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staid evening attire of the human guests. There was Laurence in a wine velvet vest and slacks over a richly draped pale blue satin shirt; William, from Italy, in a chestnut jacket lavishly embroidered with gold. Madeline, ignoring all evening convention, wore a peach riding habit. Stephen had dressed in what seemed Austra ceremonial best—steel grey suede pants and vest and the beaded green shirt Helen liked so well. Helen had dressed more simply—in an embroidered peasant skirt and scoop-necked black top. She had French-braided her hair in a single long plait down her back and the Austra pendant was her own jewelry. It had all the significance of a wedding ring, she thought, and she felt like a bride as she stood beside Stephen, shook strangers’ hands, and hugged family members she had not met before. She was amazed at how, through the often fleeting introductions and the subtle prying questions that accompanied them, she could simply touch a hand and feel such empathy.
    “You share a bond with them,” Elizabeth explained to her as they walked outside with Paul later that evening. “Many of them are our lovers. Their blood mingles in all of us, creating a sort of extended family. Do you see?”
    “Yes, I see.”
    “Why do you look so thoughtful?” Elizabeth asked.
    “When I look at you and Paul, I think of how Stephen and I might have been together had I been merely human.”
    “Then you would have been born different than you were. Someone less magnetic, less talented. Someone he might have never even noticed, ouH And I will tell you something else and it may surprise you—most of our men never have human lovers in the sense that I have Paul.” She affectionately squeezed Paul’s arm. “Of course, they take partners and many have known the truth about them but it isn’t the same as a lasting relationship. Perhaps this is our way of satisfying our maternal instincts.” She smiled, then laughed, brightening the conversation. “Paul certainly needs taking care of.”
    “You do?” Helen asked him with a coy smile.
    “Elizabeth tells me that I work too hard. That I worry far too much. That I often forget to eat . . .”
    “And that sometimes his only exercise comes in bed,” Elizabeth cut in and kissed her embarrassed lover on the cheek. Though Elizabeth tried to sound light, Helen sensed the fear. “We don’t think about our future,” Elizabeth added in a more somber tone. “That is your luxury.”
    When they reached the fork in the road that led toward the Colony, Helen stared down the road, then suggested they return to the party.
    “We could walk down to the Colony and force Philippe to come back with us?” Elizabeth suggested.
    Helen noticed Paul shake his head. “He’s made his choice for tonight,” Helen said. “And I have made mine.”
    With a faster pace than Paul’s stiff knee could tolerate, she walked ahead of them toward the tiny colored lights, the soft voices, and the music.
    And as she entered through the tall doors of colored glass and saw Stephen already weaving his way through the crowd to meet her, she realized that she really didn’t care whether or not Philippe came.

    II

    As Helen suspected, Philippe intended to spend the holidays alone, a brooding bitter rival of the family who owned his house, controlled his livelihood, and, when he was honest enough to admit it, had saved his life.
    He had received his usual invitations and declined them all. When Paul Stoddard visited the afternoon of the solstice, Philippe let him come inside reluctantly. He didn’t want to speak to anyone except Helen, but he and Paul were old friends and it had been months since they’d seen each other. “Pardon the mess, the maid is absent,” he said with a trace of his old, good-natured humor.
    “It doesn’t look any worse than your room did in our pension,” Paul replied, following the remark with an uneasy laugh.
    Philippe rinsed out a glass and poured Paul some wine. “We want you to