She looked down at him and saw how fierce and proud he stood for her. Without thinking she let her right hand move down and brush against his sex.
"Meg . . ." It was a low, desirous sound. His hands moved down her body, lifting her nightgown at the waist until his hands held her naked hips, his fingers gently caressing the soft smoothness of her flesh. She closed her eyes again, wanting him to go further, to push down and touch her, there where she ached for him.
"Meg . . . ?"
She opened her eyes, seeing at once the strange mixture of fear and hurt, confusion and desire in his eyes.
"It's all right. . ." she whispered, drawing him to her, reassuring him. She led him to the bed and lay there, letting him take the gown from her.
It hurt. For all his gentleness, his care; it hurt to take him inside her. And then the pain eased and she found she was crying, saying his name over and over, softly, breathlessly, as he moved against her. She responded eagerly, pressing up against him again and again until his movements told her he was coming. Trembling, she held him tighter, pulling him down into her, her hands gripping his buttocks, wanting him to spill his seed inside her. Then, as his whole body convulsed, she gasped, a wave of pure, almost painful pleasure washing over her. For a time she lapsed from consciousness; then, with a tiny shudder, she opened her eyes again. They lay there, brother and sister, naked on the bloodied bed, their arms about each other. Ben slept, his chest rising and falling slowly while she watched its movement closely. She looked at his face, at his long dark lashes, his fine, straight nose and firm, full lips. A face the mirror of her own. Narcissistically, she traced the shape of his lips with her fingers, then let her hand rest on his neck, feeling the pulse there.
The look of him reminded her of something in Nietzsche, from the section in the Zarathustra called "The Dance Song." She said the words softly, tenderly, her voice almost a whisper.
To be sure, I am a forest and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness will find rosebowers too under my cypresses.
And he will surely find too the little god whom girls love best: he lies beside the fountain, still, with his eyes closed.
She shivered and looked down the length of their bodies, studying the differences that gender made between them. The fullness of her breasts and hips, the slenderness of his. The strangeness of his penis, so very different in rest, so sweet and harmless now; all the brutality, the lovely strength of it dissipated.
She felt a warmth, an achingly sweet tenderness rise up in her, looking at him, seeing how vulnerable he was in sleep. Unguarded and open. A different creature from his waking self. She wanted to kiss him there and wake that tiny bud, making it flower splendidly once more.
Meg closed her eyes and shivered. She knew what they had done. But there was no shame in her, no regret.
She loved him. It was quite simple. Sisters should love their brothers. But her love for him was different in kind. She loved him with more than a simple, sisterly devotion. For a long time she had loved him like this, wholly, without barriers.
And now he knew.
She got up, careful not to disturb him, and put on her gown. For a moment longer she stood there, looking down at his sleeping, perfect form; then she left him, returning to her room.
And as she lay there, her eyes closed, drifting into sleep, her left hand pressed softly against her sex, as if it were his.
"How's my invalid?"
Beth Shepherd set the tray down on the floor, then went to the window and pulled back the curtains, letting the summer sunlight spill into the room.
Meg opened her eyes slowly, smiling. "I'm fine. Really I am."
Beth sat on the bed beside her daughter and parted her hair, examining the wound. "Hmm. It looks all right. A nice clean cut, anyway." For a moment she held her hand to Meg's brow, then, satisfied that she wasn't feverish, she smiled and began to stroke her daughter's hair.
"I'm sorry . . ." Meg began, but her mother shook her head.
"Ben's told me what happened. It was an accident, that's all. You'll know better in future, won't you?"
Meg nodded. "If it weren't for Ben . . ."
Beth's fingers hesitated, then continued to comb Meg's thick, dark hair. "I'd say that made you even, wouldn't you? A life for a life."
Meg looked up at her, then away. "No. It was different. Totally different. He risked himself. He could have died."
"Maybe. But would you have done less?"
Meg hesitated, then answered quietly. "I guess not." She shivered and looked across at the glass case that held her shells. "You know, I can't imagine what it would be like here without Ben."
Beth smiled. "Nor I. But anyway, have your breakfast. That's if you feel like eating."
Meg laughed. "I'm ravenous, and it smells delicious."
Beth helped Meg sit up, plumping pillows behind her, then took the tray from the floor and set it down on her lap. There were grapefruit and pancakes, fresh orange and coffee, two thick slices of buttered toast and a small pot of honey.
Meg ate heartily, watched by her mother. When she was finished, Beth clapped her hands and laughed. "Goodness, Meg! You should fall in the water more often if it gives you an appetite like that!"
Meg sighed and lay back against the pillows, letting her mother take the tray from her and set it aside. Beth turned back to her, smiling. "Well? Are you staying in bed, or do you want to get up?"
Meg looked down, embarrassed. "I want to talk." "Okay. What about?"
"About you, and Father. About how you met and fell in love." Beth laughed, surprised. "Goodness! What brings this on?" Meg colored slightly. "Nothing. It's just that I realized I didn't know." "Well... all right. I'll tell you." She took a deep breath, then began. "It was like this. When I was eighteen I was a pianist. I played all the great halls of the world, performing before the very highest of First Level society—the Supernal, as they call themselves. And then, one day, I was asked to play before the T'ang and his court." "That must have been exciting."
"Very." She took her daughter's hand and squeezed it gently. "Anyway, that night, after the performance, everyone was telling me how well I'd played, but I was angry with myself. I had played badly. Not poorly, but by my own standards I had let myself down. And before the T'ang of all people. It seemed that only your father sensed something was wrong. It was he, I later found out, who had arranged the whole affair. He had seen me perform before and knew what I was capable of.
"Well. After the reception he took me aside and asked me if I'd been nervous. I had, of course. It's not every day that an eighteen-year-old is called to perform before one of the Seven. But that wasn't an excuse. I told him how ashamed I was at having let the T'ang down; and to my surprise and chagrin, he agreed with me. Right there and then he took me into the T'ang's own quarters and asking Li Shai Tung's forgiveness for intruding, made me sit at the piano again and play. 'Your best, this time, Elizabeth,' he said. 'Show the T'ang why I boasted of you.' And I did. And this time, with just your father and the T'ang listening, I played better than I'd ever played in my life."
"What did you play? Can you remember?"
Her mother smiled, looking off into the distance. "Yes. It was Beethoven's Sonata in F Minor, the Appassionato.. It was only when I had finished that I realized I had just committed a capital offense."
Meg's mouth fell open. "Gods! Of course! It's a prohibited piece, isn't it? Like all of Beethoven's work! But what did the T'ang do?"
Beth looked down at her daughter and ruffled her hair. "He clapped. He stood up and applauded me. Then he turned to your father and said, 'I don't know what that was, Hal, and I don't want to know, but you were right to bring the girl back. She's in a class of her own.' " "And?"
"And for a year, nothing. I thought your father had forgotten me, though I often thought of him and of what he had done for me that evening. But then, out of the blue, I received an invitation from him, asking me to come and visit the Domain."