"I'm not crying," Milara said as he let her in.
Paul laughed at the habitual greeting. "I know. Come in, make yourself at home."
The human smiled as he took her wet cloak for her and hung it on the pegs on the wall, watching as the Tam-illee foxine settled herself on one of the lush velvet pillows strewn on the floor. The fire crackling in the hearth dispelled some of the darkness in his living room, but even from across the room he could see her clearly: her unusual, hairless face, the triangular ears parting the chestnut brown hair, the symmetry of her long-limbed body, and the smudges dripping from the bottom of her eyes to the middle of her cheeks, perpetual tears.
Milara let out a sigh, ears sagging as she sank into the pillow. "It's so nice to be inside. The trip here was uncomfortable."
"I imagine," the human replied. "Would you like some tea?"
"Not now, thank you." She glanced at him. "You said you had a surprise for me?"
Paul lit a candle and brought it with him, sitting across from her on the floor. "I found a new game I thought you might enjoy."
The lack of fur made it far easier to discern her blushing. Milara averted her eyes. "Paul, you know I don't like games."
"I know. I promise this one isn't frivolous. It's a Seersan card game I found at one of the import shops." He tilted his head, watching the shadows move across her face. The discoloration on her cheeks blended with them and he suppressed a smile. "Trust me?"
The Tam-illee's naked tail twitched on the gray carpet. "Okay," she said after a moment's hesitation. "How do we play?"
Paul grinned, sliding the cards out of the box. "It's actually pretty simple, but I have to put them in order first. How was your day?"
He didn't have to watch her to know she tensed. He slipped 'The Tree' behind 'The Sojourner' and waited patiently for her to reply. In all the two years he'd known Milara, she'd never spoken favorably of her job.
"I survived it," she said finally, each word wrenched separately from behind her teeth. "If only the clerk would file his reports on time, I wouldn't have half the problems I do. Today I found a receipt from six months ago that completely messed up the totals."
Paul shook his head. "You need a new job."
"You say that every time I see you," Milara answered, tail flipping from floor to pillow in agitation.
"Yes," he said.
With an exasperated sigh, the Tam-illee stood and began to pace. Paul tucked 'The Healer' behind 'The Coat of Arms' and paused to watch. Despite the dark spaciousness of his living room she still managed to describe an invisible cage with her movements. He returned his attention to the ordering of the cards. It was far less disquieting.
Milara eventually sat back down. The air flow stilled as the apartment reached its set temperature, and the candle's flickering ceased. When Paul glanced up again, the image of her face lit by fire struck him. The lines of grayed pink that ran down her cheeks stood in stark contrast to the pale gold of her skin, and her great storm-colored eyes dominated features full of shadows, creased by frowns. A flash of lightning outside disrupted the patterns and he offered the cards to her.
"Shuffle them."
Warily, Milara began to cut the deck. "This isn't one of those mystical things, is it?"
The human shrugged. "Mystical things can only exist if you believe in them, right?"
"Right..."
"And you don't, do you?"
"No," Milara said, mouth firming. "None of that. No Iley, no Speaker-Singers, no messiahs, no angels, no Heaven."
"Then this isn't a mystical thing. Think of it as a psychological thing."
The Tam-illee opened her mouth to protest but he held up a hand. "Just shuffle the cards, arii. And when you're done, draw two of them."
The muted drumming of the rain distracted Paul. While Milara handled the cards, he turned his gaze to the wall windows. In the distance the lights of the groundport pierced the drizzle, smeared stars fallen from the night sky. He watched them, praying that his plan would work.
It took several minutes for Milara to set the deck down and choose two of the cards. She laid them in front of her, face down on the gray carpet, and then folded her hands uncomfortably in her lap. "Okay," she said, her voice small in the darkness.
Paul put the rest of the cards away. "The game is simple," he said. He tapped the first card. "This one represents what you think you are...and this one," he touched the second, "is what you truly are." He watched her eyes widen. "Turn them over, arii."
For all her skepticism, the Tam-illee's slender, hairless hand hesitated over the first card. He could see her trembling. Steeling herself and lifting her chin, she flipped it over.
