#38

The lodge was circumscribed by stars. Mine eye a silken pillow. Imagine, if you will, the breaking. Of a crystal cage set humbly down on tile. An offering lit by torch-light. And the shadows of a queen in scarves in knots that numbered thousands. "A key," she stated, as if in writing, "that opens no lock you will locate." And what could Lucas do but nod? For choice belonged to real-er places.

A key it was. A crystal key, for a crystal cage exchanged. Where the stars stood stone-still and the library shelves were empty. Granite trumpets blared. Dancers swung their limbs like hammers. A feast for every movement of the dial. The court - exception - where temptation was considered and precise. So it was, as it were, and so on. As Lucas reached for a slice of bread no hand prepared. And the conversation fell in measured notes that skirted memory's interest. All was as usual, this aftermath.

But a transaction had still occurred. And one among them drank no glass of wine.