The gamma shift guard nodded as they passed the alcove. T'Phol opened the door and entered but McCoy hesitated, stopping in the doorway. She put the violin case on the counter and gathered the bags strewn across the bunk.. She looked back at him.

"Come in. I could use a snack and a cup of hot tea. Please join me."

"It's pretty late. Maybe I should go."

"Are you turning into a rat after all? You promised a night of dancing under the stars."

"T'Phol..." He sighed and stepped inside, the door closing behind him. "Maybe you'd better make us that tea."

She did and handed him a cup. "This is a Vulcan spice tea. It has a relaxing quality and is often consumed before rest or meditation. Yours has sugar."

He took a cautious sip. The taste was spicy and a bit sharp. It reminded him of the cloves and nutmeg in his Grandma's pumpkin muffins.

She took a sip and set the cup down. "If we are not going to dance the night away, I am going to change clothes."

He looked at his cup. "Go ahead and change," he said, more gruffly than he meant. "I'll wait," he added.

She stepped into the bathroom. In a short while she emerged wearing a pair of sweatpants, a thick green shirt that hung shapelessly to her knees, and bright pink fuzzy socks. Her hair was unbound, hanging thick and glossy in waves across her shoulders and down her back. She hung the gown on the closet hook and pulled the other chair near his, taking up her tea. She laid the gardenia she had taken from her hair on the tabletop. The scent drifted to him as he watched her. She finally set her cup down and looked at him directly, almost challenging.

"Cinderella is back in her rags," she said.

"Every scullery should have it as good."

"You seem to be well versed in fairy tales of one sort or another. You were familiar with the Golden Snitch."

"Grandma liked fairy tales. I remember her reading The Hobbit to me before I could read it for myself. I read a lot as a kid. I reckon you did, too. You knew about the Nazgul."

"Reading was my escape. Fortunately my tutor was lenient and allowed me to read whatever I wanted. Tolkien could be passed as English Literature. Grimm was more difficult to explain. I had to hide Harry Potter. I had a secret tablet loaded with books."

"Most parents would be delighted with a child who wanted to read."

"Frivolous reading took away from study and practice time. So I read at night when I was supposed to be sleeping. Vulcans do not require as much sleep as Humans."

McCoy looked at her thoughtfully. "You endured an entire childhood adhering to a strict regimen, yet it didn't damage your love for playing."

T'Phol lifted a shoulder in a small shrug. "The regimen developed my technical ability, the Rage kept me focused on the music, at least when I wanted to be. I had no love for the concert stage when I was young. Performing in public was always an arduous struggle."

"You said you had trouble relating to the audience as a child. Obviously you have no problem there now, so I'm guessing the Rage didn't help with that. Is it still a part of you, or do you have a different motivation as an adult?"

"The Rage will always be in me. It is not as demanding as it used to be. I am still driven to play, audience or not, but I can now find fulfillment in their participation and reaction. When I was a child, I played at them because it was what I had to do. I feel the connection now."

"This 'connection', do some people feel it more than others?" McCoy sensed her sudden wariness.

"The response varies from person to person, of course."

"Yes." He weighed his words carefully. "But you facilitate the process somehow, don't you? And I seem to be affected more than others." His eyes were on her, brilliant and intense as he waited for her to speak. She looked away for a moment, then took a breath and met his gaze again.

"It is not exactly facilitation. I do not enter anyone's brain or manipulate or sway emotions in any way. I am not some sort of musical Vampire sucking the soul from my audience. I call it a Tap. It is not invasive."

McCoy tilted his head a bit, his gaze still sharp. That doesn't explain why twice now I have had a strong physiological and emotional response to your playing."

"Three times," T'Phol said slowly. "The Aura-Lumina reacted very strongly with you, more than I have ever seen or heard of. It was actually hot where you were touching it."

McCoy's brow creased. "Tell me about your Tap."

"I discovered it when I was fourteen. At the Brahms concert at Musikverein, in Vienna."

McCoy nodded. "I found that concert on video and watched it."

"I have been told some of the experience comes through, even on tape."

"It does. You haven't seen it?" He was surprised.

She shook her head. "I have no need to watch it in replay. I was there. Every moment is still etched in my memory, every feeling." Her eyes glinted a bit. "The mistakes as well. There are two of them. It was the first time in years I made a fingering error in an actual concert. And yet it did not matter."

"You looked fierce," McCoy said softly. "Like a warrior, then triumphant, as if you had won a battle that night."

"Not a battle. The war." She drew herself up straighter. "I will tell you about finding the Tap. I have never spoken of it to Amanda or Sarek, or even to Spock, only to my teachers on Vulcan.

"There were two concerts in Vienna. Brahms at Musikverein was the second. The first was the day before, at a smaller venue, Kursalon Wien. I played Beethoven's Emperor Concerto on piano with the City Symphony. It was no different than any of the others, the orchestra was competent, my own performance was without error."

She paused. "I told you about growing tall and gangly so quickly. Before that, being a child was some protection from overly harsh critique, and possibly from honest review, too. I never read them, but my mother certainly did, and kept me informed of the content. I had been praised for my precision and technique in fingering and reaching or interpreting difficult chords. Only occasionally had it been mentioned that my performances lacked emotional connection. One reviewer called it 'falling short in luster', another used the term 'limited nuance'. Gentle terms. The Beethoven review was not sparing or kind. It was written by Gristwallen, a famous critic, and published in Musical Happenings the following morning, but Mother did not see it until just before concert time that evening. We had a terrible row backstage."

