T'Phol's cabin was smaller than McCoy's with one undivided area. The Moog had been moved to a table of its own, taking up a lot of the free space. There was an interesting spiral shaped glass-like sculpture in a stand on her desk. It was about a foot in diameter. McCoy paused to look at it for a long time, drawn to the swirling design. As he watched, he could see colors and patterns seem to shift in its depths.

"What is this? It looks like a galaxy."

"It is an Anterean Aura-Lumina. Sometimes they are called a starry night. Sit, and I will demonstrate."

She took her violin out of its case and dimmed the room lighting, handing the sculpture to him. "You need to hold it." It was not as heavy as he expected and he felt an odd vibration, like the thing was thrumming in his hands. T'Phol played a scale and he felt the humming change and the lights within it brightened and moved. She played a different scale and the colors shifted. He thought he could feel the vibrations responding to the change in pitch.

"Can you feel it? Some people are more receptive than others. It is filled with luminescent organisms that respond to both bio-activity and frequency manipulation in their environment by the release of light and restrained sympathetic resonance. The more complex the stimuli, the more complex the response. It is one way to both feel and see music. I shall now play some Vivaldi for you and you can experience it for yourself."

He sat mesmerized as the sweet and true tones filled the cabin and the device glowed and seemed to pulse in his hands, the colors dancing and swirling in intricate pattern. T'Phol was intrigued by his fascination and finished the entire Spring movement from The Four Seasons. He stared long after the last note finished, feeling the effect fade until it was quiet again. He looked up at T'Phol, awed. "Incredible. Talk about addictive."

She gently removed the sculpture from his hands and set it back in its holder. It felt very warm, almost hot where he had been touching it. "I have never seen it so active. It seems to be quite responsive to you, or you to it. Not everyone can interact so easily. These also become conditioned to their specific stimuli. For instance, this one 'knows' my violin. It would not be nearly so reactive to a different instrument, say a horn or piano, or even a viola."

"Is that how you perceive music in your brain? Colors and patterns? Like the starry night"

"Not exactly." Her eyes became distant, as if she was searching within. "Perhaps similarly, but my colors and patterns have no name except those inside my head." She looked at him and shook her head. "I cannot explain. And I have tried. You are talking too much. I will get you some more tea."

She did so, setting the cup in front of him. He took a sip. "Please continue playing, if you're not tired. How many hours do you practice every day?"

"For something completely new, on an individual piece, perhaps three or four hours at the beginning. Some of that will be with my fingers and some with my mind. My actual practice time varies widely. Sometimes I spend ten hours and sometimes two." She took up the violin again. "Here is Mozart."

McCoy found himself watching her hands, thinking of the long hours in study and practice that enabled those strong fingers to move with such fluid ease over the strings. She played several short pieces before stopping.

"That was a mixture from different Mozart violin sonatas."

"You must do the same thing over and over during practice. Do you ever get tired of playing them? Even for an audience?"

"There are pieces that I enjoy performing more than others. But practice does not mean that I play the entire piece over and over. I might only work on one place. Perhaps just a few bars that I repeat again and again until I find the sound I want. Even rehearsal with an orchestra follows the same routine. The conductor might repeat the same passage to adjust one section or another. I have seldom run through the entire set at once when rehearsing as the guest artist."

"So which is your favorite instrument to play in concert? Violin or piano? Or the glass thing?"

"The glass armonica is just an oddity. Many things are written for or can be adapted to both violin and piano. Sometimes it is a hard decision. Some pieces I have performed on both instruments at different times and places. Some I prefer one or the other. My favorite piano performance is the Brahms Concerto Number One that I did last night in the rec room. That was only the second movement, which I also abbreviated somewhat. If you have never heard the entire work with orchestra, you should. If you search your entertainment history library videos, you will probably find my recording made with the Vienna Symphony at Musikverein, which in my opinion is the finest concert hall on Earth. It is my magnum opus, and the last recording made by Polthea of Altaire. "

She laid the violin aside and turned to the Moog.

"Here is some more Mozart. This is Sonata Number Twenty-one in E Minor. I recorded piano and violin and combined them afterward." They both listened in silence. When it finished McCoy sighed.

"That felt sad," he commented.

