Christopher and Dana watched as their son and daughter played together as if they were long lost friends, then wandered over to the porch to sit and unobtrusively observe them. When they had found out they were going to have another child, they juggled the possibility of having an abortion, decided against, and went to a few how-to-raise-children classes.

"What do you think?" Dana whispered to Mrs. Halloway. They leaned in to hear what she had to say.

"I don't know," Mrs. Halloway confessed. "I don't even know why I let her in that night of the snowstorm. All I could think of was how cold she looked, and how wonderful it would be to let her in out of the snow. Normally I wouldn't have let any strangers in, even in the snowstorm, no matter how small and helpless they looked. But… when I saw her…" she shrugged helplessly. "She started talking to me, and it occurred to me that nothing she said could ever be wrong."

"How does she do it?" Christopher asked. "She seems to be confused by us, even disgusted, but when she talks I can't help but think that the opposite is true."

"I don't like it," Dana whispered. "Isn't it some kind of psychological attack, to be kidnapped and come back? I mean, sometimes even if kidnapped children are abused they still think they want to be there."

"Have the police said anything?"

"They're looking into it now—"

"Mommy," Doran called. "Look what we made!"

The parents and Mrs. Halloway glanced over, and then stared. Where Doran's sloppily-made snowman once was, a towering figure stood. Almost naked, it sported only loincloth and a long alien face that tucked in at the bottom and elongated out the back. From the back hung a long chunk of snow that they had tried to make look like dozens of tendrils, tied near the top. The figure was muscular and had long arms and double knees. Azalel stood near it, her face red with embarrassment. She had lost track of time and of her hands, which were adept at molding clay and chipping stone. Inadvertently she had created Tolar, who had been on her mind at that moment.

It was too late; the damage was done. The adults got up to walk around and gawk at the magnificent snow sculpture. As the time stretched, she began to fidget and shift her feet. "C'mon, Doran," she said brightly to cover her embarrassment, "let's go inside."

"Can we have some hot chocolate and marshmallows?" Doran begged, taking her hand and pulling her over to the house.

Azalel frowned, confused for a moment. She had never had hot chocolate at home, as Xarral had never known that custom. "Sure," she said slowly. "If your mommy and daddy say we can."

"Of course you can," Dana said softly, not missing the fact that she had said "your mommy and daddy" instead of "our." "Let me get the mix and the milk."

The group marched inside (the adults with one last look at the snow statue) and sat around the fireplace waiting for Dana to finish the hot chocolate. "So, Victoria," Mrs. Halloway said.

"Azalel."

"Pardon?"

"My name is Azalel."

She shook her head. "That's the name your kidnapper gave you—"

"That's right. That's the name Father gave me. And that's the name I grew up with. I don't care what my name was before."

Beth Halloway bit her lip. "But—"

Azalel sighed. "Contrary to popular belief, my father treats me with all the love and affection a father would give a daughter, all right?"

"But he kidnapped you. How could you call him your father when you're father's sitting right next to you?"

"Christopher didn't raise me. Father did. And, from what he told me, neither parents were very good ones."

Chris winced.

Doran, who was young enough not to care what had just transpired, bounced up and down impatiently. "Mommy, where's the hot chocolate?" he whined.

"It's coming, sweetheart," she called back over the drone of some machine. Azalel leaned back, glancing into the kitchen to see what the drone was. It was some kind of white box with numbers on the side. A light was inside the box, so she could see a few ceramic cups rotating in slow circles. "What's that?" she asked Chris, who also leaned back. He looked at her, confused. "It's a microwave. Don't you have microwaves where you live?"

"No."

He stared at her, and she stared back, not volunteering any more information. Finally he shrugged and looked away.

Dana came in then, carrying a tray full of mugs. "Careful, it's hot," she cautioned as they each took a cup. Azalel blew on hers until the steam lessened, then took a small sip. It almost burned her tongue, but she pulled her head back quickly and blew on it some more.

Everyone was quiet as they finished their hot chocolate, the silence uncomfortable and tense. Even Doran felt it and did not talk until they were done, and then Dana went over to the piano and began to play. They spent the rest of the day—all three hours of it—singing songs Azalel did not know and thought were fairly silly, such as "Jingle Bells" and "I'm Wishing for a White Christmas." She knew what Christmas was, of course, but the songs themselves were alien.

Then it was nighttime and Mrs. Halloway drove home. The parents put little Doran to bed, and pulled out the bed from the sofa in the living room where Azalel was meant to sleep that night.

As she lay there, with all the lights off and the snow beginning to fall again, Azalel contemplated her newfound "family." Doran was all right—of course he wouldn't be like his parents yet—but her parents, themselves? What was wrong with them?

She tossed and turned on the creaky bed, thinking and torturing herself with questions. After two hours of such behavior she finally fell asleep, and awoke like she normally did before dawn. No one was up yet, so she treated herself to a piece of fruit, got dressed with the clothes they had lent her, and folded up the sofa-bed while she waited, chomping on her apple smeared with peanut butter.

