“The Cradle,” she said.

The limousine, spacious as it was, seemed too small; almost like a coffin. Israfel, seated next to her, was still, looking without the window; the girl’s fragile form was clothed in black, as if for a wake.

The line dead, Heaven cradled the phone’s receiver against her neck, closed her eyes, a moment of silence.

“Is this your home?” Israfel asked, as their limousine passed between the huge gates.

“No, no more than any other place we’ve been,” Heaven replied, turning around to study the estate’s perimeter as the car drove down the curve of the road, “Where home is to the heart, The Cradle is to the head.”

“I don’t understand,” Israfel said, after a moment.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Heaven forgot all about security – she could breach the perimeter easily – as the limousine stopped before the huge mansion. She looked at it through the window; an imposing structure, very much as she had remembered it, lights scattered in the windows and shining brightly over the front door. Three decades now? Four, five? She didn’t know.

Israfel, leaning upon and looking over her shoulder, was awestruck. “It would be nice to have a home like this. To keep your heart here.”

Heaven gave a slight smile, of quiet sorrow, “Yes, I suppose it would be nice.” Nice too, if I had a heart I could keep, and not simply a place to keep it in.

Their driver pulled open the door in one fluid motion. She stepped out, thanking him with a nod, walked quickly across the gravel, halfway up the stairs to the entrance when the large doors opened and a figure came rushing out.

“I’m sorry, milady,” the man began by apologising, obviously flustered, giving her a nod that was almost a bow. “Miss,” he greeted Israfel, as she caught up with Heaven. He looked to be in his thirties, dressed in a sharp suit, entirely in black, different shades for the cotton of his shirt and the silk of his tie. He carried himself with dignity, which easily showed in spite of his current deferment to Heaven.

She offered him a pale hand, which he leaned forward to kiss. Israfel appeared to be at a loss, was rescued by the man, who gave her a hug, kissing her upon both cheeks. “I’m Philip,” he introduced himself, “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you, milady.”

She smiled grimly, “Most unfortunate, then, that our first meeting is under circumstances such as these are.”

Immediately, a sadness subtly touched his features, a cloud over his eyes. “I’ll see you to your rooms,” he said, after a moment.

“No. Please, direct me to your father.”

“Yes, milady. He would be very happy to see you.”

“Good. After which, direct her to my rooms, get her something to eat, I think.”

The scent of death filled the room. Not the death that she brought nightly, not that quick sweetness of fire in blood, but the slow pungent death that slowly comes, not in a single night but over the accumulated decades of a lifetime – the scent in the space of the upper bulb of the hourglass, when its treasure of grains are almost entirely squandered.

The scent would have repulsed her, had circumstances been different. Instead, she barely registered it as she moved quickly to the bed, knelt down upon her knees before it, taking the hands of the figure – old, so very very old – lying sunken in the folds of the sheets. Around her, Philip was guiding the room’s other occupants out, she noticed their movements only enough to hold her tongue until the door had closed.

The man in the bed gave her a kind smile, his voice tired and weak when he spoke, “You’ve come. I knew you would.”

“Philip, of course. You’ve served me for a lifetime, how can I deny you a few weeks?”

“Milady, you try so hard to be cold, but I know, I know.”

“What is that you know?”

“Not so much as a few weeks, milady, just one night. I wanted to see you, and such a beautiful sight you are, and now, now I want to go. Tonight, grant me my peace.”

“But–” she paused, feeling uncertain.

“Milady, I have never asked a single thing from you. Allow me this.”

“But– you don’t have to, I offered you the Gift, once, it is still yours.”

“Tithonos.”

“No, no. Your body will repair itself, your strength return.”

“Shall I serve you for eternity?”

“No, of course not. You don’t have to, you can do whatever you want, whatever pleases you.”

“It would please me to go now, while I still have some dignity left. Milady, all I have ever known is to serve you. I have done everything I’ve wanted to do. Need I tell you that I have spent more money than a king, travelled the world, twice, more? Shall I tell you that I have loved a wife, as beautiful as you, who has given me two children I am always proud of? There is nothing else that time can give me. The Gift is for those who are served, not those who do the serving.”

“But–” she didn’t understand, felt helpless.

“Milady, I long to see my wife. I miss her greatly.”