"Mozart wrote it in Paris after his mother died. It is a tragic story. Her name was Anna Maria. She traveled to Paris with her son, who was not well received by the Paris nobility. She sickened and died there, and his father blamed Mozart for her death." T'Phol paused for a moment, picking at a fingernail. "Mozart was a child prodigy who played both violin and piano. He began composing at four years old. His father was a composer and music teacher who paraded him around the royalty in Europe with the expectation of making the family fortune. He and his father had constant disagreements throughout their lives. He died early, at thirty-five. Imagine if he had lived twice that age, the works we would have..."

McCoy's penetrating gaze was fully focused on her as she spoke. "You clearly identify with him."

"We share some- similarities." She did not look at him. He waited. She returned her violin to its case before speaking.

"Did you know the Latin root word for prodigy means monster?"

McCoy shook his head.

"Did you know that there are more music and mathematical prodigies than other types? And in Humans there are genetic links between prodigy and spectrum dysfunction and these often overlap in the individual? Most child prodigies do not excel in their specialty in adult life. In addition, almost all report feeling out of place with peers, particularly as children, but often as adults." She paused a minute. "Human prodigies number approximately one in eight million at any specified time."

She did look at him then, her eyes very green. "What they do not tell you in the rule book is one day you will no longer be a prodigy. It will not matter how talented you are or how hard you have worked. You will no longer be a child. The circus fanfare surrounding you will end. It is difficult to overcome such a dubious legacy. That was true hundreds of years ago, and still today. Mozart, Bellini, Chopin, Liszt, Mendelssohn, Je'Kaffini of Altaire, Othari Simgladmid, all were musical prodigies who prevailed enough to make their mark."

"And you?"

"Not in their sense, no. But compared to many others like myself, I am fortunate. I have been able to continue playing music, which is the only thing I know. I could have a chair with any one of several orchestras, on Earth and off. I am invited with some regularity to make appearances as a guest artist, and I continue to compose and record. But my name will never be said alongside theirs. When I was young, I was foolish enough to believe that was my future. Now I understand the illusion of novelty versus the reality of true greatness. It is novelty when a seven year old can play near the level of the most experienced and professional adults. When one is twenty, it is not the same. At that point, the novelty is gone and you are an experienced adult. Then you are in the same league with all the other experienced professionals. It is a great humbler." She looked away. "It was difficult losing prodigy status and at the same time a huge relief."

"Tell me."

"We could be here the rest of the night. It is now past midnight. I fear it would be too tiring for you."

"I've had a long nap," McCoy said.. "I want to hear about your childhood. Tell me about your parents. Tell me about being a prodigy. Tell me about not being a prodigy any more."

T'Phol pulled a chair close and grabbed a blanket from the foot of her bunk."Why don't you lie down? Your ears will work just as well." She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and sat, drawing up her legs and wrapping her arms around her knees. McCoy wondered if she was cold, or if the blanket was a fortress. He got up and moved to her bunk, arranging pillows behind his back.

"Where would you like me to begin?"

"Start with Sybok."

"My father is older than Spock by several years. Sybok would have been head of the family after Sarek and T'Pau.. He went to the Vulcan Science Academy, just as Grandfather insisted. But he was expelled after a brief time.

"Sybok is a renegade. He adopted the rogue philosophy of living not by logic, but by embracing and experiencing every emotion. That met with heavy disapproval while it was only him, but then he began to recruit others and became disruptive and antagonistic. So T'Pau banished him. It was what he wanted."

"Experiencing and accepting emotion is not a bad thing, T'Phol."

"Perhaps not for Humans. Maybe not even for Vulcans. But his kind of emotional release is- different. It is not healthy expression. It is more like rape, even if at the end you think it is what you desired all along. Does it bring emotions to the surface? Yes, but brutally. It tears you from the inside and leaves jagged edges. And the fear comes back." Although her voice was calm and unwavering, her eyes reflected pain. "At the same time, he is charismatic. His psi rating is higher than Spock's, and much more than Sarek's. The power he wields is seductive. His followers love him. They are very loyal."

"He used this power on you," McCoy said quietly. He shuddered.

"Of course. It is what he is." She drew her blanket closer about her before continuing.

