Spring was in the air, and an envelope lay on the table.

  Why hadn’t I done it before?

  Why had I waited?

  Her mother’s name, her parents’ address, the City of Ambition.

  SPECIAL DELIVERY.

  Within it a letter, she had waited too long to write.

  Why?

  The envelope had no postage stamp, only a crest embossed on it, which bore the same symbol as her mark. It would reach her parents without a doubt for who would dare mishandle that which belonged to her Lady.

  Our Most Merciful Lady.

  That is what the people of Harmony called her, not the Seventh Daughter of the Ambition.

  And Socia they called Her Beloved Socia.

  Beloved by their Most Merciful Lady and by the Primeval, the very cosmos itself.

  Our Beloved Socia.

  She felt the crest, traced it with her fingertips, and then the mark on her head.

  Identical.

  Her finger left the mark and pressed the buzzer, and there he was.

  Mr. Humble.

  Her private secretary, if Mr. Stone was her rock, then Mr. Humble would be her lifesaver, which was quite the twist of fate since she had saved his life.

  A tailored suit with a dash of Harmony Cool, suitable for a young mortal man, and on it a crest lapel pin.

  With her Lady’s mark.

  Identical.

  “Mr. Humble, please see to it that this is delivered,” Socia said.

  “At once, ma’am,” he said.

  Swift as always.

  “You’re a lifesaver, Mr. Humble,” she said.

  “I aim to please, ma’am,” he said.

  “Mr. Humble, I should change your name to Mr. Swift,” she said.

  “If that is your wish, I will arrange it, ma’am,” he said.

  Socia’s mouth opened.

  “It will take some time of course, legally, ma’am,” he said.

  “It was a jest, Mr. Humble,” Socia said.

  Her mouth closed.

  “And a most fine one, ma’am,” he said.

  She handed the letter to Mr. Humble.

  “That will be all, Mr. Humble,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  And he was gone as fast as he came.

  “They cannot help but to love us,” her Lady had said.

  It seemed like an eternity, but it was only a few years.

  They can’t help but love us.

  And obey.

  Summer had arrived, and with it, sunny garden parties.

  THE ASPECT of THE MOTHER, SECOND WIFE OF THE AMBITION

  requests the pleasure of Our Most Favored Child and Our Beloved Socia

  at a Garden Party

  on the sixth day, the twelfth of sixth month

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  from Four o’clock until Seven o’clock in the evening

  at Dominion Gardens

  The invitation read.

  And so now Socia was surrounded by the highest echelon of Harmony society, all dressed for the occasion, in a manner that would make it easier to enjoy the sun and the clear blue sky.

  Tea, sparkling wine, and sandwiches would appear when needed, and empty cups, glasses and plates would vanish with equal speed.

  A fitted top, a pencil skirt, but no cocktail hat, she had acquired an aversion for them.

  And for parties.

  She sipped her wine and began to move about.

  She still let them adore her, want her, give her compliments, be their Socia.

  To enjoy herself as she immersed herself in them, but she knew now that this was the most treacherous of seas. Such luck for her that the two most powerful beings of harmony saw her as their Socia.

  And there they were conversing with one another, dressed impeccably, even if their style wasn’t Harmony Cool.

  “It’s called timeless,” her Lady had said, when she suggested improvements.

  Her taste in dresses was impeccable, but the accessories.

  Those had to go.

  “I yield to your desires, my Socia,” her Lady had said.

  A change of gloves, a new hat, and no scarf, what a difference.

  “Truly you see what I cannot, my Socia,” her Lady had said.

  So, there she was, Her Most Harmony Cool Lady, chatting with the Aspect of The Mother, who was equally impressive, in her beauty and stature, and her dress was equally timeless.

  They were forces of nature, gentle maelstroms, pulling everything close, and Socia could feel the pull.

  A bite of a sandwich, a few steps in the crowd, and they seemed closer.

  A few words with admirers, and a shadow loomed over her.

  A touch on her shoulder, and the Mother spoke.

  “Beloved,” she said.

  She towered over her, over them both, several heads higher than anyone else, yet so graceful, she was the summer, when all of nature was in full bloom.

  “Goddess Most High,” Socia said.

  And bowed very low.

  “Come now, you may address me as Mother, My Socia,” she said.

  Mother.

