Charlotte exited the Speakers' building by the usual door, and made her way down the usual path. Strange, she thought, that outward things should remain so usual; didn't they know that the whole world had changed that morning? –But, then again, if the Elders didn't understand that, she could hardly expect a path to.

In truth, as Elder Tomas's insistency had made apparent, she hardly understood it herself. To find oneself, while still awake, suddenly in a dream… it was easy enough to say, but what did it mean, really? And why should it be as good a thing as she was sure it was? She'd never before been one to rejoice when irrationalities overtook her daily life; she couldn't even stand to have the hiccups unless she was certain that no-one else could hear. (That was natural for a Speaker, of course, but in her case it had the deeper significance as well.)

But, of course, having the hiccups didn't fill her soul with strangely beguiling visions of something utterly beyond her imagination. It didn't whisper to her of another life, another way of being, that made her whole Communal life seem small and empty by comparison. In fact, if anything, the reminder was more like the cessation of hiccups – that glad moment of relief when what was wrong with her suddenly came right again, and she could move and speak and abide in the peace that was proper to her.

She took a deep, happy breath, and continued on her way down the path. She always enjoyed her homeward walk – that blessed time when, having completed a day of worthwhile effort, she had a chance to stretch her legs, breathe fresh air, and reflect contentedly on the day just gone by. It helped that the path was usually fairly deserted apart from herself; since Speakers' working days ended so late, most members of other professions, and all children, were already in their dwellings by the time she got off, leaving her free to lose herself in her own thoughts without fear of ignoring a fellow resident and being guilty of rudeness. The only people she was likely to encounter were her fellow Speakers, and there was little to mind about them – except, of course, for…

And then, even as she broached the thought, there he was. Where he had come from, Charlotte couldn't conceive, but there he was, all the same – the one member of the Community who could make her feel like a lisping Seven again, just by walking past. And he was well aware of it, she was sure; she even suspected (horrid as the thought was) that he enjoyed making her feel that way. She didn't know what she could have done to make him dislike her so; for months, she'd been trying harder than ever to be just the Speaker and Community resident she ought, and it only seemed to make matters worse.

She lowered her eyes and braced herself. If she could just get past him without making eye contact, it might not be so bad – so long as she didn't stumble, or drop anything out of her program folder, or sneeze, or tread too heavily on the pavement, or…

"Charlotte?"

Her heart sank. That wasn't fair; he was supposed to at least give her a chance. Not that she supposed he cared about being fair, but, even for his own purposes, wasn't there more enjoyment in letting her embarrass herself naturally than in provoking it himself? –But, then, she'd never claimed to understand that sort of pleasure.

With a soft sigh, she raised her head, willed her tongue into its proper place, and said, "Yes, Raymond?"

She noticed, with an odd sense of reassurance, that Raymond seemed scarcely more comfortable than she was. He leaned against a nearby lamp-post (the lamplight framing him against the dusk like an Elder on a pavilion) and kicked at the dust on the pavement, not quite meeting her gaze. Charlotte clutched a little tighter at her folder, sensing a trick in the offing.

"I…" Raymond hesitated. "I just wanted to compliment you, Charlotte. You Spoke the new reminder very well; I admired it very much."

Charlotte stared; whatever she had expected, it wasn't this. "Oh," she said. "Well… thank you, Raymond." (She almost added that she had likewise admired his reminder, but she caught herself; that might well be just what he was waiting for her to do.)

Raymond waved his hand. "That's all right," he said. "Really, you've been a very good Speaker in general – even if I haven't, well…"

He trailed off again, and silence fell on the little tableau – a silence that Charlotte wasn't at all sure she could have broken, even had she dared. What's going on here? she thought. Is this really Raymond? If it is, what's he up to?

"I apologize, Charlotte," said Raymond. "For all the things that I… that you… well, you know, for everything." For the first time, he raised his eyes to meet hers. "Everything, Charlotte. I apologize."

Charlotte blinked, and looked more closely into his eyes. Yes, so far as she could tell, he seemed to be sincere – at that moment, anyway. And how was she supposed to respond to that?

