the exit door. One of the workwomen was waiting by the exit door with a fur cape. She tossed the cape around Lisa's shoulders, took the glasses, and opened the exit door with an effortless tug. There were cement steps leading down into the darkness of the alley, and a taxicab waiting at the bottom of the steps, its parking lights on and its engine idling.

The interior of the cab was warm and comfortable, smelling faintly of mildewed upholstery and stale tobacco. The reflected light gleamed faintly on Lisa's lovely face as the taxi jerked into motion with a rattle from the engine. She looked down at Janice and smiled as Janice took her hand, and their fingers laced together. "Lisa, I have to know now when you must leave."

Lisa's smile faded and she turned her face back toward the front, looking over the driver's shoulder at the narrow, cobblestone street and the ancient buildings crowded in on each side in the flickering, yellow light of the headlights as the taxi rumbled along. She pulled Janice's hand onto her lap and patted it with her other hand. "Tonight, little darling."

It was shattering, devastating. Janice turned her face toward the side window, fighting the stinging, burning tears which were suddenly flooding up behind her eyelids. Lisa's soft hand turned her face back, and the large, dark eyes were serious and thoughtful, looking into hers. A puzzled, searching look. She spoke about being able to write, perhaps seeing each other again, but Janice pulled her face away from Lisa's touch and looked out the window again. The disappointment was too much. Lisa held her hand on her lap and stroked it, silently looking out through the windshield again.

The taxi pulled into an alley, stopped, and the driver went in a door. A moment later he returned with another man, a headwaiter; it was the alley entrance of a restaurant. The driver held the door as they got out, firmly refused payment from Lisa, and the headwaiter bowed low then led them along a narrow hallway. There were muffled sounds of dining, laughter, and revelry from the main dining room further along the corridor as the headwaiter bowed them into a private room. There was a single table, and the flickering light of the candles blended with the ruddy glow coming from the tiny fireplace. The crystal and silver on the table sparkled on the spotless, embossed linen, and the heavy wooden beams overhead and the paneling on the walls were shiny with age. The headwaiter seated them, poured wine into their glasses, and left.

"The young beauty of my little darling," Lisa said gravely, lifting her wine glass toward Lisa and sipping it.

Janice tried to smile, choking with Lisa's beauty in the wavering light of the candles. Perhaps she didn't go with the sophisticated, cultured life Lisa led, or perhaps Lisa didn't feel the stirring she felt. Perhaps she was letting her down easy. A stubborn rejection rose within her. She wouldn't be let down easy; if Lisa wanted rid of her, she would have to be plain and straight forward about it. "I love you, Lisa."

Lisa nodded calmly. "And I love you, little darling. Drink your wine. It is from Traben Trarbach, the home of my family. See? The Grevenburg castle is on the label…"

"With sex!"

"Sexually," Lisa corrected her automatically, then she sighed. "I will not discuss this with you, Irene. You are a child, and…"

"I am sixteen years."

"That is a child. And what have I said or done to lead you to believe that I would desire such a relationship? Surely you must…"

"You have done nothing. I am begging you enthusiastically."

"Fervently. Have you always felt yourself attracted to women?"

"A little. But never before the way I feel about you. Do you like me?"

"I told you that I love you, little darling."

"Europeans say that to friends of the same sex. Please answer me."

Lisa looked down at the table, a slight frown on her face, then she slowly shook her head. "No, I will not discuss this with you, Irene…"

"I will follow you to Brussels."

Lisa looked up at her, her eyes beginning to sparkle with anger. "You shall not!"

Janice leaned toward her, tapping with her finger on the table to emphasize her words. "I shall! I shall sit outside your door, and when people come by I shall tell them that you brought me from Vienna, then you tired of me, struck me, and threw me out."

Lisa looked at her, her mouth opening slightly in surprise, anger and amusement flickering across her face, then she drew in a deep breath and sat back. "You would hurt me this way?"

"Only if you persist in refusing to discuss this matter. Please tell me if you like me."

Lisa looked back down at the table, and her fingers idly toyed with the silverware as she was silent for a long moment. She finally sighed and looked at Janice again, her eyes sad. "It would be a kindness for me to tell you that I do not like you, Irene. It would be a kindness for both of us. But it would also be a lie. Yes, I like you – I like you very much. For the first time in many years, I feel… very strongly toward someone – toward you. I am an adult and you are a child, but I find it difficult to conduct myself as an adult should. But still I fear that…" She broke off as the door quietly opened and the waiter came in, and she lifted her wine glass and sipped it, looking at Janice and indicating her wine glass with her eyes. Janice picked up her glass and sipped it, sitting back in her chair.

Lisa ordered for both of them, and the waiter left again. Janice sipped the clear, tangy-bitter wine and looked at Lisa as the silence stretched out into a minute. Lisa still looked down at the table, her lips pursed pensively in thought. "Why are you fearful?"

"Afraid," Lisa sighed, then she looked up at her. "This is not a simple situation, little darling. What of your parents?"

"They are dead and have been for years."

Lisa looked at her and shook her head sympathetically. "A shame, for one so young. But you are young, little darling, and the young are impetuous and thoughtless. I was hurt long ago, and it was very painful. Since then I have kept myself impervious to injury. I would be vulnerable to you."

"I would kill myself before hurting you."

She sighed softly. "You see? That is what I meant by youth. To say that you would kill yourself is…"

"I meant it. In fact and actually. Please come back to see me next week."

"Literally. And it would be impossible for me to return next week the conductor of Symphonique Bruxelles will be absent for a three-week period beginning next week, and I am his assistant."

"Within a month, then."

Lisa looked at her silently for another long moment. There was a deep sadness and melancholy in the beautiful, liquid eyes, but there was also a quivering light of need. "Would you truly not hurt me, little darling?"

"I would not."

"And would you conduct yourself with circumspection and decorum while in public? That is very important, you know."

"I would."

Every muscle in Janice's body was quivering with tension, and her heart was pounding madly as Lisa looked at her searchingly. The silence seemed to be interminable. Lisa finally nodded and looked down at the table. "I shall return as soon as I am able to see how your studies are progressing," she said quietly, and Janice released her pent-up breath with a burst. "If anyone need know, I have assumed the prerogatives of mentor of your education." She tugged a ring off her finger and slid her chair back, leaning over the table to drop it in front of Janice with a heavy thump. It was a massive garnet with an enameled coat of arms laid into the stone. "There is a token of my guardianship. It is the Grevenburg arms. Wear it and let it serve to remind you to work hard at your studies."

Janice slid the heavy ring onto her first finger; it was a good fit, and the setting almost covered the distance between her knuckles. "It is a beautiful ring. I wish I had something to give you."

"If you will give me your loyalty, it will be a gift beyond measure. Now we shall not discuss this subject further, and if you threaten me again you shall find that the reputation of the Grevenburg family for having a violent temper is based on fact. You may accompany me to the airport tonight, and you shall not be demonstrative when we part. In the meantime, we shall discuss your career. What is your instrument?"

"Piano. I am sorry I threatened you, but I had to know…"

"You are forgiven. You shall study the violin in addition to the piano. You shall strive for perfection in the piano and for competence in the violin. Next year you shall study a woodwind, and the following year a wind."

"I would like to be a piano soloist."

"A symphony orchestra is comprised of musicians who desire to be soloists with their respective instruments. You shall strive for the virtuosity of a soloist in piano, and hopefully you will attain the competence of an orchestral musician. At the same time you shall study teaching, composition, and conducting, and hopefully you will discover the main thrust of your talent. You shall quickly discover that there are disadvantages to my being a mentor in your education, and the extent of the disadvantages will depend upon how lazy you are. You shall also discover that you will become a musician, and people who pay their money to hear you perform will not be disappointed." The door opened again, and the waiter pushed in a cart loaded with dishes. Lisa glanced at him and pulled her napkin from the table, shaking it and dropping it on her lap. "I shall write the rector tomorrow and communicate with him about certain changes in your curriculum. Now let us eat. You must have nourishment if you are to study successfully tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is Saturday."

"Will be," she corrected Janice, her beautiful face smiling. "I hope your musical talent is as great as your ability to render German incomprehensible. Tomorrow will be Saturday, and you will have an entire day free for study. You are fortunate. Now let us eat."

It was just over six weeks before she returned. At first Janice was eaten with jealousy, wondering who Lisa might be seeing, and then she found that study was a release from the torment of wondering, the stark loneliness, and the burning need to see Lisa again. Her curriculum was increased as a result of the letters between Lisa and the rector, and she threw herself into the work, devoting all her energies and every moment of every waking hour. She found that she had extra time when the impetus of her dogged determination began to overcome the inertia of the subjects, and she delved deeper into German, working on her accent and broadening her vocabulary. Then she worked in the library, overcoming the problems with the ponderous, pedantic forms of written expression and devouring heavy tomes related to her subjects.

She quickly became recognized as one of the more promising students, and she was singled out for special attention by the professors. A surprising number of people recognized the Grevenburg crest she wore, and that also resulted in her being singled out. She was designated as assistant to the conductor of the student orchestra, and she received a formal, stuffily polite letter from the manager of the Staatsoper along with a season pass to a box seat which had been issued in Lisa's name.

A month passed, and Lisa went to London to conduct. Janice got a letter from her, the fourth one she had received. They were normally polite and very correct, but it was somewhat warmer in tone, apologizing for the delay in visiting. Janice was furiously angry and almost threw it into the fire, then she put it away and answered it the next day, writing to Lisa in care of the Prince Albert Hall in London. Two days later she read in a newspaper of Lisa's first performance, and the reaction of the audience had been wildly enthusiastic, almost unheard of in the phlegmatic Prince Albert. Two days later she got another letter from Lisa, thanking Janice for writing and telling her that the audience had been gracious.

The following day was Friday, and Janice was tired from the driving pace of the preceding week when she got to her room. She took a quick bath and put on her robe, then came back out of the bathroom and glanced at the clock as she put wood on the flickering flame in the tiny fireplace. There was an hour available to study before getting ready for the Friday evening performance at the Staatsoper, and she would have dinner at the restaurant where she and Lisa had eaten. The headwaiter there had taken a fatherly interest in her, and he seemed more than ordinarily conscious about the ring she wore. The restaurant had a file of heraldic emblems, and when one of the small private rooms was available the Grevenburg arms would always be over the fireplace when she entered. When they were filled, the headwaiter would apologize profusely and find her a private table by herself in the corner, and while he escorted her across the dining room with bows and flourishes of his arm a waiter would always rush in with the Grevenburg arms to hang behind her table. It was a production the headwaiter seemed to enjoy as much as Janice, and it never failed to attract attention and raise eyebrows even among the sophisticated clientele of the restaurant.

Janice sat down at the small desk and opened a thick volume on polyphonics from the library. The murmur of movement from the adjoining room barely penetrated her consciousness; it had been vacant for a few days, and it was apparently occupied again. Then there was a quiet knock on the door between her room and the next one; it was a door with a bolt on each side which had apparently been put in for when her room and the adjoining room was used as a suite. The knock came again, and there was a metallic rattle as the bolt on the other side of the door was drawn back. Janice put the book down and pulled her robe tighter as she crossed the room toward the door, frowning slightly. She pulled the bolt back and opened the door. It was Lisa.

Janice felt as though she was melting inside. There was a choking sensation in her throat, her breath was suddenly short, and she felt weak and helpless, rooted to the spot where she was standing. Her love was before her again, much more intense than her memories and dreams. She whimpered and lurched forward, throwing herself into Lisa's arms.

Lisa staggered back a step from the force of Janice's embrace, and she chuckled softly as she put her arms around Janice, holding her and stroking her hair as she kissed the side of her face. "My little darling," she murmured. "Have you missed me?"

"Every minute of every day," Janice moaned, pinching the skin on Lisa's silky throat between her lips and touching it with the tip of her tongue. "I've been dying to see you, Lisa. I've been so lonely without you."

"All this after only a few hours together one night and then dinner together the next night?"

It wasn't a lover's murmur – it was a question. Janice raised her face and looked up into Lisa's eyes. They were deep, luminous pools, and she felt as though they were pulling and tugging at her, drawing her deep into them. She trembled as a sudden spasm raced through her, and she could feel the hot flush rising to her face. "I love you, Lisa."

She started to surge upward to kiss Lisa, but Lisa put her soft, warm hand on the side of Janice's face and held her as the large, dark eyes kept searching her face, moving fractionally from side to side with a piercing, penetrating look. Then a smile spread across her face and she nodded. "Yes, I believe you do, little darling. You see, you're very young and I was so afraid that you might change your mind…"

"I'll never change my mind. I'll never love anyone else."

Lisa's smile slowly faded as she looked down at Janice, changing to an expression of desire, of torrid, passionate need, and her beauty seemed even more alluring and compelling. Janice felt her knees I trembling as Lisa bent down and kissed her. Her mouth was smooth and fragrant, warm and damp, and Janice could feel the edges of Lisa's teeth against her lips as the sweet, silky, moist touch enveloped her lips. A raging fire seemed to burst to life within her, and an involuntary whimper came from her throat as she opened her lips wide, pressing her tongue against Lisa's teeth. The Lisa's tongue was in her mouth, filling it with the heady taste of her saliva, and Janice dug her fingers into Lisa's back and crushed herself against her love. Lisa was wearing a loose, silky dressing gown, and Janice couldn't feel the strap of a bra across her back. It inflamed her, a fiery tingle racing through her and spreading out through her limbs, and she wormed one of her hands around Lisa and felt for her breasts. She slid her hand into the front of the gown. There was the downy, silky feel of soft skin, then the large, resilient mound was in her hand, naked, and she squeezed it and felt it as she turned her head from side to side, crushing her lips against Lisa's.

Their lips parted, and they looked into each other's eyes. Lisa's eyes were gleaming with a deep fire and her pale cheeks had a touch of color, and Janice was shivering uncontrollably. They turned toward the bed, and one of Lisa's hands slid into Janice's gown and closed over one of her breasts. The sensation of Lisa fondling her breast made her whimper again, and she leaned against Lisa, kissing and lapping at her soft throat. Lisa guided her to the bed and pulled the covers back, and she began taking Janice's robe off her. She was naked under the robe, and she stood motionless and looked up at Lisa's face as she pulled the belt loose, pushed the robe off, and tossed it onto the foot of the bed. A flush spread over Lisa's face as her features became taut and strained with desire, and her soft fingertips caressed Janice's naked body, moving over her stomach and then up to her breasts. "You are very lovely, little darling," she breathed, her voice quivering.

"Take your clothes off, Lisa. I want to see you too."

Lisa untied the belt on her gown, shrugged it off, and tossed it to the foot of the bed. She was even more beautiful than Janice had imagined. The blanched, stark white of her skin was broken only by the rose of her nipples and the triangle of dark, silky hair below her flat stomach. Her waist was tiny, swelling out in smooth curves to her hips and down to her smooth, tapered thighs. The curved mounds of her breasts were large, jutting out from her with only the slightest suggestion of a sag. Janice gasped, quivering and shaking, and threw herself into Lisa's arms again. Lisa kissed her, pulling her toward the bed.

They slid onto the bed and lay on their sides, facing each other. Janice pressed herself against Lisa and their legs laced together, and she slid her hands down Lisa's back and felt her buttocks as Lisa cupped and squeezed hers. Lisa's thigh was against her pussy with a delicious pressure, and she began undulating her hips. The stimulating, exhilarating sensation abruptly escalated, and she began undulating as hard as she could, gripping Lisa's buttocks.

"Slowly, little darling, slowly," Lisa murmured, gently pushing Janice away from her and turning her onto her back. She leaned over her on one elbow, and her thick, black hair fell around Janice's face as she leaned down and kissed her. "You must not be too impetuous," she murmured.

Janice cupped Lisa's breasts and felt them, writhing with the sensations which were racing through her… "I'm burning up for you, Lisa. I've waited for weeks, thinking of you during the day and dreaming of you at night, and I'm burning up for you."

Lisa's lips moved tenderly over her face as she murmured in reply. "And I have thought and dreamed of you, little darling. At the same time I have been so afraid that you would change. That you would find someone else or that you wouldn't want me."

Then Lisa's lips were covering hers again with their sweet, hot, dampness, and Janice felt dizzy from the alluring scent of her body and her perfume as she savored the contact of her body with the smooth, softly curved body by her. She writhed and touch of Lisa's lips and hands making the hungry need swell within her, then Lisa's lips were moving down, across her chin and to her breasts. Lisa's mouth was on her breast, and the fiery sucking sensation sent tendrils of fire racing through her. She clutched at, Lisa's body, feeling and caressing her, and Lisa's lips were moving down again, closer and closer to the yawning emptiness of her need. The suspense and anticipation were almost unbearable as Lisa's hands and mouth moved around on her stomach and thighs, and she spread her thighs wide apart and bowed up off the bed in her driving need to quench the hunger which was raging within her.

Lisa's mouth was on her pussy, her tongue a pressing, excruciatingly ecstatic movement on her vulva and she almost went wild from the sensation. She threw herself against Lisa and pressed her head against the smooth, white thighs. The silky hair between Lisa's thighs was against her lips, and she pushed her head harder against Lisa's thighs, parting them and burrowing between them. The warm dampness was against her face and the heady, heavenly taste was in her mouth, and she felt Lisa's body trembling from the sensation of her lapping tongue as she cupped her thighs, burrowing deeper and lapping harder. A warm comfort enfolded her as Lisa became hers and she felt the shudders racing through Lisa's body. She moved her tongue, searching for the center of sensation, and it rose hard and stiff from its damp nest as she stroked it with her tongue. A wracking spasm raced through Lisa's body and Lisa's hips began moving with a driving rhythm. Janice moved her tongue more rapidly, stroking the small organ as thrills of satisfaction raced through her because of the sensations she was generating in Lisa.

A burst of fire seemed to explode in her, centering between her thighs and racing through her, consuming her. Every muscle in her body tensed, and she threw herself onto her back and clutched her wrist in her teeth to muffle the scream which bubbled from her. Lisa's beautiful body was on the bed beside her, her dark hair covering her lower stomach and thighs as her head moved from side to side and her darting tongue made the raging flames lick ever higher. Janice's hips began to work convulsively as waves of motion raced down through her body from her shoulders, and the skin on her head and face seemed unbearably tight as she was forced deeper and deeper into the swirling, churning pit of sensation. Something snapped, and she began tossing wildly on the bed as she soared to dizzying heights of sensation. Giant, ringing peals seemed to be exploding inside her head as she lurched in spasms, then everything collapsed at once and she slid back down the plane of sensation. Darkness seemed to overwhelm her and she was dimly conscious that Lisa was turning and taking her into her arms.

Lisa knelt over her, straddling her and lowering herself until her vulva was pressing against Janice's venus mound, and her hands slid under Janice's buttocks and lifted her as she began undulating her hips. Janice braced herself and gathered her strength to raise herself and press upward against Lisa's vulva. Lisa panted breathlessly, tossing her head to throw her hair back out of her face, and she looked lovelier than ever in the full stride of her passion, her lips parted, her slanted eyes narrowed with sensation, and her full, resilient breasts tossing from her movements. Janice put her hands on Lisa's thighs and gripped them, pressing herself up as hard as she could, and there was a quick, I shaking smile of gratitude on Lisa's face before the fiery, passionate enjoyment wiped it away and turned her face into a mask of torridly beautiful womanhood being swept to the heights of sexual stimulation. Her eyes closed and she bit her lips, tossing her head back and whimpering, then the muscles in her face began trembling as the tendons stood out in her arms from the strain of holding Janice up from the bed and against her. Muffled moans came from her throat as she tossed her head from side to side, her hair flying wildly, then her teeth bared and she hissed through them as her hips began working in a flurry of motion. Lisa's soul was bared as the ultimate instant of ecstatic love descended over her, and Janice felt her tears bursting through in reaction to the beauty and wonder of the moment. Lisa fell forward on top of her, wrapping her long, white legs around Janice's and gathering Janice into her arms, and Janice buried her face between Lisa's breasts and let the tears flow freely as she lay in the warm comfort of her lover's body.

The weekend passed in a flurry of activity. Janice went to the library on Saturday morning to do some research while Lisa went to keep an appointment with the rector. Lisa was pleased with what she had learned about Janice's scholastic progress when they met for lunch, and during the afternoon they went to the conservatory and Janice played the piano for Lisa. Janice's transition from American to European fingering had given her difficulty for a time, but she was again to the point where the keyboard was familiar, well-known territory, and her hands were quicksilver on the keys. Lisa seemed actually startled by her performance, and later she seemed to be pensively thoughtful about it. They went to the restaurant for dinner in formal evening dress, and as Lisa teased and joked with her Janice suddenly came to the pleasant realization that Lisa was wooing her. She responded, and when they were back in the room again they generated shattering spasms of ecstasy in each other. The following day was less pleasant. Janice played the violin for Lisa during the morning, and she was introduced to Fraulein Doctor Comtessa Annalisa van Grevenburg the musician. Lisa frowned darkly and snapped testily about the way she tuned it, became irritable about the way she was holding it, and finally snatched the bow away from and broke it over the back of a chair when she noticed that it was frayed. Janice broke into tears, and Lisa seemed torn between penitence for what she had done and righteous angel. She took Janice back to the room and departed in a towering rage to see Janice's violin tutor, and when she returned her ire had apparently been relieved by tearing into the tutor. She sat with Janice on the side of the bed, holding her in her arms and apologizing, then she began flirting with her and teased her back out of her resentful pique. Then they were kissing passionately, undressing each other, and making love. They got out of bed during the afternoon to get ready and go out for a late lunch, and things were as they had been before. They returned to the room to make love again, then Janice rode with Lisa to the airport and saw her off to Brussels.

The violin tutor tripled her out-of-class exercises and gave her meticulous attention in class, and her performance with the violin improved by leaps and bounds. Lisa returned three weeks later, and Janice was apprehensive until she had played the violin for Lisa and saw her grudging nod of satisfaction with her progress. The violin was Lisa's instrument and she worked with Janice most of the day, then they returned to the rooming house to dress for dinner.

They were sitting in the candlelight, flirting and teasing each other as they ate, and Lisa suddenly dropped a bombshell into the conversation. "It could be that we will be spending more time together, little darling. I have been offered a post as assistant to the conductor of the philharmonic at the Staatsoper, and I will probably accept it."

Janice almost leaped from her chair with the sudden thrill of joy which raced through her, then another thought occurred to her. "I understand the conductor at Brussels is retiring – wouldn't you get his post?"

"Perhaps and perhaps not. There would be many candidates."

"But you're there now, and that would give you an advantage."

"I would have an advantage, but it wouldn't be a certainty. It is an academic question, though, because I will probably come to Vienna."

"To be with me?"

"Yes, little darling."

"I will not permit you to damage your career to…"

"You have nothing to say about it, little darling. I am the mentor of your career, not you of mine. And to be assistant of the philharmonic in Vienna is a great honor. Also, there are other things. I find I am jealous of you, and that will lead to trouble between us if we remain separated. And it is the nature of life that its pleasures are few enough – they should be fully enjoyed. Enough – what will happen will happen. Have some more wine."

Three months later Lisa moved to Vienna and they rented a house on the Fredritkstrasse, near the university and the Staatsoper. Life became a rosy dream for Janice, divided between love of music and love for Lisa. The term ended and Janice was selected as assistant to the conductor of the youth orchestra during the summer, and she was the lead pianist for several recitals during the summer. When classes began again, she found that she was far ahead of the other students as a result of Lisa's hours of coaching and tutoring.

The year passed rapidly, and then it was summer again. They took a trip to the Hunsruck Mountains and to Traben Trarbach on the Mosel, Lisa's birthplace. Most people considered Janice a native born German because of the Grevenburg arms she wore and because her American accent was almost completely smothered by the Austrian accent she'd acquired, and their whirlwind stay at the small, ancient city straddling the Mosel ended with a reception and dinner at the burgomeister's home. They also went to Budapest, Lisa's mother's birthplace and the origin of the East European cast to Lisa's features, and Janice found herself strongly drawn to the wild, exhilarating local music.

School began again, and at the end of the term Janice was examined for and awarded her baccalaureate degree. She and Lisa had a series of conducting engagements during the summer music festivals, and they met in Budapest during late summer. They spent a week there, and Janice began to seriously study the local music and make notes. After their return to Vienna, Janice had to make a short trip back to the United States to renew her passport and to see the trustee of her estate. The weather was bad, she had difficulty in comprehending nuances of meaning in English, she seemed to attract undue attention when she forgot where she was and broke into German, and she looked forward to getting back to Vienna and commencing her graduate work at the university.

Years passed in a golden haze of bliss. Janice found herself being eagerly sought out by the people she had once held in awe and she acquired a spreading reputation as a recital pianist and conductress. The year after she was awarded her doctorate she and Lisa took the summer off and spent it in traveling around Hungary. The local music still held its compelling fascination for her, and she spent much of her time in listening to groups of players and talking with those who could speak German.

Late summer found them a few kilometers from Budapest, traveling in a rented car. They stopped for the night at a small, ancient inn on the outskirts of a village and put their things in their room, and the innkeeper and his wife moved a rough, heavy table and chairs out onto the grassy swath at the side of the inn so they could enjoy the balmy weather while they dined. They sat at the table and chatted while they dined on cheese, sausage, dark bread, and a surprisingly good local wine, and the day quietly faded toward dusk over the rolling Hungarian countryside and the village. A group of merrymakers straggled from the village to the inn, laughing and shouting, and Lisa waved to them and responded to their greeting, explaining to Janice that it was a wedding party. The inside of the inn came alive with revelry, rocking with the heavy footsteps of people dancing to the music of a violin, a zither, and an accordion. The sun began fading into a blaze of gold and red. Janice became transfixed as she listened to the music coming from the inn and stared at the sunset. Lisa looked at her and frowned with concern when she didn't reply to a question, and she leaned forward and put her hand on Janice's. Janice impatiently shook her hand off, getting up and walking away from the table, looking at the sunset and listening to the music.

There was a small pad of writing paper in their luggage, and Janice went to the room and began lining it off into bars and writing a score. She used up the pad and began searching frantically for paper, using paper bags, the back of a couple of letters, and everything else she could find. Lisa got the innkeeper out of bed, and he found a couple of writing pads and a box of stationery in a closet. By sunrise Janice had used it up and was hysterically searching for more. They returned to Budapest, and after Janice had worked on the composition for three days without leaving the hotel room, Lisa began to get their things ready to leave. They had a private compartment on the train. Lisa sat on one side of the compartment, her face drawn with concern, strain, and lack of sleep. Janice sat on the other side of the compartment, red-eyed, deathly pale, and on the point of exhaustion as she feverishly worked over the growing mound of core sheets. When they arrived in Vienna she had completed the prelude and first movement of a symphony.

