She dimly recalled summertime's storms, the smell of static electricity and the drumbeat of heavy rain on Port Sanger's corbelled roofs. Whenever the clouds parted, shimmering sky-curtains used to dance like gauzy giants across distant tundra slopes, far beyond the locked city gates. Now, winter constellations replaced summer's gaudy show, glittering over a placid, frost-decked sea. Maia already knew these seasonal changes had to do with movements of Stratos round its sun. But she still hadn't figured out what that had to do with kids being born different, or the same, Wait a minute!

Struck by a thought, Maia hurried to the cupboard where playthings were stacked. She grabbed a chipped hand mirror in both hands, and carried it to where another dark-haired girl her own age sat with several toy soldiers, arranging their swords and brushing their long hair. Maia held out the mirror, comparing her face to that of the other child.

"I look just like you!" she announced. Turning, she called to Sylvina. "I can't be a var! See? Leie looks like me!"

Triumph melted as the others laughed, not just the light-haired crowd, but all over the creche. Maia frowned at Leie. "B-but you are like me. Look!"

Oblivious to chants of "Var! Var!" which made Maia's ears burn, Leie ignored the mirror and yanked Maia's arm, causing her to land hard nearby. Leie put one of the toy soldiers in Maia's lap, then leaned over and whispered. "Don't act so dumb! You an' me had the same father. We'll go on his boat, someday. We'll sail, an' see a whale, an' ride its tail. That's what summer kids do when they grow up."

With that surprising revelation, Leie returned contentedly to brushing a wooden warrior's flaxen hair.

Maia let the second doll lay in her open hand, the mirror in the other, pondering what she'd learned. Despite Leie's air of assurance, her story sounded easily as dumb as anything Maia herself had said. Yet, there was something appealing about the other girl's attitude . . . her way of making bad news sound good.