“I–” she tried to find the words that could steer him from his course, desperately failed.

“Tonight, milady. I have already said my goodbyes.”

She kept quiet, defeated.

“Don’t cry,” he said, putting a hand to her face, touching tears she hadn’t realised she had shed.

Finally, she gave a small nod, “Alright, Philip, tonight.”

“Thank you, milady, thank you.”

She smiled, soft and sad, “Call me by name, just once, please.”

“Heaven,” he whispered, as he shut his eyes.

She looked upon him, once more, lightly kissed both his eyelids, his lips, his neck.

“I know you,” he said, at the last, “Heaven.”

For a time interminable, she sat upon the bed, still and quiet, looking down upon him. Upon what was him.

She heard the knock on the door, soft and respectful, though she paid it no attention. She realised she had stopped breathing, didn’t wonder why, didn’t bother to start.

Then Philip, the son, was standing beside her, on the edge of her vision.

He uncertainly lifted a hand, had almost placed it upon her shoulder, when she turned to face him.

The hand withdrew. “Milady,” he said, “it is almost dawn.”

She nodded, turned away.

“I’ll see you to your rooms.”

She waved a hand, dismissing him, but he made no move to leave. Finally, she stood up, moved for the egress.

“Milady, would you like to be there, for the service, the burial?”

She made no reply until she stopped by the door. “No,” she said, without turning around, “it’s not important. Bury him by day, in the sunlight.”

She realised that she was awake, had been thus for some time now. Her thoughts had seamlessly drifted out of dream and into coherency. Her eyes flicked open, she was safe in her sanctum.

She lay there, for a while longer, trying to return to sleep, knowing it would not come.

I didn’t even know him, really. That was probably the longest conversation we’ve ever had, face to face. And yet he has – had – always been there, on the phone, when I need him, though I think his son has been taking care of most of the work for a long time now. Still, he’s the one I talk to.

It’s just that he’s always there, a quick-dial away, and, now, suddenly, he isn’t anymore.

This place makes me feel alone.

She gave a wry smile. So this is what being alone feels like, no wonder people write poetry. Doesn’t explain why they would read it, though.

Standing up, she stretched, languidly walked toward the refrigerator, drank the cold straight down, returning the empty bottle. She opened the wardrobe, looked through the dresses within, all tailored to her exact size, a sample of each fashion from several centuries till the present, mostly black, which she favoured for aesthetic as well as practical reasons.

Selecting a dress at random, she slipped it on. Philip will be waiting, somewhere between here and my rooms above. She wondered what he would be doing; reading, possibly, writing, or would he be sitting somewhere, in the dark, simply grieving?

Around her, in this, her most private of places, were some of the things she had collected over several generations. Things she had sent, through a dozen intermediaries, threading their way around the world to arrive here, in this dry stone vault. Books she would never read lay piled in a corner, valuable more for what they were than for what they contained, replica of famous swords, masks from a dozen cultures, enchanted knick-knacks, paintings, vases; things, really. She paid no notice to any of the assortment; they were already hers, after all.

And yet, she had slept the day as these things did, preserved in airtight darkness. I’m an antique, eroded by light and air. She almost laughed at the absurdity of the metaphor.

She exited the room, the door disappearing behind her into a section of wall. Carefully, she walked through the maze, memory leading her way. Up a flight of steps, and she was in the secret passages that wound their way through the house. Finally, she opened a door – the back curve of an alcove – stepped past a statue, was in a corner of the anteroom to her private chambers.

There; Philip, sitting in a chair, staring, seemingly into space.

“Grieving?” she conversationally asked.

“Wha–?” he looked around, startled, saw her, smiled warmly, automatically stood up. “Milady, no. It’s almost a relief, really. I don’t really feel anything, maybe I’m in shock.”

“Denial,” she said, as she closed the distance between them, gesturing him to return to his seat.

“Oh. Yes, denial. The first of the stages of grief, not shock. I know that.”

“What are you doing, then?”

“Thinking of redecorating some of the rooms, actually,” his words came out in a rush, “We have a lot of things in storage, and…” his voice trailed off, “I’m starting to babble.”

“Give everyone a week off, including yourself. A month, I think. Clear your head.”