There was the solid, uncompromising base of scholarship, the granite foundation of pedantry beloved to Teutonic ears. It was accompanied by an overlay of surrealism, a rumble of violence and darkness, a dipping plunge into the nightmare of the subconscious. Variations sailed off into hints of wild, wailing cries of Gypsy origins and the Hungarian countryside where it had been born; the fecund sensuality of the earth and the ethereal beauty of sunset was grasped by a sensitive soul and translated into rippling cascades of notes. The themes were those of the pantheon of masters but somehow spoke of modernity; the staid, somber voice of an academic speaking of the pressures of a neurotic time. The timelessness was tempered with vitality, youth gamboling in the joyous stride of life, and at the same time there were delicate hints of melancholy and sadness, of youth consuming itself in the act of soaring in the triumphant flight of unlimited strength and endurance. And over all there was a gripping, penetrating intensity which lured, then seized and held.

Janice played the piano score for Lisa, and when she finished Lisa was sitting on the couch with her hands over her face, tears running between her fingers. It had wormed its way into her soul, twisting and turning, and she was torn between pleasure over the towering magnificence of the work and reaction to the deep, searching look into the soul of her lover. She stumbled to the piano and knelt by the bench, burying her face in Janice's lap and kissing her hand humbly. "I respected my lover as a musician," she sobbed, her voice muffled against Janice's hand, "and now I reverence her as a master."

Janice licked her dry, cracked lips and blinked her red, stinging eyes as she stroked Lisa's head absently and looked at the sheets of music. The second movement was beginning to stir to life within her mind.

Abendleid Magyar was presented in a concert by the conservatory orchestra later in the year, and the following summer it was presented in a matinee performance of the junior symphony orchestra conducted at the Slaatsoper by Lisa. Later that year it was presented in an evening performance. The critics were cautious and ambivalent, bothered by the dark turbulence and the alien chill of some of the passages, but it was generally accepted as a substantial contribution to modern classical music and a credit to the university. Janice was a part time lecturer at the university, a post reserved for resident conductors, and she was producing a steady flow of sonatas, fugues, and signatures which were featured items presented by the conservatory orchestra. The year Janice reached her thirtieth birthday, Lisa conducted an evening performance of Wycliffe at the Staatsoper, which culminated in a powerful performance of Abendleid Magyar. The adulation of the enthusiastic audience was divided between the conductress and the beautiful, young composer as they smiled at each other, one in a box seat and the other on the stage.

The following summer Janice returned to the United States once again to renew her passport and to see the trustee of her estate, and she was surprised to find that she had a substantial international reputation as a musician and composer. The triumphant arrival of the returning American composer who had gained success in Europe was somewhat marred by the fact that she had difficulty in understanding English and spoke with a strong German accent. She found herself alienated by the brash, impertinent questions and brusque mannerisms of the reporters and on-lookers, and she quickly finished her business and returned to Vienna.

Lisa had been killed two days previously by a drunken driver who ran his car onto the sidewalk and struck her. After the funeral Janice returned to their home. A professor at the university became concerned when she wasn't seen for a week. He forced his way into the house and found her sitting in the bedroom with Lisa's slippers on her lap, where she had been since the day of the funeral.

At Berne they brought her out of withdrawal with electro-therapy, and her third attempt at suicide was perilously close to being successful. The university at Vienna learned of it and brought the heavy weight of the European academic community to bear on the hospital, and a battery of famous psychotherapists was called in. It took a year of therapy to regenerate her memory and convince her that she was not Fraulein Doktor Comtesse Annalisa van Grevenburg. A year after that she was discharged from the hospital, and the only visible evidence of her experience was her twelve kilos underweight.

The university at Vienna hired her as a piano and violin tutor, and her friends arranged a gala performance of her compositions which she refused to attend. After six months she terminated her employment and moved to Traben Trarbach on the Mosel, where she worked as a music teacher and wrote. Her later compositions were less successful because they inspired only melancholy and a remote terror in both the orchestra and the audience. Later she lectured at the university at Trier, traveled in Europe for a time, then finally became dissatisfied again and returned to the United States. She was gratified to find that she had been forgotten, and reporters and on-lookers didn't bother her.

Celia was weeping, her tears running down Janice's cheek. "Oh, God, Janice, how does someone get over something like that?" she sobbed brokenly.

Janice looked up at the ceiling, her eyes dry and stinging, and she absently patted Celia's head, sighing. "I don't know, darling," she murmured. "I don't know, because I haven't."

"God, if there's anything I can do…"

Janice turned her head and looked down at Celia, smiling sadly. "You can go to sleep, darling, that's what you can do. You have class tomorrow, and you need to sleep if it's going to do you and good."

"God, I can't sleep. How can I sleep when…"

"You can sleep, because you're a young, healthy woman. Here, turn over and let me put my arms that's right. Now go to sleep, and we'll have breakfast when we wake up. Then I'll give you a ride home to get dressed for class. Goodnight, darling."

Celia sighed and nodded, settling herself against Janice. "Night," she murmured, her voice muffled against Janice's breasts.

Janice sighed again as she looked up at the ceiling, thinking. Presently she began quietly crying as Celia breathed with a slow, deep rhythm.

CHAPTER FIVE

Janice swung the Camaro to the curb and braked it sharply to a stop in front of the academic building, and Celia opened the door and paused with her feet on the curb as she looked over her shoulder at Janice. "I'll see you at orchestra class this afternoon, then?"

"Yes. Now run, or you'll be late."

Celia nodded and grinned, then she hopped out of the car and slammed the door as she raced across the sidewalk. Janice watched her run up the steps, taking them two at a time, and she chuckled and glanced over her shoulder for oncoming traffic as she slid the gear lever into drive. They had got up late, and there had barely been time for a cup of tea and the quick drive to Celia's room to change into a skirt. But she would make it to her class on time if she ran all the way, Janice reflected as she drove along the street. And if she didn't run, she didn't deserve to get to class on time. Running occasionally was part of it.

Janice drove back to her house to get ready for the nine o'clock meeting. It was the scheduled monthly business meeting for the symphony orchestra, and slacks wouldn't do. She picked out a severely plain white dress and put on hose and low heeled white shoes, then she combed her hair again, put her wallet and keys in a small white purse, and left.

The chairman of the trustees of the symphony was also the president of the largest bank in the city, and the business meetings were always conducted in the conference room on the third floor of the bank building. Janice parked around the corner from the entrance, then went in and took the elevator up. Doctor Janison, the conductor, had just stepped out of the other elevator when she walked out into the hall. He was a large, burly man of about fifty-five or so, given to wrinkled wool suits, striped shirts, and dingy-looking ties which were always askew. He was a competent musician with occasional flashes of brilliance, and a firm, controlling hand over the orchestra. He was always congenial and friendly toward Janice, and he seemed somewhat diffident toward her and slightly in awe of her academic qualifications.

"Hello, Doctor Wycliffe. We're not late, are we?"

She smiled up at him. "Good morning. I don't believe so, but if they've already started we shouldn't have any difficulty in catching up."

It was a comment on the dreary, endless minutiae which occasionally kept the business meetings dragging on for hours, and he laughed heartily and nodded as they walked on down the corridor.

Part of the people were there, seated at the conference table, and a couple of women who worked in the bank were putting ashtrays, notepads, and pencils in front of the chairs. Mr. Carleton, the bank president and chairman of the trustees was already seated at the head of the long, shiny table. A large man of sixty with a florid face and stark white hair, and he was leaning over and talking to a woman who sat on his right. Christina Barker, the most active and musically knowledgeable of the trustees. A tall, attractive woman in her middle thirties, and a childless widow. She was of one of the old, settled, and monied families in the area and knew virtually everyone in the city, and she was perhaps the sole reason why the symphony organization ended each year with its books showing a small amount on the credit side while many others in the country went further and further into the red. Her trusteeship had been more or less inherited from her husband, a man several years her senior who had died of heart trouble a few years previously, and she had apparently found her mission in life. No detail of the symphony was too minor for her attention, and she knew each musician in the orchestra by name. And people who had known her family for years were prone to flee upon her approach because they knew they would be buttonholed for a subscription to the symphony.

On Carleton's left was Edward Chumley, a man of forty or so with a bad complexion and an uncomfortable habit of picking at his ears. He was also from an old family in the area, but he wore it like a mantle and had a self-assumed mission of providing culture and education to the masses. He was caustic critic of youth and all its endeavors and a prude. Janice had almost laughed aloud once when the thought had suddenly occurred to her that mention of Eroica, the Funeral March, would send him scuttling for a musical dictionary. Like all the trustees except Christina Barker, he had an appaling lack of knowledge about music, and he was the one who did most of the talking at the meetings.

Carleton nodded to Jannison and Janice still talking to Christina, and Christina flashed them a quick smile. She seemed to be a warm, personable woman, but her activities and Janice's had seemed to keep them apart because they weren't well acquainted with each other. But every time Janice had met her, there had been a tiny, insistent feeling that Christina was interested in her in areas which had nothing to do with the symphony, and now her eyes moved over Janice and lingered on her before they turned back to Carleton.

Chumley nodded to Jannison and looked away before his eyes met Janice's. There had been an instinctive enmity between them from the time they first met, and Janice dismissed him from her mind as she nodded to the other trustees. One was a dowager of sixty or so who always looked uncomfortable in her brightly colored dresses and mink stoles, another was a thin old man of sixty-five or so with a pronounced Adam's apple and pink scalp showing through his thin, white hair, and the tiny, frail old woman who always wore old-fashioned black dresses and shoes was absent; she missed about half the meetings. In addition to the trustees, the orchestra personnel manager and union representative, Charles Albertson, was at the table. He was second bassoon in the orchestra, a competent musician with seven children who had taken the extra job for the money and made no bones about it in his impatience with complainers among the orchestra.

The general manager of the symphony organization came in as Janice and Jannison sat down. Frank Bailey, a tall, personable-looking man in his early thirties with a modicum of musical knowledge and a talent for management as such. A PR man with a quick, ready smile, but touchy about his prerogatives as general manager. He seemed grateful that Janice's sole concern was with music and she took no interest in management of the organization – which assistants to conductors occasionally did – and they were always on good terms, tempered by his slightly defensive, school boyish attitude toward her.

Bailey nodded and spoke to everyone as he opened his briefcase across the table from Janice took out a stack of agendas which had been run off on a duplicator, and passed them around the table.

Carleton looked up at him and nodded as he took the sheet of paper, then he cleared his throat and glanced around the table. "Well, it looks as though everyone's here." One of the women who had been putting out the things on the table sat down at the other end of the table and began taking shorthand notes on a pad. "So… I'll call the meeting to order. Frank, would you like to go over the minutes of the last meeting?"

Bailey nodded and took a folder from his briefcase. He opened it and thumbed through the papers in it, then cleared his throat and began reading one of them. Christina sat with her elbows on the edge of the table and doodled on the pad in front of her as Bailey's voice murmured, Carleton looked at him politely, blinking his eyes, and Chumley's attention was riveted on him. Everyone else was lounging back in their chair, and a couple of people were absently watching a distant airplane through the window behind Carleton.

Carleton nodded as Bailey finished and closed the folder. "Thank you, Frank. Do I hear a motion…"

"I move the minutes of the last meeting be approved as read," Chumley rattled.

Carleton nodded. "All right. Do I hear a second?" Christina waved her hand casually, and he nodded again. "Moved and seconded – the minutes are approved as read." He picked up the list of agenda Bailey had given him and looked at it. "There being no unfinished business, we'll move on to the current agenda. The first thing we have is a revised union wage scale which Mr. Albertson…"

"Does this mean we're raising wages?" Chumley demanded.

Christina looked concerned as she raised her eyes from the pad, and everyone looked at Albertson. He shook his head as he took a folder out of his coat pocket. "No, there won't be any raise because of this. As you know, everyone is getting over the minimum scale now…"

"Then why are we going into this?" Chumley asked, his voice becoming more belligerent. "There's no point in starting a lot of talk about wages and getting everyone thinking about them, because if we do then we're going to get ourselves into a situation where…"

"Let Charlie talk, and perhaps we'll find out why we're bringing it up now," Christina snapped.

Albertson cleared his throat and took a sheet of paper out of the folder. "Well, it's a union rule that management has to be informed when there's a change in the union wage scale, regardless of what's being paid. It's just a formality."

Christina shrugged and looked back down at the pad, doodling again, and the piece of paper fluttered from hand to hand as it was passed up the table to Carleton. Chumley was still frowning. "Well, I still don't see…"

"So you don't see," Christina said. "If it's a rule then it's a rule and let's be done with it – put it in the minutes and forget about it."

Carleton nodded, passing the sheet of paper back and nodded to the woman at the end of the table who was taking shorthand notes. "Pass it down to Betty. Betty, make it an attachment to the minutes, if you would. Is that all, Mr. Albertson? Very well – thank you. Let's see… the next item is the upcoming gala performance."

"We'll present Symphonie Fantastique and Mahler's Fifth," Jannison said.

Everyone looked at him more or less blankly except for Christina, Albertson, and Bailey, and Janice looked down at her hands as a sharp, quick pang shot through her. The bitter-sweet, fiery-cool flow of memories, at once poignant, soothing, and painful. Mahler's Fifth. It had been one of Lisa's favorites. Mahler's Fifth had been the opus Lisa frequently selected to conduct at the festivals and at the Staatsoper. The performances had always been magnificent. Beautiful, wonderful Lisa and the fire and fury of Mahler. There was a stinging sensation behind her eyelids. The conversation was still going on, and Janice pulled her mind back to the present, trying to tug it away from the haunting memories.

They were discussing Jannison's coming vacation. He was taking it early because his daughter was seriously ill, and he was going to be with her. That meant Janice would have to break the orchestra in on the Mahler, and it also meant that she'd have to handle the rehearsals and the forthcoming Youth Concert Week by herself. It would be a crowded three weeks or so, but it could be managed by skipping the self defense classes and perhaps getting a substitute to take a few of the orchestra classes. Mahler's Fifth. Lisa always found conducting it so exhilarating. Strange; after conducting, Lisa was always tired but radiantly excited and exuberated, while Janice was usually withdrawn and melancholy. Once they'd made love in Lisa's dressing room after she conducted Mahler's Fifth.

The Youth Concert Week was being discussed.

Carleton was looking at a piece of paper in his hand and speaking directly to her. Jannison, Albertson, and Bailey were giving her wary, almost alarmed glances. Her mind snapped back.

"…they were available, so we scheduled them into the music hall during Youth Concert Week. This is bordering on the verge of being outside the scope of the trustees' function, but we decided…"

"Mr. Carleton, why wasn't I brought in on this?" Bailey asked. "Surely as general manager of the organization…"

"Now wait a minute, Frank, just wait a minute. There's been no firm commitment made or anything, and it came up fairly suddenly. There's also a bit of a snag in it, and it's sort of up to Doctor Wycliffe as to whether or not we can work it out. Now just let me finish, and everyone will get their chance to have their say." He looked down at the piece of paper, then back up at Janice. "It would considerably broaden the range of selections and music to be presented, Doctor Wycliffe, and they're supposed to be very good. There's a total of sixty instruments in the group, but the snag is that their leader will be absent during this period. Now, we thought that you might be able to work it into your schedule…"

Irritation began to swell within her, bordering on the verge of anger, and she gripped herself and controlled herself to keep from interrupting him. Everyone was looking at her. She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips and pressed them together, tightening her control. He was finally through, and he was looking at her with his eyebrows raised.

"Mr. Carleton…" She broke off and cleared her throat, starting again. "Are you suggesting that I conduct electronically amplified instruments?"

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again as he looked down at the piece of paper. "Well, uh… I suppose they use… amplifiers, but…"

"That's why I should have been brought in on this before it got this far," Bailey said. "I could have told you…"

"Wait a minute, now!" Chumley snapped belligerently. He looked down the table at him. "Just exactly why can't you conduct them? Everyone talks about your qualifications all the time as though you're the greatest musician…"

"I am a symphony musician, sir," she said, her voice quiet but the tone penetrating and acid. "I will not lead a glee club, grind an organ, playa hurdy-gurdy, conduct a minstrel show, lead a group of troubadours, or provide violin music for an act of trained dogs. I am a symphony musician."

"Then you're saying that it's below you, or that you…"

"I said no such thing, sir," she replied, her voice even quieter but cutting through the taut atmosphere like a whip cracking. "And please do not attempt to interpret what I say in other terms you, sir, are not capable of thought sufficiently cogent. I meant to cast no aspersions on popular music, nor did I do so. Popular, mainstream music is an important if somewhat transitory element in the culture of any people. However, my education and training are directly solely toward symphony music, and I will not entertain the thought of participating in any other style of music."

"Well, maybe we'd better look at your contract and see…"

"Look at it," Bailey said, a triumphant note in his voice. "It specifically states that there will be no recording or amplifying devices in the auditorium while Doctor Wycliffe is conducting, and it also specifically states that the only electrical devices in the entire music hall will be the lights and ventilation. All other devices will be turned off or disconnected, and the curtains will be operated manually if it's necessary…"

"Sounds like a bunch of foolishness to me," Chumley growled, pushing irritably at the pad and pencils in front of him.

"Who in the hell asked you?" Christina snapped.

"All right, all right," Carleton said, rapping his pencil on the table in front of him. "It appears that this matter is shelved for the moment…"

"…lack of cooperation…" Chumley muttered.

"…and we'll move onto something else." Carleton gave Chumley a cool glance. "And anyone who wishes to address the group at large will be recognized by the chair. Otherwise, let's maintain order and get on with the meeting. For the record, let's have it duly noted that we were remiss in not bringing the general manager in on this matter at the beginning it's now apparent, I believe, that it would have saved us trouble and possibly spared some ill feeling… we haven't offended you, have we, Doctor Wycliffe? We certainly meant no…"

"Not at all, Mr. Carleton."

"Yes, well, very good – let's move on, then. There's this matter about the drummer and his haircut. Has that been resolved, Mr. Albertson?"

Albertson nodded. "Yes. Management was upheld by the union, and the decision to dock his pay for missed rehearsals until he got it cut was supported. It's all settled now."

"Who told him to get it cut in the first place?" Chumley asked.

"I did," Janice replied.

"What difference does it make?" Jannison asked, frowning at Chumley. "It was too long, and that's the end of it – it was down to his shoulders."

"Well, it seems to me as though we could all work together a lot better if we tried a little harder to get along with each other," Chumley said, then he looked down the table at Janice again. "You don't have any kind of history of emotional problems do you, Doctor Wycliffe? I've noticed that you have trouble getting along with people sometimes, and if we have to depend on you to take over in an emergency situation…"

"That's the most unfair Goddamned thing I've ever heard, and it's a hell of a shitty crack even for you," Christina exploded at him. "You know jack shit about a Goddamned symphony organization…"

"Here, here, here," Carleton said sternly, glancing at Christina and at frowning at Chumley. "That was completely uncalled for, Mr. Chumley, and the chair is capable of keeping the meeting in order, Ms. Barker. Now let's have no more of this…"

"May I speak, sir?" Janice asked coldly.

Carleton looked at her and nodded. "Why, certainly, Doctor Wycliffe…"

"In order to respond directly to Mr. Chumley's question and to satisfy any obligation I might have to the management of this organization, I will advise you that I do, in fact, have a history of emotional… difficulty. I was in a sanitarium in Berne for two years undergoing psychotherapy. However, I will add that this is the third position I have held since being discharged from the sanitarium, and my reasons for leaving the other two places had no association with emotional problems. Also, I discussed this matter at some length with Doctor Jannison before I took this position."

"That's right," Jannison snapped. "Doctor Wycliffe told me…"

"Well, why wasn't I informed?" Chumley asked in a snarl.

"Because it's none of your Goddamned business," Jannison shot back.

"Listen, I don't have to take this kind of…"

Carleton began rapping his pencil again. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, you'll please address your comments to…" He looked at Christina as she raised her hand for attention and plucked at his arm. "Yes, Ms. Barker?"

"I'd like to clear the air on this one," Christina said. "Doctor Wycliffe has found herself forced into an uncomfortable position, and I'd like to make my own feelings fundamentally clear. A so called 'history' of emotional problems is a word, and nothing more. Lots of people have psychiatric treatment, and there's no disgrace associated with a nervous breakdown. And I'm sure that the musicians at the meeting won't misunderstand me when I refer to the fact that musicians are creative, artistic people. They are exceptionally gifted people who are subjected to periods of great strain, and at the same time they are usually people of volatile, temperamental character because of the burden of creativity which is both a gift and a curse…"

She was coming forward in strong defense, and Janice felt a surge of warmth toward her. But at the same time she was dramatizing it almost to the point of being ridiculous, and Janice involuntarily chuckled as the amusement swelled up in her. Christina suddenly broke off as she heard the chuckle, and she looked at Janice in surprise. "I do beg your pardon, Ms. Barker," Janice said smiling. "If I might, Mr. Carleton… thank you. My particular misfortune had nothing to do with my profession, Ms. Barker, and I can assure you there are few people more stable than symphony musicians. We are basically scholars, with all that implies in terms of being dull and bookish… Eccentricity is left to opera performers, because it is more compatible with opera music and with the personalities involved." Christina was looking at her, her eyes blinking rapidly and her mouth open, and she closed her mouth and weakly returned Janice's smile. "As for my part, I am simply a working musician. The principal difference between me and a menial worker is basically a matter of education." On the edge of her vision she noticed that Albertson and Bailey seemed to be deriving amusement from what she was saying, and she stopped talking and looked at them, irritation swelling within her again.

"Yes, well," Carleton said, breaking the sudden silence. "I think we've about…"

"I'm not satisfied with this," Chumley growled. "I think the trustees should have more of a hand in the hiring of key personnel…"

"Selection of the assistant is in my contract," Jannison snapped. "And we're fortunate in having someone with Doctor Wycliffe's credentials. She could be the conductress at half of the major symphony organizations in the country, and they'd be both happy and lucky to get her."

"I'll go along with that," Christina snapped, glaring at Chumley, then she looked at Janice and gave her a smiling nod. "As I've said before, we're glad to have you here, Doctor Wycliffe."

"I agree," Carleton said firmly, nodding to her. "Doctor Wycliffe, the trustees formally express their confidence in you, and it'll be made a part of the record of this meeting. Now, let's see what else we have on the agenda here…"

The meeting finally dragged to a close, and the remaining quivers of her irritation gnawed at Janice as she left with Jannison and rode down in the elevator with him. She stood with him on the sidewalk outside the building and chatted with him for a few minutes about the afternoon rehearsal, then they parted and she walked around the corner to her car.

She was unlocking the car when she heard a voice calling her name, and she looked up; it was Christina, trotting toward her. She walked back around the car to the sidewalk to meet her.

"Hey, listen, Doctor Wycliffe, I just want to be sure you're not upset over that jackass Chumley and his bullshit."

"No, not at all, Ms. Barker. Things like that happen, I suppose."

"Yes, well, don't look for it again. Carleton kept him up there after the meeting, and I expect he's taking him apart. Say, you know, we really haven't got to know each other, have we? How about a cup of coffee?"

"Well, honestly, I'm quite busy. The meeting took somewhat longer than I'd anticipated, and I have several things to do before my class at the conservatory this afternoon…"

"How about this evening?"

"Well, I'd planned to pick up a copy of the Mahler score and go over it tonight, and I have… an appointment." She had started to mention the self defense class, and she cut it off.

Christina gave her a steady, twinkling smile. "Did anyone ever tell you? I'm hard to shake. How about before or after your appointment?"

Janice felt herself responding to the beautiful smile. "Well, I'll be home after eight."

"That'll fit my schedule very nicely. Shall I come over to your place?"

"If you like. I live at eighty-nine-twelve Woodbine Lane."

"About eight-thirty or so, then."

Janice nodded. "Yes, that'll be fine."

Christine turned away, still smiling. "See you tonight, then."

"Yes. Goodbye."

A couple of men turned to look at her as she walked toward the corner, and Janice looked at the natural, graceful motion of her hips as she walked. She turned at the corner and looked back, waving, and Janice returned her wave as she got into the car.

CHAPTER SIX

The self defense class went well, and after it was over the instructor called her to one side and told her that she would be ready for testing at the brown belt level within the next few sessions. She was in a good mood when she went to the showers and dressing room, then it was spoiled somewhat in the showers. A woman's basketball team was showering and dressing, and a tall redhead kept looking at her with a bold stare while she was showering. It was uncomfortable and embarrassing. The woman was very attractive in an Amazonian sort of way, but Janice found her attitude disconcerting. She finished showering and dressed, and she noticed that the woman was starting to follow her as she left. There was a maze of corridors outside the dressing rooms, and Janice doubled back and forth in direction a couple of times to lose her. The appointment to meet Christina Barker at her house had completely slipped her mind until she turned the corner at the end of the street and saw the Lincoln in her driveway. The door on the Lincoln opened and Christina stepped out as she pulled the motorcycle into the driveway and turned it off.

"I'm very sorry I'm late, but I got held up…"

"Oh, forget it," Christina said, waving her hand and smiling. "Listen, someone told me you drove a motorcycle, but I didn't expect anything like this. How on earth do you handle this big thing? You look like a little doll sitting on it – like a little child. I don't mean that in a derogatory sense, of course…"

Janice laughed and shook her head, taking off the helmet and hooking the chin strap onto the back of the seat. "Well, a larger motorcycle is safer, and actually it's easier to handle than a small one."

"But what do you do when you turn it over?"

Janice laughed again. "Well, the idea is, a larger one doesn't turn over. But if I did, I'd have to get help to set it back up – it weighs just under a ton."

"Good Lord! Do you want me to help you put it in the garage?"

"No, I can do it I drive it in." She walked to the garage door, unlocked it, and lifted it. "I'm really sorry that I'm late, Ms. Barker…"

"Please call me Christine."

"Thank you – please call me Janice. And I am sorry I'm late – really." She plugged the keys back into the motorcycle started it, then pushed the kickstand up and slowly drove it into the garage by the Camaro. Christina was reaching up for the garage door as she came back out, carrying the helmet. They pulled it down, and Janice locked it. "There – now let's go in and get a cup of tea, Christina."

"Fine."

They walked around the path to the front door, and Janice unlocked it and flipped on the lights as they walked in. Christina looked around, smiling and nodding. "You have a nice home, Janice."

"Thank you – it's comfortable, and I like it. Have a seat in the living room, and I'll put on some water for tea."

"Please let me help you."

"All right, then," Janice nodded, and they walked into the kitchen. "The cups are in there," she said, nodding toward a cabinet and putting her helmet on the kitchen table.

Christina began taking the cups and saucers out of the cabinet, and Janice filled the kettle and put it on the stove. "Do you prefer a motorcycle to a car?"

Janice nodded. "When I can wear slacks, of course. I enjoy being in the open air."