In one sense, of course, it was obvious. The rules of the Community prescribed a very definite reply to such statements as Raymond's; indeed, Charlotte could almost feel it resting on the tip of her tongue – and yet, somehow, she couldn't make herself say it. Those four little words were too much for her voice to form – or perhaps, somehow, they weren't enough. In any case, she couldn't say them, or anything else; all she could do was stand, helplessly silent, before her apparently former persecutor.

"Charlotte?" said Raymond, after a few moments had passed.

"I…" Charlotte licked her lips, and tried again. "I…"

…would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the…

She shook her head. "I can't," she said. "I'm sorry, Raymond. I'd like to, but I can't."

It was hard to tell, in the lamplight, but she thought that Raymond's face became paler. "Oh," he said softly.

"You know the reason," said Charlotte, feeling angry with her voice for the note of pleading she heard in it. "You know what I am now – what we both are. I can't put that in danger, Raymond."

"And you think I would?" said Raymond.

Charlotte winced. "Raymond, please…"

"No, Charlotte, listen," said Raymond, and came forward a few steps (though he stopped when he saw Charlotte instinctively step back). "I know I've hurt you before; that's why I'm here. But don't you see that it's different now? Now that you've proclaimed…"

"No, Raymond," said Charlotte. "That's not good enough."

Raymond stared. "Not good enough?" he repeated. "What's wrong with it?"

"Can't you see?" said Charlotte. "It's not enough to keep from hurting me because I'm a vessel now. The person I am is still the same; if you think things are different because of the reminder, then it's not really me you care about."

Raymond frowned, and considered that for a long moment. "No," he said thoughtfully. "No, I suppose that's true. But does it really make a difference? Whether it's the person you are or just one of the things you are, either way you know I wouldn't harm it. So why shouldn't you trust me?"

It was Charlotte's turn to consider. That sounded sensible enough, and yet… there was something missing from it that she couldn't quite name. Something to do with islands, and the power that had used her to proclaim the reminder…

"I suppose I could trust you," she said slowly. "That is, I could believe that you won't do the things you did before – and I do believe that, and I'm grateful for it. But I don't think that kind of trust is enough to fix the hurt you've done me; there needs to be… I don't know, something positive, something…"

Again, she felt the word trembling on her tongue; again, her voice wouldn't make it come. How could she say that, of all vague and foolish words, to Raymond of all people? Even if he no longer had any intention of belittling her, wasn't he just the sort who, hearing her say such a thing, would slip back into his old ways without thinking twice?

She shook her head. "Oh, I'm being silly," she said. "Yes, all right, Raymond. I accept your apology."

And that phrase, which would have meant so much had she been able to say it earlier, both of them now heard for the hollow formula it was. Raymond made a vague grunt of appreciation, and tapped his fingers idly on the lamp-post; then, after an awkward moment's silence, he straightened himself, nodded politely to his colleague, and walked off into the dusky gloom.

Charlotte waited until she heard his footsteps turn off the main path, onto the side road leading to his dwelling, before she resumed her own walk home. Her legs weren't as long as his, of course, so there wasn't much risk of her catching up with him, but she preferred to be absolutely sure.

When she did start walking again, it was with a heavy, plodding step, not at all like her brisk stride of a few minutes before. She was too weary, now, to be gay; she felt too much of a failure for her heart to dance. What she could have done differently, she didn't know, but that didn't keep her from feeling sick with frustration that what should have been a moment of joy for her had turned out so wretchedly.

Why couldn't she just have accepted Raymond's apology to begin with? Then he would have been happy, and they could have worked together in peace thenceforward, and a burden that had weighed down her heart for months would have been simply and contentedly lifted. Why had she insisted on demanding something more, when even she couldn't properly say what the something was? It was unforgivable of her…

And, at that thought, she stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes shining with sudden understanding. Yes, of course, that was what she had wanted to say – what she had made both herself and Raymond so miserable by not knowing to say – what, if she chose, she could still say. Of course it was too late, and there was no way he could hear, but she could say it, all the same.

"Raymond?" she called through the darkness. "I forgive you."

No doubt it was merely her imagination that made the lamplight seem a little brighter, its reflection on the paving-stones a little cheerier, as she spoke those words. But there was no illusion about the smile that came to her face, or the renewed spring in her step as she resumed her pace. In her own heart, at least, something had been put right; soon enough, a chance would come to say it to his face, and then…

…far from the rose, and the lily, and the fret of the flames would…

…well, then who could say?