“No, no. I think work will help take people’s minds off things. My father was very well loved. Anyway, we get quite enough time off as it is. You are,” he smiled, “a very good employer.”

“That’s good to know,” she said, moving the vase – early Ming Dynasty – on the table – Louis XVI – opposite him to one side, seated herself upon it, swinging her legs.

“Are you leaving tonight? I’d like to show you around, we’ve made a lot of additions since your last return.”

“We’ll hang around, then. Israfel can use a break, we’ve been moving around for a bit.”

“It will be my pleasure, then. Whenever you please, milady.”

“Now’s a good time. Let me get the girl.”

Rooms, rooms, more rooms; libraries, galleries, dining, more galleries, art on the walls, upon the furniture, as the furniture; lush carpet beneath and sparkling chandeliers above. A wing; a heated pool, a game room, a disco, a small theatre, a jeweller, shops; selling clothes, toys, things, giving out essentials – she was reminded of a cruise ship, sort of a shopping district in microcosm. There was another wing with the offices, men in casuals typing on terminals and talking on the phone, room after room, empty or bustling based on a time zone somewhere across the globe. She was told that another building provided rent-free housing, for those who choose to stay, as well as childcare, a pub, a dojo, a gym, a clinic. Somewhere else she had people to restore the art, preserve the books, repair the clockwork.

When the tour was over, the four of them settled in the solarium, with Philip explaining the manor’s history to an eager Israfel, “–ancestor of mine supervised the construction. My family has been serving milady’s for generations, even before we settled here. In the beginning we served a seneschal role, in more modern times, with better communications, we act sort of like a CEO. Milady is very rich, and it takes a large staff to keep her affairs in order. It’s all legal, of course, except where necessary to protect milady’s privacy.”

Israfel nudged Heaven with an elbow, “This milady thing is very pleasant. Are you royalty of some sort?”

Her eyebrows furrowed as drew her attention back, trying to recall the tail end of the conversation, “Oh, no. I’m just an heiress. I have no idea why they call me that, really. Probably because I’m a good employer.”

Philip smiled, “Milady is. We employ for life, and we reward loyalty, the older you are, the more you earn. Full medical and insurance coverage for the entire family, annual leave almost double the national average, profit-sharing, a pension plan, it’s the best possible package, anywhere. We also–”

Heaven let him drone on. The Cradle, as far as she was concerned, was just a place to put money when she had it and take money from when she needed it. She had been informed several times – once each generation – that the sum of her assets, if liquidated all at once, will have a not insignificant impact upon the global economy. She had attempted on many occasions to think up a scenario in which that could possibly be rewarding in some way – among them buying up Italy during the second War, but no such plan had proved feasible.

“–to mention that we rarely have to fire people, since they won’t do anything to risk their job–”

She looked about her; the solarium was a new addition, new to her, at least. A perfectly circular room, exactly half of it walled by glass, topped by a dome. The floor had a compass rose inlaid with mosaic, the division between wall and glass along the east-west axis. She imagined it would be possible to see the sun’s entire passage through the day without moving. The mosaic had arrows delineating places far off – the Vatican, Mecca, the Kotel, the Hall of Supreme Harmony, the Mayadevi Temple – while the perimeter of the room was lined with flowers, and she amused herself for a while trying to identify them by scent; difficult, over the Earl Grey the party was drinking. The table they sat around – wrought-iron, with a glass top – stood in the room’s centre, upon the rose, the table’s four legs corresponding to the cardinal points. The night was cool, and the half-moon shone above them in a cloudy sky.

Philip was talking animatedly about his adventures in Paris, a trip, apparently, paid for by her. A turn in the conversation brought about, she supposed, since that was the city she and Israfel were last in. She placed a hand on Israfel’s bare leg, letting her fingers slowly ride up beneath the girl’s skirt while Philip kept talking, he seemed to be enjoying himself, and she tried her best to listen – his father had just died, after all – amusing herself by distracting Israfel.

She was walking down a corridor – Philip beside her, Israfel behind – when the scream came at her, shrill and loud.

“Murderer!” It issued vengefully from the mouth of a woman, fire in her eyes as she came at Heaven, a knife shining in her raised hand.

“No! Stop!” Philip gave a shout, which went unheeded by accuser and accused.