"You're lucky you can wear slacks," Christina said, nodding at her and glancing down at her slacks. "You look very nice in them, as a matter of fact. I look like acres and acres of legs when I try to wear them."

"I think you have a nice figure, Christina."

"Thank you, but you'll never see me in slacks. I'm simply too tall for them. And you never wear makeup, do you? Anyone else I've ever met would look like hell without makeup, but if everyone had your complexion and coloring the cosmetics firms would go broke."

Janice chuckled. "I'm going to be blushing in a moment, Christina."

Christina smiled, folding her arms and leaning back against the counter. "You are now, a little, and that looks nice, too. Do you like it here, Janice? The city, your work, and everything like that, I mean."

Janice's smile faded and she looked at the kettle, sighing and nodding. "Yes, well, it's… satisfactory. One must work…"

"You're something of a mystery, too – no one seems to know very much about you. I found out more about you in the meeting this morning than I've learned in the past two years. Well… I remember the discussion about the assistant's salary when you took the position. I got the idea that you don't have to work to support yourself."

"That's true. My parents were killed when I was young, and I was left an estate in trust. It came into my possession when I reached thirty."

"You are a native-born American, then?" Janice looked up at her and nodded, smiling.

"Oh, yes. If I have an accent, it's because I spoke German for so long."

"Oh, you don't have an accent – well, not really. Occasionally you'll inflect a word somewhat differently than… well, you don't have an accent. I know what you mean about having to have something to do, though. This trusteeship I more or less inherited from my husband was a Godsend. It's been the organizing and motivating force in my life, really. And it's so interesting. I'm about as creative as a claw hammer, and it's been absolutely fascinating working with people like you. And I don't care what you said about yourself in the meeting today, you're so… accomplished. You always seem to have full command of the situation whenever you want it, and you have such marvelous self control. The meeting today, for example you never raised your voice, but when you said something everyone else shut up and listened. I felt just like running around the table and kissing you, you were so wonderful…" She broke off, suddenly confused and flushing, and she looked down at the floor. "Well…"

Janice turned and dropped tea bags into the cups to relieve the momentary awkwardness, and she felt a warm glow building up within her. "Do you take milk and sugar? The milk's in the refrigerator, there. One sugar or two?"

Janice put the sugar in the cups with the tea bags, then poured in the boiling water. Christina turned away from the refrigerator with the box of milk, and Janice reached for it. Their fingers brushed as she took it, and Christina almost dropped it. "Oh, Christ, I don't know what's wrong with me tonight, Janice."

"It's probably been a long day for you, Christina."

"Lord, you can say that again. But everything's gone fairly well. I saw Barbara Edgemont down at Phillipe's today, and she said she'd talk to her husband about a subscription for the orchestra. As luck would have it, Beverly Collins was there, and her husband put up four thousand last month. Bev made the most of it, of course, and Barbara was simply livid – those two have never been able to get along. So, I think we can depend on at least four thousand from the Edgemonts…"

"You're a genius at that, aren't you?" Janice chuckled, stirring the tea. "The organization's fortunate to have you as a trustee. Come on, and let's take it into the living room."

They walked into the living room with their cups, and Christina looked at the picture of Lisa on the piano with a long, thoughtful glance as she sat down by Janice on the couch. "That damned Chumley's a nosy bastard – he really is. I hate to bring him up, but I'm really glad that Carleton put him down good and solid after the meeting. I don't like nosy people, because… well, there's some things about me that I wouldn't want… widely known."

Janice nodded, sipping her tea, and put the cup down on the coffee table. "Everyone has things they'd as soon keep private."

Christina looked down at the floor, thinking a moment, then she glanced at Janice as she took a sip of her tea and put the cup on the coffee table. "Well, in my case it's somewhat more than that," she murmured. "There were a couple of times when…" She sighed and sat back, inspecting her fingernails. "There's nothing that I'm ashamed of, but there are things that I wouldn't…"

"People can be very provincial."

Christina looked up at her, her eyes moving from side to side as she studied Janice's face. "I have the feeling that you're a very… tolerant and understanding person, Janice. I got that feeling when I first saw you. I got the feeling that you would accept people… as they are."

Janice kept her face carefully neutral, but there was no controlling the swelling glow which began building up within her, the first quiverings of hopeful anticipation. "I do, Christina."

Christina nodded, looking down at her hands again. "Well, people wondered why I married a man so much older than I was. There were a lot of raised eyebrows, and some of my family friends were straightforward about it – simply asked me why I married him. I told them it was because I loved him, but that wasn't it at all, of course. The reason was plain and simple, we had an agreement. He wanted a wife who was young and beautiful, one who would be a credit to him and represent him well, and I wanted a man who wouldn't be… demanding. You see, by the time I had finished college, I'd had a number of affairs… with… with women."

Janice fought for control, to keep the flush from rising to her face and to keep her breathing slow and steady even as her heart began pounding with a force which was almost audible. Christina's perfume was a heady, alluring scent filling her nostrils, and the woman's chic, polished beauty was a strongly compelling force. She steeled herself and slowly turned her head and looked into Christina's eyes, smiling and nodding. "I see."

Christina's face was slightly flushed, her expression strained, and she cleared her throat. "That doesn't surprise you?"

"Why should it? It certainly isn't extraordinary."

"God! You're like…" Christina broke off and pressed her lips together tightly, her cheeks flushing darker. "You don't rattle, do you? Well, what if I told you that I wanted you that way? As a lover?"

Janice could feel the flush stealing up to her cheeks, overcoming her control, and there seemed to be a choking constriction in the back of her throat. But her voice remained smooth, steady. "I told you that I consider you an attractive woman, Christina."

Christina frowned unsurely, then hope began to spread over her features. Janice kept looking into her eyes, the slight smile on her lips, and Christina suddenly smiled with ecstatic joy and moved toward Janice on the couch. She put her hand tentatively on Janice's slim arm, her fingers trembling, and she looked down at Janice's face, her full breasts heaving with the sudden shortness of breath. Janice's face was more flushed and her lips were slightly parted, but she remained silent and waiting as she looked up at Christina's face. Christina's hand moved down her arm to her small hand, clutching at it, and Janice turned her hand over and laced her fingers through Christina's, gripping her hand tightly. A whimpering moan came from Christina's throat as she took Janice into her arms and held her tightly, bending down and pressing her lips against Janice's smooth throat.

"God, I can't believe this – you're so beautiful, Janice, and I've wanted you from the first time I saw you…"

"…had only to ask – if you'd asked, I'd have come to you…"

"…most wonderful thing that's ever happened to me. You're the most beautiful woman and most desirable woman I've ever seen…"

"…been here all the time, Christina, if you'd said something…" Christina raised her head and opened her mouth wide, covering Janice's lips with hers as she cupped her face in a trembling hand. Her tongue lapped eagerly at Janice's lips, and Janice lay back in her arms, turning her face up and opening her lips. Christina's tongue wormed into Janice's mouth, caressing the inside of her lisp and the edges of her teeth, and Christina's hand moved down to Janice's hip and thigh, squeezing and pressing urgently. Janice put one hand on one of Christina's breasts and squeezed it gently, opening her mouth wider and nibbling at Christina's tongue, and it seemed to inflame her desire for Janice. She cupped Janice's face between her hands and kissed her torridly, thrusting her tongue deep into Janice's mouth, then she slid her hands down to Janice's breasts and fondled them through her blouse and bra as she turned her head from side to side and forced her tongue deeper into Janice's mouth. Janice savored the sweet taste of Christina's lipstick and saliva in her mouth as she thrust her breasts harder against Christina's hands. Christina whimpered in her throat as she took her lips from Janice's and leaned over her, unbuttoning her blouse. "God, I've got to see you, I've got to have you. God, I could eat you up, baby."

"Save some for next time," Janice breath, smiling up at her and feeling the fiery heat beginning to build higher and tingle through her limbs. Christina looked beautiful, her blue eyes swimming in a brilliant glow of aroused passion and her cheeks pink, and Janice nestled closer into her arm squeezing her breast harder. Christina's nostrils flared wider and her jutting breasts pressed against Janice as she held her close with one arm, opening her blouse, then she slid her hand up the back of Janice's blouse and unfastened her bra with a quick pull of her fingers. She looked down at Janice, her lips damply parted and her breath coming in eager rushes as she slowly pulled the cups of Janice's bra away from her breasts, then she quivered and moaned as she looked down at Janice's breasts, putting her hand on one of them and squeezing it with a tender pressure. "Oh, God, you beautiful little doll… you're so beautiful… you're the most beautiful woman in the world…" Her voice died into a whimpering moan as she put her hand around the base of Janice's breast and squeezed it, then she lowered her head and opened her mouth, lapping, sucking, and kissing Janice's nipple.

Janice closed her eyes and tensed, a moan of sensation coming from her lips, and she squeezed Christina's breast harder as she tightened and curved her back, thrusting her breast up at Christina's lips. Christina opened her mouth wider and took part of Janice's breast between her lips, sucking it firmly, and Janice slid her hand up to the back of Christina's neck, pressing her head down. "Get it, get it, get it," she hissed, trembling with sensation. "It's good, darling – that feels good. Get it for me and make me feel good."

"I will, baby, I will," Christina babbled her voice muffled as she sucked and lapped at Janice's breast. She covered it with her hand again, squeezing and feeling it, and she moved her lips to the other silky mound of resilient flesh, teasing the nipple out hard and straight with the tip of her tongue then opening her mouth wider and sucking it. Janice began to writhe on the couch, pulling harder at Christina's breasts, and Christina raised her head again. "Let's go into the bedroom, baby. I want to see you naked I want to see your beautiful body and make love to you all over."

Janice nodded breathlessly, struggling to get up, and Christina stood up and helped her to her feet. She put her arms around Janice, crushing her to her, and she kissed her again as she fondled one of her breasts. Janice rested in her arms, savoring the silky, hot dampness of Christina's lips on hers and the smooth feel of her tongue groping and caressing the inside of her mouth. Christina's lips slackened, the pressure easing, and she kissed her with light, damp touches on her lips, eyes, and cheeks as she fondled her breast and kept her arm tightly around her, guiding her toward the hallway.

Christina released her at the bedroom door, snapping on the light and reaching behind herself to unzip her dress, and Janice shrugged out of her bra and blouse as she pulled the bedclothes back. Janice moved away from the bed, leaning down to pull off her boots and stockings, then she unfastened the waistband of her slacks as she turned and looked at Christina. She had removed her dress and shoes, and she was taking off her pantyhose. Her tall, lithe body was breathtakingly beautiful as she straightened up, dropping her pantyhose on the chair and reaching behind herself to unfasten her bra. Janice felt the fiery arousal churning and surging higher as she looked at Christina's large, firm breasts. They were almost massive, smooth, white orbs which jutted straight out from her chest, tipped by large nipples which were erect from her arousal. Janice dropped her slacks and pushed her panties down, stepping out of them, then she walked toward Christina.

She was straightening up from stepping out of her panties, and her lovely body was completely naked. Lithe and slender, but with full, graceful curves which made Janice quiver with need and anticipation. Christina's arms enfolded her, and she bent her head down and lifted the tip of one of the smooth, firm mounds of flesh to her lips, sucking and licking it. Tremors raced through Christina as she ran her hands over Janice's naked body, and she whimpered as Janice slid one hand down her smooth, soft stomach and cupped the mound of hair between her thighs.

They embraced beside the bed, Janice's hand moving deeper between Christina's thighs and cupping her vulva, and Christina moved her feet apart as she moaned with sensation and arousal, kissing Janice's soft, slender shoulders and feeling her, moving her hands over the tiny waist, the firm, smooth buttocks, and the resilient breasts. They moved toward the bed as the impulse stirred in both of them, and they got onto the bed together, still caressing and fondling each other. Their breath was coming in quick, ragged sobs as their hands moved in urgent caresses, and Christina gently pushed Janice onto her back and hovered over her, feeling and kissing her. Janice relaxed and looked up at Christina's naked body, the need now a raging tide which was sweeping her dizzily along with it.

Christina put one knee between Janice's thighs and cupped her buttocks, then she raised Janice from the bed as she lowered herself, pressing their vulvas together. Janice threw her forearm across her mouth to stifle the scream from the pang of agonizingly ecstatic sensation which shot through her as Christina began revolving her hips. It was a swelling force within her, a choking, stifling pressure which was crushing her and at the same time was lifting her to blissful heights. She locked her thighs around Christina's body and began twisting her hips from side to side, and Christina dug her fingers more firmly into Janice's buttocks as she began moving her hips more rapidly.

"Is it good, baby?" Christina choked in a strangled voice, her body moving violently. "Does it feel good, baby?"

"…good… good… killing me… good… harder… faster…"

"Oh, God," Christina moaned in a wailing voice. "Oh, God – I'm getting you… so beautiful… wanted you so much… do anything to get you… had to have you…" She suddenly broke off, dropping Janice back onto the bed, and she moved to a kneeling position by her, bending over and lapping at her stomach. "Oh, I have to get you all ways, baby… I have to do everything… I have to do it all to you…"

"…all right, darling… all right… whatever you want…"

Christina moved her mouth on down Janice's body, nibbling at the triangle of hair between her thighs, and Janice flexed her knees and spread her thighs wide apart as she pulled at Christina's thighs. A shuddering tremble raced through Janice as Christina's lips brushed the inside of her thighs, and she pulled harder at Christina's thighs. Christina moved around on the bed, still on her knees and bending over Janice, and she put her knees on each side of Janice's chest as she lowered her head between Janice's thighs and lapped at her vulva.

Janice uttered a whimpering moan of sensation, taking Christina's thighs in her hand and pulling herself up to Christina's pussy. She stuck her tongue out and began lapping her tongue along Christina's pussy with long strokes as she gripped Christina's thighs and held herself in a sitting position. Christina's body tensed with a shudder, and she opened her mouth wide and covered Janice's pussy with her lips, sucking it, and she began straightening her legs and lowering herself onto Janice. Janice cupped Christina's buttocks and squeezed them as she stiffened her tongue and worked it into Christina's pussy, and she moved moving her head and sliding her tongue in and out as Christina's body slid down onto hers. Their arms wrapped around each other and they rolled onto their sides, their heads deep between each other's thighs and their tongues caressing each other's pussy.

It was now an all-encompassing mountain of sensation piled high over her, and her body was being swirled about in the blinding depths. Christina's tongue was a fiery length which kept following her and stabbing at the very core of her being as she tried to twist away and slow the headlong plunge into the smothering clouds which were trying to enfold her. She tried vainly to keep her tongue on Christina's clitoris and make the shuddering surges racing through her body come faster, but she lost control over her body and fell over onto her back, her fingernails digging at the sheets. "…on me… get on me… get on me and get it… get on top… get me off… killing me… dying… get on top of me and get it."

Christina raised her head and turned again, pushing Janice onto her back, and she spread Janice's thighs apart and put one knee between them again. Janice's body jerked and trembled, spasms racing through it as she tried to thrust herself up at Christina, and Christina murmured to her in a soothing tone as she cupped her buttocks and scooped her up from the bed, pressing their vulvas together again.

Janice locked her legs around Christina and began undulating rapidly as they pressed together, and she could feel the muscles moving in Christina's thighs as she revolved her hips, increasing the pressure. There was a widening crack in the walls restraining her, a distant hint of relief from the need which was consuming her. It moved closer, and she undulated her body in a flurry of motion, straining to reach it. Christian's quavering voice was a soft whisper on the edge of her consciousness.

"…getting it, baby? Are you going to get off, baby? Is it good for you, baby?"

It was closer, now throbbing nearer and nearer with a long, sweeping stride, and the triumphant joy flooded through her as she approached it confidently, embracing it, knowing that it was hers at last. "…good… good… going to get me… going to come… I'm going to come… going to get it off…"

"I am too, baby… it's good, baby you're beautiful, baby you're making me come with you, baby… so good, baby… come with me, baby… please come with me, baby… now… now… now…"

It was now imminent, at the heart-stopping instant before the sweeping plunge, and she dangled on the verge and savored the beauty of the ultimate ecstasy before she cast herself into the maelstrom. "…coming with you… I'm coming with you… I'm coming – aaaaaaagggggggggghhhhhhhhh!" Her scream blended with Christina's as their bodies locked together in a frenzy of motion, soaring into the shattering simultaneous orgasm.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Janice drove her car slowly around the circular drive in front of the country club and turned into the parking lot. There were numerous cars in the lot, with a preponderance of Cadillacs, Lincolns, and Rolls Royces among them, and she could hear the rumble of music and murmur of conversation as she walked toward the front door. She was wearing a powder blue party dress with a plain bodice and flounced skirt. It left her shoulders and arms bare, and several inches of her curved, shapely thighs were visible below the hemline, looking smooth and soft under the sheer material of her pantyhose. She was also wearing blue shoes and carrying a blue clutch purse, and her youthful, simple appearance was enhanced by the lack of makeup and jewelry.

The doorman touched the bill of his cap and swung the door open for her, and she nodded to him and entered, looking around. It was one of the periodic no-host parties staged by Christina to assuage the feelings of those whom she had pressured into subscriptions to the symphony organization, and the trustees and management always made an effort to attend and welcome the contributors to the inner circle. A number of people were already there, including the trustees, the general manager, and several of the professors from the conservatory.

Christina was standing and talking to a group of people a few yards inside the door, and when she saw Janice she turned away from them and walked toward her with a smile. "You're a doll," she murmured quietly as she took Janice's right hand in a perfunctory handshake. "I could bite pieces out of you."

"I'd wait about a year before I tried to stop you," Janice breathed, a neutral smile on her face as she glanced around the large room. "Looks like a good turn-out of fleecees tonight."

Christina giggled. "A little better than usual, actually. Come on over and mix and blend, baby. I'll introduce you to some of them to get you started, but if you smile at any of the women too much you're going to get your pretty little ass smacked."

"If you like, we could get together later and I'll pull my panties down for you to do that or whatever else you might like."

"Christ! I wish I could, but I have house guests the Campbells. They're thinking about moving back into the area, and I'm helping them look at houses and working my way around to milking them out of a subscription. I wish I could, baby – I really do. I need you like I've never needed anything."

They began walking toward the first group of people, and Janice nodded, the neutral smile still on her face. "There'll be other times. Perhaps when they've gone."

"No perhaps about it."

Christina introduced Janice to a couple of groups of people. There were the usual reactions, inane comments from the women about her title, and slow, speculative stares and too-warm handshakes from the men. Christina was called away by someone a few minutes later, and Janice separated herself from the group where she was standing and walked to the anteroom where the bar was set up. Jannison's familiar form was hunched over near the punch bowl. He tilted his head back and drained a crystal cup of punch, refilled it, and drained it again as Janice walked in.

"Hello, Doctor Jannison," Janice said, giving him a quick, sidewards glance as she picked up one of the crystal cups; he usually wasn't much of a drinker.

"Oh, hello, Doctor Wycliffe. What did you think of the rehearsal this afternoon?"

She filled the cup, sipped it, then swallowed and licked her lips as she looked up at him. "I'd say it was bloody awful."

He nodded glumly. "I'd say the same – they don't seem to have their heart in it or something. And it's going to be worse next week. Wilkinson is leaving us – he's going to Chicago."

She was starting to sip the punch again, and she froze with the cup almost touching her lips. A long moment of silence passed as she looked up at him, then she lowered the cup and cleared her throat. "Next week?"

He nodded again. "Next week."

She sighed. "Well, what next? The gala coming up, and the cello soloist leaves. The cello solos in Symphonie Fantastique are… well, we're in trouble, I guess."

"Do you think there's anyone we can move up?"

She didn't even have to consider it before she shook her head. The other eleven were competent musicians, but not lead celloists. "We'll have to audition and hope we get someone in time."

"You'll have to audition," he corrected her. "I'm going to be on vacation – remember?"

He was granting her one of the conductor's most jealously guarded prerogatives – that of hiring replacement musicians. "Doctor Jannison, I couldn't possibly…"

"You can do it as well as I," he grunted. "A cello that satisfies you will satisfy me. And if a lead cellist doesn't show up for audition, we'll simply have to make do."

"One doesn't make do with a gala."

"Well, maybe we can just take the cello parts out, then," he murmured, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

She chuckled and nodded. "Yes, I suppose I was being stuffy."

"Your point was well taken, though, Doctor Wycliffe. Well, I've put in my appearance, so I think I'll go on home."

"Yes, I'll be leaving before long myself. It's been a hard day, and everything always looks better after a good night's sleep."

He grunted doubtfully and nodded. "See you at rehearsal tomorrow."

"Yes. Goodnight, Doctor Jannison."

She drained her cup, turned back to the bowl and refilled it, and stopped herself as she started to drain it again. Her lips curled in self-amusement. She'd wondered what was wrong with Jannison that he had been gulping the punch, and she'd been on the point of doing the same thing herself. Well, at least she knew why he'd been doing it. And there had been reason enough. A gala coming up, the orchestra sloughing off, and the first cello leaving. Bad.

A couple of people were leaving along with Jannison, moving around and making their farewells, and other people were arriving. The best part of a no-host party was that one could leave at will, a luxury after suffering through countless formal, rigid affairs in Europe. Janice walked back into the main party room, glancing around. Then she looked at the entrance, where other people were coming in. And she froze. And stared.

She was a tiny, child-like Goddess. Long, thick blonde hair which tumbled over her shoulders and down her back in a thick mass with a slight under-roll around the edges. About five feet tall and something less than a hundred pounds. Massive, sparkling blue eyes. A complexion of creamy white and flushed pink. Tiny, thin arms and shoulders. A pale pink party dress which made her look even more childlike, and a small locket around her soft throat. Delicately modeled features which were poignantly beautiful with the slightly blurred look of a truly natural blonde. Small breasts nestled under the bodice of the dress, and shapely calves and ankles below the demure knee-length hem. Janice stood rooted to the spot, unable to move.

And she was looking at Janice, her eyes seemingly drawn to Janice across the distance between them. She was also paralyzed and unmoving as her lips parted damply and her small breasts surged slightly. A flush of color spread up her alabaster throat to her cheeks as she stood transfixed, her large blue eyes gazing at Janice.

Janice came to her senses and turned back into the anteroom with a hissing sigh of exasperation at herself. She filled her cup again, mentally cursing herself. The room was crowded and noisy, and apparently no one had noticed. But she had been a fool to let herself be drawn into a position where she had absolutely no control over herself and had stared at the child like a maniac. And the silly little bitch had stood there and stared back. A room full of people, and she and the child had stood and stared at each other like long lost lovers.

She was with Professor Eckstein from the conservatory, apparently some relative of his, and he was guiding her around and introducing her. The fact that she was here at all was evidence that she was twenty or twenty-one, but she didn't look more than fifteen. And she was the most beautiful woman Janice had seen since Lisa's death. She choked the thought off, filling her cup again, and she turned and went back into the party room.

They were approaching, and Janice could hear them talking to someone else a few feet away. The child had a clear, ringing voice like a tiny bell, and she was French. An exchange student or whatever, but she'd evidently been mistaken in assuming her to be some relative of Eckstein's. Her English was fluent but heavily accented, and the words rushed out in burst between pauses. Very appealing. They were moving again, now toward her, and Janice steeled herself, summoning every ounce of control she possessed and clamping it rigidly down on her reactions and feelings.

"Doctor Wycliffe, I'd like you to meet my niece, Wendy Nelson. Wendy, this is Doctor Wycliffe, the assistant to the conductor of the philharmonic and the orchestra instructor at the conservatory."

So. She was a relative, Janice made her eyes hard and piercing as she looked down with a cold smile, and the girl recoiled from Janice's eyes and dropped her eyes as she put out her small hand. Her hand was trembling and fluttering like a small, live thing in Janice's hand as she perfunctorily took it and released it. "How do you do."

"…pleased… very pleased… meet… you…"

"Wendy has just come back from the Sorbonne," Eckstein boomed heartily. "Fine musician – my sister's daughter – fine degree – fine university – taught her a lot…"

"Indeed," Janice murmured, sipping her punch and nodding, concentrating on him. He was a pompous, overbearing man, and she used him as a lever to maintain her control. But it was hard. The child was like a magnet, drawing her attention, and she could almost feel the warmth of her body. And the light, delicate perfume of her hair and body was an alluring cloud. The child was ill at ease in the face of Janice's open hostility, shuffling her feet nervously, and Janice clamped down hard on the impulsive spark of sympathy.

"…was there twelve years – most of her education there – fine place for a musician to get their degree – best in Europe I'd say…"

"There might be latitude for discussion of that point," Janice murmured. Eckstein apparently realized he'd made something of a faux pas and began stuttering to correct himself, and Janice ignored him as she looked at Wendy. "I suppose Doctor Blaustein is still at the Sorbonne?"

Wendy glanced up then hastily dropped her eyes under the direct stare of Janice's eyes, and she colored darker as she nodded, bobbing up and down. "Yes, ma'am. He's been recently promoted and he's in…"

The girl's soft voice faded from Janice's consciousness as irritation swelled; with a European education, it had been pounded into her that a doctor was never referred to or addressed by any other title.

"I'm Doctor Wycliffe if you've forgotten my name, Ms. Nelson." She flushed darker and cleared her throat, wringing her hands together and nodding again, almost bowing. "I beg your pardon, Doctor Wycliffe. I meant no discourtesy. Doctor Blaustein is in charge of the Orchestra Department in the School of Music now. I assume you knew him at Vienna?"

Eckstein was standing back with his arms folded, basking in the satisfaction of somehow forming a tenuous connection between himself and the halls of the masters, and Janice felt a dull disgust for him…

"Doctor Blaustein and I matriculated at the same time. I remember him well, because he had a distressing habit of scratching his… himself all the time…"

"He still does!" Wendy almost squealed in glee, turning crimson and clapping both of her hands over her mouth.

Janice felt a surge of response swelling up inside herself, and she almost giggled. She gripped herself, swallowing. "Do you plan to teach, Ms. Nelson?"

Wendy collected herself, clearing her throat and nodding rapidly. "I would prefer to work as a musician, of course, but I find it necessaire… ah, necess… ah, I will have to work…"

The accent was understandable in view of her twelve years in France, but it was very strong. "If you plan to teach, Ms. Nelson, you must… rid yourself of your… French accent," Janice remarked, feeling a seething stab of irritation with herself; in her confusion over Wendy's presence, she'd accented "must" as though it were the German modal verb "musst", which had a similar meaning, and she had been on the point of saying "franzosisch" instead of "French".

And Wendy had caught it. She glanced up at Janice then dropped her eyes again, her face expressionless; they had taught her well at the Sorbonne. "Yes, Doctor Wycliffe," she murmured, pronouncing it "docteur".

"Wendy's a cellist, you know," Eckstein boomed, coming back into the conversation. "And while we're on the subject, Doctor Wycliffe, I heard this afternoon that one of the cellists in the philharmonic might be leaving."