"My mother is from Earth. She met Sybok on Altaire Six. I do not know the particulars or why they decided I should be born. I have thought perhaps my father wanted to continue his legacy, but I must have been a disappointment. After all that effort, instead of remarkable psi ability I demonstrated musical talent. At any rate, he left and Mother returned to Earth with me."

"That must have been a good thing, escaping his mental domination."

"I do not know how he might have reacted with a child. You do not understand his character. He is warm and in many ways comforting. He truly believes that facing fear frees you forever." She stirred uneasily. "I went to him as a teenager for a while on Mitera. I might have stayed with him longer, but I was not really wanted there. I was out of place. Plus he began to pass into true madness."

"How so?"

"He began his search for God."

"A lot of people search for meaning in life, T'Phol. For some that means looking for something bigger than themselves, something or someone like a god."

"No, you misunderstand." She leaned forward. "My father is not seeking God spiritually. He is looking for God's home, God's address. A place he calls Sha Ka Ree. You would call it Heaven. He began researching it while on one of the border planets. He believes he will eventually establish telepathic contact and be given directions."

McCoy's eyebrow climbed. "So you left. Sounds like a wise move."

"Yes. I went to Vulcan. I was almost fifteen. I have not seen him since."

"Where was your mother?"

T'Phol shrugged. "Earth, I assume."

"You didn't stay with her?"

"I have neither seen nor spoken with her since I left Earth. Specifically, I left in secrecy. She was uncertain of my whereabouts until I returned to Vulcan and Grandfather insisted she be informed."

McCoy frowned. "You ran away?"

"I would not call it that," T'Phol said flatly. "She refused my request to see my father, so I formulated a plan and carried it through."

"You were fourteen. That's running away. I have to admit I am impressed. Obviously you made it there and back. I could not have done it at fourteen. Hell, I couldn't have done it at twenty when I was getting ready to enter medical school"

"Undoubtedly I had more resources and experience at fourteen than you."

"Yes, I'm sure that's true. At that age I was in high school and hoping to get a girlfriend before I was thirty and ancient."

"At fourteen, I was a has-been."

They were both silent for a few minutes. Finally McCoy spoke. "What happened between you and your mother?"

"Nothing specific."

"No?" McCoy leaned up on his elbow. "You ran away from home as a child and haven't seen her since. That doesn't sound like typical teen angst and unrest to me. In fact, that doesn't sound like a typical mother, either." He said it gently, but he saw the sting pass through T'Phol's face. He thought he had pushed too hard and she was going to shut down, but eventually she resumed talking, taking up her story from an earlier point.

"My mother was a competent pianist on an amateur level. I cannot remember this, but when I was just over one year old I played one of the pieces she had been practicing. I could not reach all the keys of course. So I improvised.

"She taught me herself for the first months. Then I had teachers and instruction on an advanced level. And testing." She looked down. "Lots of testing. It is how I discovered that not everyone can see music.

"When I was three, I was giving performances on the local level. At five I began composing. When I was six we moved to New York City. Things accelerated there. Two different instructors on piano and violin. Lessons every day. Practice. Performance. I did my first appearance at Carnegie Hall at age eight on violin. Nine on piano."

She looked back at McCoy. "Do you understand compulsion? Not only external, but internal." She touched her temple. "Something in here drove me. Some experts call it a rage. Not an anger, but an undeniable drive to learn. I had a Rage. I did not need further external compulsion. I did not need to be kept captive in the studio for hours, isolated from everything except the music, or to be largely separated from my Vulcan family and heritage. In fact, I believe my Vulcan half saved me when I was a child. That, and the few weeks I got to spend with Amanda and Sarek once a year.

"I told you Mozart was exhibited amongst royalty to make a name and fortune for his family. He must have resented his father horribly. It is awful, being on display like a trained seal in a circus. As an adult, Wolfgang Amadeus was completely tactless, and impulsive and childish. Mendelssohn was aloof and ill tempered. Chopin died young, alone and bitter. Liszt was an alcoholic who struggled with depression his entire life. Many prodigies lack socialization. Do you know why?" Although her expression did not change, her voice took on a flat and spiritless tone as she continued.