Heaven deftly stepped aside as the knife slashed, grapped hold of the woman’s wrist with one hand, twisting it and pulling her forward. The knife fell; the woman, pulled off balance, tripped over an offered leg, crumbled onto the floor.

“Be nice,” she cheerfully said, as she stepped back, kicking the knife to one side.

Philip rushed forward as the attacker attempted to stand, caught hold of her as she renewed her attack with a scream. She turned her head to look at him, frenzied and screeching, “how could you? He was your father!”

Heaven moved toward the woman, gave her a backhanded slap across one cheek, a light slap, enough to shock her into submission, not enough to snap her neck. “Listen very carefully,” she stated, meeting the woman’s stare, “if I ever see you again, I will break every bone in your body. And *then* I’ll kill you.”

She went toward Israfel, standing still, her eyes wide. Taking Israfel’s hand, she pulled the girl away, past Philip and his captive, down the hall. “Come on, I want to see what movies my theatre has, hopefully something good.”

Later, Philip would find her in the darkened theatre, make an attempt to apologise, explanations at the ready. She would shush him for interrupting the film – something or other with Robin Williams – pat the seat next to her, and continue watching.

She awoke to find herself in her private bedroom, the air around her lingering with a trace of Israfel’s lavender. She found the girl herself in the bath, rose petals floating in the water, a glass of champagne at her side, her chosen scent strong in the air.

“Hi,” Heaven said, noting the array of toiletries around the sink that wasn’t there before, skincare lotions and other things which women were supposed to use but she never did. Israfel shows herself in the bathroom more than anywhere else.

“I was thinking,” Israfel said, pausing a moment to gather her thoughts.

Heaven stopped, turned back to the door, “Pause,” she said, leaving the room. Returning a moment later, she pulled the cover down on the toilet, seating herself and lighting the cigarette she had went out to retrieve.

“You want to come in?” Israfel asked, meaning the bath. She sat up, drawing her legs to her and hugging them with both arms, causing the water to overflow, splashing onto the tiles.

“After this,” Heaven replied, waving the nicotine in her hand, “You were thinking,” she prompted.

Israfel placed her chin upon her knees, eyes fixed on Heaven, “Last night, when you said you would kill her – that crazy woman – if you saw her again. You really would, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course. A promise is a promise. Assuming I can remember her face, which I can’t anymore,” she paused, reflecting, “That could be a problem.”

“You do that often?”

“Drinking mead out of the skulls of my enemies? More than most people, I guess. I would have killed her then and there, if Philip hadn’t shouted.”

“Philip has never seen you before?”

Heaven nodded.

“You haven’t been here in a long time.”

Heaven nodded again – the girl seems to be catching on. About time, considering.

“And he has worked here all his life.”

Heaven smiled, “He was out of town when last I came.” True, since he hadn’t been born yet.

Israfel looked unsatisfied.

“Maybe,” Heaven said, lifting the toilet cover up and dropping her cigarette into the bowl, “I’m not telling you the truth,” she climbed into the bath opposite Israfel, “but the question is, if I told you the truth – the whole grandiose truth – what are you going to do with it?”

Israfel had lifted her head when Heaven entered the bath, sat quiet, looking at her.

“Not to say I’ve lied, of course. But,” she raised a finger for emphasis, “if I told you everything, my deep dark secret,” she leaned forward, placed her hand upon one knee, “what are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t understand,” the girl replied, “what *can* I do with it? I wouldn’t tell anyone. I’ll keep it,” she placed her hand over Heaven’s, giving it a squeeze, she smiled, “I’ll keep your secret.”

“That’s good,” Heaven softly said, placing her free hand upon the girl’s other knee, “then I’ll tell you that when you figure it out, I’ll trust you to keep it.”

“But–”

Heaven pulled Israfel’s legs apart, her hands travelled slowly downward, along the girl’s inner thighs, “No. If I told you, you wouldn’t understand, and then, well, I’ll have to kill you.”

“And if I figure it out?”

“If you know me well enough to figure it out – and I haven’t been hiding anything – I think it wouldn’t matter.”

Israfel nodded.

“That’s settled, then,” Heaven smiled. Or maybe I’d kill you anyway, who knows.