Wendy had more presence of mind than her uncle. Her eyes widened in disbelief that he'd said what he had, and she turned crimson as she looked up at Janice with horror-stricken eyes then looked at her uncle. But he didn't even notice her, and he blared on. "…don't guess it would hurt her chances any if you put in a good word for her – needs a little push to get started – lots of young musicians around looking for jobs – good experience for her, if you would put in a word…"

Janice drained her cup and swallowed, looking around the room and waiting for him to finish, a deep, glowing satisfaction building up within her; now she had a way to get rid of the choking, boiling confusion the girl had generated within her. Finally he finished talking and looked at Janice expectantly, still not noticing the shocked expression on his niece's face. Janice handed her the cup. "Ms. Nelson, please get me some punch."

"Yes, Doctor Wycliffe – it would be my pleasure," she murmured, taking the cup and slipping away.

"Professor Eckstein, am I correct in that you asked me to procure preferential treatment for your niece in employment with the symphony organization?"

He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet at the sharp, incisive tone in her voice. "Well, I didn't think it would be asking too much…"

"I agree that you didn't think Professor Eckstein. Had you thought of what you were asking, I believe you would have concluded that you were asking me to violate my professional ethics."

"Well, Doctor Wycliffe, I certainly wouldn't want to…"

"Which you were." She stared at him stonily, icily. "I have a position of responsibility and trust with the philharmonic, Professor Eckstein, and it is a position which I do not take lightly."

"Yes, well, Doctor Jannison will be making the selection…"

"If the selection is made during the first audition, then I will make it – Doctor Jannison will be on vacation. And in any event, I would act in an advisory capacity if he were to make the selection himself."

"Then I apologize, Doctor Wycliffe. Perhaps I was hasty…"

"Perhaps you were," Janice said, seeing Wendy coming back from the corner of her eye. "Let us forget it, then."

"Well, I certainly hope I didn't…"

"Please, let's forget it, Professor Eckstein." Janice turned to Wendy, who was carrying two cups of punch, and Wendy handed her one. "Thank you. To your success, Ms. Nelson." Janice raised the cup to her and sipped it, then swallowed. "Where do you plan to teach?"

Wendy was silent for a moment. She looked up at Janice as Janice sipped her punch and swallowed, then she silently lifted her cup in both hands toward Janice, sipped it, and swallowed. "At the conservatory, Doctor Wycliffe. As an instrument instructor."

"Very good. Perhaps the cello performance in the orchestra will improve through your efforts."

"Hopefully – I shall try. May I ask if there is to be a cello vacancy in the philharmonic, Doctor Wycliffe?"

"You may, and there is."

"Thank you. May I ask when the vacancy is to be advertised for hiring, Doctor Wycliffe?"

"You may. I will ask the personnel director to telephone the journals tomorrow, and it should be advertised next week."

"Thank you. May I ask if there will be preliminary qualifications?"

"You may. There will be no preliminary qualifications. Age, sex, or any other consideration has no bearing. The requirement is for a lead cellist, and musical performance will be the only criterion."

"Thank you. May I ask when the auditions will be conducted?"

"You may. The instrument section leaders will make eliminations during a three day period which will probably begin a week from next Monday. I will conduct the final auditions on the day following the preliminary auditions."

"Merci beaucoup. Accompagne a piano?"

"Bittesehr?"

"I beg your pardon, Doctor Wycliffe. May I ask if the auditions will be with a piano accompanist?"

"You may. There will be a piano accompanist."

"Thank you. I appreciate the information very much, Doctor Wycliffe."

Janice sipped her punch and nodded. "You are welcome."

Eckstein listened, looking from one of them, to the other as the exchange took place in the rigidly disciplinary code of conversation between unfamiliar European senior and junior academe, and he relaxed somewhat, recovering at least a facade of his bluff manner. "Wendy graduated well up in her class, you know."

"Indeed? Did you not contemplate graduate work, Ms. Nelson."

"I was unable to for financial reasons…"

"Her father's estate was depleted, Doctor Wycliffe. It was part of his will that she go to the Sorbonne – he was educated in France – and it was also part of it that she return to the United States upon completion of her education. We actually managed to do a little better than the will required. She went to common school in Paris, then to the Sorbonne, so her father's wishes were more than fulfilled. He was Thurgood Nelson, the violinist, and you might have heard of him…"

"I mean no disrespect of your brother-in-law or Ms. Nelson's father in that I haven't. I spent many years out of the United States, and I have found myself deficient in many respects insofar as musical developments in the United States are…"

"You know everything anyone needs to!" Wendy blurted, then flushed with confusion and looked down at the floor, sipping her cup again.

Janice fought the sympathetic blush which rose to her cheeks, and began moving away from them; she'd had all she could take. "It was a pleasure speaking with you again, Professor Eckstein. And I wish you every success while you are here, Ms. Nelson. If I may be of assistance in your professional career, please call upon me." Wendy stuck her hand out and continued holding it out, and Janice had no option but to shake it briefly. Then Wendy's hand was gripping hers firmly with a tight pressure, the wide, shining blue eyes looking up into hers, and she felt herself melting inside. Despite herself she felt the flush rising to her cheeks. It was finally over and Wendy released her hand, murmuring a farewell with her eyes downcast and her face almost crimson. Professor Eckstein was oblivious to it, and he shook Janice's hand enthusiastically and rattled a rambling farewell.

Janice analyzed her reactions as she walked toward the ladies' room. She had been deliberately cold and caustic toward the girl, even though she was strikingly beautiful and the interest had been plain and straightforward in her eyes. It was because she was afraid. This was one woman who could easily come to mean too much to her; an affair with her wouldn't be the light, easy, and casual relationship she'd had with other, and it would hurt too deeply if something happened. It had been heaven with Lisa, and it had been hell when it ended. It was not a path she would follow again – it was the path to insanity and death.

The ladies' room was almost empty, and she went to one of the sinks and splashed cold water on her face.

"Are you going to meet her tonight?"

Janice glanced up and looked at Christina's face. Her expression was a blend of sorrow, anger, and jealousy. She'd noticed, then. "What are you talking about, Christina?" Janice asked quietly, reaching for one of the cotton towels and daubing her face with it.

"You know what I'm talking about. Are you?"

Janice sighed and shook her head, her face buried in the towel. "No. No, I'm not, Christina."

"Why?"

She took the towel away from her face and looked at Christina's face in the mirror as she leaned forward to daub the water from the edges of her hair. "Because I'm not going to, that's why. Because she's a child. Because I'm afraid of getting hurt. Because… oh, leave me alone, Christina – I'm not going to."

Christina sighed and leaned against the adjacent sink, putting her hand on Janice's shoulder. "You might not tonight, baby, but sooner or later you will. And I won't blame you for it. If there's ever been two people who go together, it's you two. You're the most beautiful… well, you know what you are baby, and she's a little doll – a living, breathing doll. And you're both musicians. I don't give a shit what you say about musicians being just like anyone else, but you're both musicians and anyone can tell it from looking at you. And she felt like falling down in front of you and kissing your shoes when she saw you – I could tell it from the look on her face. And you're both two beautiful people who…" Christina suddenly turned away, blinking rapidly as tears began forming behind her eyelids. "Oh, shit. Now my mascara's going to fucking run all over the fucking place."

Janice sighed and looked at her, clicking her tongue. "Christina, for God's sake…"

"No, don't say anything – don't say anything. Goddamnit, a woman who can run in here and throw water all over her face and just walk back out without anyone being able to tell the difference, and still look like a doll… Jane Perfect, that's who you are, and that kid's just like you. Fucking dogs run from me when I get up in the morning, but you two could run your fingers through your Goddamned hair and walk out, and people would want to take pictures of you. I feel like a big, bumbing shitass just looking at either of you…"

"Christina…"

She swallowed, shaking her head. "No, that's all right, Janice – I'm all right. Just give me a minute by myself, and I'll…"

"Christina, go tell your house guests you have to go somewhere tonight, and let's go to my house…"

"No, no, no, I can't do that," Christina said, shaking her head and still fighting the tears. "Perhaps some other… another time, baby. I'm so fucked up inside now that I… and I'm sorry I came in here acting like this, baby. If there's ever been two people who deserve each other, it's you and that little doll…"

"Christina, will you stop this? I've told you…"

"I heard you, and I know better. And if you don't, then you're a Goddamned fool, Janice. You'll be a fucking fool if you don't. Now go ahead and leave before I break down and make a bigger ass of myself than I have already."

"Are you sure, Christina?"

"I'm all right – I said I was all right."

Janice sighed and tossed the towel back on the shelf. "Very well, then. Goodnight, darling."

"Night, baby. And… please forgive me."

Janice looked at her; she had her face turned away and her lips pressed together tightly, trying to control herself. She touched Christina's shoulder with a light, gentle pressure of her fingertips, then she turned and walked away.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A seething turmoil was churning within Janice as she walked across the parking lot toward her car. The beautiful, little blonde. A heaven of bliss where she needed only to reach out and grasp it, and it was tempting. There was an instinctive knowledge that this would be that rare thing, the perfectly compatible love. But the flights of ecstasy weren't worth the danger. The vision of a skull and crossbones lay behind that entrancing facade. The years in the sanitarium were a dark, shadowy memory filled with agony and torment. She'd never be able to live through it again.

And Christina. Why couldn't she have been more possessive and less understanding? If she'd thrown a jealous fit it would have been better. Why couldn't she have told her house guests she had to go somewhere? The aching, burning frustration needed an outlet. She needed Christina really needed her. And meanwhile Christina was wandering off in a cloud of self pity and a self-imposed burden of understanding. So home to the silent, empty house, distant memories of happiness, and sleepless frustration. Celia lived in a dormitory of chattering girls, and trying to contact her was out of the question. Perhaps tomorrow.

The door of a nearby Cadillac opened as she shoved the key in the door of her car to unlock it, and she glanced up as footsteps waited in the gravel of the parking lot, approaching her. It was a woman, a tall woman, and she looked at her closer in the darkness of the parking lot. Then she recognized her; it was the tall redhead she'd seen a couple to times at the gym, the one who'd stared at her so openly.

"Hello. I'm Betty Parsons. And you're Doctor Janice Wycliffe, aren't you?"

Janice sighed, tossing her purse into the car, "Yes. Look, I don't want to be rude, but I don't feel like talking right now."

Betty leaned against the car by Janice's and folded her arms, looking at Janice. She was wearing slacks and a sweater, and there was a neutral expression on her face. A very attractive woman. Almost six feet tall and towering over Janice, but nicely built, with large breasts, proportional hips and thighs, and the face surrounded by the short, red curls was pleasant. But she was pushy. "I won't take but a moment," she said quietly.

Janice sighed; she felt battered and pushed about from all sides. Not tonight of all nights; it was too much. "Well, could we chat some other time? Really I'm in somewhat of a hurry, and…"

"Do you have to meet someone?"

Janice opened her mouth to reply affirmatively, then closed it. Lie? Why should she have to lie? "No, and I'll tell you why I'm in a hurry. I've had a hell of a day, and things have sort of piled up on me. I really feel like being alone with myself, honestly I do, and…"

"May I call you Janice?"

"Yes of course, but…"

"Janice, just listen to me for a moment. I've been around and I've known a lot of people, and I'm fairly sure I've figured out the… essential parts of your… personality. You're a quiet one – a hard one to figure out – but I know that I'm right…"

Good Lord. Did she have to scream at the woman to be left alone? "What are you talking about? Where is all this leading?"

"OK, I'll be plain about it, Janice. I want you to come to my place with me." Janice hissed with exasperation and started to get into her car to close the door, and the woman moved away from the adjacent car and put her hand on the door, stopping her. "No, please, listen to me, Janice. You can make any kind of conditions you like, and you can make all the rules. It isn't often that I get in a shape like this over someone, but you're something else…"

"You might start by not staring at me in the gym," Janice snapped, looking up at her. "I should think you'd have the sensitivity to realize that one would find that extremely embarrassing. Good Lord! Glaring at me like… like… I don't know what and everyone standing around… and…"

"I'm sorry, Janice," the woman murmured in a placating tone, "I'm very sorry, and I'll never do it again. I could see you were embarrassed, but… I couldn't help it the first time I saw you, and after that it was… well, a game, if you can call it that. No one else ever saw, though – I was careful about that. You mightn't have noticed, but if anyone was where they could see I was looking at you, then I kept my eyes to myself. But I'll do that and anything else you want. Will you come to my place with me? Please?"

The tone of her voice was now begging, pleading, and somehow she didn't seem as overpowering and overwhelming, as threatening. Even a little pathetic, perhaps. There was a note of stark loneliness in her voice, and her face seemed sad. And intuitively Janice knew she would be gentle and loving. Janice was conscious of her own attractiveness it was a fact of life and the tall redhead would be grateful. At the same time there would be an outlet for the churning turmoil inside her. Janice wavered for an instant, then shook her head and again started to get into the car. "No… no, I'm sorry… please move your hand…"

"Janice, you were thinking about it," the woman said, her voice suddenly urgent and pleading. "You were thinking about it, and you changed your mind. Now tell me what made you change your mind, Janice. Tell me, and I'll fix it. Honest to God, I'll fix it, Janice."

"Betty, I don't want to be cruel to you…"

"…tell me… tell me, and I'll fix it…"

"…don't want to be involved…"

"Involved?" Betty nodded emphatically. "You mean you don't want me bugging you – right? OK, fine. I won't. No, I mean it, Janice. I'm playing the hardhat role now, because that's the only way I'm ever going to get anywhere with you under these conditions, but after tonight, you'll have to call first. You'll have my telephone number and you'll know where I am, and it'll be up to you."

Now there was injured pride in her voice. The knowledge that she was demeaning herself by begging. Perhaps she thought Janice perceived a difference between them from a social standpoint or something. As if there were any such thing. She was a proud woman, and she had humiliated herself. Humbled herself. Remorse and pity began blending with the other emotions churning inside Janice, and hot, stinging tears were suddenly behind her eyelids. She put her fingertips to her lips as she blinked rapidly and swallowed. "Oh, God," she breathed.

"Hey, hey," Betty said, moving closer in sudden concern and alarm. "Now don't start waterworks, Janice, because… have I upset you, honey? Have I really upset you? If I have, then I'll just get my big ass back into that Cadillac, and…"

"No, no, you didn't…" Janice's voice faded away as she swallowed again and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, clearing her throat. "No, you didn't… isn't you, Betty… just that everything… everything's so… and I've probably been drinking too much…"

"Janice, if someone's been hard-timing you, tell me who the fuck it is, and I'll go kick the shit out of them."

"…perfectly capable of taking care of myself…"

"…see you in karate class, and I know you can. If some guy started to rape you, you'd knock his cock into his hip pocket, but at the same time someone might be able to put a bunch of shit onto you. You're a sweet little doll and you'd be kind, but I'm a big, mean bitch and I'll kick the shit out of some motherfucker and make them leave you."

"…don't talk that way, please…"

"Sorry. Look, Janice, I don't want to make you mad at me, but…"

"Where do you live?"

Betty looked at her in frozen, breathless surprise for an instant, then she drew in a deep breath and smiled as she let it back out with a sigh. "Why don't you just come and get in my car and I can bring you back…"

"I don't want to leave my car here – someone might… notice it."

"There's a parking lot about ten blocks from here. You could leave it there, and I can bring you back to it later. I live way the hell over in Oak Ridge, and it's hard to find your way over there…"

It was on the other side of the city, and it was also the most expensive, exclusive residential area in the city; apparently the Cadillac wasn't simply for show. "I'll follow you to the parking lot."

Betty started to say something, then she stopped herself and touched Janice's hand with a fleeting, gentle pressure of her fingertips before she turned toward the Cadillac, her face wreathed in a smile.

Janice followed the Cadillac along the winding drive from the country club to the thoroughfare, and then back toward the city. They got separated at a traffic signal, and the Cadillac pulled into the safety lane just on the other side of the signal with the emergency flashes blinking until the traffic signal changed and Janice drove through the intersection, then the Cadillac darted back into the traffic lane and cruised smoothly along the thoroughfare. A moment later it pulled back into the safety lane with its right turn signal blinking, pulling to the curb in front of a large, all-night parking lot…

Janice drove into the lot, parked, and got a ticket from the sleepy-eyed attendant, then she walked back to the entrance where the Cadillac was waiting. Betty leaned over and pushed the door open, and Janice slid in and closed the door. The interior of the car was plush and expensive, quietly luxurious with the deep, soft leather upholstery and the soft throb of the stereo tuned to a classical music FM station.

"The seat belt's on the door post," Betty said, glancing in the mirror and accelerating smoothly back onto the thoroughfare. "Is that radio station all right?"

"Yes, DeBussy's pleasant," Janice murmured, taking the seat belt down and fastening it. "How did you come to be in the country club parking lot tonight?"

"I played golf with some potential customers this afternoon, and we had dinner in the club after the game. We hung around and had a few drinks, then when I came out to leave I saw you driving in. So I waited."

And for hours. Just to talk to her, hoping she might come with her. "Betty, if I was… unkind to you at first, then I'm sorry."

"Oh, hell, don't worry about it. I could imagine how you felt – a chick like you, and some big broad running up in your face and batting her gums at you. But I didn't know any other way to do it. I haven't been dogging around after you, Janice, if you're worried about that it would have attracted attention to you, and I didn't want to do that. Anyway I realized from the beginning that the most I could hope for would be like a just every now and then thing. Maybe just once, but I figured it would be worth it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you're the most beautiful woman I've ever…"

"No, why did you think that we couldn't become… friends?"

Betty laughed, tossing her head back. "Oh, come on, Janice. You're an arty type, and I'm just a big here an now broad. I'm as sensitive as a sledge hammer, and I have all the couth of a dump truck. But you… well, you have a different drum beat, Janice – you're in a different world."

Janice looked at her and shrugged. "Musicians are like anyone else."

"Maybe they are in Europe, then. How long have you been here?"

"What do you mean? I was born in the United States."

Betty glanced at her in surprise. "You haven't lived here all your life, have you?"

"Well, no – as a matter of fact, I… well, I suppose I spent most of my life in Austria, but… I don't see what that has to do with it. I believe you have some misapprehensions about musicians, Betty. People are people."

The dash lights were a soft glow, highlighting Betty's face as she smiled and shook her head. "Yeah, well, I don't want to argue with you, but there are arty types and there are plain types. There's all kinds of types as far as that's concerned, but my point is that you and I have different drum beats – it wouldn't take you long to get fed up with me, because we speak different languages. Just like when you said what's-his-name on the radio sounded pleasant. It might as well be a coffee grinder as far as I'm concerned. And I went to a concert last Saturday night just for the hell of it, and for all it meant to me in the way of music it could have been a drunk rat running through a pile of tin cans. No offense meant, though."

"None taken," Janice chuckled, shaking her head. She'd had limited contacts with other people whose tastes ran to modern, mainstream culture, but she'd never before heard an opinion expressed so succinctly. "By the same token, I suppose, you could become bored with me, then."

"No. Someone could spend all day of every day with you, and ten years later they'd still be getting to know you."

"You know more about me than I do you what do you do?"

"I own Parsons Construction."

"That sounds interesting. You build things, right? Well, that's creative work if anything is, and for all you say you couldn't do that unless we shared some common characteristics in terms of creativity."

"If you call nose to nose and toes to toes cussing contests with gang bosses and foremen creative, then it's creative. I have architects and designers who tell me what it's supposed to look like and what goes into it, and I know how to lever the hardhats and the materials around to get it into place. I inherited the business from my father, and by the time I had taken it over I'd done most of the work from the bottom myself – plumbing, carpentry, masonry, and heavy equipment. I do most of the preliminary contacts with the customers myself – the talking before the lawyers and architects get into it – but basically I'm a high-powered foreman."

"You must be successful at it."

Betty nodded matter of factly. "Yes, I am. I have two housing developments, a big freeway contract, and two high-rise contracts in progress right now. Things are going well."

The Cadillac was hissing smoothly along the freeway, and Betty was controlling it effortlessly with one hand on the wheel as her eyes moved between Janice, the freeway ahead, and the rear view mirror. The right turn signal flicked on and ticked with a muted sound, and the massive car swept into an off ramp, swaying fractionally as the tires rumbled across irregularities in the pavement. It eased to a stop at the traffic signal at the bottom of the off ramp, then the light changed and the engine hummed as it darted away from the intersection, turning right onto another thoroughfare.

It was comfortable and relaxing with Betty, and the silence between them was relaxed and unstrained. Her rough and ready self-image made her friendliness heavy-handed, but she was pleasant, congenial, and eager to please. She also had a wry humor which was engaging, and her self-depreciating attitude made her a nice companion. Janice relaxed in the soft seat, looking out the window at the businesses closed for the night and the other cars moving along the street.

The Cadillac turned off into a residential area and drove along a wide street between massive houses set well back from the street behind stone fences, huge, neat lawns, and masses of trees and shrubbery. Betty braked the car as she leaned over and touched a button under the dashboard and the iron gates across the entrance to a circular drive swung, open as the Cadillac dipped down through the ram gutter and bobbed back up onto the drive. The gates began swinging closed again as the car wept through them, and the headlights swept across a massive brick house at the end of the drive as the tires grated in the gravel on the drive. Betty touched another button under the dash, and the doors on the garage at the side of the house rolled up as the car approached. She drove the car in beside a new Lincoln, braking it to a smooth stop, then opened her door as she switched off the headlights and ignition. "Just a sec, Janice, and I'll turn on the garage light – it's dark as hell in here at night."

The automatic garage doors rumbled back down into place as she stepped out of the car and flipped a switch on the wall, and Janice unfastened her seat belt and opened her door. Betty walked around the car and opened the door wider, and she took the seat belt from Janice and snapped it back onto the hook on the door post as Janice slipped out of the car. "We can go in through the kitchen if you don't mind – it's closer."

"Yes, all right."

Betty's hand was a feathery pressure against her elbow, guiding her, and she reached around her and pushed the kitchen door open as she snapped off the garage lights and turned on the house lights.

The kitchen was a shining gleam of chrome and baked enamel from the built in stove, refrigerator, and dish washer, balanced by the antiseptic look of the huge countertop and the spotless brick floor. On the other side of the kitchen was the dining area with the rich sheen of heavy maple furniture in Early American style, and on the other side of that was the den with a soaring cathedral ceiling, thick carpeting, and dark, heavy furniture. Everything was spacious, strong, and heavy; it seemed to match Betty well, and it was beautiful.

"Betty, your house is absolutely beautiful," Janice murmured, walking into the dining room and looking around.

"Thank you – I had the one that was here torn down, and I made this one the way I wanted it." She glanced around uncomfortably, clearing her throat and cracking her knuckles. "Well, would you like a drink or something?"

"Do you have tea?"

"Tea?" Betty responded, looking blank. "Well, let me see…" She walked to a cupboard and opened it, looking inside. "I don't know if… hey, yeah, here's some tea." She took a box of tea bags out and slammed the cupboard then turned toward the stove. "You'll have to show me how to make it, though."

Janice put her purse on the countertop and walked back into the kitchen as Betty filled the kettle and put it on the stove. "Where are your cups and saucers, Betty?"

She nodded toward a cabinet as she opened a drawer and took out a couple of spoons. "In there."

Janice took two cups and saucers from the cabinet and put them on the countertop. "This is a nice china pattern, Betty."

"Thank you. I got them in an import shop down in the city."

She seemed ill at ease and tense, awkward and self-conscious. Janice moved closer to her and casually put her arm around her waist. "It goes with the Early American motif in your kitchen and dining room."

Betty looked down at her and gently put her arm around her shoulders, smiling wryly. "You know, I keep having this awful vision of stepping on your foot or bumping against you and hurting you."

Janice chuckled and leaned against her, putting her head against Betty's large, firm breast. "Silly. You'd change your mind if you could hear what some of my students or some of the members of the symphony orchestra have to say abut me."

"I wouldn't change my mind, but I might punch some of them in the mouth and move their ears up to their cheekbones for them," Betty murmured, holding Janice closer and bending down, moving her lips gently over her forehead.

Janice raised her face and looked up into Betty's blue eyes, and Betty put her other arm around her, squeezing her tenderly. Betty bent lower, and Janice opened her lips and raised them. Betty's lips were full and soft, warm and silky. Her kiss was tentative and light, a hesitant, trembling pressure as her mouth covered Janice's. Janice responded, pressing her lips to Betty's as she felt Betty's firm, strong arms holding her closer, pressing her against the resilient, jutting mounds of her large breasts. Betty's lips were damp and sweet as she opened them wider, and there was a hint of the pressure of her white, even teeth and a flickering movement of her tongue. Janice sucked Betty's lower lip into her mouth, biting it between her teeth and running the tip of her tongue along the inside of it, then she thrust her tongue deep into Betty's mouth. A shudder raced through Betty's body and she gripped Janice more firmly as their tongues entwined and caressed between their open lips.

Their breath became short and their lips parted, and Betty looked down at Janice again, her blue eyes moving from side to side as she studied Janice's face. Her lips were damp, and her blue eyes were shining. "God, you're so beautiful," she murmured.

Janice slid both hands up and put them on one of Betty's breasts, squeezing it firmly. "And you are, Betty."

A flicker of sensation passed over Betty's face as Janice pressed her breast, then she sighed and swallowed. "No, I really mean it, Janice. You're a little doll. And not even a spot of makeup. I couldn't believe it when I first saw you, but… like when you were crying that little bit in the parking lot. Most women would have had mascara down to their chin, but thirty seconds later, I couldn't even tell… would you mind telling me how old you are?"

"I'm thirty-five."

Betty sighed again, shaking her head. "And you look every day of twenty. I've never seen anyone…"

"The kettle's boiling."

Betty loosened her arms and they moved apart, and Betty opened a jar of instant coffee and spooned some into one of the cups as Janice dropped a tea bag in the other cup and poured hot water into both of them. "Would you like to take it into the den?" Betty asked, stirring her cup.

Janice nodded, squeezing the tea bag out and dropping it into the sink. "If you like."

They walked through the dining room into the den and sat down on the couch, and Betty glanced at Janice. "Would you like to have the TV on?"

Janice shook her head, sipping her tea. "Not particularly. Not unless you would, that is."

"No, I don't want it on – I just thought maybe that you'd… do you watch TV very much?"

Janice shook her head again, still looking down at her cup and sipping the tea. "No, I don't own a television machine."

Betty looked at her quickly, a puzzled smile on her face, then she suddenly laughed and shook her head.

"Pardon me?"

"I'm not laughing at you, Janice – well, not really. I was just thinking about what you said about people being people and all this good stuff. How you're like anyone else, and do you know that you're probably about one person out of ten million in this country who doesn't own a TV? And for God's sake, you don't even know what to call it – it's a TV set, not a TV machine."