A picture of a white Seersa foxine female, her hair dissolving into a gossamer fog behind her greeted them both. Strange writings poured down the white female's back, and in one hand she held a silver bowl. A silver comb sat between her perked ears. The background behind her was painted in daubs of salted green and silver, touches of blue fading towards the edges.
"What is it?" Milara asked.
"Rispa...one of the Seersan Four Sisters." He touched the name on the bottom of the card. "The goddess of Ice. She is cold and unapproachable, as ephemeral as mist. Her ruling spheres are displacement and ennui."
"That's...what I think I am?" the Tam-illee asked, voice wavering between belligerence and apprehension.
"I don't know," Paul said, lifting a brow, "Is it?"
She didn't answer.
"Turn over the other one," the human said.
Milara rested her fingertips on the back of the second card. Her lips pressed into a thin line. She flipped it over.
Another female, this one bright orange and red with streaks of flame blue and white. She had been caught in the act of dancing, her body boldly painted in a few sinuous strokes. Behind her a galaxy whirled and white stars pooled at her feet as if drawn there by an invisible force.
Her breath shallow, Milara traced the name at the bottom of the card. "Ka...karesing," she pronounced tentatively. "Is that right? What does it mean?"
"That's the Dancer," Paul answered. "She holds fire within her, a fire that consumes her so totally her body is colored like it. Her joy is so intense the universe feels compelled to dance with her. Her ruling spheres are purpose and fearlessness."
"What I am," Milara said, then exclaimed, "But I don't believe it! I'm no...no fearless dancer."
Paul took a deep breath and stared at her. "I think you are. I can show you."
"Show me?"
"Come with me." He held out his hand, and she took it after a moment's pause. He led her to the dark bathroom. "Close your eyes. Trust me."
"Okay," she murmured. Her dark lashes fluttered down.
For a moment, Paul simply looked at her face. When he'd befriended the Tam-illee more than one person had asked him why he'd bothered. 'Iley didn't mark her face with tears for nothing,' one had told her, 'she never smiles.' He'd discovered they were right...and that even when she did smile, the stains running down her cheeks made a mockery of it. During the course of their friendship, her predicament had nagged at him. Other than the peculiar birthmarks, Milara might have been born beneath a lucky star: smart, thoughtful, lovely.
But she rarely smiled.
Paul grasped the Tam-illee's chin gently in his hand and dipped the other into the pot on the sink. It had taken him months to match the color exactly. He lifted his thumb to her cheeks and gently dragged it from her lower eyelid to her mouth. The cold cream made her flinch, but she stood otherwise motionless as Paul painstakingly erased the stains beneath a layer of second-skin paint, designed to last several weeks. He massaged it until the visible evidence of the cream faded, and then looked again at his friend of two years. He bit his lip.
He guided her until she stood opposite the mirror, then said, "Okay."
Milara's eyes opened and her lips parted. She reached out to touch her reflection. Standing beside her, Paul found he could not look away.
Navigating life with the falsified evidence of tears marring one's cheeks must leave a mark. The human had known it the day he'd met her, but it had taken years to consciously realize it. Seeing the shock, the wonder in her face, he knew that she had never drawn the same conclusion.
"Aren't you the Dancer?" Paul asked.
She traced her golden cheeks and whispered, "I don't know." And then, a few moments later, "Maybe."
He folded her fingers around the pot. For a moment, she only stared at it...then her fingers tightened and she smiled at him.
Paul received the postcard after two weeks of silence. He spread it across his wall screen and Milara's voice filled the living room as a starscape scrolled past.
"Dear Paul -- I've just arrived at Starbase Ana...from here I'll be leaving for Seersana and Karaka'An. I'm not sure what I'm going to do now that I've quit my job, but I'm going to take the time to find out what it is I want. You should see this place! It's beautiful. Just looking out the windows makes my heart soar. Maybe I should work on a base, or a station, or a ship....but there's so much to see and do and decide first. I think I'll enjoy it here. Please send me a note if you have the time...I'd love to hear from you.
"Oh...by the way, Paul; I'm not crying.
"All my love, Milara."
Paul touched the wall screen and then his cheeks: they were wet. He laughed and wiped them before sitting to compose an answer.