She found a girl standing by the door in the antechamber to her rooms. “You are?” she asked, an eyebrow arched with the question.

“Mary,” the girl replied, looking down, “I’m to be your maid, miss.”

“I don’t think we need a maid,” she turned to Israfel, “do we need a maid?”

Israfel shrugged.

“Tell you what, all you need do is dust the rooms, replace the towels, that kind of thing, like in a hotel. Do it when I’m not around. Right now, get Philip to join her for dinner, I’ve got work to do.”

Philip was asking her for a favour.

“But I don’t see why you should force him to do it, if he doesn’t want to,” she petulantly replied.

Philip spoke with endless patience, “He’s my son, milady. I followed my father, he should follow me. It’s *tradition*.”

She cringed at his last word. “Yes, but I’m sure there’ve been some breaks, you couldn’t have been fathers and sons all the way. It’s been centuries!” she cried, exasperated; Israfel’s silent amusement further irking her.

“Of course, milady. Nephews, brothers, an adopted son, once. Some women, too, but–”

“Okay, okay, fine,” she held up a hand to shut him up, “*tradition*, yes, got it,” she sighed, “I’ll go talk to him, okay?”

He grabbed her hand, kissed it, gushing appreciation in a stream of thank-yous.

“Send him to, say, the solarium. It’s pleasant there.”

“Of course, milady. Try and *impress* upon him how important this is. It’s his duty, his destiny.”

She rolled her eyes, gently pulled her hand back, waved him away with it. Israfel beside her, she made her way to the solarium. “Why do you think,” she asked, “that he believes I can make a difference when he obviously can’t?”

“You do have a way of seducing people.”

“I’m not supposed to seduce him, am I? I don’t see how that could help, I’ll leave sooner or later, and he would have to stay.”

“I meant seduce him mentally; inspire him.”

“I don’t suppose threatening him would be a good idea.”

“Probably not. Can’t you think of other ways of dealing with people besides bedding them or hurting them?”

“It always worked before,” she said, musing.

“Always?”

“Most of the time.”

Philip, the son of the son, looked very much like his father. He appeared to be in his twenties, which probably meant that Philip the elder was older than he looked. The likeness between them ended with physicality, however; he carried himself awkwardly, lacking the dignity of his parent. Dressed in an ill-fitting shirt and pants, he sat obediently when Heaven waved him into the empty seat across from her and Israfel.

He hesitated a moment, uncomfortable beneath her wide-eyed scrutiny, “ehrm, milady?”

“Israfel, Philip,” she introduced them with a quick wave. “You know why you’re here?” she directly asked him.

“My father thinks you can change my mind,” he slowly said. She could see that he was thinking his replies through before voicing them.

“Tea?” she asked, reaching for the pot.

He intercepted it, “I’ll do it,” he said, the words coming out rushed and in a tumble, and poured himself a cup.

“A gentleman,” she said, warmly smiling, “I like that.”

He blushed. Israfel placed her hand upon Heaven’s lap, giving it a squeeze, and she remembered she wasn’t supposed to seduce him.

“Okay, fine,” she said, “let’s forget about what we’re supposed to be talking about,” she waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, “and just talk. Between friends.”

He nodded, his attention entirely focussed on his tea – two teaspoons of sugar, milk instead of lemon.

“So,” she said, trying to remember what small-talk is supposed to sound like, “What are you going to be, when you grow up?”

“I’m not sure. I want to travel. Get a job where I can travel.”

“I understand you get to travel quite a bit, working here.”

“I know, but…” he hesitated.

“Ahh, I see. You’re not sure what you want, but you’re sure you can’t find it here.”

“I think so,” he nodded.

Heaven paused, certain she had attempted to change the subject, and wondering who had changed it back.

“Why’s that?” Israfel leaned forward and asked.

He looked up at her, seeming to notice her for the first time. “No offence, miss,” turning to Heaven, “but it’s like…” he paused, took a breath while Heaven waved him to continue, “it’s like we’re house-sitting for our rich relatives, and I want to make something of my life.”

“House-sitting?” she asked.

“He means to say that even though they live very well, working for you,” Israfel said, looking at Philip as she spoke, allowing him to deny her interpretation, “living in this house and travelling and all, nothing is really his. It’s yours, he’s just, well, house-sitting.”

