At the fore of them all stood his mother, considering him with a sort of distant interest, as one might inspect an insect.

“Check your board!” Cheever directed, and Pat Rin executed the required glide and change, aware of the weight of his limbs. It was hot, and his head ached, and, really he had every reason to be tire. The omnichora shouted, notes streaming like lift beacons, and there was Miri next to his mother, and Priscilla approaching—

“Lay in coords!”

There was no map this time. Pat Rin closed his eyes. Cheever chanted the coordinates—a short set of three. Forward, back, turn left—

“Sign your co-pilot!”

Pat Rin extended a hand—and his eyes snapped open in astonishment as it was caught in a warm grip.

“Well done!” Uncle Daav whispered, under cover of the music, and—

“Clear your board!”

The two of them crossed, separated, and came back together.

“Lock it down!”

Natesa’s fingers wove comfortably with his. Shan, on her other side, extended his hand and caught Daav’s free hand.

“Dim the lights,” Cheever said softly, and the four of them walked sedately widdershins, three times, the ‘chora slowing, slowing, almost down to a proper round... “Open hatch.”

Obediently, they dropped hands.

“Go to town,” Cheever all-but-whispered, and the four of them turned to face the rug and those watching, as the ‘chora finished with a flurry and a flare—and the shouts and whistles began.

Pat Rin shook his lace out and reached for his glass. With Natesa’s connivance, he’d slipped through the crowd to the back room that had been set aside for the band’s use. Finding a bottle of autumn wine before him, he poured and sipped, and sipped once again before making the attempt to make himself seemly.

The dance—the dance had been an odd thing, to be sure; in memory not nearly so harrowing as in actuality. Had it gone on much longer, he had no doubt but that he would have joined Luken, Miri, and Priscilla at his mother’s side.