Janice put her cup on the coffee table, thinking; perhaps she'd translated something literally from German, which she occasionally did, coming up with an awkward phrase now and then. She ran the phrase over in her mind. No, she would have said "receiver". Then she realized she couldn't remember having discussed TV with anyone before. "Well, surely that isn't so very unusual…"

"Like I said, about one in ten million," Betty smiled, putting her arm around Janice's shoulders again and pulling her closer. "And you look like about one in ten million," she murmured her smile fading as she caressed Janice's face lightly with her fingertips.

"Kiss me."

Betty moved closer and put both of her arms around Janice as she leaned down. Their lips touched lightly, moving over each other and caressing, then they pressed firmly together as they opened wide. Janice relaxed in Betty's arms, savoring the feel of the warm, damp lips enfolding hers and the sweet, smooth sensation of the tongue moving in her mouth, probing, caressing, and feeling. Betty's hand cupped her face and stroked it gently as the tip of her tongue moved from side to side in Janice's mouth, and Janice closed her mouth, sucking and nibbling at Betty's tongue. A whimpering moan came from Betty's throat as she pressed her lips harder against Janice's and put her hand on one of Janice's breasts, pressing it through her dress and bra. Janice slid her hand up to one of Betty's breasts and spread her fingers over the large, firm mound, squeezing it firmly. Betty moaned again and moved her lips down Janice's chin to her throat.

Janice closed her eyes and leaned her head back sighing with the sensation of Betty's damp lips nuzzling her throat. "Nice," she breathed.

"I can do something nicer," Betty murmured, her voice quivering. "Let's go into the bedroom."

"All right, darling."

"I'm not rushing you am I, honey?"

"No," Janice breathed. "No – I want to."

Betty's face was flushed with arousal and her eyes were gleaming with hungry need as she stood up and lifted Janice to her feet. Janice's heart was pounding and her breath was coming in quick, shallow gasps, and her body was throbbing with the aching need for release and escape as she pressed herself to Betty, nestling against her. Betty put her arms around Janice and kissed her hair with a soft pressure of her lips as she guided her toward the bedroom.

The bedroom was huge, with a soft, diffused light coming from the chandelier high in the vaulted ceiling, and it was centered around a large bed. Janice moved away from Betty, reaching behind herself to unzip her dress, then Betty's hands were on her again, pushing her hands out of the way and pulling at the zipper. She dropped her hands and stood passively while Betty pushed the zipper down to her waist and pulled the dress off her shoulders. Betty's lips moved back and forth across her shoulders with a fiery, tingling pressure, and Janice shivered as spasms of sensation raced through her body. Betty's eyes looked into hers and communicated her hot, passionate desire as she pushed the dress down and bent over by Janice, holding the dress for her to step out of it. Janice put her hand on Betty's shoulder and lifted her feet out of it, and Betty shook it and dropped it over a chair.

Janice moved toward the bed, and Betty's hand was on her shoulder again, stopping her. Betty bent down, her lips brushing Janice's back in a soft, swift kiss as she knelt and took one of Janice's ankles in her hand, lifting it. Janice put her hand on Betty's shoulder again and lifted first one foot then the other as Betty slipped her shoes off her feet. Betty turned her, pulling her pantyhose down to her thighs, then she put her arm around Janice's waist and lowered her to a sitting position on the side of the bed as she peeled the pantyhose down and took them off Janice's feet with the other hand. Janice was sitting on the edge of the bed and Betty was kneeling by it, straightening the pantyhose and tossing them on top of Janice's dress. When she turned back, Janice leaned down and cupped her face in her hands, kissing her.

Betty moved closer to the bed, leaning against it between Janice's thighs as Janice leaned over her and kissed her, her slender, beautiful body naked except for her wispy panties and bra. Their lips parted, and Betty breathed a shuddering sigh as she looked at Janice's body and stroked her thighs with her hands, and Janice leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Betty's head and clutching it to her breasts as she buried her lips in Betty's hair. Betty bent lower, kissing Janice's thighs, then the tip of her tongue moved along the inside of Janice's thigh. Janice moaned and quivered, her slender body bending deeper as she leaned over Betty and dug her fingers into her shoulders, then she spread her arms wide and threw herself back onto the bed as her body tensed from the sensation of Betty's tongue moving along the inside of her thigh again. Betty's tongue flicked from side to side as she moved up Janice's thigh, then she pressed her face deep between Janice's thighs and kissed her vulva through her panties. Janice spread her legs apart, whimpering and writhing from the sensation of Betty's hot breath on her vulva, and her fingers dug into the covers on the bed as trembling spasms raced through her body.

Betty raised herself from her knees and bent over Janice's body as she moved her lips up her flat, smooth stomach. She stiffened her tongue and drove it into Janice's navel, wriggling it from side to side then she moved on up to the gentle swell where the lines of Janice's ribs were barely visible on her slim chest. Betty's hands slid under Janice, raising her slightly and groping for the fastener on the back of her bar. It came loose, and Betty looked down at Janice's breasts hungrily as she pulled the bra off her.

Janice put her hand on Betty's head and caressed her as she writhed on the bed in a torment of need. "I want it, Betty," she whimpered. "…all choked up inside… need to come… make me come, Betty… please help me…"

"I will, honey," Betty panted, kissing her breasts. "You're my little doll, and I'm going to make it good for you… make it really good for you… want you to just be there for me, and I want to do it all… I'll do everything for you, honey… just be there for me, and I'll take care of everything…"

Janice moaned louder and quivered again, her body bowing up off the bed as Betty took one of her breasts into her mouth and sucked it. She let it slide from her mouth and moved her lips through the downy valley to the other firm, jutting mound and sucked it. Janice jerked and twisted on the bed, her body moving from side to side as the agonies of sensation wracked her, and Betty murmured, to her passionately as she moved back and forth between her breasts, sucking and lapping at them. "…going to tongue you all over… going to make it really good for you… scream all you want to, honey – no one can hear you… bite me and scratch me and hit me if you want to, honey – it won't hurt me… want you to feel good… scream all you want to… do anything you want…"

Betty's lips moved back down her body, and her fingers slid inside the waistband of Janice's panties, pushing them down her thighs… Her lips nibbled at the bun of hair between Janice's thighs as she pulled the panties off her feet, dropping them and the bra on the floor, then she took Janice's thighs in her hands and lifted them, kissing the inside of her thighs again. Janice whimpered louder and twisted from side to side on the bed as Betty moved her lips up the inside of her thigh toward her vulva her hands gripping her smooth, firm thighs harder and spreading them wider. Then Betty's lips were at her warm, damp vulva, and Janice was absolutely motionless except for a tense quivering which gripped her; she was taut with anticipation, waiting. The tip of Betty's tongue barely touched her vulva, groping, then Betty moved her head forward and her stiffened tongue slid deep into Janice's pussy.

The sensation of penetration shot through Janice like a lance, and a wail burst from her lips as the muscles in her thighs tensed and she spread them wide apart. Betty's head moved back and, forth as she slid her tongue in and out of Janice's pussy, and Janice's hips began moving with a strong, responsive motion, pressing her pussy up at Betty's tongue. Betty speared her tongue deeper, moving her head from side to side and working her tongue around in Janice's pussy. Janice clawed at the bedclothes as her body jerked in convulsive movements then she tensed expectantly as Betty's tongue slid back out and groped again. It touched her clitoris, and the sensation slammed through her with an electrifying shock. She shrieked, planting her feet firmly on the edge of the bed and thrusting her pussy at Betty's tongue.

Betty gripped Janice's thighs with a firm pressure, spreading them wide and curving her back to raise her hips all the way off the bed, and her tongue fluttered across Janice's clitoris with a feathery pressure which sent waves of ecstatic fire through Janice's body. She lifted Janice's thighs slightly higher, then she abruptly dropped her head and slid her tongue between Janice's buttocks, wriggling the tip of it against her anus. It pressed harder, and every muscle in Janice's body tensed as her face turned crimson. Then it penetrated, and Janice's breath burst from her chest in a ragged, wailing scream.

Her body thrashed wildly on the bed as Betty gripped her thighs and kept moving her head up and down, her tongue now flicking from side to side on Janice's clitoris and then dipping back down and wriggling against her anus. The sensations were almost unbearable, and her fingernails clawed at the bed as her head tossed wildly from side to side, broken, incoherent screams of German and English bursting from her. Betty held her and kept titillating her until she was in a complete frenzy, on the point of breaking into hysteria, then she released her and pushed herself to her feet, pulling at her clothes with shaking fingers. "…just a minute, honey," she panted, glaring down at Janice's body as it lay in a trembling, shuddering heap on the bed. "…get my clothes off… make you come, honey… take my clothes off, and I'll make you come… make it good for you, honey…"

The raw, battering onslaught of sensation had been almost unbearable, and Janice was numb; it had virtually thrown her straight into a full, vaginal climax from a state of barely awakened arousal, and every fiber of her being was quivering from shock. She panted and sobbed as she gathered her strength and crawled to the center of the bed, and she turned onto her side, looking at Betty. Betty was taking her panties off and dropping them to the floor, and she turned and walked toward the bed, her large, shapely body looking awesomely beautiful, a picture of statuesque loveliness. Janice held her arms out toward Betty as she lay down on the bed and moved toward her. "…slowly… please… too much… not too fast…"

There was sudden concern on Betty's face as she took Janice in her arms, pulling her closer and pressing her face against her large, firm breasts. "I didn't hurt you, did I, honey?"

Janice shook her head, still panting and sobbing as she tried to catch her breath. "…good… go slower… too fast…"

"All right, honey, all right," Betty murmured, holding her gently and moving her lips over the side of Janice's face.

Janice laced her fingers into Betty's hair and pulled her lips down, and she opened her mouth wide against Betty's lips. Betty's lips were smooth and damp, warm and soft, and Betty's hand was moving down her, touching her breasts then her stomach. There was a burning core of need and longing within her, and Betty's fingers were coming closer and closer. She bit at Betty's lips, lifting her hips impatiently from the bed and twisting them from side to side as she whimpered demandingly, then Betty's hand was closing over her vulva with a firm, warm pressure. The sound in her throat changed to one of satisfaction, gratification. She kissed Betty hotly, lapping her tongue over her lips, and there was a pressure from Betty's finger, pushing and groping. She opened her thighs wider, need rising again and the muffled moans in her throat becoming urgent once more, and the pressure became harder. Then a parting, and the soothing, satisfying sensation of gentle penetration as Betty's finger slid into her pussy. She spread her thighs as wide as she could get them and sucked Betty's tongue into her mouth as Betty's finger began moving in and out.

It was a beautiful, slow ascent. The frustration and choked emotions were twisted and interwoven so tightly that they had to be coaxed rather than torn from her, and she felt the gentle, steady rise to exultant triumph coming as a swelling height on the horizon which moved inexorably forward. It evaded her and shied further away when she reached for it, but when she waited it came closer and closer, sweetly whispering of unimaginable bliss. Betty's finger kept sliding in and out as, she sucked at Janice's breasts, teasing the nipples into a delicate firmness then fondling them with her tongue. The pressure grew within her as Betty's lips moved on down and her finger began stroking the hard, tight nub of sensation, and she began gasping and clawing at the bed again. Her short fingernails scraped along the side of Betty's thigh, and Betty moved her smooth, shapely thigh closer, invitingly. Her fingernails dug into the soft, silky flesh, and Betty moved her thigh still closer, putting it by her. Her teeth began grazing at it as her fingernails dug, and Betty pressed it against her and sighed with satisfaction as she dipped her head between Janice's thighs. Janice's fingernails and teeth dug harder into the satiny skin on Betty's thigh as her tongue began moving on Janice's vulva, searching into the core of her being.

Then it was suddenly imminent, and Betty had her thighs splayed wide apart, her tongue touching the hard nub, moving down to probe within, then moving further down to slid and wriggle between her buttocks. This time it had been a fire growing to white hot intensity rather than a crushing weight of sensation and Janice felt the frantic screams being torn from her throat as her body tossed wildly. It was there and then she slid over the edge and poised suspended by a single thread which held her from plunging into the abyss. It snapped, and the universe collapsed around her. She screamed at the top of her voice as her fingernails scored big, red weals on Betty's thigh, and she threw her head around and fastened her teeth into Betty's firm flesh as her body went into paroxysms of ecstasy.

She almost fainted, then she swam back into consciousness of her surroundings. She was weeping hysterically, and Betty was cuddling her against her large, naked breasts, stroking her head, rocking her slightly, and whispering soothingly. But it was all gone – there was nothing but emptiness remaining inside. It was a black, misty emptiness though, frightening and lonely. Betty's large, beautiful body and her caresses were comforting, soothing. She turned her head and began mouthing at one of Betty's breasts, "Will that make you feel better, honey?" Betty breathed, cupping her breast and holding the nipple to Janice's lips. Janice made, an affirmative sound in her throat, seizing the silky mound in both hands and sucking at it eagerly. Betty continued holding it to her, lips, her arm around Janice's shoulders, and her lips moved over her forehead in a gentle caress. "Go ahead, honey… suck it all you want to… bite if you want to… I don't mind… do anything you want to."

Later they lay clasped together, and gasping shudders passed through Janice's body as the aftermath of the tears died away. "I haven't done anything for you," she hiccoughed. "All I did was think of myself – I'm a poor lover."

"You're wonderful," Betty murmured, her lips touching Janice's hair, then she chuckled. "And you'll never believe it, but I went off just when you did. I just knew that everything was coming loose in you, and it made me go off. Honest to Goddam, and there I went, all the way out. That's never happened to me before, but then I've never made love with anyone like you before."

"Are you sure? I can make you…"

"You can rest, honey, that's what you can do. You just came all to pieces when you went off – it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"And I scratched and bit you."

Betty chuckled again. "Yeah, you're liable to hurt me, little doll."

"But it must have hurt you, Betty…"

"With you doing it, it felt good. Next time do it harder. Would you like for me to make you some tea or something?"

Janice sighed and shook her head. "No, darling. No… I'm tired."

"Then go to sleep, honey."

"Lie on top of me, Betty. Please lie on top of me so I can go to sleep."

"I might hurt you, honey."

"You won't hurt me," Janice said, pulling at her. "Come on – lie on top of me." Betty cautiously raised herself, and Janice slid under her on her back, putting her arms around her. Betty lowered her weight gradually onto Janice, and Janice nestled her face into the hollow of Betty's throat, sighing and wriggling comfortably. "Are you sure I'm not hurting you, honey?"

"I'm sure," Janice replied, her voice muffled. "Are you comfortable?"

"It's like heaven," Betty murmured. "As long as it isn't hurting you."

"You won't hurt me. Stay on top of me and keep everything away from me while I sleep. Keep everything away from me while I sleep, Betty."

Betty wrapped her legs around Janice's and put one arm under her shoulders, settling herself on top of Janice, then she kissed her forehead with a gentle pressure. "Go ahead and go to sleep, little doll," she breathed. "I won't let anything bother you. Just go ahead and go to sleep, and don't worry about it, honey. I'm here, and I won't let anything bother you."

CHAPTER NINE

"God, it's really killing me, Janice – it really is," Celia said in a low tone, leaning over the table and turning her head to look at the window as she blinked back her tears. "If it was anyone but my mom I'd tell them to kiss off, but I've got to go, I've just got to go." Her voice almost broke as a squeaky sound came from her throat, and she swallowed convulsively.

Janice breathed a long, deep sigh and glanced at the door; a few students were still moving along the hall, but they were on their way home and no one was walking slowly enough to really observe them. "Celia, I understand how you feel, and I wish there were something I could say to make you feel better about all this. But the matter of the fact is, I feel as bad about it as you."

"Yes, I know, Janice. Here I am just thinking about myself, and you…"

Tears were filling her eyes, almost flooding over to trickle down her cheeks, and she nibbled at one of her knuckles as she blinked and swallowed. She was wearing a print blouse, slacks, and a sweater, and one of the buttons was missing from her sweater. Her young face looked very sweet and appealing, and Janice blinked back tears of sympathy, clearing her throat. "Well, Celia, Cleveland isn't on the other side of the world. It's only a short distance by plane, and perhaps we'll have a chance to visit. You are going to enroll in school there, aren't you?"

She nodded, glancing at Janice and trying to smile, then she looked back at the window. "Yes, I'm going to… go on with my music." She dug a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes with it, then she sniffled and swallowed. "And I'm also going to get the hell out of here before I break down." She pushed her chair back from the table and gathered up her books. "Will we be able to…?"

"Of course, silly. I'll talk to you about it after orchestra class tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow night or the next night."

Celia sniffed again, trying to smile, then turned and walked rapidly toward the door. Janice sighed and looked out the window at the students streaming across the lawn in front of the building. So much happening. Celia's mother becoming ill so she had to go home. The student orchestra harpist, Alice Freeman, transferring to another school. Doctor Jannison on vacation, and she'd had the full battery of responsibilities of the orchestra during the Youth Concert Week, including conducting the youth concerts, rehearsing the orchestra on the Mahler, and organizing the auditions for the cello replacement. And today was the day for the final auditions. She looked down at the sealed envelope in the papers in front of her, frowning. Alice Freeman had wanted a letter to the orchestra instructor at her next school, and she was supposed to have come by for it. Just as well that she didn't come while Celia was here, though.

Janice looked at the envelope as she tapped it against the rest of the papers. Alice Freeman, the tall, slender harpist with the hot, staring eyes. Probably lucky that she hadn't come by when Celia was here. But it was time to get to the music hall for the final auditions. She gathered the papers and put them in the attache case, along with the envelope, and turned off the lights as she left the room.

Her steps echoed hollowly in the deserted hallway as she walked toward the end of the hall, thinking. Betty had been a Godsend. Always there, always the same, and never demanding. She wouldn't have been able to make it through the past week without Betty. Janice smiled, thinking of her.

Janice glanced at a closed door as she passed it and smiled again. It had been two… no, three days before, and she'd been walking along the hall to the room for her scheduled counseling period, and Wendy had been conducting her cello class in that room. Or reigning over her class would be better word. Janice had glimpsed her as she passed the room, and she'd looked small, petite, and beautiful with her long, blonde hair and slender body. Her thin, ringing voice with its French accent had been cutting the air like a whiplash.

"…is that you have there, Mr. Carlin? A bow? A bow for a cello? Is this a bow for a cello, Mr. Carlin? What have you been doing with your bow, Mr. Carlin? Have you been rolling a hoop with your bow, Mr. Carlin? No? Yes, you are too old to roll hoops aren't you, Mr. Carlin? Perhaps you've been working on your car with it, Mr. Carlin? No? Indeed? Well, let us see if you can make a sound that approximates a musical note with what is left of your bow, Mr. Carlin. Yes, and the cello, Mr. Carlin – use what is left of your bow on the cello. I did not intend for you to strike your head with the bow to make a note. This is cello, not drum, Mr. Carlin. Yes, that's right – no, no, no, Mr. Carlin. Do not seize your bow, Mr. Carlin, merely hold it – what are you trying to do to your cello. Mr. Carlin? Are you attempting to wrestle with your cello, Mr. Carlin? It cannot wrestle back, Mr. Carlin – it is defenseless and cannot protect itself from your mauling. It can only utter the horrible groaning noises you have been making with it…"

A scathing tirade in the best European traditions, and Janice's opinion of the Sorbonne had gone up a notch as she walked on along the hall and the child-like, caustic voice became swallowed in the sounds from the other rooms along the hall. She was teaching them cello, and she was teaching them discipline. It took talent, education, and discipline to make a musician, and of the three the discipline was probably the most important. The discipline to grind away the hours in tedious practice until the notes were clear and sweet. The discipline to work on a score until a bar was perfect, and the discipline to submerge the ego as one among the many which contributed a part to the swelling magnificence of an opus. Discipline. It was vitally, crucially important. With discipline a group of musicians became an orchestra; without it they were a bank of jongleurs.

She walked out the entrance and down the steps, then across the sidewalk to her motorcycle. She had seen Wendy crossing the campus a few days before. The small, beautiful body in the print dress, and the swinging, youthful stride. The blonde hair bouncing and moving slightly in the breeze, and the achingly lovely face even when seen from a distance. Wendy had waved at her, and she had turned away as though she hadn't noticed her. She felt guilty about it. The child had asked about the auditions, and undoubtedly she had been eliminated during the preliminaries; competition was hard among symphony musicians. There were many musicians but only a few seats, and it took years of practice and experience qualify for a philharmonic. That still didn't keep the young ones from trying, and sometimes it was heartbreaking for them. A word of sympathy would have been gratefully received. But it was dangerous. Betty was physical, uncomplicated, and safe. Not entirely satisfying and occasionally creating as great a gap as she filled, but she was safe. Wendy would be everything anyone could want, but to have her and to lose her would mean despair, madness, and death.

She drove back into the center of the city, to the music hall, and parked in front of the large stone building with massive colonnades above the wide expanse of steps. The rehearsals with the orchestra on the Mahler had been going poorly, and most of the reasons for it were focused around the auditions. A couple of the other cellos were disappointed and resentful because they hadn't been moved up, and everyone was keyed up and awaiting the outcome of the auditions. The hiring of a first desk musician by a major symphony organization was rare in itself, and there was always a question as to how the newly hired individual would fit in. An orchestra was closely knit, and a personality which clashed caused many problems. But an unsettled situation caused even more. There was a possibility – a distinct possibility – that none of those auditioning would be hired, and that was something no one wanted. Hopefully one of them would be good enough.

She could feel the tension in the auditorium as she walked in. The curtains were drawn across the stage, and the footlights were turned on dim. The accompanist was at the piano, humped up on the bench and looking bored, and Charles Albertson, the personnel manager and second bassoon, was sitting on a folding chair at the center of the curtain. The lead instrument of each section – all the first desk musicians – were sitting in the center on the second row of seats from the stage. Albertson glanced at her and straightened up in his chair when he saw her coming out of the darkness at the back of the auditorium, and the pianist also sat up. The first desk musicians noticed them and turned to look, then they stood as she walked around to the front row of seats.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I apologize for having kept you waiting."

"…not long…"

"…little early ourselves…"

"…no problem…"

"…better than rehearsing Mahler without a lead cello…"

The murmur about the rehearsals got a couple of affirmative grunts from others, and she nodded as she dropped her helmet and attache case on one of the seats and sat down in the adjacent sear. "Shall we begin, Mr. Albertson?"

He got up from his chair, nodding. "All right, Doctor Wycliffe."

The place felt empty, cold, and bare, and his voice was hushed and muffled, lost in the broad expanse of the auditorium behind them. And the nerve jangling tension. The men behind her moved restlessly, and there was a shuffle of noise from the other side of the closed curtain. Janice folded her arms and relaxed, waiting.

There had been thirty-eight applicants for the cello vacancy, coming from all parts of the country and three from Europe. The ones from Europe and one of those in the United States who hadn't been able to make the trip had sent tapes, and she'd had the first desk men make the preliminary auditions. In order to have it completely fair, she'd set it up so that only Albertson knew who was playing, and he assigned numbers for the first desk men to use in eliminating the applicants. The applicants who were present had performed behind the curtain so they couldn't be seen, and they'd all been instructed to remove their shoes so a woman couldn't be identified by a rapping of heels or a man by his heavier tread. The tapes had also been played behind the screen to make it as fair as possible, even though the reproduction of a tape machine was readily identifiable. But all the tapes had been eliminated during the preliminaries, and only musicians in person were finalists.

Albertson stood at the opening in the curtain, looking inside through a crack, then he raised his hand toward the pianist and stuck his other hand inside the curtain. He bobbed slightly as he moved his hands, cueing the cellist to the accompanist, then they started.

Mozart. And not exceptionally good. Competent, but not the performance of a lead musician. Janice reflected on the gross unfairness of auditions, where years of education and practice were encapsulated into sudden death performance. But that was also part of it. That was part of the discipline involved. An audition was a grinding strain, but so was a performance before an audience. Each and every time. And if the strain of an audition was great enough to degrade the performance, then the person wasn't a musician of symphony caliber.

She turned and looked at the man directly behind her, motioning him forward. It was Frable, the high horn. "Are they all more or less like this?"

He shrugged, raising his eyebrows. "There's a couple…"

"…thirteen…" came another voice.

"Yeah, number thirteen's a cellist," someone further along said.

She nodded and turned back. Apparently Albertson had followed her instructions meticulously, because all they knew was the number. And one of them would have inevitably blurted something else if they'd known what the performer numbered thirteen looked like. A bad number for the best cellist, though. But the number would be different today; there were only six finalists.

She waved her hand to Albertson, and he nodded, stopping the pianist with a quick motion of his hand, then he looked inside the curtain again. There were shuffling movements on the stage behind the curtain, and she had a fleeting mental vision of an infuriated cellist carrying his or her instrument away, enraged by being cut off in the middle of the selection. But she'd heard enough.

The next one started, and it was no better. She waited long enough to keep from being completely rude about it, then waved to Albertson again. The cellists they had in the orchestra were individually as competent as the first two. Hopefully the one numbered thirteen hadn't become disgusted with the auditioning and left. It wasn't likely, but it did happen.

The next cello started strumming, and she explored one of her molars with the tip of her tongue; it seemed to be sensitive. Perhaps it was the tension in the room, rather than a cavity. That had often happened to Lisa; when under great strain she would frequently have toothaches in perfectly sound teeth. She'd once told Janice that she'd consumed three bottles of aspirin while Abendleid Magyar was being written and scored. Dear, sweet Lisa. Janice sighed and waved at Albertson again, and once again he stopped the piano with a quick wave and looked inside the curtain. Then the curtain suddenly opened wider, and a tall, thin young man with long, greasy hair was looking angrily out.

"Well, you might at least let me finish! You might at least listen to the selection after I came all the way…"

"Shut up and get back in there!" Albertson stormed at him.

"Don't tell me to shut up, or I'll…"

"I'll tell you more than that…"

"Mr. Albertson!" Janice said sharply, coming out of her seat. Albertson wheeled away from the curtain, looking at her, and the cellist blinked his eyes against the glare of the footlights, trying to see her. She slowly walked forward to the stage and put her hand on the edge of it, looking at him. "What did you say, sir?" she snapped, her voice cutting through the air.

"I said you might at least let me finish," he muttered resentfully. "Do you perhaps have an ambition to perform as a member of a symphony orchestra during your life?"

"Well, yes, I…"

"Then I will give you some advice. Either learn to accept a critical judgment of your performance, or find another profession. A musician presumes to be capable of bearing a message of truth and beauty to others. That is true of me, and it is also true of you, sir. If this message is not communicated, then the musician must have the self discipline to gracefully step down. That is true of me, and it is also true of you, sir. And one more piece of advice. If you do not immediately go back through that curtain and leave the stage, I give you my personal assurance that you will never be employed as a member of any major symphony organization in the world. Now leave!"