Heaven nodded, “that makes sense. You want something in your name, which you built up with your own two hands. Very noble. Okay! You’re free–”

Israfel squeezed her leg again, cutting her off. Heaven moved the offending hand away as Israfel asked Philip, “what about duty and tradition? Isn’t that important?”

“It *is*,” he fervently said, “but it’s not all-important, the way it is for my father. I mean, Grandpa just died, for god’s sakes, and it’s still business as usual for him.”

Heaven shrugged as Israfel started into her reply. Obviously I’m not needed here anymore, they look about the same age; actually, so do I, come to that. Must be a generation gap, though, I have no idea what the girl’s going on about. She brought up her teacup, appreciating the fine porcelain, returned it to its saucer, poured the tea, leaned back against her chair and, once again, tried to identify the flowers by scent. Do we have lavender here, or is that just Israfel? I really should call her Lavender instead. The moon is bright, three-quarter waxing, pretty. He’s looking at her tits, trying not to look, why isn’t he looking at mine? Heaven looked down, attempted an objective comparison. Well, hers are bigger, I suppose. What is it with men and big breasts? She tried to remember when it was explained to her; something to do with childbearing, survival of the species–

Philip stood up to leave, was thanking her for her time, she nodded and smiled politely. He closed the door behind him as he left, she turned to face Israfel, “How did I do?”

Israfel shook her head, smiling, “He’s doing his Masters in Economics. He’s agreed to work here for two years after that, for his father’s sake, give it a try.”

“So I did okay?”

“Yes,” Israfel laughed, “yes, I suppose you did.”

Philip senior was appreciative and vocal about it. She passed the blame to Israfel, who seemed to enjoy the fawning more than she did. He offered, of course, to do anything, anything at all, to show his thanks – somewhat irrelevant, she considered, since he would do anything she asked anyway – he was, after all, keeping her supplied with blood – but she supposed it was the sentiment that mattered. A few nights later, she decided to take him up on his offer.

“I want a temple built.”

“Of course, milady.”

“Attached to the house, there’s a chapel around, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Tear it down and replace it with the temple.”

“Perhaps we could build a new extension. The chapel has historical value, and some of the staff do visit it.”

“Oh, they do? Alright, a new extension then. I want a temple to Psyche. Build it in replica of the greatest temple to Psyche in all of antiquity.”

“I don’t believe Psyche had any temples, milady.”

“No?”

“Keats, I believe, mentioned that in his Ode to Psyche. It’s considered one of the turning points of his career.”

“That poem is in my book,” Israfel helpfully added, “if you want to read it.”

“Poem? No, don’t change the subject! We’re talking about my temple. If there has never been one, it’s about time somebody went and built one. The time is now and you can take a guess who that somebody is.”

“Of course, milady. Might I inquire what for?”

“I think it would be nice. Maybe she’ll give me my diamonds back.”

“Your diamonds?” Israfel asked, while Philip nodded politely.

“It’s not important,” she paused for a moment, considering, “lots of butterflies, I think.”

“Lots of butterflies it is, milady. I believe Psyche features on some of the art we have around.”

“Good thing you were going to go through all that stuff, then, isn’t it?”

“Good thing it is, milady.”

“Why the sudden decision to build a temple to Psyche?” Israfel asked, when they were on their way back from one of the two towns that lay within an hour’s drive from the house. The limousine, large as it was, was cluttered with bags from their shopping. Heaven had been sulking since they didn’t have shoes her size; the question, she supposed, was intended to draw her out of her mood – Israfel saved her idle curiosity for occasions like this.

“We have a chapel, don’t we? It’s only fair. Heliocentricity offends me.”

“‘Heliocentricity’? What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure, but I was told it’s why the world is ruled by men, and it has something to do with sun gods, like Christ.”

“I see. Shouldn’t it be heliocracy?”

“Anyway, it’s because the world is ruled by men that’s why the world is as bad as it is, right? So a blow against heliocentricity is a blow for us all.”

“You are so making this up.”

“I’m not. Someone explained it all to me once.”

“And you sat still long enough to listen?”

“Well, he was very dear to me. Hey, what do you mean by that?!”

