Violet's sister felt the waves recurrent through blood and flesh the longing turned her head, her shining tresses and her glistening eye hung, were caught, inextricably upon the jeweled worth of Xandria.
She could not stop herself nor save herself and did not wish to, thought of nothing though realizing all save Xandria, save Xandria, desired, dreamed, danced, Xandria in devotion whole, strong, luminous as silk.
She entered and there was fulfillment.
There was lasting.
There was passage.
There was 1 small boat to sail away afterwards.








        She bathed in oiled and scented waters drawn from the purest pool by willing slaves in slippers who never spoke but smiled. She wound finest fabrics about her young body in offering to the younger and searched until her hair was dressed to her desire by lily fingers of the white-blond mute who had come with her out of childhood, and she lavished upon herself precious chains and amulets, the filigree of scent, and all was, of course, not for herself but for Xandria, in praise of Xandria, as was her dancing approach the elegance of which stilled the trees.
        She entered.
        The ivory house of Xandria where alone with servants she dwelt in a gossamer of incense and of musical tones issuing from bird and flower, unknown beast and night and dawn and feasting fruits and instruments of crystal, mirrored wood, polished metals.
        Now, she said in her smile as she entered, now also praising music from the singing of my very bones, from the reverberance of my pools and reservoirs, singing of my secrets and the wishes I have held within me growing since the beginning.







Alone, people thought she was alone, then, Violet's sister, the last of her, the sailor, the seawoman.
They were mistaken.
She was not alone.
She should have been!
She should have been alone and not left alone like she was when not alone inside the boat.
There was nothing left of her nothing at all.