He looked at her, opening his mouth to say something, then the curtain closed and he disappeared. An instant later his voice came clearly through the curtain as he spoke to someone, apparently one of the others being auditioned. "…some kraut broad out there…" Albertson's face turned almost purple as he snatched at the curtain, but Janice's clear, acid voice, made him freeze.

"Mr. Albertson, would you please inform that young gentleman that I am not a kraut broad. I am an American broad."

There was an instant of absolute silence as everyone looked at her in shock, their mouths falling open. Then the strained, taut atmosphere exploded in uproarious laughter. The men in the second row collapsed in their seats in hilarity, the pianist almost slid off the bench as he slumped across the keyboard in helpless laughter, and Albertson fell back into his chair and held his stomach as he bellowed with laughter. The curtain billowed slightly as the people behind it also laughed.

Janice sat back down in her seat, and Frable leaned forward out of his seat and put his hands on her shoulders, his wrinkled face flushed with laughter and tears streaming from his eyes. "Doctor Wycliffe, you might beat me to death with your baton, but I've got to do this," he choked, still laughing, and he kissed her soundly on the cheek. There were pats on her back and shoulders as the others leaned forward and touched her, still roaring with laughter.

She waited until the laughter died down somewhat, then she motioned toward Albertson. He got up and went to the curtain, still smiling and chuckling and the others settled down. The laughter had relieved the tension somewhat as the next cello began from behind the curtain. It took only a couple of bars of music to identify the cellist as a good average, and Janice relaxed in her seat and leaned on her elbow, waiting for a decent interval to pass before she waved to Albertson again.

He nodded, looking inside the screen, then he disappeared behind the screen. "…must be number thirteen…" someone muttered behind her.

"Yeah, he had to go back and help yesterday, too," said another voice.

Perhaps a handicapped person, Janice mused, stroking her cheek with the tips of her fingers, which was no great disadvantage. She'd been associated with handicapped musicians at various times, and in some respects they were better and easier to work with than people with full use of their arms and legs. They were usually more loyal, they had fewer outside interests, and they appreciated a chance. Jannison had never expressed his specific feelings on the matter, but he was a musician, as was she, and to a musician the important thing was music. It would be simple enough to assign some brawny member of the orchestra an additional job of moving another instrument around.

Haydn. The cello concerto. Silky, satin smoothness, yet substance. An interpretative performance. Beautiful. Apparently someone with a true feeling for it, acting as a bridge between the score and the instrument. Even the pianist was reacting, coming forward on his bench and performing rather than playing. The lyrical, leaping notes coming from the vibrating wooden body in the instrument in a breathless swirl, yet with meat and meaning. And now the theme. A lover's approach, gentle but confident. This was a cellist. This was Haydn.

She snapped her mind back and waved her hand. "Mr. Albertson, ask number five to wait in the wing. Let's have number six."

There was a restless stir behind her; they didn't like the Haydn cut rudely off in the middle. She almost smiled with satisfaction; they were musicians. The baton carried with it the burden of being clinical and calculating. She could rarely abandon herself to the sheer enjoyment of music for music's sake.

Albertson was behind the curtain again, and there were scuffling sounds coming from behind it. He came back through, cued them, and number six began. Better than most of them, but not up to the standard of number five. What was the difference? What took the brilliance of an excellent rendition and brought it that tiny step further to the sparkling sheen of truly magnificent performance? No one knew. But of the six, there were four competent musicians, one who was excellent, and one who was exceptional. So it was between number five and six. "Mr. Albertson, please have number six sight read."

The acid test. A symphony score selected at random, with the notes to be played those of the cello fill. And probably a score the cellist had never seen before. But that was also part of it. Sight reading was important. If program selections were quickly changed or if someone was incapacitated, a musician might be called upon to playa score with which they were unfamiliar. Also the Eroica. If, in the middle of a concert, news was received of the death of a world-renowned figure, the music was immediately stopped at the end of the movement in progress and the conductor made the announcement while the librarian passed out the score for the Eroica, the Funeral March. Then the hall would remain breathlessly silent while the conductor turned and waited for the musicians to open their music. Then the rolling thunder of the dirge would sound. It was always a gripping moment. And it couldn't be spoiled because someone in the orchestra wasn't familiar with the Eroica and also couldn't sight read.

And number six would be the one to absolutely shatter the majesty of the moment. Number six was far below the standard of a lead musician in sight reading.

The accompanist had stopped playing and was sitting loosely on the bench and trying to look casual and keep his eyes off her. There was no accompaniment during sight reading. Albertson was now standing by the curtain, also trying to keep his eyes off her. The men behind her were breathlessly silent. The tension was mounting again, more rapidly this time. The moment of decision was rapidly approaching.

"Mr. Albertson, please have number five sight read."

He went back inside the curtain again, and the wait seemed interminable as the music stand rattled and a chair scraped the floor. If number five couldn't sight read, what then? Possibly audition the eleven cellos in the orchestra and move one of them temporarily to the first chair for the gala. But there might be trouble with the union or with the other cellos over that. Albertson would have some ideas on that matter!

Albertson came back through the curtain, rubbing his hands nervously on his coat.

"What is the score, Mr. Albertson?"

The first couple of notes had already sounded, and the cellist abruptly stopped when she spoke. Albertson glanced at the curtain, thinking, then back at her. "Beethoven Third, Doctor Wycliffe."

"Thank you."

There was a scraping from behind the curtain as the cellist prepared to start again. One of the customs historically observed was that a cellist who was interrupted had to go through all the motions of getting ready again. The day to day relationships of an orchestra were rich with customs. And with the reputed eccentricities of each instrument. Harpists were forever working on their instruments, and it was a standing joke that the harp would be a heap of pieces of wood, bolts and nuts, and strings, thirty minutes before the performance was to begin. And the oboe. It took such force to drive the oboe reeds to full oscillation that oboists were reputed to always suffer brain damage or eye trouble from the intense pressure generated in their head. And the punch line was that no one had ever seen an oboist with eye trouble. Beethoven Third. Downbow on entrance. She waited.

The deep, whispering echoes came from behind the curtain, and Janice turned her head to one side and frowned, listening closer. Had it started upbow or down bow? She listened for a hint of a break, and the notes kept coming in a solid, unbroken drone. Downbow or upbow? She hissed with impatience at herself as she stood up and walked to the edge of the stage. "I need a score, Mr. Albertson." He looked inside the curtain and murmured, and the music stopped while he trotted to the end of the stage, where there were a couple of briefcases and several stacks of sheet music. They fluttered and one of the stacks fell over as he leafed rapidly through them, then he trotted back with a score and leaned over the footlights to hand it to her. His hand was trembling slightly. The tension was almost palpable. The decision was imminent. She nodded her thanks and opened the score on the edge of the stage.

The notes began again. Downbow, but the inflection was so slight on the changeover that it was only the smallest hint which might or might not have been there. She waited for the next traverse. And missed it. Magnificent. And the notes didn't have the raw self-consciousness of monotone, tuneless strumming: there was an orchestra in number five's head which was playing all the rest of the symphonic parts.

The air was crackling with tension. It was time for the decision. Having the lead musicians there and consulting them was a courtesy, because her word was final and absolute. But they were the first desk musicians, and their prestige in the orchestra was to be considered. She closed the music and turned. Their eyes were riveted on her. She raised her eyebrows. There were firm, enthusiastic nods from all of them, and one of them raised a thumb. She turned and looked at Albertson. His face was taut and he was swallowing rapidly. She raised her eyebrows. He gave a sharp, quick nod. On the edge of her vision she could see the pianist nervously gnawing a fingernail. Filthy habit. She picked up the music, turning to walk back to her seat.

"Mr. Albertson, would you be so kind as to introduce our new first cello?" A burst of pent-up breath came from everyone, and Albertson almost leaped through the curtain.

An exclamation of delight in a feminine voice. A woman. Good enough. She had competed fairly and won. Albertson's happy voice almost vibrated behind her as she walked toward her seat.

"Doctor Wycliffe, gentlemen, I would like to present Ms. Wendy Nelson, recently of the Conservatoire Sorbonne."

Janice froze, stunned. The spatter of applause and congratulations from the lead musicians was a murmur of sound on the edge of her consciousness as her mind raced. That music had been produced by that child? Impossible. The auditions had drawn seasoned, experienced cellists, with whom she couldn't possibly compete. A child. A thin, frail, beautiful child with the face of an angel. And Albertson had gone behind the curtain to carry her cello simply because she was too small to move it around without dragging it on the stand. But those magnificent notes. She had done that? That child?

An embarrassed, awkward silence had fallen. She was still halfway between the stage and her seat, with her back to the stage, and everyone was looking at her puzzled. Janice slowly turned and looked up at Wendy. She was looking at Janice apprehensively, her lips slightly parted, her massive blue eyes almost oversized in her small face. She wore blue jeans, sandals, and a light cotton sweater, her thin arms bare and her long, golden hair tied back in a ponytail. Janice felt fiery desire explode within her, and she was furious with herself. And with Wendy. The little harlot wasn't wearing a bra, and the tiny dimples of her nipples were standing out in the cotton pullover.

And now she would have to stand on the podium and look down at her every day. Look down at her as she embraced her cello and produced those dulcet notes. An erotic instrument, the cello. Clasped between the calves and the thighs, with the breasts pressing against the back and hanging over the shoulder of the instrument, the deep vibratos sang though the body itself and were bounced from the very core of the being. Those golden, meaty notes would ring along those firm, shapely thighs and soar to the podium in an ecstasy of erotic torture.

The silence was now taut and strained, a complete lack of motion and noise. They were looking at and at Wendy. She looked at Wendy with a stony glare, and Wendy looked back, simply looking, a neutral, slightly apprehensive expression on her face.

"Congratulations, Ms. Nelson," Janice's voice slashed through the silence with a cutting, acid intonation.

"Thank you, Doctor Wycliffe," Wendy's voice came back in a low murmur. "You are aware we have a gala performance scheduled, Ms. Nelson?"

"I am, Doctor Wycliffe."

"Sehr gut. The program will consist of Symphonie Fantastique and the Mahler Fifth."

"I have a passing familiarity with Symphonie Fantastique, Doctor Wycliffe."

"I am not surprised the Sorbonne teaches Berlioz. But not Mahler?"

"Mais oui. Mademoiselle Docteur Wycliffe…"

"Ich kann nicht Franzosisch!"

"I beg your pardon, Doctor Wycliffe. I have never performed the Mahler Fifth en concert."

"Bittesehr?"

"I beg your pardon, Doctor Wycliffe. I have never performed the Mahler Fifth in symphony with an orchestra."

The others were glancing at each other, shrugging and shaking their heads vacantly. And it was impossible not to feel some respect for her. She was stone. She was nervous and ill at ease, but the rapid-fire exchange hadn't rattled her. Still somewhat apprehensive, but completely in control of herself, with her hands relaxed at her sides. The tiny, delicate, sensitive hands. Janice ached to hold them and kiss them.

She turned her eyes to Albertson. "Mr. Albertson, you will please see to the contract and explain the terms of employment to the new first cello, with particular reference to the standards of dress and appearance."

He nodded, clearing his throat. "Yes, Doctor Wycliffe."

She looked back at Wendy. "You will see the librarian for the cello score to the Mahler Fifth, and you will have it memorized by rehearsal time tomorrow morning at ten."

"Yes, Doctor Wycliffe."

Janice turned and walked to the seat where her helmet and attache case were, and she dropped the Beethoven score on the seat and picked them up. "Good afternoon," she said to everyone at large as she turned and walked to the aisle.

There was a murmur from them in reply, and she could feel Wendy's eyes on her as she walked along the aisle into the darkness toward the entrance.

CHAPTER TEN

Janice made a cup of tea and carried it into the living room, and she glanced at the piano with a sigh. She had missed two consecutive days of practice. Two full days, and that meant she was twelve hours behind. It was cumulative. One could practice four hours on a day when it was necessary to do something else, but the two hours had to be caught up later. Or a complete day could be skipped and spread over the next few days. It was unwise to miss more than two consecutive days, though, because the muscles rapidly became stiff and unresponsive. Practice had never been a problem when Lisa had been there. The piano and violin duets had been more of a pleasure than work, and frequently the practice sessions had been small, informal recitals for students and groups of friends. She got up from the couch and walked toward the piano, carrying the cup of tea. The telephone rang as she started to sit down on the bench, and she walked back across the living room and picked it up. "Doctor Wycliffe."

"Doctor Wycliffe, this is Alice. Alice Freeman? The harpist?"

"Yes, Ms. Freeman, I know who you are. I thought we had an appointment for you to come by during the counseling period…"

"I'm awfully sorry, Doctor Wycliffe, but I got held up in student admin. I told that silly woman I had to see you, but she kept fooling around with her papers, and… well, when I got there you'd already left…"

"I can mail it to you, then," Janice said, reaching for the pad and pencil she kept by the phone. "If you'll give me the address, then…"

"Could I drop over and get it, Doctor Wycliffe? I realize that this is an imposition – and not that I don't think you wouldn't mail it right away – but, well, I wanted to say goodbye, and…"

Janice smothered her sigh of irritation. Students. Always confused, forever disorganized. She could have scheduled her appointments better. "Very well, Ms. Freeman. I live at…"

"Oh, I know where you live. Will it be okay to come over now?"

"Yes, that will be all right, Ms. Freeman."

"Thanks ever so. See you in a few minutes. 'Bye, now."

"Goodbye."

Janice replaced the telephone and walked back to the piano, opening the key board as she sat down. Alice Freeman. Tall and attractive, and about twenty or so; her voice had been almost imperative when she asked to come over. Janice began running the A scale, her fingers nimble and rippling over the keys with an unconscious, unthinking rhythm. An inch or two taller than she with brown hair and nice eyes. Brown eyes. Hot eyes. Hot, hungry eyes. A sweet, young face contrasting sharply with the burning glow of her eyes which Janice had frequently turned and caught. It had been more amusing than disconcerting, and now it was a tantalizing memory. And she'd almost insisted on coming over; her voice persuasive and pleading. Janice switched to a finger exercise centered on middle C. Good. Her fingers were supple and responsive. A picture of Wendy almost came to her mind. She blocked it out, thinking of Alice. Thinking of the young, attractive face and the yearning eyes. She broke into the piano prelude to Gotterdammerung, her body bending over the keys and swaying from side to side as she filled the house with the rolling thunder of Wagner.

She was almost advertising. And she was apparently conscious of the fact because her face was slightly flushed and her smile was shaky. Hot pants so short they bordered on vulgarity, showing the curve where her buttocks met her thighs at the back, and a tiny cotton pullover which was too tight. And no bra. The firm bulges of her breasts bobbing resiliently when she moved, and her nipples jutting out against the thin material.

"Come in, Ms. Freeman," Janice said, opening the door wider, a neutral smile on her face.

Alice gave her a flushed smile and walked in, glancing around. "Hi, Doctor Wycliffe. Say, this is really nice – jeez, look at that piano, would you? I could tell it was a concert size from the tone." She turned and looked down at Janice as she turned away from closing the door. "It's really nice of you to do this for me – I really do appreciate it."

"It's no trouble, Ms. Freeman. Come on in – I believe I left my attache case in here."

"Could I get you to call me Alice? Like I'm leaving, and…"

Her voice died away as Janice stopped and turned, looking up at her. Then Janice smiled, a slow smile which spread across her face and made her eyes sparkle. "Very well, Alice. Why don't you call me Janice?"

Alice's face flushed darker, her eyes captured and held by Janice's. She nodded hypnotically.

"All right… Janice," she whispered.

Janice took her hand, leading her through the living room. "Come on, then, Alice." Alice's hand was hot and clinging, and her fingers laced through Janice's as they walked through the living room and into the dining area, where Janice had left her attache case. She disengaged her hand from Alice's and opened the case on the dining table for the envelope. "Here it is. Would you like to read it?"

Alice shook her head rapidly. "No, I'm sure it'll be – I'm sure you said… everything you could for me."

"You're a very promising musician, Alice, and that's basically what it says," Janice said, dropping the envelope on the table and closing the attache case. There was a breath of movement behind her as Alice moved closer, and Janice looked at her from the corner of her eye. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"

"Could I kiss you goodbye?" Alice asked, her voice strained and tense.

"Certainly, Alice," Janice replied lightly, turning.

She looked into Alice's eyes, inches away. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips were parted, and her eyes were glowing. She bent slightly and touched her lips to Janice's, and Janice put her hands on Alice's waist, responding. It was an affectionate caress, and it turned into a passionate kiss as Alice put her hands on Janice's shoulders, holding her firmly and opening her lips on Janice's. Janice opened her lips slightly, turning her head to one side and pulling at Alice's lips with hers.

Alice's lips were shining with a soft glow of moisture as she took them from Janice's, and her breasts were surging as she panted with quick gasps. Janice could feel the swelling throb building up within her, and she could sense the quivers racing through Alice's body as she kept her hands on her waist. "Would you like a cup of tea now, Alice?" she asked, a lightness in her voice which she didn't feel.

"Could I kiss you again instead?" Alice whispered, her voice trembling.

Janice looked up at her and silently nodded. Her fingers tightened on Janice's shoulders, pulling her, then her arms slid around Janice and held her. Janice raised her lips and opened them, and Alice's lips covered them with a hot, damp, demanding pressure as their bodies crushed together. The tip of Alice's tongue touched Janice's lips in a swift caress, Janice touched her tongue to Alice's, then Alice's tongue was suddenly in her mouth, moving and twisting. A moan came from Alice's throat as she turned her head from side to side and opened her mouth as wide as she could on Janice's, and Janice slid her arms around Alice and felt her smooth, firm back through the thin fabric of the pullover.

Alice took her lips from Janice's again and held her close, nuzzling her throat damply. "Oh, if you only knew how I've dreamed of this," she moaned. "How many times I've dreamed of holding you and kissing you."

Janice slid one hand down and patted Alice's firm buttocks. "Come on, darling. Let's sit on the couch."

They turned toward the couch, and Alice kept her arms around Janice and kept kissing and lapping at her throat as they walked to the couch and sat down. Then Alice moved closer to Janice, pressing her naked thigh against Janice's leg, and she slid her lips down to the hollow at the base of Janice's throat and nuzzled, kissing and touching with the tip of her tongue. "You're so beautiful, Janice," she murmured, moving her lips back up to Janice's.

"And you're beautiful, Alice," Janice breathed, her lips touching Alice's.

Alice began kissing Janice again as she pulled at her cotton pullover, tugging it up, then she took one of Janice's hands and put it on one of her breasts, pressing it firmly. It was smooth and hard in Janice's hand, and she felt the fiery need begin to grow within her, making her heart pound and her breath short. Alice's tongue filled Janice's mouth, feeling and caressing, and Janice lay back in Alice's arm and felt her firm breast as she put her other hand on Alice's thigh and began trailing the tips of her fingers up and down the downy skin on the inside of her thigh. Alice whimpered in her throat with sensation, crushing her lips to Janice's, then she raised her head and looked down at Janice, panting and clutching at one of Janice's breasts through her blouse and bra. "God, if I'd only known, I'd have… I'd have… want to see you, Janice… want to see your breasts… hold them… kiss them…"

Janice nodded breathlessly and began unbuttoning her blouse and tugging it out of the waistband of her slacks. Alice laid her back against the couch and also began tugging at the buttons, then she pulled it open and slid her hands up the back of her blouse to unfasten her bra. Janice leaned forward, feeling the bra come loose, and Alice peeled her blouse off her shoulders and arms. Janice shrugged out of her bra and dropped it as Alice jerked her pullover off and tossed it aside, and they moved toward each other again.

The dull, throbbing hunger became more penetrating and focused in Janice as she looked at Alice, naked except for the brief hot pants, and she slid her hand up one of Alice's arms and cupped one of her breasts. Alice put her arm around Janice's shoulders and leaned forward, lifting her breast and touching it to Janice's. The nipples came into stinging contact, hardening and stretching, and Alice shivered all over as she dipped her head down and gave Janice a quick kiss, lapping the tip of her tongue across Janice's lips. "See how nice they look together, Janice? See how they want each other? That's how I want you, darling. That's how I want…" Her voice died in a passionate murmur as they embraced, their lips kissing hungrily.

Alice moved her lips down Janice's chin to her throat, nuzzling at the hollow of her throat again, then she bent further over and slid her lips down to Janice's breasts. The tip of her tongue flicked out, touching one of Janice's nipples, and a shiver raced through Janice as she slid over and moved her lips along the satiny skin on Alice's back. Alice cupped Janice's breast and teased the nipple with the tip of her tongue until it was hard and jutting, then she opened her mouth wide and took the silky mound between her lips, sucking it. Janice closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure, kissing Alice's back and feeling her breasts, and Alice put her hand on Janice's thigh and pressed it firmly, feeling it. She slid her hand up the inside of Janice's thigh and cupped her vulva through her slacks and panties, squeezing her hand and moving it up and down. "I want you there, too," she whispered, her voice muffled as she nuzzled Janice's breasts. "I want to see you and feel you… want to kiss you and lick you… there, Janice, there…"

"All right, darling," Janice breathed in a trembling voice. "Let's go into the bedroom."

They stood up, embracing in front of the couch and kissing, their breasts softly stabbing against each other and their hands moving over each other in quick, passionate caresses. Then Alice pulled her lips from Janice's pulling at her and moving toward the hallway, and they began walking toward the bedroom, still kissing and fondling each other. Alice kept her arms around Janice, her lips moving over the side of Janice's face and throat, and Janice ran her hand up and down Alice's back, sliding it down to feel her buttocks and the back of her naked thighs.

They began undressing as they went through the bedroom door. Janice unfastened her slacks as she walked toward the bed and flipped back the covers, and she kicked her shoes off and pushed her slacks and panties down. Alice slid her hot pants and panties down, stepping out of them, then she turned and walked toward Janice. Janice was straightening back up from slipping her slacks and panties off, and Alice abruptly stopped, looking at her slender, naked body. She stood spellbound as her eyes moved ravenously over Janice's body, then she whimpered in her throat as she raced to Janice and took her in her arms, embracing her passionately and burying her face in Janice's throat. Janice leaned back in Alice's arms, kissing her shoulder and patting her back. "Come on, darling. Let's get on the bed and make love, darling."

Janice put her arms around Alice and kissed her as they slid onto the bed, and Alice squirmed away from Janice and turned, pressing her lips to the triangle of hair between Janice's thighs. Janice smiled and turned onto her back, spreading her legs wide apart as she closed her eyes. Alice's head slid deep between her thighs, her tongue lapping hungrily, and flickers of sensation raced across Janice's face as she opened her eyes and reached for Alice's thighs. Her hands slid around them, cupping Alice's buttocks, and Alice eagerly moved toward her, opening her thighs. Alice's body tensed as she felt Janice's breath on her pussy, then a shudder raced through her as Janice's tongue slid through the crack in her vulva. She whimpered and began lapping at Janice harder, and Janice pulled Alice's thighs around her head and cupped her buttocks firmly as she began lapping at Alice's pussy with long strokes of her tongue. They lay on their sides facing each other, muffled whimpers coming from their throats as their tongues moved more rapidly over each other's pussy.

Alice was already in a state of inflamed excitement, and when she felt Janice's tongue on her pussy her body began throbbing rapidly toward an orgasm. Janice could sense her violent response, and she slowed the pace of her arousal, running the tip of her tongue along Alice's vulva then darting it across her clitoris. Alice squirmed and writhed on the bed, muffled moans coming from her throat as she flicked her tongue back and forth over Janice's clitoris, and Janice savored the growing intensity of the sensations racing through her as she began concentrating on Alice's clitoris. The bed quivered under them from their movements as the convulsions rolling through their bodies became more violent and urgent. Alice's tongue began to move spasmodically as the sensations gripped her, pulling her attention away from Janice, then she suddenly began turning on the bed, whimpering. "Let's come together, darling. Get on top and make us come together. I want to see you when you come, and I want us to come together. Please…"

Janice pushed herself up from the bed, nodding and pressing Alice down onto her back. Alice lay back and spread her thighs apart, her breasts moving from her panting breaths, and Janice hovered over her, putting one knee between her thighs and lowering herself until their vulvas were in contact. Alice whimpered, spreading her thighs wider and lifting herself, and Janice began slowly revolving her hips, stroking their vulvas together. They looked at each other, their faces flushed crimson and their eyes shining brightly, and Janice wrapped her arms around one of Alice's thighs and gripped it tightly to her as she began moving her hips more rapidly. Alice's mouth opened and she began moaning over and over as she undulated, pressing herself up against Janice. "…almost… almost there, darling… minute… going to come in a minute… come with me, darling… let's come together, darling…"

Janice nodded breathlessly, revolving her hips faster, then a quick, hard spasm raced through her and she threw her head back and opened her mouth wide. Her back curved and she pressed herself down harder against Alice, and Alice began uttering short, muffled cries as her body undulated in rolling waves. The intense, crushing pressure ballooned within both of them, tugging at them, and they paused together on the brink for an endless instant. Their fingers clutched and dug at each other as they strained, then their cries of ecstasy blended as they exploded into a simultaneous orgasm, their bodies thrusting together in a flurry of motion.

Later they lay in each other's arms, gently caressing each other. Alice had her head on Janice's breasts, and she fondled them and kissed them as Janice slowly stroked and patted her hair. "I won't be leaving until this weekend," she murmured. "Will we be able to…? Will you let me…"

"Of course, darling," Janice sighed softly, nuzzling her lips into Alice's hair. "Go to sleep now, and later we'll have a cup of tea and talk about it."

Alice sighed and nodded, relaxing against Janice. She settled herself, cupping one of Janice's breasts loosely in her hand, and a moment later she was breathing with a slow, deep rhythm as sleep swept over her.

Janice looked up at the ceiling, still absently stroking Alice's hair. There was a gaping, yawning hollow within her. A void, black and deep. She was thinking of Wendy. She began crying quietly, the tears trickling from the corners of her eyes and running down her cheeks.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The telephone began ringing as she started out the door. She closed the door, walked into the living room, and picked it up. "Doctor Wycliffe."

"Janice, thank God I caught you," Christina's excited voice came through the instrument. "The Goddamnest thing you've ever heard of has fucking happened, and I just knew I wouldn't be able to catch you until…"

"Christina, must you talk that way?"

"Goddamnit, when you hear what I've got to say, you might be talking that way yourself. Jannison just called me from the airport. His daughter's been taken to the hospital in serious condition, and her husband called him about an hour ago. He just managed to catch an airplane, and he told me to call you."

There was a moment of silence, and Janice composed herself and nodded. "Yes, well, thank you for calling, Christina."

"Thank you for – is that all you've got to say, Janice? Don't you remember what day this is?"

"Certainly. The gala performance is this evening, and apparently Doctor Jannison will not be here to conduct. Very well, I shall conduct."