“I mean that ‘heliocentricity’ isn’t the real reason you’re building a temple. It has nothing to do with the chapel.”

She waved a hand, dismissing the subject, “It’s too nice a night to talk about chapels.”

On the night of the full moon they went riding, making a picnic of it with a bottle of red red wine.

Animals, for the most part, go ballistic around Heaven – their fight-or-flight reflexes take over – dogs would bark or cower, cats would hiss or run.

The mare she was riding upon was *very* docile, and she found it irritable that she couldn’t gallop through the woods. Israfel’s ride – an Arabian something-or-other – would have been a lot more pleasurable, but the strength in its limbs applied as much to its personality, and it would not let Heaven come within striking distance.

Riding, as a pastime, quickly lost its charm for her, she figured she could walk faster than the mare. Reaching the edge of the woods, she got off and gestured Israfel to do the same.

“That was fun,” the girl said.

Heaven smiled politely, “Leave them, they’ll find their own way back.”

She passed the picnic basket to the girl, who retrieved the cloth mat within and spread it out upon the grass. Heaven held the glasses while Israfel poured their wine.

They remained silent, on the edge of the wood, beneath the silver moon. The wind, when it came, was gentle, and the chill in the air slight. The wind brought with it the scent of the earth, something Heaven enjoyed for experiencing so rarely – she was a city girl, for preference and practicality. They sat by each other, barely, almost touching, sipping the wine.

Israfel broke the still. “You will leave soon, won’t you,” she said, a statement of fact.

“Yes,” Heaven replied, turning to find the girl watching her.

Israfel smiled, small and sad, “I thought so.”

“You want to stay.”

She nodded, once, a slight movement of her head.

“I thought so,” Heaven smiled.

“So what now?”

She shrugged, “I leave, you stay.”

“You don’t feel anything, do you,” Israfel said, almost accusingly, turning away and looking out across the grass.

“You mean do I feel sorrow. I don’t. What’s there to be sorry for?”

“That our time together is over?”

“It doesn’t have to be. Except you choose to stay, and I choose to leave. It *is* a choice. I don’t feel sorry for my choices.”

They kept quiet for a while, then Israfel asked, “Will you be coming back?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Heaven said, looking at her profile, “it won’t ever be the same again, once I leave.”

Again, they remained quiet, between the earth and the moon. Israfel turned back to face her, “I am sorry, even if you’re not. I will miss you when you’re gone. But you haven’t left, so I guess I shouldn’t feel sorry. Not yet.”

Heaven smiled, “Ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?” She stood up, pulled Israfel to her feet.

Israfel laughed, “Am I prey, now?”

“Come,” she replied, starting to undress, “we’ll do more than dance, we’ll dance naked.”

Israfel smiled shyly, reached out, “how about we do the other sort of dance instead?”

There was a familiar rush in her veins, barely felt, but there. She felt alert, alive, a clearness in her sensorium; she was on the move again.

The moon above her, still full, shone brightly. The night air was crisp, the graveyard around her decorated with stone angels. She wasn’t sure where the grave was, but expected to know when she came near – by the scent of freshly turned earth, perhaps, or of flowers almost withered. Instead, she found the grave by finding Philip, standing with his head bowed, in silent communication with one father or another – in the earth beneath or the sky above.

She went up to him, deliberately making noise to alert him to her approach. He spoke when she reached him, “Milady.”

“Philip,” she nodded at the grave, then at him.

“Israfel told me you will be leaving tonight.”

Heaven smiled, she knows when I decide to leave I leave at once. But she should know, she’s been with me long enough. “Yes,” she said, “tonight.”

“I figured you’d come here, to say goodbye.”

“I’ve already said my goodbyes. You came to talk to me. I am here to talk to you.”

“How odd,” he replied, “almost convoluted in its logic.”

“Not really. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“I wanted to thank you. For what you did for him. He didn’t show it, but he was in a lot of pain. I wanted to thank you for coming. And to say I will be proud to serve you, as he had, to the last of my days.”

She kept silent, looking at the marker and the dates upon it; numbers, meaningless to her. When she was certain he had nothing more to add, she spoke, still looking at the simple grave, “What he went through – the pain – you don’t have to. You don’t have to die.”