"There is no time for living. There is nothing but instruction and work and performance and getting ready for more performing. You live in an adult world and everyone you know is an adult. You are taught by adults, you perform for adults, you go to adult receptions on your behalf where you meet various benefactors and directors and then leave early because it is past bed time. There are no other people your age around you. And even if there were, there is no common frame of reference. I knew nothing about playing with dolls or having a tea party or pretending to be a space pirate or a princess or whatever it is that normal children do. They would have known nothing about fingering variations for Liszt's Transcendental Etude. What I really wanted was a pet. A bird, especially. Of course, that was not possible. There was not enough time."

T'Phol got up, her blanket dropping unnoticed from her shoulders. McCoy could see the tendons in her neck standing out, her shoulders tense. She paced to the wall and stood with her back angled to him. He sat up slowly and stood, waiting.

"I had a Rage, yes, that controlled my life to a great extent," T'Phol said to the bulkhead. "That is a part of me, who I was and what I am. But I also had a mother who was not a good steward of her child's psyche. Mother did not want a daughter. She liked having a prodigy, and she basked in the attention of it all.

"When I was about thirteen I started getting tall and ungainly, truly almost overnight. My feet were too big, my hands were too big, nothing fit right. I was an awkward and very unattractive adolescent. By the time I reached fourteen, I was over six feet tall. I no longer looked like a child. The circus was drawing to a close. I was glad. Mother knew it. We had terrible arguments during that last year."

McCoy heard her swallow audibly. He took a step closer. She continued, her voice pitched low, barely above a whisper.

"When you were fourteen you were planning how to get your first kiss. I was plotting my escape. And hoping I would not have to commit harm to get away. As it turned out she never reported I was missing. So executing my plan was far easier than I expected. Polthea of Altaire ceased to exist, except as entombed in video."

She turned around to meet his eyes, taking a deep breath. "You asked to hear this. It is not a pretty story, and I am neither ashamed nor proud. I began healing and making some progress learning to be a real person when I returned to Vulcan, but here is still plenty of room for more of both. It has been fifteen years since I moved to Grandfather's house. He and Gram gave me room and time. And made sure I got therapy and training in the Vulcan way. I did not resume my career until I was nineteen. I waited almost too long. But I have managed."

He wanted to touch her, to reach out, but something made him hold back. Compulsive and destructive behaviors were subjects that had been on his mind a lot in recent days. He was not sure he could talk about healing when his own wounds were so newly re-opened.

T'Phol seemed to sense his reserve. She looked at the floor. "I did not intend to go into this much detail, Doctor McCoy. I am sure it was much more than you expected or wanted to hear."

"No. It's not that." he said quickly. "I wanted your story, and I still want more. But not tonight. Sharing that was hard. I feel raw myself." He paused, closing his eyes. "What I was actually thinking," he added quietly, "is that I would like to wrap you in my arms and tell you it's OK, that everything is gonna be all right, but right now you are too defenseless and vulnerable. I would never try to take advantage of that."

He heard her take a breath and release it. When she spoke, her voice had a piercing, hard undertone. "That, Doctor, is a double sided blade. Suppose I took advantage of yours?"

"Mine?" He opened his eyes and met her guileless and frank gaze. He could see the heat flaring there.

"Your vulnerability. I am no longer a child. I am not defenseless, nor am I the only one with a past that festers and scabs that eventually peel." Her voice sounded tense, somehow brittle. "I am no more vulnerable than you. Perhaps less." She touched his hand and continued, softer. "Unwittingly I uncovered your wound. I do not know what it is, and you are not ready to tell. But it appears we both can bleed."

"Why are you here?" The question was out before he realized he was asking.

T'Phol raised an eyebrow. "I am here because I assured Doctor M'Benga, Nurse Chapel, and Captain Kirk that I would look after you tonight."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then I am here because I like you and I want to spend time with you. Is that what you are asking? Is it reason enough or hard for you to believe?"

"You don't know me well enough to like me." His voice was hoarse, rough.

"Of course I do." She held out her arms to him and without hesitating he stepped into them not sure which of them needed reassurance more. He did not know how long he stood there drawing strength and comfort from her quiet embrace, but finally she gently drew back.

"I have a proposition. We are both tired and you are ill. I promise I will not take advantage of you tonight. You promise the same. Let us lie together for the remainder of the night and rest. Maybe sleep."

McCoy could not think of an objection, or perhaps he did not want to. Nested against her Vulcan coolness he slept deeply, without dreaming.