T'Phol's eyes grew distant as she quoted from memory. " 'There is no question that young Polthea of Altaire is well armed in technique and flawless in the mechanical execution of even demanding pieces. Her performance of Beethoven No. 5, E-flat Major, Op. 73 was mechanically sound, every note arranged in its proper position. Unfortunately technical prowess is not enough to carry a performance, capture the true essence of a piece, or move an audience. I would compare her presentation this evening with listening to an advanced student practice scales. It demonstrates dexterity, but leaves the listener completely unmoved.'

"I will not repeat it all. There was more about the unsuitability of my technique to the piece and speculative questioning if being Vulcan meant I was incapable of feeling the impact of the music itself or inciting a genuine response from an audience.

"Thirty minutes before orchestra call, she was confronting me with the paper, upset about the review. So I told her every word of it was true. Our disagreement escalated into a loud argument. Among other things, she essentially accused me of being Vulcan on purpose. The conductor had her removed from back stage. I was furious, almost shaking, but I regained my control before concert time. Right before we walked out on stage, the conductor looked at me with with pity in his eyes, and my Rage grew cold. It was almost an out of body experience. I walked onto the stage, did the greetings, took the bow, but it was as if someone else was working my body.

"Brahms One makes the pianist sit at the beginning. While I was waiting, I saw the Tap line for the first time. It was faint at first, but as I began to visualize it, it grew."

She looked away before continuing. "It is hard to describe what it is. Imagine a two way path with energy flowing from performer to audience on one side, and from audience to performer on the other. In the middle is where the interaction occurs, where the giving and taking happen. All the color is there, it transforms constantly, twisting, swelling, ebbing. I send a tendril from my mind to anchor there, my Tap. That first time the line was bright, strong, radiant. I do not know why everyone could not see it. I almost got swept away by its seductive nature. At that point, I was not strong or knowledgeable enough to control my involvement.

"After the performance, when I had time to consider the implications, I was frightened by its power. I had the idea my father could teach me how to use it without becoming lost within it. But when I found him and saw what he was doing, how he exploits others using his own psi power, I knew I could never tell him about the Tap. I fear it is similar to the force he uses to bend people to his will. He still believes I am almost psi null. So I left him and went to Vulcan. I had some catching up to do in learning how to harness my psi ability, including the Tap. Fortunately, I am a good student and fast learner. I had years of lax training to overcome." She huffed in what might have been a chuckle or a growl. "At least Gristwallen had to eat his words. He was at Musikverein that night, too. Mother never mentioned the second review. But I read it."

She fell silent, taking a swallow of her neglected tea, now cold. McCoy got up and ordered a fresh one and a coffee for himself.

"Here, trade." He took the cold tea from her hand and gave her the hot. He sipped his coffee, digesting T'Phol's story and thinking about his own peculiar vulnerability to mind tampering. He seemed to be a beacon to entities who mucked about in people's heads. He wondered sometimes how much his own real self had been altered by exposure to those foreign invaders, perhaps even through his few voluntary mind melds with Spock. And the forced meld by Mirror Spock his dark place added. He pushed that thought back down with savage force.

T'Phol laid her hand on his arm. "You look pained."

"I'm all right. Bad memories. I've had a few experiences with mind control before. In space, all kinds of things are out to kill you, or control you, or both."

T'Phol looked stricken. "Do you think I am trying to control your mind?"

He felt her grip tighten on his arm. He set his coffee down and covered her hand with his own. Her fingers were cool against his. "No, no. Whatever is happening between you and me, whether it's the Tap or something different, it's nothing like what I was thinking about just then. Believe me."

"I have no explanation, but I feel it at other times also, this connection between us."

McCoy traced her radial process with his thumb and drew her hand close to him. "I think that other connection is easier to explain." He kissed her then, tasting Scotch and Vulcan spice, felt her initial surprise before she leaned into him, willing, responding. It had been a long time for him, but he kept it gentle, almost chaste, then drew back. T'Phol stood, pulling him to his feet. She was taller, he tilted his head up to her as she initiated another kiss, deeper, an inquiry that began to demand. She broke away, adjusting her position to press fully against him. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glowed softly as she freed a hand to stroke his hair and trailed her fingers down his jaw, touching his carotid artery, feeling the rush of pulse in his neck. It was much slower than her own, but still pounding.

"I probably should leave now," McCoy whispered, his voice low and gravelly.

"I would much rather you stay. I need to tell you how good you smell, how handsome you are in your uniform, how blue your eyes appear." She fumbled at his collar. "Never-the-less, I would like you to be out of it."

He gently took her hand. "There's something you need to understand before we go further."

She stilled, stopped by his seriousness. "Tell me."

"Sex is no longer a casual thing for me. I won't use you and I won't be used. I need you. I'm not a taker, but I don't know what is left in me to give. I'm pretty sure I'm not what you think I am. I don't even know who I am sometimes."

"I trust you, Leonard. Can you trust me? Or yourself? If not, you had better go."

Time shimmered around them as she felt him inhale and exhale before he spoke.

"Lights, twenty percent."

He reached between them and unfastened his shirt.