Wiping the tears of laughter from my face, I make a desperate effort to compose myself. How, in the name of the Duality, has this woman escaped any sort of romantic entanglement? It makes no sense to me at all. She's beautiful, obviously intelligent, and talented. Surely some man has noticed her; surely she has taken notice of some man and wanted him.

Or perhaps not. I sense reserve in this woman. Ruled by the head, not the heart. Her true nature? Or only the result of not having been exposed to man-woman relationships? Interesting.

"Missy," I say gently. "Do sit. Let's have another cup of wine and talk."

She nods tiredly and sits at the little table. Joining her there, I am heartened to see a small smile on her face. Good, I think. If she still has humor, then there is hope.

"I apologize for my behavior. It was unkind." I sigh. "I've seldom encountered a Celtic woman who has had no experience with ... desire. To be honest, I think most of us would call it lust, act on it, and be done with it. Assuming," I say quickly as I see her about to object, "that we had no commitment elsewhere."

"Yes, I expect that's true," she agrees. "Morgause, I know, at least intellectually, about the feelings between men and women." Her eyes are lost in remembrance. "But there was something else."

"Something else?" I prompt her. I can see her struggling for words -- unable to define it, to label it. I wait patiently.

"When I looked at his face," she finally says, "there was such a sense of ... recognition. That's the closest I can come to describing it."

So, I think, not merely lust, something far different.