Be that as it may—he’d obviously found someone’s sleeping quarters. For at the clearing’s center was a low–lying bed, round of design and exquisitely crafted. It was heaped with white cushions and throw-pillows (save one which was entirely green, dark enough in shade to be nearly black), and draped with bolts of emerald silk. Someone had placed a basket of green apples on the floor beside its headrest, and next to that a bottle of green wine, which caught the light and glowed. Everything was echoed by cheval glass mirrors, rocked back on their pivots to stand vertical in their frames. One of them was moving as if turned and instant before. Yet there was no sign of Shekalane.
Cautiously, he moved forward. And as he neared that little oasis of soft things and polished glass, he discovered a