  She had received a response from her mother, her mortal mother.

  “Chosen of the Seventh Daughter of the Ambition, Our Beloved Socia, this humble servant gratefully accepts that you have deemed me worthy of your precious time and effort, and I pray for your well-being,” it had said among many other things.

  But in the response, she couldn’t find: her name, daughter, my love, my child, not even her nickname, those were absent, the ink just wasn’t there.

  “Of course, Mother,” Socia said, as she accepted the hand the Mother offered her.

  A pull and she was sandwiched by them.

  And it was a quite nice conversation, about quite irrelevant things, architecture mostly, both had seen it change over the centuries, and for once someone accused her Lady of being too modern in her taste.

  A thick cord there was between them, if it was filial affection Socia couldn’t tell, but it was warm and hummed, maybe it simply was understanding.

  And she could see now, her affection for her was real, but she couldn’t tell why, perhaps it simply was that she loved that which her Lady loved.

  And as the festivities began to end, she found herself alone with her.

  An empty glass in her hand hadn’t vanished.

  Mr. Humble would have fixed it.

  The Mother leaned over kissed her on the cheeks, once on each side.

  “You have to write the right words, my Child,” she said.

  Socia tilted her head, averted her gaze.

  “I am every mother, my Child,” the Mother said.

  “I know.”

  And in the night Socia had a simple envelope with a common stamp on it.

  And in the letter, there were many words.

  But the first ones were.

  Mother.

  Talk to me.

  Autumn was here, and there were leaves on the stony tiles in the martial hall.

  Socias ribs hurt. The Kin boxer’s knee had landed clean; she had been sloppy.

  Rumbling Earth was his style, it felt like Stone and Tide, but different, like a piece of a mountain had broken loose and came crashing down at her, but she was Socia and she could see It.

  He rushed forward, a flow of strikes, kicks and elbows, and those annoying knees, that would catch her every time.

  Her tapered chest, and the simple pants she wore, left room to see the bruises on her skin.

  She let him rush, let him tire, took some blows, let him think his knees would take her out.

  And then when he began to slow down, she caught the knee, swept the leg, and when he landed with his back on the ground her fist struck him with such might; it ended the fight and cracked the stone tiles below.

  She helped the man up, thanked him for the fight, bowed to the master who oversaw the fight, paid and left the hall.

  Rumbling Earth, Twisting Sands, Winding River and a dozen other arts she had tried already, and all had taught her something, allowed her to see more of It.

  No master had her Lady given her to.

  “My Socia, you are not a disciple anymore, but a practitioner,” her Lady had said.

  “You must find your own way now,” she had said.

  And what better place than Harmony, home to hundreds of schools, some not too impressive — only technique, its practitioners unable to connect to It.

  Wrong.

  What was she thinking?

  Everything was part of It, except for the Ambition.

  And those of him, his Daughters.

  Her Lady.

  Her silver heart, it was not of It.

  She could see.

  Not only in her, but in herself, in her veins, in her mark, the divine.

  That which was Above It.

  It was in the Scions, the Gods, but not in the Kin, or even in the Primeval.

  A car hit a puddle, and Socia found herself quite soaked, and even more irritated.

  No tapered chest, no simple pants, but the latest in Harmony Cool she wore, and now it was ruined.

  She would have to change clothes at work.

  Mr. Humble would fix it, Mr. Stone would hold the line.

  And they did.

  The day went well. The assault she had suffered had turned out to be a boon. Many Scion houses had invested modest but meaningful sums to appease her Lady and many galas had been held for the benefit of those less fortunate.

  Progress and Compassion.

  Order, Growth and Progress in Harmony.

  Those were the selling points, and they were bought, eagerly by those who wanted to get in the good graces of one so beloved.

  Kin Clan investments seemed more like devotional indulgences, offerings to one favored by their deity.

  Everything was going well.

  Great.

  Mr. Humble even brought a change of clothes.

  And a letter.

  She bade him leave her to her privacy.

  With her nail, hard and sharp as it was, she opened the envelope.

  Pulled the letter out.

  Unfolded, it.

  My daughter.

  My love.

  I’ve missed our talks.

  Socia set the letter aside for a while.

  For she didn’t have the strength to read the rest yet.

  She had to wait, soaked as she was.

  Wet clothes.

  Wet eyes.