There was another moment of silence, then Christina sighed and chuckled. "No shit, I'll never understand musicians. Honest to God, I never will. Some little something that doesn't amount to anything comes up, and you're like an Atlas missile. Then something like this, and you're like the Rock of Gibraltar. I'll never understand…"

"Christina, I am, after all, a conductress. I have conducted many times before."

"But this is different, Janice. The governor and half of the state legislature will be there. It's been in all the journals and in newspapers all over the state, and half of the music lovers in the country will be there. It's been sold out for three weeks, and… Christ, I wasn't saying you couldn't do it, but… a gala performance, Janice – Christ, that's something else…"

"Christina, I really can't understand the cause of your concern," Janice said, irritation creeping into her voice. "I can assure you…"

"Goddamnit, I'm worried about you – you, you little doll. I don't like for you to be worried or… or upset, or anything. Fuck the gala – it could be cancelled as far as I'm concerned, and if I thought it was really going to bother you I'd go down there and set the fucking music hall on fire and it would have to be cancelled."

Janice laughed softly. "I'm not upset, Christina. So stop worrying."

"Well, I won't. If you want me for anything or want to talk to me… or for me to fix your lunch for you or something, just call. Okay?"

"Very well. Goodbye, Christina."

"Goodbye, little doll. Goodbye and good luck tonight."

"Yes, thank you. Goodbye."

She put the receiver down, then picked it up again and dialed the number of the administration office at the conservatory. The telephone at the other end rang a couple of times, then someone answered. "This is Doctor Wycliffe. I find that I will be unable to take my orchestra class this afternoon – could arrangements be made for a substitute? Thank you very much. Goodbye."

She replaced the receiver and walked into the kitchen, thinking. The rehearsals before and after Jannison's return had gone fairly well, and the orchestra was ready. Wendy's leadership in the cello section had been accepted without question after they'd heard her play, and the improvement she had made in the section had almost been worth the torture of having those blue eyes before her while she conducted the rehearsals. Almost. All the rough spots had been worked out of the Mahler, so it should go well.

Should. But the performance of an orchestra from one time to another was a difficult thing to control. Their technical performance for her was more accurate, but from time to time they seemed to be more inspired by Jannison. The difference was great enough to take the edge off a performance.

She filled the kettle and put it on the stove, then looked out the window, thinking. Jannison was well known and well liked by music lovers throughout the state. She would be at a disadvantage from the moment she walked on the stage, because they were expecting him. They would be disappointed, critical. What comprised an average performance by him would be judged a poor performance by her.

The kettle was boiling. She took a cup out of the cabinet and made the tea, then she went back into the living room, took the scores of Symphonie Fantastique and Mahler's Fifth out of her attache case, and carried them to the piano. "Tonight we shall conduct a gala, darling," she murmured, smiling at Lisa's portrait as she opened the top score and sipped her tea.

Time passed slowly. Late in the morning the telephone rang, and it was a reporter who'd heard about Jannisons' abrupt departure from the city. He wanted a statement from her, and she slammed the telephone down and walked back to the piano. It rang again, and it was Bailey. He wanted to discuss the performance with her, and she slammed it down again. The third time it rang she seized the cord and jerked it out of the wall, went into the kitchen and made another cup of tea, then returned to the piano to continue reviewing the scores.

At two she went into the kitchen and heated a couple of cans of soup, and she poured the soup into a large bowl and sat at the piano, still looking over the scores as she slowly drank it. When the soup was finished, she closed the music, put the bowl in the kitchen sink, and went into the bedroom. She slowly undressed, then pulled the covers back and lay down. Sleep evaded her for several minutes, then she curbed her racing thoughts and consciously blanked her mind. A moment later she was breathing with a slow, deep rhythm.

Her eyes flicked open, and she turned her head and glanced at the electric clock. She turned her head back and stretched luxuriously, then she slid off the bed and walked into the bathroom, yawning. The water began drumming against the wall of the shower stall as she reached in and turned it on, and she stepped into the stinging spray, raising her arms over her head and turning as it spattered against her and ran down her naked body in rivulets. She reached out and took the bar of soap from the dish, and she began soaping herself.

She dried herself off, brushed her teeth, then walked back into the bedroom, opening the bureau. There was a stack of body shirts in the top drawer. The body and sleeves was a plain, unadorned synthetic which resembled linen, and there were ruffles at the cuffs and a thick, matching ruffle around the neck. She took out panties and a bra and put them on, then put on one of the body shirts and tossed two more of them onto the bed. The dress she picked from the closet was black, a moderately heavy material with a dull gloss, with a fitted bodice and a draped skirt which hung to the floor. She put it and a pair of black, low-heeled shoes on, then took a black leather bag out of the closet and put the two body shirts on the bed into it. Walking back into the bathroom, she stopped at the dresser for her keys and wallet, tossed them into the black leather bag with the body shirts, then continued into the bathroom and brushed her hair out.

She stopped to glance at the portrait on the piano as she started out the door, then she went back into the bedroom. She opened one of the small drawers in the dresser and slid her hand under a stack of scarves, groping. The garnet ring with the Grevenburg arms was in her hand when she drew it back out, and she slid the ring onto the ring finger on her right hand as she snapped the light off and left the bedroom again. She went back into the living room, picked up the black leather bag, then blew a kiss at the portrait on the piano and left.

The street was congested with traffic for blocks on each side of the music hall. There was a long line of limousines slowly inching along and stopping in front of the music hall, with women in gowns and furs and men in tuxedos climbing out to go up the steps. The traffic signals had been turned off the policemen were at the intersections directing traffic, and detours had been set up on the side streets to channel through traffic around the congested area. Janice approached through a side street, and when she came to the detour she turned right and eased the Camaro into a parking place. She took the bag out of the front seat and locked the car, then she crossed the street and turned down an alley toward the music hall.

The door at the top of the steps in the alley opened a crack when she rapped on it, and an old, weathered face almost hidden by the peak of a cap peered out at her. The door opened wider, and the old man gave her a broad, toothless grin as she entered. There was a distant, blurred sound of the orchestra noodling, and a rumbling murmur of thousands of feet and voices.

Bailey, Christina, Carleton, the other trustees, several reporters, and other people were in the corridor in front of the dressing room at the end. There was a movement, then a surge among them. "There she is!" Strobes flashed blindingly. Scuffling footsteps running toward her. Reporters rattling questions. Christina's face was white with concern. She kept her footsteps firm and determined, not looking to either side.

"Doctor Wycliffe, I have to talk to you," Bailey said, pushing his way through everyone and taking her arms as she reached for the doorknob. "Listen, I have to…"

"Symphonie Fantastique and Mahler's Fifth is still the program for this evening, isn't it, Mr. Bailey?" she hissed, wheeling on him in fury.

He recoiled, surprise shock, and fright on his face. The strobes continued exploding in her eyes as he nodded rapidly, swallowing.

"Have any of the first instruments become incapacitated?"

"Well, no, but…"

"Then I shall conduct the program as scheduled," she snapped, turning the knob. "There is nothing to discuss."

She opened the door, went in, and slammed it solidly behind her. A babble of shouts and conversation broke out on the other side of the door, and someone knocked on it. There were more knocks as she crossed the room and went into the dressing room, slamming the door behind her and glancing at the clock. Five minutes. She dropped the bag on the dressing table, then walked across the room to the bathroom. There was a thick stack of clean towels on the shelf. She took one of the towels and dried the sweat from her hand, then tossed it onto the floor and went back to the dressing table, sitting down. Four minutes. The hair brush had been forgotten. No matter. She turned her head from side to side and pushed at it with her fingers, loosening and tucking the light curls. Satisfied, she got up from the bench and took the body shirts out of the bag. Three minutes. She crossed the room to the closet and took out a couple of hangers, then shook the body shirts out and put them on the hangers. The other hangers in the closet rattled as she hung the body shirts up, and she picked a tiny bit of lint from one of them and dropped it to the floor. Two minutes. She stood in the middle of the room and looked at herself in the mirror, turning from side to side, and she tugged at the waist of her dress, straightening it across her back. Walking closer to the mirror, she plucked at the ruffles at her wrists and around her neck. She lifted her right hand and adjusted the heavy ring on her finger. One minute. She turned and walked back out.

The crowd outside the door was thicker, and Bailey again tried to get her attention as she walked out and slammed the door behind her. Strobes exploded in her face, and the people parted in front of her as she walked along the corridor. Reporters plucking at her, asking something as they trotted along beside her. There were stairs with a steel rail at the end of the corridor, and more people gathered around the foot of them. The crowd at the bottom of the stairs parted. More strobes exploded. The stairs ended at thewing on right stage. She walked along the wing at the same pace. A hiss of good luck from the light engineer. She motioned with her hand. He threw his weight against the heavy rheostats. The glare coming from the stage began changing as the house lights started down and the footlights came up. Everyone in the orchestra was rigidly straight, their instruments ready, the men's tuxedos a flat black and the women's dresses a shimmer of white. She stopped as the first box in the balcony came into view. She lifted the ring to her lips and kissed it, then she walked onto the stage. Polite applause. The footlights were blinding, and the audience a hazy mist of mottled black and white. Slight movements, hands clapping, a few still getting into their seats. The loud murmur of conversation dying. She reached the podium and stopped, turning toward the audience. Back straight, chin up, head high. She slowly bowed, then turned and mounted the podium. A hush fell. Her fingers found the baton and she grasped it, lifting it and her left hand. Now it was quiet. She glanced over the orchestra. They were poised. Every eye was riveted on her. She snapped the baton down.

A clean entrance, but it was lagging. The first movement, Dreams, was more like sodden, drunken sleep. The violins were playing, not performing. She spread the fingers of her left hand and grasped at them, her eyes darting fire. It began to shine. More. The violins began tosing. Now the high horn. And the low. The winds came in as the horn sweetened, weaving its thread with the violins, and now it was the dream of a child but not of Berlioz. She seized for the drums, bringing in their rolling thunder to darken it and make it cloudy and heavy. A touch more and the fabric had substance. The cellos were perfect. God bless Wendy and the melancholy, sobbing wail she was dragging from them with the instrument clasped between her thighs. Then the woodwinds and it was done. They came slowly, too slowly, then the impetus was picking them up and they were beginning to overrun. Less, less, and more intense. They began throbbing. The crazed, wild dream was being rewoven across the centuries with its timeless message. Triumphant joy shot through her with a tingling thrill. Every heartstring was now in her hands, every body was vibrating, and every fiber was straining. They were one, living together in the lyrical madness of the dream.

They were together in Passions. A Ball, and Scene in the Fields, and the entrance to the fifth movement, March to the Scaffold, was splendid with the nightmare terror of one treading toward the noose for the instant of pain and terror before the black voice of the unknown. The jeering crowd was there with the shrieking howls of wind and woodwind, and the scowl of the hangman was sketched in with the thunder of the timpani and the bass strings. The steps of the scaffold were approaching, and Wendy was leaning over her cello and clutching it, her bow poised and her eyes following the notes as she waited for the cello solo. The noise of the ghoulish crowd and the terror of approaching death was rising to a crescendo, and Janice readied Wendy with a glance. Wendy was tense, waiting for the sharp, clear break before the foot touched the bottom step. Her face was strained, her massive blue eyes were shining, and her lips were parted, trembling. She was the most lovely creature in the world. Do not be distracted. Diminish the sounds of the crowd in volume but riot in intensity. The crowd was still screaming bloodthirstily and spitting epithets, but the consciousness was shifting from the crowd to the step. Coming down nicely, the volume falling off but the vehemence of the individual notes remaining. Now ready for the pause. Not a hint of sound must violate it. It must be absolute. An instant of total silence. Now.

The baton stopped. There was an utter, frozen silence of the voids between the stars. Beautiful. Her finger stabbed at Wendy. The first note came with the dip of the baton. A beautifully shaped note. The striking fall of the first footstep was clear and sharp in the mournful howl of realization that there was no turning back and death was nigh. The bow moved along the strings and the sobbing wail stabbed at the heart. Wendy's face shone with love as her cello sang of the reluctant, dragging footsteps climbing the stairs of the gallows as the cold breath of death brushed the back of the neck.

And then the last movement. The ancient superstitions. Walpurgisnacht, the time of the Witchs' Sabbath on the Brocken in the Harz Mountains. The screams of the hapless victims dragged there for unspeakable acts to be committed upon their bodies. The shrill, cackling laughter of the witches in their fury of eroticism and malevolence. They screamed and danced in the acts whispered in the ancient legends, then they began to fade into the distance as the first quivers of the finale began. The mutterings on the horizon moved closer and closer in the slashing darts of lightening and the shaking roar of thunder. And then it broke over them, explosive and tempestuous. The battering rolls of kettle drums and the splitting clangor of cymbals. Janice urged them on, higher and higher, each surge a step to be climbed to reach ever higher. They came, racing with her into the crashing glory. It breathed a life of its own and began taking them with it, soaring to the ultimate heights. There was a choking, constricting feeling as it peaked. Then the baton snapped down. It was gone.

Then it was gone. She looked down at the podium. A droplet of sweat had fallen from her chin onto it. She became aware that she was soaked in sweat. The body shirt was sticking and clinging to her. It was over. Her hand numbly put the baton back into place. Then she became aware of the sound. It was crushing, suffocating. Noise was surrounding her like a solid wall and pushing in on her. Her mind slowly worked its way back to the present. The audience had gone wild. The orchestra was applauding her, the violinists rapping their bows and the other musicians shuffling their feet. The volume of sound around her was so dense that she could feel it touching her.

She turned and stepped down from the podium. The audience was on its feet and it was a sea of open, screaming mouths and wildly applauding hands. She bowed, and another droplet of sweat fell from her chin onto the stage. It was coursing down the sides of her face and soaking into the roots of her hair. She turned and bowed to the orchestra, then she walked toward the wing. The crowd which had been in the corridor and around the bottom of the stairs was jammed into the wing, and they were applauding, screaming, and stamping their feet. Strobes began flashing blindingly. She was approaching the edge of the curtain. The light engineer was watching her. She motioned to him as she turned back to the audience and bowed again. The house lights began coming up as the footlights went down, and the audience was more visible. The aisles were filled, and they were surging down toward the stage. She turned slightly and bowed to the orchestra again, then turned around and walked into the wing. More strobes closer and more blinding. The crowd parted for her as she walked down the steps.

Christina followed her into the dressing room and bolted the door behind her, putting her foot against it and forcing it closed as they tried to go in. The door began vibrating with knocks and voices bellowing on the other side of it as Janice walked into the dressing room, reaching behind herself to unzip her dress. She pulled the zipper down, slipped the shoulder straps off then stepped out of it and tossed it over a chair as she walked toward the bathroom. Christina came into the dressing room and closed the door behind her silently watching Janice as she turned on the water in the sink and threw a towel into it. Janice walked back out of the bathroom, unfastening her bodyshirt, and she pulled it off and tossed it onto the dressing table. Her body was streaked with sweat, and her panties and bra were soaked and sticking to her. She unfastened the bra and tossed it onto the dressing table, then slid her panties down and tossed them onto the bra, walking back into the bathroom naked except for her shoes.

The sink was rapidly filling with water as the towel plugged the drain, and she picked up the towel and wrung it with quick twisting motion. The water began gurgling down the drain, and Janice wiped the towel over her body. She threw the towel on the floor and soaked another one, wiping herself with it, then she wiped herself with a dry towel and walked back to the dressing table.

"Are you all right, Janice?" Christina asked, breaking the silence.

Janice's expression was one of serious concentration, and she ignored Christina as she put the damp bra and panties back on. She walked over to the closet and took out one of the fresh body shirts, and she put it on as she walked to the chair where her dress was draped. Christina frowned thoughtfully, watching her as she put the dress on and adjusted it.

"Are you all right, Janice?"

Janice leaned over in front of the mirror, brushing at her hair with her fingers, "Of course I'm all right," she snapped, standing back and looking at her dress in the mirror, adjusting it.

Christina looked at her more closely, frowning.

"What did you say, Janice?"

"I said I'm all right!"

Janice started walking toward the door, and Christina stepped to her and took her arm firmly in her hand. "Janice why are you speaking German? You know I can't understand you. Now tell me…"

"Will you stop being stupid and leave me alone!" Janice snapped, snatching Christina's hand from her arm and dropping it, then walking to the door.

"Janice, if you'd just speak English and tell me…" Christina began, then she shrugged helplessly and shook her head as she followed Janice through the door.

Known and unknown faces flashed past her vision as she walked along the hall, and the strobes popped in her face unceasingly. There were more people gathered around at the foot of the stairs, and they began applauding again. Their rapidly moving hands and open mouths were blurred on each side of her as she walked through them and up the stairs. The light engineer was watching her. She passed him with her steady stride and walked along the wing. The audience could hear the applause from the wing, and they began applauding again in a rising tide of sound. The orchestra began applauding again. Shouts of "bravo" began to ring out.

It had been a heady, exciting night in the far distant past. A happy, carefree time when the days were long and golden with love. She had been with Lisa in her dressing room during the intermission, and she had soaked the towels in the sink and wiped the perspiration from the beautiful body. She had helped Lisa dress again, then she had walked with her back along the crowded corridor. They had paused for an instant in the wing. The second part of the concert had been the Mahler Fifth. Lisa had smiled down at her, her liquid eyes twinkling with love and with triumphant joy for the roar of applause as they screamed for her. "They want Mahler, so let's give them Mahler, little darling," she'd said. Then she had walked onto the stage and she had given them Mahler. She had brought them from their seats in thunderous applause for the Mahler she'd given them.

Janice motioned toward the light engineer. He threw himself against the rheostats. The light began changing as the house lights went down and the footlights came up. The applause swelled to a thunder. She slowly raised the ring to her lips and kissed it. "They want Mahler, so let's give them Mahler, my darling Lisa," she murmured. Then she walked onto the stage.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The roar of sound swelled higher, and the audience came to its feet as she walked onto the stage. The orchestra was applauding, and their heads snapped around toward her and their eyes followed her as she walked toward the center of the stage. She stopped by the podium and turned toward the audience, bowing. The applause from the audience began slowly diminishing, and there was a rattle of seats as some of them began sitting down. She turned and bowed to the orchestra. Their applause abruptly stopped and they readied their instruments. She stepped onto the podium. The applause from the audience stopped. Her fingers found the baton and picked it up, and she raised it as she lifted her left hand. Absolute silence fell throughout the hall, and the distant, muffled sound of a car horn from several streets away was clearly audible. She looked around the orchestra, gathering them. Then she dropped her hands and slid them smoothly into the entrance to the prelude.

The orchestra was tired. They had surpassed themselves in the first part of the concert, and it had drained them. And she was tired. But she flailed herself to greater efforts and seized them, dragging them and spurring them on, and they rallied and went with her. The surrealistic madness of the composer's mind flowed in a giant tapestry which flickered and changed from scene to scene, and she guided them as it billowed and flowed in its majestic terror. Sweat ran down their faces and it streamed from her as she held the impetus up bodily, urging on one then another as they began to flag. The audience sat mesmerized as movement after movement flowed by. Then the finale. And then pandemonium.

She staggered as she stepped down from the podium, and the concertmaster made an abortive movement toward her. Her hand gripped the podium and she steadied herself, and he sat back and began applauding again. The windows were rattling and the foundations of the building were quivering from the sheer volume of the sound as she walked toward the wing. She stopped, bowed to the audience and to the orchestra, then disappeared behind the curtain. The applause rose even louder, becoming demanding and insistent. She came back out, bowed to the audience and to the orchestra again, then disappeared behind the curtain once again. Her face was pale and streaked with sweat, and she was still clutching the baton in her right hand. They called her back out. Then they called her out once again. And again.

On the fifteenth bow she motioned to the light engineer and walked toward the stairs, and the strobes began flashing again. The stairs and the corridor were glutted with people, and the crowded back to make room for her as they applauded and the strobes flashed. She walked through them with a firm, rapid stride, her chin up and her eyes to the front.

Christina followed her into the dressing room again. "Janice, this place has never had a night like tonight," she said as closed the door and leaned against it, smiling at Janice.

Janice stopped, her back to Christina, and she looked at the opposite wall. Her features were neutral and her lips were set in a firm, straight line.

Christina could see her face in the mirror, and she cleared her throat as her smile faded. "Did you hear me, Janice? There's never been a performance like the one you gave tonight. I don't know how you did it – it didn't even sound like the same orchestra. You were wonderful – just listen to those people out there."

Janice walked to the closet and took out the remaining body shirt, then she took it to the bathroom and pushed the door open. She hung it on a hook in the bathroom, then turned and looked at Christina. She was still holding the baton, and she suddenly threw it at Christina. It cracked solidly against the wall and rattled across the floor. "Will you leave me alone!" she screamed at the top of her voice, then she went into the bathroom and slammed the door with a thunderous crash.

Christina looked at the door, her mouth open in shock and surprise, then she closed her mouth and shook her head. "I'll be a Goddamned son of a bitch if I'll ever fucking understand Goddamned musicians if I live to be a fucking hundred years old," she said quietly, shaking her head. She turned and opened the door, and it quietly closed behind her.

Janice undressed in the bathroom and hung the dress and her underclothes on hooks, then she wiped herself down with a couple of wet towels and dried herself off. She dressed again, putting on the fresh body shirt, then she threw a towel in the sink and let it soak in cold water while she was zipping her dress and adjusting the sleeves of the body shirt. The sink began filling, and she picked up the towel and bent over the sink, laving her face with the icy water. She wrung the towel and daubed the water from her face, then she opened the bathroom door and went back into the dressing room, patting her face with one end of the towel.

Wendy was in the room. She was holding the damp, sweat-soaked body shirt Janice had taken off during intermission, and she was kissing it. Janice looked at her coldly, and Wendy put the body shirt down on the dressing table and walked toward her. "I love you, Janice."

An expression of pain crossed Janice's face, and she pressed her lips tightly together as she turned toward the mirror. Her hands trembled as she wiped the beads of water from her hairline with the towel.

Wendy stopped, a foot from her. "I love you, Janice."

The damp, heavy towel whistled through the air as Janice swung it around like a whip, and it struck Wendy across the face and the side of her head. She uttered a muffled shriek of pain and surprise as she fell, and she caught herself on her hands and knees. She shook her head rapidly, then she looked back up at Janice. "I love you, Janice." Janice's face twisted and she moaned slightly as she dropped the towel. Wendy crept closer to her on her hands and knees, then she raised herself to a kneeling position in front of Janice, holding her hands up. "I love you, Janice."

Janice's right hand slashed around, and Wendy tumbled backwards as the back of Janice's hand struck her solidly across her face. Janice turned and walked to the dressing table, and she reached into the black bag for her wallet and keys. "I love you, Janice," Wendy wailed, tears coming from her eyes and a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth. She pushed herself up to a sitting position as she watched Janice walk through the door and slam it, then she put her hands over her face and began sobbing, her thin shoulders shaking. "I love you, Janice," she sobbed. "Oh, I love you so much."

The house seemed like a haven, a quiet, restful retreat from the turmoil, but she couldn't escape what was inside her. She went into the bedroom and undressed, then she went into the shower and turned the faucets until the water was beating against her in a stinging spray. Self-disgust was gnawing angrily at her, loathing for what she had done. Her behavior toward Christina had been inexcusable. She'd have to call her and apologize. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day. Or perhaps she'd even go see her and apologize. But Christina would have to learn that there were times to back away and leave someone alone.

Wendy was another matter. That had been abominable. Actually striking the child. Cruelly and viciously. But it had been unbearable. The child had directed a thrust through a vulnerable spot in the wall of isolation and impersonality and it had seared agonizingly to the very core of her being. Janice stepped out of the shower and pulled a towel off the rack. She would have to do something to make it up to Wendy. Something. But she would have to be cautious and judicious, or it would simply spur the child on to greater importunities. Janice dried herself and tossed the towel aside, then walked into the bedroom and took a gown and soft slippers out of the closet. It would have to be something substantial to make up for what she had done, but it would have to be essentially impersonal. That would be difficult. Perhaps she would think of something, or some opportunity would present itself.

She walked into the living room. She felt tired, but she didn't feel like sleeping. There were also tiny, gnawing pangs of hunger, but she didn't feel like eating. She sat down at the piano, opened the keyboard, and began practicing.

The doorbell rang, snapping her out of her reverie. Time had been passing in a bland, featureless flow while she'd been practicing, and the tight feeling in her forearms indicated it had been a couple of hours, possibly more. The chime of the doorbell was still ringing in her ears, and she got up from the bench and walked toward the front door. Who could it be? If it was a reporter, the statement he'd get wouldn't be of much value because he wouldn't be able to print it.

It was Wendy. Holding the black bag she'd left at the music hall and looking up at her with a frightened yet somehow determined expression. She felt a rush of relief and gratitude, and at the same time the chilly finger of warning moved in her mind; she could begin to make it up, but she would have to be cautious. She opened the door wider. "Come in, Wendy."

The cordial greeting seemed to startle her. She glanced up with a shy smile then dropped her eyes again as she stepped in. "I brought your things and… and came to apologize…"

Janice looked down at her blankly, closing the door. "Apologize?"

"For having addressed you by your first name. That was inexcusable, and I apologize, Doctor Wycliffe."

Janice drew in a deep breath and sighed. Wendy had changed into one of the plain print dresses she seemed to favor, and she looked like an angel. An angel with her hair in a ponytail. "It is I who should apologize…"

"No!" Wendy almost shouted, then she flushed with confusion. "I mean, it wasn't… wasn't you… all my fault…"

Janice sighed again and reached for the bag; it looked outsized and heavy in Wendy's small hand. There were delicate lines of blue on the inside of her thin arms and the back of her hands where veins showed through her white, almost translucent skin. "Thank you for bringing my things, Wendy."

"Oh, it wasn't anything. I did the body shirts – took them home and washed them for you…"

"That was very nice of you, but you shouldn't have done all that."

"It wasn't any trouble, and… will you forgive me? Please?"

"If you will call me Janice I will, Wendy."

Her face flushed with pleasure and a wide smile spread across her features as she looked up at Janice, beaming. Janice noticed that her lip was slightly swollen on the right side. "Do you really want me to?"

"Really. Have you had dinner?"

She looked blank, then surprised. She had for gotten to eat; it happened frequently. "Well, no, I guess not…"

"Let's see what I have in, then. Come on."

"Oh, no, really I couldn't…"

"Of course you can, Wendy. Come on."

Janice put the bag on the couch and walked on through the living room and dining room to the kitchen, and Wendy followed her, looking around.

"You certainly have a nice house, Doctor… Janice."

Janice smiled over her shoulder at Wendy as she opened the freezer door on the refrigerator. "Thank you."

"Say, you know, it's late and you're tired and everything. Just let me fix you something…"

"We're both tired, Wendy, and we'll fix it together." She poked through the freezer and took out a couple of filets and put them on the countertop as the freezer door clicked closed. "Look in the refrigerator and see if you can find something for a salad."