She felt him looking at her, felt his gaze on the side of her face. “Are you offering me…?” he asked.

“The Gift. It’s called the Gift. Eternal life, whatever. You know what I am.”

He looked away, down at the grave, up at the circle of the moon. “Did you give my father this choice?”

“If I had not?”

“Then I am unworthy.”

“And if I had?”

“Then he refused you, and I am as unworthy to accept.”

She smiled, “I hope that is not your real reason – which I have no intention of prying – because you do not strike me as so foolish a man as to do something simply because his father has done so.”

“That is in fact my real reason, milady. We have served you for hundreds of years, maybe thousands, I don’t know. But my father has the newest stone, and all the others before him are buried here, ever since the house was built. Maybe you didn’t offer… ‘The Gift’ to all of them, or maybe doing something simply because his father has done so is in our blood.”

“Alright. You know how to reach me, should you change your mind. Do you know of the story of Tithonos?”

“No, I don’t, milady. Why?”

“Something your father said to me. It doesn’t matter. He was one of the lovers of Eos. Eos, whose sister is the moon and brother the sun. Her tears are the dew and her children the winds.”

“And the time when all men of reason go to bed,” Philip added, wryly.

“And women as well, though not necessarily of reason. Do you think that’s why? Because eternity is a prison as well as a gift?”

He remained silent. He had told her his reason, and he would not presume to guess his father’s. It was a rhetorical question.

At last she shrugged, and he saw the question fade away from her face, forgotten. “One last thing,” she said, “your father said that he *knew* me. Do you know what he meant?”

“I’m not sure. But, when he asked me to call you, I told him not to expect anything. You haven’t been back here for so long, I told him not to expect you to return at all. He just smiled, said that he knew you. He said that he knew you had a heart.”

The poor man must have lost it, she decided, senility – happens to the best of them. She turned her head, looked him in the eyes, smiled. “Goodnight, Philip,” she said, gave him a kiss on the cheek, turned, walking between the watching angels.

“Milady,” he called.

She stopped, turned back to face him.

“I think he’s right.”

She found Israfel waiting in the limousine, directed the driver to leave the moment the door had closed behind her.

The girl spoke, as Heaven settled herself, “I called ahead the moment I saw you, you can leave as soon as we arrive.”

“Thank you,” Heaven said.

They rode on in silence for a while. She had never been comfortable with farewells – usually left without a word. She wasn’t sure if Israfel was going to be emotional, the girl had been stable since the night they had met, maybe the circumstances of that first meeting had shocked her out of it or something. Heaven wasn’t sure, she fervently hoped that she didn’t have to deal with an emotional parting.

“I think Philip has a thing for me,” Israfel said, breaking Heaven’s reverie.

“Oh? The big one or the little one?”

“The little one.”

Heaven laughed, surprised, “So, how little are we talking about, here?”

Israfel responded with a soft punch, “I don’t know! I don’t open wide the moment some guy winks at me, unlike some people. We’ve just been talking, he’s started joining us for dinner after that chat we three had. Which you would already know, if you bothered to listen to me.”

Heaven pouted, “I do listen.”

“You try to listen. Actual listening is different.”

“I like the big one. Salt of the earth.”

“You have to like him, he manages all your affairs.”

A part of my affairs. “That’s true, I suppose, but go for him, the big one. Or both of them.”

Israfel rolled her eyes, laughed. She brought out a small lavender box, “here, a gift.”

Heaven’s eyes widened in question, she accepted it. The small box fit nicely in the palm of her hand, she opened it, shook out its contents – a small pendant, in the shape of a heart, crystal or glass encasing something dark–

“Earth,” Israfel said, “from… home, I guess. From home.”

“Thank you,” Heaven smiled, “I will cherish it.” She closed her hand around it, shut her eyes, opened them to find Israfel looking at her, “Keep it for me.”

Israfel seemed startled by the request, “But–”

“You know I don’t take valuables with me, I could lose them. I don’t want to lose this, so keep it for me.”

Heaven took the girl’s hand, placed the gift in it, closed unresisting fingers around it.

Israfel looked up at her, smiled.

“Maybe,” she said, as the car rolled to a stop at their destination, “it would be nice to have a place to keep my heart. And someone to keep it for me.”