Soon she heard the stomping around upstairs that came with awakening household members, and she waited for them to come down, finishing her apple at a leisurely pace. When Dana came drifting downstairs with a loose bathrobe wrapped around her, she smiled and nodded at her.

Dana froze. "It's early. What are you doing up?"

Azalel sighed. What was all this suspicion for? "I get up before dawn every morning, because school starts at dawn."

"Your school starts at dawn?"

"Yes. Not here?"

"No."

Azalel stared at her for a moment, then shook her head. "When does it start, then?"

"Around eight o'clock for Doran."

"That's strange."

Dana shrugged, pulling her bathrobe a little closer. "Um… would you like something else to eat? That's not much of a breakfast…"

"Oh, no, that's all right. Father never really ate much, so I guess I kind of picked up a few habits of his." She smiled. Protoss only "ate" once in a ninety-hour cycle. Usually Azalel was in school or out with her friends when he did—she only saw him eat a few times in her life.

"All right…" Dana went into the kitchen. "Well, I have to make breakfast for the rest of them…"

"Okay." You do that, she thought, watching her cook.

Around seven-thirty Chris came down tugging a yawning and irritable Doran, who climbed onto the sofa with Azalel, leaned against her, and promptly fell asleep. "He's always doing that," Chris said, a little sheepishly.

Azalel smiled. "It's all right." She nudged the boy awake. "C'mon, sleepyhead." Doran yawned and mumbled and buried his head into the cushions. "Oh, come on now, it's not that bad. You should be used to it by now. Wake up." She finally managed to make him sit up and rub his eyes, so that he blinked blearily and glared at her. She tickled him until he was fully conscious and he jumped off the sofa, giggling.

"Breakfast is on the table," Dana called, and Chris and Doran both went in to eat.

The rest of the morning was a blur. Chris and Dana got Doran dressed and ready to go to school, and they all trooped down to wait with him for the bus. The snow-Tolar was still out in the front lawn and had not melted at all. Azalel's face burned as the parents and Doran gawked at it once more when they passed it by. "How do you do something like that?" Doran demanded as they waited at the bus stop together.

"Oh… practice," Azalel said lamely. "Lots and lots of practice."

"That's what everyone says," he complained.

"Well, it's true. I wasn't able to make a sculpture the first day of learning how to do art."

"What other kinds of art do you do?" Dana asked suddenly.

Azalel smiled at her. "Oh, sculpture, obviously, painting, sketches, dance, song, stained glass… mosaics… I love art."

"You can sing?" Chris said, surprised.

"Oh, yes. I love to sing."

"You'll have to sing for us today."

"Oh… okay… I suppose…" Azalel ducked her head, blushing. She had only sung for her father before, and that was it. He loved to listen to her sing. Others had tried to make her, but she was just too shy to do so. "I need to go see Mrs. Salle today," she added.

"Mrs. Salle?"

"My teacher, Ms. Boone."

"Oh." A strange look came over Dana's face, as if thinking about something particularly sickening.

"What?"

"Oh… nothing."

"You don't like Mrs. Salle, do you?"

Dana waved the question away as the bus came rolling to a halt in front of them. "Bye!" Doran called, waving enthusiastically as he trotted up the steps.

All three of them waved. "Have fun, Doran," Azalel called.

"It's not that we don't like her," Chris said as they trudged up to the house. "She's the one who made you run away."

"She is? I thought you were."

They both winced. "I admit we were bad parents," Chris continued. "But she's the one who told you that you couldn't ever see your friend 'Zaral' or whatever his name was again. You got upset and ran out the door."

"His name's Xarral. And I didn't know that."

"Well, I guess your 'Father' doesn't know everything."

"Did I ever say he did? He wasn't there when that happened; he couldn't have known. Anyway, I still need to see her. I promised her husband."

Dana nodded. "I suppose you have that right."

They trooped inside and Azalel gave Mrs. Salle a call. If she had still been a teacher she would have been at the school, but she had long given up such a job and was now a stay-at-home mom with her little daughter, Kristine. Mr. Salle called out of work in order to meet Azalel properly, and the three packed into the car to drive down to their home. It took a little while—they got lost a few times, as their house was at the far corner of the next town over—but eventually they pulled up the driveway.

Azalel immediately knew something was wrong. A cold aura seemed to seep from every window of the house, from every crack and niche and door. It stank of death.

"Wait," she managed to say; her voice was a mere croak. "Something… there's something wrong."

Chris glanced back. "What's the matter?"

"Wait," she said again. Slowly she unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the door. Chris and Dana got out behind her, looking at her strangely. She ignored them. She felt like she was in some sort of dream as she reached for the doorknob and turned it.

"Shouldn't we knock?" Chris said uncertainly. Azalel paid no attention to him. As soon as the door was open a gust of coldness took her over, and she knew exactly what they would find were they to enter. "Oh, gods," she whispered, her knees buckling. She sat hard on the threshold.

Confused and worried, the two adults helped her up. They ventured a little further into the living room then the kitchen, where they froze in complete shock.