Janice unwrapped the steaks and put them in the countertop broiler, turning it onto a low heat to thaw them, and she took a couple of large potatoes from the bin under the sink, washed them, and put them in the oven to bake. Wendy stood at the other end of the counter, shredding lettuce into a couple of salad bowls and cutting up a tomato and a bell pepper.

"They say the concert tonight was the best they've had." Janice glanced at her and opened the countertop broiler to turn the steaks. "The orchestra performed well."

"It wasn't just that," Wendy replied quietly. "I've been in a group which performed Symphonie Fantastique… oh, perhaps eight times, and it was never like it was tonight. I've never heard anything like it. And the Mahler was marvelous. I've heard people talk about inspired performances, but I never knew what they were talking about tonight. It was a very… profound experience to be a part of it, a part of what you did… caused."

"How do you like your steak?"

"The same way you like yours."

"But you don't know how I like mine."

"No, but I know that's the way I'll like mine."

Janice smiled as she turned up the heat in the broiler. Wendy put the bowls of salad and the leftovers in the refrigerator, then cleaned up the bits from the countertop. "Where's the garbage, Janice?"

"Just put it in the disposal."

Wendy walked to the sink, holding the scraps in her small hands, and she smiled up at Janice as she poked them into the disposal and turned on the water. "I applauded so hard I broke my bow." She turned the disposal and the water off, then wiped her hands on a dish towel. "I'm glad I did it after the finale rather than before the intermission."

Janice smiled, then pursed her lips in thought. "Would you like a Bellini?"

Wendy's mouth fell open. "A Bellini? What are you doing with a Bellini?"

"I don't have one, but I have some friends in Europe who could get one."

Wendy smiled and shook her head. "No, I couldn't do that, Janice. A Bellini costs a fortune, and anyway I didn't know there were any to be had. He died in… eighteen fifty seven, I believe."

"Yes, but I know a professor in Vienna who had four of them, and he must still have an extra – I'll write him and get one of them for you. Your cello is a Laux-Ferrier, isn't it?"

"Yes, but Janice, you can't…"

"I'll get you a Holtzhausen, then. The ones they made in the nineteenth century have better glue, and they take climatic changes well. Even so, it'll take a while for the bridge and neck to settle, and for it to accustom itself to the temperature and humidity change."

Wendy was looking up at her in shock. "Janice, I can't let you do that. A Bellini bow and a Holtzhausen cello? That's thousands and thousands…"

Janice pursed her lips in thought and slowly nodded as she opened the broiler and reached in with a fork to turn the steaks. "Yes, about eight to ten thousand," she murmured, her eyes narrowed against the heat. "But you'd have an instrument to match your ability."

Wendy shook her head firmly. "No, I'm sorry, Janice but that's simply too much for you to do. Why, there're not a dozen cellists in the United States who have a Bellini and a Holtzhausen…"

"And there're not six who perform the way you do. Or the way you will within three or four years. Check the potatoes and see if they're done."

Wendy pushed herself away from the counter and walked toward the oven. "Well, I still can't accept something like…"

"I've decided, Wendy. Check the potatoes."

They put the food on the table, and Janice heated water and made tea while Wendy put the silverware and plates out. They were silent as they began eating, an unstrained, companionable lack of conversation, with the quietness in the house broken only by the sound of silverware and china as they ate. Janice was tired, her weariness now beginning to sap her strength and make her limbs feel leaden, and Wendy seemed tired and thoughtful as she slowly ate.

"I first heard of you in history class."

It took a moment for the almost inaudible murmur to sink in, then Janice glanced at Wendy. "Pardon me?"

"I first heard of you in history class. The professor said there'd been only two Americans who had come to Europe and attained prominence as composers, and he mentioned your name."

"I see."

"And then I heard Abendleid Magyar performed in Antwerp during the summer vacation," Wendy continued in the same soft murmur, slowly eating. "It was… well, I thought the conductor had his strings too heavy during the gypsy passages, but still it was… like ages old but still almost like reading a newspaper… timeless… talking about centuries ago, and about tomorrow…"

"The native Hungarian motiv is possibly heavy during the entrance to the second movement and the beginning of the finale. The conductor may interpret, but the score remains."

"I thought that until I felt and heard you conduct tonight." Wendy cut another piece of steak and chewed, looking down at her plate. "The first time I saw what you looked like was in one of the Beyreuth books, a festival book. It was a picture of you and the woman whose picture is on the piano. The Countess Grevenburg. She was a conductress too, wasn't she?"

"Yes, that's right."

Wendy nodded, swallowing, and took a sip of tea. She slowly began cutting another small piece of steak. "I did a paper on you as a term paper in history, and the professor gave me credit toward my degree for it. He also had it printed for the university library as a research pamphlet. The Biographical Dictionary didn't have a thing on you before you came to Europe at sixteen, but I found out you were from Cincinnati and I wrote the Chamber of Commerce there. They sent me some newspaper clippings about the death of your parents, your debut, the events you won during high school, and so forth. I used that as background and took it right up to your… when you went to Berne."

Janice smiled, pushing her plate a way. "That's flattering, Wendy, but somehow it makes me feel very ancient and decrepit."

Wendy stopped eating and pushed her plate away, picking up her cup and sipping it. "It's strange, you know. I don't know exactly what kind of mental image I'd formed of you, but it wasn't what I saw when I walked in the country club that night. I recognized you immediately, of course, but you looked to be about my age, and I wasn't prepared for that. I really made an ass of myself, I suppose…"

"Not as much as I have upon numerous occasions during my life," Janice said, smiling wryly and pushing her chair back. "Let's stack the dishes in the sink, and I'll make some more tea."

"Oh, I can wash them…"

"No you won't. You're as tired as I am, and perhaps more so. Come on – let's stack them up and make some more tea."

Janice filled the kettle and put it on the stove, thinking. Strangely enough, the worrisome bother of having someone else around wasn't nagging at her with Wendy there. There seemed to be the comfort and silence of solitude, but at the same time there was the warmth of companionship. It was like it had been with Lisa. The thought stirred poignant memories in Janice's mind as Wendy moved back and forth on the edge of her vision, putting the dishes in the sink. It would be heaven. The duets of music and love again. But what if love was ripped from her again?

They took their cups into the living room and sat down on the couch, and Janice relaxed, leaning her head back.

"I'll have to go in a few minutes," Wendy said, glancing at her then looking down at the floor. "You're tired, and… you've been really nice to me, Janice… thought you'd be throwing me out of the orchestra, but instead you've been really nice to me…"

Janice turned her head, looking at Wendy. "Throwing you out of the orchestra. Whatever for?"

Wendy flushed and rubbed her hands together nervously. "Well, for… for what I said. I thought… well, I know there's never been any men in your life, and when I learned more about you I saw that you and the Countess Grevenburg were very close, and I thought… but I made a mistake, and I was… I'm very sorry, Janice…"

The thin, soft voice faded into silence with another shrug as she looked down at the floor, embarrassed and flushed, and Janice turned her head back and looked up at the ceiling. She could simply remain silent, and it would pass into another phase. Wendy would retreat, and she could continue to suffer that hollow emptiness which the physical acts failed to satisfy. Suffer that, but enjoy the freedom from danger.

But was that freedom of any kind, or was she closing herself in a prison of loneliness? There had been a distinct danger of failure when she'd gone to conduct the orchestra. They had been expecting Jannison, and she'd been at an extreme disadvantage. Safety would have been to feign sickness and not go – Christina had been more than ready to cancel it at the last minute. But she had risked failure and reaped success. Perhaps the rejection of Wendy was tantamount to the same thing – perhaps it was withdrawal from life. She searched herself for an answer. And found it. Then made her decision.

"Lisa and I were lovers, Wendy."

Wendy's head snapped around. On the edge of her vision Janice could see Wendy's expression changing from surprise and shock to disappointment and hurt. "I see," she whispered quietly. "Then it's… it's that you don't like… don't like me… better go, now… better go… thank you…"

"I like you too much, Wendy – perhaps I even love you. And I know I could come to love you more. No, it isn't that I don't like you, Wendy."

"…don't understand…"

"It's simply because I could love you so much, Wendy. You see, when Lisa was killed, a large part of me died along with her – a very large part. So it isn't that I don't like you and don't love you, Wendy – it's because that I'm afraid of being hurt."

Wendy looked down at her hands, twisting them on her lap and swallowing rapidly as she blinked back tears. "I couldn't promise not to die, Janice," she whispered in a broken voice, shaking her head rapidly. "I couldn't promise that, because I just don't know." Her face twisted and she began crying, her thin shoulders shaking as the tears rolled down her cheeks. "I could only promise that I would never do anything or say anything to hurt you in any way. That's all I could do, Janice. And I wouldn't hurt you…" Her voice faded as she put her hands to her face. "God, I'd never hurt you, Janice," she sobbed, her voice muffled. "Oh, I love you so much…"

Janice looked at her as she leaned over, crying into her hands, and an agonizing stab of compassion, remorse, and love shot through her. She moved over to Wendy and put her arms around her, gathering her to her, and hot, fiery desire raced through her with a force which made her feel weak and breathless as she held the small, firm body in her arms. She pressed Wendy's head to her breasts and stroked her hair, kissing her forehead gently. "I know, darling, and that's all anyone can promise. And you have my promise, too. I've been cruel to you, Wendy, and I'll make it up to you. I'll never hurt you again."

Wendy suddenly stopped sobbing and raised her small, beautiful face, wiping her cheeks with her hands and sniffling. "Do you mean…? Do you mean that…?"

Janice smiled and nodded, her eyes moving over Wendy's beautiful face as she held her close. "Yes, darling, that's what I mean," she murmured. She cupped Wendy's small, soft chin in her palm and bent down, covering Wendy's lips with hers.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Her lips were salty with tears, soft and damp from crying. A sharp thrill raced through her, more exquisite and penetrating than that generated by a mere kiss. There was an acute awareness that this was Wendy, this was the perfect, beautiful love. Wendy's lips opened under hers, small, warm, and trembling with eagerness. The tip of Wendy's tongue was there, tracing a trail of fire across her tongue. The warm, sweet taste of her saliva, the tantalizing feel of her damp lips moving and tugging. The scent and feel of her lovely body nestling closer. Janice held her tighter, sliding her tongue between Wendy's lips, and Wendy pressed herself against Janice and turned her head from side to side, kissing her passionately and sucking at her tongue.

Wendy's eyes were closed when Janice lifted her head and looked down at her. She slowly opened her eyes, and a smile spread across her face as she looked up at Janice. "I love you, Janice," she breathed.

"And I love you, Wendy," Janice murmured, kissing her again lightly.

Wendy responded with a tugging pressure of her open lips and smiled again. "If one of my teeth is rough, it's because I lost a cap."

"Where?"

She pushed at the corner of her lip with the tip of her tongue. "There."

Remorse stabbed at Janice again, and she pressed her lips together. "That's where I struck you, isn't it?"

"It was probably loose anyway."

Janice held her with one arm and put the tip of her finger on Wendy's lip, lifting it. "Let's see it." It was the canine on the right side, and it was fractionally shorter than the one on the left side, with a slightly rough feel to the tip. "Wendy, I'm dreadfully sorry. Does it hurt? Are you sure? Absolutely sure?" She tapped it with her fingernail. "Not at all? Well, I'll take you to a dentist tomorrow, and we'll get it replaced…" Her voice faded and she smiled down at Wendy as Wendy took her finger in her mouth and began sucking it, smiling up at her. She kissed Wendy, her lips moving over her downy cheeks and kissing away the dampness of her tears. "I'm very sorry, darling," she murmured. "I'm very sorry for striking you."

"It's all right," Wendy breathed, her lips touching Janice's. "Your hand didn't hurt…" She suddenly giggled. "But your ring felt like a cricket bat hitting me. But that's all right, because kissing you one time is worth all… kiss me, Janice, kiss me – ummmmmmmmmmm…"

They embraced tightly, their mouths opening wider as the kiss became more passionate. Janice's tongue slid deep into Wendy's mouth, and Wendy surged up at her as she wrapped her tongue around Janice's and caressed it. Their saliva blended as they kissed and Janice could feel the need becoming more insistent and demanding within her. She slid one hand down Wendy's thigh, pulling at her dress, and Wendy reached down and snatched her dress up to her waist, pressing Janice's hand against her naked thigh. Janice felt her thigh and slid her hand upward, pressing it flat against Wendy's stomach, and Wendy wormed her hand into the front of Janice's gown as she spread her thighs open. Janice's hand slid down and cupped Wendy's vulva through her panties as Wendy's hand closed over Janice's naked breast.

Wendy closed her eyes and moaned as she took her lips from Janice's, a trembling shudder passing through her and her hand eagerly fondling Janice's breast, and she buried her lips in the hollow of Janice's throat. "God, I knew you didn't have anything on… under your gown… driving me crazy…"

Janice slid her hand into Wendy's panties and pushed it down to the soft, downy hair between her thighs, combing her fingers through it and savoring the feel of Wendy's hand caressing her breast. "Let's go into the bedroom, darling," she murmured.

Wendy nodded, lapping and kissing Janice's neck, and they stood up. Their eyes met, and they surged together with their arms sliding around each other and their lips meeting in a fiery kiss. Janice put her hands on Wendy's back and slid them down to her buttocks, cupping them and squeezing them, and Wendy began undulating against her as she turned her head from side to side, kissing her hotly. Their lips parted, and they moved toward the bedroom with their arms around each other.

They entered the bedroom, and Janice turned on the light as she fumbled for the zipper on Wendy's dress. Wendy stood and looked up at her with naked hunger on her face as Janice unzipped the dress and pushed it off Wendy's shoulders, then she reached around her for the fastener on her bra as the dress fell around her feet. It came loose and she pulled the bra off Wendy, looking down at the small, hard breasts, silkily smooth mounds of resilient flesh tipped by large, protruding nipples. She bent and took one of them in her mouth as she pushed Wendy's panties down her thighs, sucking it gently, then she let it slide from her mouth as she stooped to push Wendy's panties off her feet. She stood back up, trailing her fingers up Wendy's beautifully shaped legs and caressing the bun of soft hair between her smooth thighs, and Wendy gasped and shuddered with sensation as she opened Janice's gown and pushed it off her. Janice let her arms fall to her sides, and the gown slipped off and fell to the floor. Wendy's eyes moved up and down Janice's naked body, and she uttered a choked wail as she threw her arms around Janice, gripping her tightly and caressing her.

They moved toward the bed, their lips pressed together and their hands moving over each other's naked body, and they slid onto the bed together, their legs lacing together and their bodies undulating against each other. Janice pressed Wendy down onto the bed and bent over her, sucking at one of her breasts and fondling the other one, and Wendy writhed on the bed with her long, blonde hair scattering under her head and panting gasps coming from her mouth as she caressed Janice and looked at her. She spread her thighs apart and thrust herself up off the bed as one of Janice's hands moved down between her thighs, and she closed her thighs on Janice's hand and undulated with quick, surging movements of her hips. She suddenly uttered a whimpering wail and thrust herself up off the bed, pulling her breast from Janice's mouth and turning. "I've got to do it," she moaned. "I have to have you right now…"

She seized Janice's thighs and pulled herself around, burying her lips in the triangle of hair between Janice's thighs, and Janice sighed and closed her eyes as she parted her thighs. Wendy's head burrowed between them, and she began lapping Janice's vulva with long strokes of her tongue, still moaning and quivering. Janice opened her eyes, flickers of sensation crossing her face, and she reached for Wendy's thighs. She pulled them toward her as Wendy moved on around on the bed, and they parted as she kissed them. The small, delicate vulva was nestled invitingly in the blonde, silky hair, warm and soft. Janice opened her mouth and covered it with her lips, sucking it and dragging the tip of her tongue back and forth across it.

The heady taste of Wendy's young body was in her mouth, and agonizingly ecstatic sensations were racing through her as Wendy's tongue stroked her clitoris, sending rippling waves of fire coursing through her body. She held Wendy, cupping her buttocks and stroking her back as she teased the tiny godhead of beauty from its nest with her tongue, and Wendy's body began undulating violently as she stroked it with a delicate pressure of the tip of her tongue. It was all there, all she'd hoped for and more. Wendy was a part of her and she was melting into Wendy as they lay with their bodies pressed together and their heads between each other's thighs. She could feel the sensations rising in the small, slender body as though they were the feelings gripping her own, and there was an awareness that Wendy had entered her consciousness and was warmly embracing her on a deeper level, on a more intimate plane.

Then her body was on fire, Wendy's fingers digging into her buttocks and her tongue sending spasms of sheer ecstasy through her. Wendy was with her, her small body throbbing wildly as every tendril in her being came alive in the swelling, soaring flight to orgasm. It reached the peak, pausing there in heart-stopping immobility, then exploded in silent thunder which roared through her head and an all-consuming fire which welled up and enveloped her. This time there was no numb retreat into the solitude of sensation; Wendy moved even closer, interlocking with her and joining her in the wrenching ecstasy.

She lay with her arms around Wendy, and Wendy pillowed her head on her breasts, slowly stroking her hand up and down her back. "I'll drive you home when we've rested, darling," Janice murmured.

"I don't live with my uncle any more – my aunt couldn't stand my practicing on my cello at ail hours of the day and night. I have an apartment down on Howard Street."

Janice smiled happily and squeezed Wendy. "Good. We'll go get your things tomorrow, right after we're through at the dentist's."

Wendy squealed with delight, kissing and nuzzling Janice's breasts. "God, this is… well, I can't say it in English – it's more than wonderful. You're so nice, and… and…"

Janice kissed her forehead, shaking her head slightly. "No, I'm a pig, darling."

"Umm?"

"I'm a pig. I want you again. Now."

Wendy looked up as Janice's voice suddenly became taut, then she surged up toward her, pressing herself to her. "You're not a pig. You're my lover. And I want you, too – I want to make love to you. Kiss me – ummmmmmmmmmmm…"

Their lips crushed together and their tongues caressed in a passionate kiss as they embraced, their legs lacing together as they began fondling each other and undulating.

A month later they were sitting at a table in the airport restaurant. Janice had a small dish of ice cream and a cup of tea in front of her, and Wendy had a large bowl of ice cream mixed with chocolate syrup, whipped topping, pieces of candled fruit, and nuts. Christina walked into the restaurant, glancing around, and her features brightened in a smile as she saw them. She crossed the polished tile floor, her high heels making sharp, cracking noises. "Hi, you two."

They looked up at her and smiled, and Janice waved toward a chair. "Sit down, Christina. Would you care for coffee or a cup of tea?"

Christina shook her head and sighed as she pulled the chair out and collapsed into it. "No, thanks, Janice. I'm like coffee up to my ears. I've just seen the Tuttles off, and they had me up at an ungodly hour this morning, fixing breakfast for them and their pack of kids… oh, well, it's for a good cause, I suppose." She looked at the large bowl in front of Wendy and swallowed. "That ice cream looks good."

"Would you like some?" Wendy asked, her voice muffled by the nuts and fruit she was chewing. "I'll go get you some."

"No, thank you, dear," Christina replied, her voice slightly sharp. "I can smell a spoonful of ice cream and gain three pounds." Her lips tightened slightly as she looked at the bowl. "But I don't suppose you have that problem, do you?"

Wendy shoveled another large spoonful into her mouth and shook her head. "I can't gain weight – I'm too hyper."

Christina's lips became tighter. "And I don't suppose that lake of chocolate topping will give you pimples either, will it?"

Wendy shook her head silently and shrugged, chewing…

"No, I didn't think it would," Christina sighed, looking away. "That's something else I like, but I can smell a chocolate bar, and ten minutes later I'll look like I have measles." She looked at Janice, keeping her eyes away from Wendy's bowl. "What are you two doing here?"

"Today's the day that Wendy's cello and bow arrive."

"Oh, yes, I heard some of the orchestra talking about it. From the way they were talking, it must be some kind of treasure or something."

"Only eight of them in the States," Wendy said. "The cello, that is. I couldn't find out how many Bellini bows there were…"

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Wendy," Christina said. "It pisses me off enough just to see you eating that, and you don't have to rub it in." She looked back at Janice. "When's it supposed to be in?"

"On the nine o'clock polar flight from Europe."

"Well, I'll stick around and take a look at it, then."

Janice smiled. "Don't expect to see too much right away. It's sealed in a crate, and it'll be a couple of days before we completely unwrap it – we want to be sure the change in climate doesn't damage the finish."

"Well, I'll just take a look at the crate, then. From the way everyone's been talking, even that should improve my mind to some extent."

They laughed, and Janice and Christina chatted while Wendy finished her ice cream. When she was through, they left the restaurant and went down the escalator to the main terminal rotunda, then walked slowly through the terminal, chatting as they weaved their way through the people rushing back and forth with luggage. There were two men signing for several boxes at the freight desk. They finished with the clerk and stacked them on a cart, and Janice stepped forward as the clerk glanced up and raised his eyebrows.

"I'm Doctor Wycliffe. I had a crate come in on the nine o'clock polar flight."

The man nodded, picking up a clipboard and leafing through the receipts on it, then he snatched one out of the stack, dropped the clipboard on his desk, and looked through an open doorway behind him. "Charlie, bring out number four thirty six. It's that big wood box over on the side there." He turned back and pulled a form from under the counter. "Would you like it delivered?"

"Is the delivery service insured?"

He nodded, filling in the top of the form. "Twenty cents per pound, maximum of two hundred dollars per item," he rattled. "Additional insurance optional at a cost of ten cents per mile per thousand dollars of insurance."

"I'd like to insure it for ten thousand, please." He glanced at her, looked at the paper he had taken from the clipboard, and nodded. "Yeah, I can see why you would, lady," he chuckled. "That's a piece of coin you have in that box. Let me have your address, and I'll figure out the cost of insurance."

Janice told him the address, and he wrote it on the form and consulted a chart to compute the mileage. There was a rumble of a cart behind him, then a large crate with stickers on all four sides began sliding through the door, rapping against the frame on both sides as the handler edged it through.

"Please to be careful," Wendy said in sudden concern, her French accent thick with the tension in her voice. "It is very delicate."

"Watch what you're doing, Charlie," the man said absently, still writing on the form, then he turned to the box and jerked a small, yellow envelope from the side of it.

"What is the import duty charge?" Janice asked.

The clerk scratched his ear, pursing his lips and looking at the piece of paper he had taken from the envelope. "Well, this is the customs clearance here, and… looks like you made out, lady – I guess they didn't figure it was worth anything."

Janice and Wendy stiffened. Janice's lips pressed together in a firm line and her nostrils flared as she became pale, and Wendy's face flushed as she glared at the clerk, her eyes sparkling. Christina opened her mouth to say something and made an abortive movement to put her hand on Janice's arm, then she dropped her hand and moved back a pace, sighing and looking exasperated.

"May I ask precisely what you meant when you said Customs presumed the contents of that crate were without value?" Janice asked quietly, the tone of her voice penetrating and acid.

The man looked absently up from the form, then his mouth dropped open and he shrugged in surprise at Janice's and Wendy's obvious anger as he looked from one of them to the other. "Hell, I don't know, lady. It's just some kind of old fiddle or something, isn't it?"

Wendy's face turned crimson, and Janice's became white. "I will have you know that there is a Holtzhausen violoncello and a Bellini bow in that crate," Janice hissed, "both of which were made by master craftsmen and both of which are virtually priceless. I find your sense of humor revolting, and I absolutely will not permit you to refer to a musical instrument of this quality…"

"Look, lady, I didn't mean to pi… make you mad," the clerk stuttered as the handler trundled his cart back through the door, looking at them over his shoulder. "I don't know anything about any Pellinis or Householses…"

"…utterly vile and contemptible to have a priceless musical instrument degraded in such a manner…"

"…telling you that you don't have to pay anything, lady…"

"…quite understand your meaning, and I am personally affronted that an instrument of this quality should be treated in such a cavalier manner as to be presumed without value by…"

"You mean you want to pay?" he shouted in disbelief, waving the form.

"Absolutely!" Janice snapped, her voice still quiet but slashing with its caustic, acid intonation. "I insist upon it! I insist that a fair valuation be made of this instrument and that I be permitted to pay an appropriate import fee for it…"

Christina turned and walked toward the terminal entrance, and the angry voices faded behind her. She sighed and shook her head, then she chuckled wryly and began walking more rapidly.

A fat, middle-aged woman in a fur coat and hat plucked at her arm as she passed. "Excuse me."

Christina stopped and turned. "Yes?"

"I saw you over there with… isn't that Doctor Janice Wycliffe, the famous orchestra conductress?"

Christina sighed. "Well, that's Doctor Wycliffe. And the young lady with her is her first cello."

The woman smiled and nodded eagerly, lifting her large handbag and digging in it. "Oh, I don't know if I have it with me… oh, yes – good, here it is." She took an autograph book from her purse and looked back up at Christina. "Do you think she'll give me her autograph?"

Christina looked back at where they were standing. The freight clerk was now silent, scratching his ear worriedly and looking down at the floor, and Janice was standing straight and rigid, her lips moving rapidly as the scathing tirade came from them. The sound of her voice was only a murmur across the massive room, but it sounded as though she was beginning to break into German. Wendy was starting to join in. And it sounded like French. Christina slowly shook her head and looked back down at the woman. "No, I don't think I'd ask her right now."

The woman stiffened and raised her chin. "Well, may I ask why?"

"Certainly. It's because you're more likely to get you pen shoved up your ass than anything else right now."

The woman flushed and stepped back. "I beg your pardon!"

"You'll be doing more than that if you go over there waving an autograph book around right now." She looked at Janice again, smiling slightly. "You see, that isn't really Doctor Wycliffe the famous conductress right now. That's Fraulein Doktor Janice Wycliffe the musician. Sometimes I think I've never met anyone who can compare with her for sheer lunacy. Look at her – all pissed off because the man won't take her money. But she's also the most beautiful person I've ever met – the most beautiful in every way. Sensitive, emotional, temperamental, and exciting…" She suddenly broke off as tears flooded into her eyes and a quaver entered her voice, and she blinked rapidly. She cleared her throat and began talking again, her voice soft and thoughtful. "With the possible exception of that little chick with her, I really believe she's the only person I've ever met who's been truly alive in all the ways that makes any difference."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

Christina cleared her throat again and sighed, nodding. "I'm not so sure I do myself. If I did, perhaps I could explain it to you. Perhaps I could even explain it to myself. Take my advice, though – no autographs." She turned and began walking rapidly toward the entrance, pressing her lips together and raising her chin as she blinked her eyes.

The woman looked at Christina walking toward the entrance, then turned and looked at Janice for along, thoughtful moment. She put her autograph book back in her purse with a shrug and walked on.

Content

Terry Fisher
Women

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN