Starling paced in her office, frustrated.  She had the country, even the region… now all she needed was a city.  Once she had that, the rest would be easy.  She didn’t need to find him, she admitted to herself.  Once she was in whatever metropolis unwittingly housed him, he would discover her presence almost immediately, she was sure of it.  Somehow, he would know.

            She balled up her hands into fists and rhythmically pounded her thighs.  She had tired of searching society pages and high-end magazines for the glimpse of a familiar face below a fedora.  The shopping lists were showing nothing; the murder rate in Brazil had apparently been unaffected by the addition of one lone and very circumspect killer to the country’s population.  Even if he had killed again, which she privately thought was a long shot, he would no doubt disguise his usual style.

            She needed to do something constructive or she would go insane, thinking of his voice, his words, his very aroma… even through the drugs she had smelled him, spicy and masculine.  The memory of the scent made her mouth water.

            She was becoming accustomed to the feeling of thinking about Lecter without gates slamming shut in her mind, and the more she thought of him the more places she reached in herself.  She realized that this whole scheme was crazy.  It could never work.  Did she really believe he would sweep her up onto a white horse and they would go riding off into the sunset together like the hero and heroine of some dimestore paperback novel?

            No, not likely, little Starling, she told herself.  But she knew that she had only begun to live in the years since they had met, and knew also that she would rather die than live without the feeling of him in her head.  She could admit such things to herself now.  Such was the freedom she had purchased when she sold her soul in their game.  He had taken it, cleaned it off, and given it back to her, whole.  Now she was able to see some of the gift he had given her.

            Cooper was concerned about motive.  She no longer cared.  If he wanted to kiss her or kill her, she would accept either one.  You never do things by halves, girl, she thought, and the voice in her head was her father’s.  No, I don’t, she acknowledged, and I didn’t need Hannibal Lecter to tell me that, either.  But that doesn’t mean I can’t have some fun on my way to wherever it is that I’m going.

            She smiled then, and began to formulate a plan.  He did say I needed to get more fun out of life.  Why not start now?  She knew with brutal honesty that she might be walking into a trap, and was not ashamed to realize that she might know nothing about Hannibal Lecter after all.  Wouldn’t it be just like him, even?  How much more perfect pain can one imagine than if he took all this time honing me only to destroy me?  My trip to Brazil might become my appointment in Samara, but I’m not dead yet.  In fact,  I’ve just been born.

            She called Cooper, who was working diligently if not ecstatically on a pile of newspaper clippings and missing persons reports.  “Hey, Coop.”

            “What’s up?”

            “I’m taking the rest of the day off.  I need to get out of here, clear my head.”

            “You’re the boss lady, do whatever you want,” he replied a little sourly.  The hours of purposelessness were beginning to take their toll.

            She paused, laughed a little, then said, “Why, thank you.  I think I’ll take your excellent advice.”

            “Have fun,” he said, and he meant it, regretting his earlier harsh tone.  His only reply was a click and a dead line.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

 

            Starling cranked the stereo all the way up as she floored her Mustang on the highway.  She passed other motorists as if they were standing still, and felt like she was flying.  Creedence Clearwater Revival poured into her ears as she mentally reviewed her financial situation.  “Bad Moon Rising.”  Ha-ha.  Thank God she had never been one for maxing out the credit cards.  She had a Visa and a MasterCard, both with balances of exactly zero.  She had about ten thousand in the bank, courtesy of her frugal, almost sterile lifestyle, and a retirement plan she was fairly sure she would be kissing goodbye.

            It’s about time to learn how the other half lives, she thought as she pulled into the parking lot.  Suddenly she wished Ardelia could be there to share this uncharacteristic splurge… it would be so much more fun with a good girlfriend at her side.  But that would mean spilling the beans, and Ardelia already suspected that something was afoot.  It was a good thing she attributed it to Starling’s handsome new partner.

            Begin as you mean to go on, she told herself, and walked into Neiman-Marcus.

            She quickly realized that she was a rank beginner in matters of fashion.  She was wearing gray trousers and a white blouse, nameless and solidly in the middle of the price spectrum.  Her handbag was Coach, though, and her shoes had definitely improved since the day that had turned her life onto its present careening course.

            The saleslady, nevertheless, looked at her as if she had wandered in from another universe.  Once upon a time, Starling would have stood up angrily to that stare while all the time withering inside, thinking “trailer camp tornado bait white trash.”  Today, she neither fought nor flinched.  She simply approached the woman.

            “Hi, I’m hoping you can help me.  I’m going to start off by mentioning a few words you might be interested in.  Total makeover.  Money is no object.  Commission.  Do I have your attention, now?”

            Slowly, the saleswoman nodded.  A gleam began to appear in her eyes, but Starling noted that there was little avarice in them.  Rather, it was the look of someone who enjoys a challenge.  Good.  She noted that “Eileen” was engraved on the woman’s nametag.

            “Okay, Eileen, I’m planning a tropical vacation.  I’ll need some casual wear, a few really good evening dresses, all the accessories, and makeup.”  Starling laughed.  “Someone to teach me how to put on the makeup might be a good idea, too.”

            Eileen nodded again, then circled around Starling, taking in the shape of her body.  Starling had been examined less thoroughly by trained law enforcement professionals.    “I’d like to know why you decided to come here,” she said, finally.  “If you want me to do this right, I’ll need to know a little bit about you, and, if I may say so, this doesn’t seem to fit your persona at all.”

            Starling met the saleswoman’s even gaze with appreciation.  “Let’s just say I’ve been saving up my whole life for this moment.”  That was truer than this woman could ever know.

            Eileen smiled.  “Well, you knew enough to come here, that’s good.  We’ll take excellent care of you, Ms…” she trailed off.

            “Call me Clarice,” said Starling.  There was no need for disguise here.  In a few weeks it wouldn’t really matter either way.

            Eileen took her measurements, asked her a few questions about color preferences, and then they were off and running.  Starling had never even heard the names of half the designers whose work she saw, and asked the saleswoman about that.

            Eileen leaned close to Starling, and said conspiratorially, “The secret of good fashion, dear, is to find what suits you.  It matters very little who made it as long as the quality is good.  Someone can wear an off the rack ensemble that matches their personality and look much better than someone wearing Dior and trying to be something they’re not.”

            Starling nodded, and decided to stop worrying about names.  She forced herself to not think about the reactions of a certain very discriminating gentleman, but instead concentrated on her own responses.  She wound up selecting a lot of basic black, but the darkness set off her pale skin until she almost looked like she was glowing.  Most of her choices were calculated to be tasteful but not showy.  She would blend well with an upscale crowd without calling attention to herself in any way.

            By that time, she and the saleswoman had evolved a genial camaraderie.  Eileen brought armfuls of formal and semiformal eveningwear, but none of it appealed to Starling.  Eileen finally came back with one divinely daring dress, and insisted that Starling at least put it on.  When she did, Clarice couldn’t believe that the person she saw in the mirror was the same one she’d been her whole life.  It was a Gaultier obi dress, strapless, and primarily consisted of two strategically placed bands of opaque fabric held together by wisps of sheer black.  Her chiseled abdominals were clearly visible beneath the translucent material, and the curves of her breasts and hips were accentuated by the cut of the cloth.  She looked elegant and carefree all at once.  This was the dress of a woman who did not give a damn what anyone else thought of her.

            The saleswoman looked at Starling with something akin to awe.  “You know, I must have shown that dress to nine or ten different women, all of whom were beautiful, sophisticated, and much more used to couture than you are.  It didn’t work on a single one of them.  But, honey, that dress is made for you.”

            Starling was still staring at her reflection.  “I don’t even know where I would wear a dress like this.  It’s not really right for a dinner, it’s too casual for the theatre…”

            “Dancing, my dear,” said Eileen.  “It’s perfect.”

            Clarice dared for a single moment to imagine herself dancing with Dr. Lecter.  Her mind clutched at the image ravenously.  She craved it like a junkie.  Well, it’s always good to have goals in life, she told herself, and laughed out loud.  She pirouetted, feeling the way her body moved under the snugly liberating gown.

            “Oh, yes,” she whispered, “I’ll definitely be taking this one.”

            It took a total of six hours, but at last Starling was outfitted as befit the woman she had become.  She had shoes, handbags, sunglasses, jewelry, makeup, and a wardrobe beyond her wildest imaginings.  Enough to last her at least two weeks, anyway.  The black palette she had chosen was accentuated at times by grays, silvers, and the occasional blood red.  She had blouses, slacks, skirts, and dresses; but the one really extravagant departure was an amazing little two-piece with a bandeau top and a Rio cut bottom.  Even with her newly acquired indifference to monetary considerations, she had balked at paying eight hundred dollars for a swimsuit.  Once she tried it on, though, she knew that whoever had designed this suit deserved the cash.  It turned her average chest into a showpiece of voluptuous cleavage and did more for her hips than she had thought would be possible for such a small piece of fabric.  She had never felt sexier in her entire life.

            She put the nine thousand three hundred and forty-seven dollar bill onto her charge card without a qualm.  Before she left, Eileen handed her a card, saying, “Trust me, dear, none of this will be worth it unless you go all the way.”  She thanked Starling for her patronage and excused herself, slipping back onto the sales floor.

            Not until Starling was out in the parking lot did she look at the little card.  It was cream-colored, expensive stock.  One word, ‘Eden,’ and a phone number were engraved on the front.  For some reason, she flipped the card over.  In a small, neat hand was written, “Dear Clarice:  I know you were holding something out on me.  Whoever he is, I hope he’s worth it.  I’m dying to find out how it goes.  Let me know, Eileen.”

            She recognized the name.  One of the most prestigious salons in Washington, it catered mostly to ambassador’s wives and that set.  Starling had actually been there once, in her tech days, to bug a booth.  Amazing the things people tell their hairdressers, she thought.  It was insanely lavish.  Way out of my league, she mused, then rebuked herself.  I’ve been my worst captor all my life, she realized.  Do I dare?  Damn straight, I dare.

            She read Eileen’s note over again and smiled.  If she ever wants to look at another line of work… the FBI can always use a few good women.  The thought stung for a moment.  Am I a good woman?

            Well, that’s a matter of perspective.  And perspective I am learning, in spades.  She got into the Mustang and rolled the window down.  I’m good enough for me.  But am I good enough for him?

            She took a quirky delight in laying several feet of rubber in the ritzy parking lot.

            On the expressway, she let her mind go blank in the meditation that was driving.  She ignored the annoying sound for a minute before she realized what it was.  Her cell phone.  She answered and listened to the voice on the other end calmly.  Stewart.  Another package.  How nice.  I’ll be there shortly.

            Even as the pit of her stomach dropped, she visualized herself shooting up confidence like it was heroin.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

 

            Cooper and Stewart were waiting in the basement office when she arrived.  A long cardboard tube lay on her desk.  Without a glance to either of them, she strode to the desk, pulled on her gloves, and wrenched the top off the tube.  She upended it and a slithering sound hissed as the rolled up papers slid down onto the desk.  They unfurled and she saw an envelope amidst the drawings.  She set the blue letter aside and looked at the top sketch.  It was herself, of course, back in the Madonna pose he had used once before.  This time, however, she held not a lamb but a wolf.  One hand rested underneath the creature’s jaw.  The other was clasped to her chest.  A mantle splashed with stars was folded around the two figures, enveloping them.  The night sky above was roughed in, a gray expanse, but for a few points of white.  She felt a tug on her soul, then a quietly insistent spinning.  She felt like a top as her world slowly came to a stop.  She knew then.  She had traversed a wide and terrible arc, and her stars were no longer the same as they had been.  She could hold the sensation only for so long, until her knees threatened to buckle beneath her.  Enough.  More later.  She bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw blood.  Hard enough to draw her back to reality.

            Starling closed her eyes, licked her lips, exhaled, and slid the sketch aside.  The one beneath came as a total shock, a 180-degree reversal of mood.  She could feel the hot red flush spread over her cheeks.  The complete insouciance of the drawing amazed her.  And as little as she liked it, she could feel the heat from her face reflected in her groin.  To see herself like that… so exposed and submissive, in that ridiculous French maid costume… really, she should be so angry.  Terribly upset.  Frothing mad.

            Instead she recognized the sound that came out from her mouth for what it was:  a giggle.  Belatedly realizing she was not alone, she stifled the giggle with a cough that would not have convinced a child.  Oh, well.  She wiped a tear from her eye, grateful that a certain sense of the absurd had not deserted her.  Or him, for that matter.

            She dared not look up at her unwelcome companions.  She moved the drawing to rest atop the Madonna and turned her attention to the last sketch.  It was more carefully drawn than the rest, with a level of detail that rivaled his famous rendering of the Duomo.  Clearly, it was done from memory.  And, on a purely artistic level, it was splendid.

            While in no way an expert on art or sculpture, Clarice instantly knew the subject.  And, through her psychology background, she understood the loaded image immediately.  She gazed for a long while in silence at the Little Mermaid of Copenhagen, remembering Hans Christian Anderson’s dark fairy tale.  Every step like sharp knives.  Sea foam.  A stolen voice, a permanent choice.  Her own face looked back at her, pensive.

            The anger that had not come before surged up now.  She grabbed the envelope and ripped it open violently.

 

“To my dear arboreal, boreal Clarice,

 

What’s done is, of course, done.  I can only wait and wonder.  What is taking you so long, my no-longer-little Starling?  Haven’t you found me out by now?  What is the F.B.I. coming to these days?

Or do you hesitate?  Look at your lovely sister by the sea.  She didn’t.  Look at your charming coquette cousin.  She wouldn’t.  But you are angry to be compared to them, yes?  Does the resentment boil in you now?  I can almost hear the whistle of your kettle going off.  Listen to it, Clarice.  What does it tell you?

I long to hear your answer, my Leda, my Lyra, my beauty crowned.  When you’ve reached your zenith, do come find me.  From where I’ll sit, your warrior has long since gone to ground.  Let the hunter reemerge to avenge the sting.  Use the telescopic lens of your precision and I know you’ll find more jewels for your head.  And perhaps some silence for your bed.

The Doctor is out.

 

Your former clinician and present quarry,

 

Hannibal Lecter”

 

            Starling forced her breathing to return to some semblance of regularity, hoping that her heartbeat would follow.  For the first time since opening the package, she looked up at her associates.  They were waiting expectantly.  She sat quite deliberately in her chair and returned their questioning stares.

            “Get to work,” she said roughly, tempering her tone with a half-hearted smile.  “I need to think.”

            Stewart approached the desk, hesitated, and put out a tentative hand, watching Starling the whole while.  When she received a curt nod, she gathered the papers together and slid them back into the tube.  She cocked her head at Cooper and walked out without speaking a word.

            Cooper saw Starling as if he was looking through the wrong end of a set of binoculars.  The distance between them was vast beyond words, yet he knew he needed to bridge the gap.  He couldn’t bear to let her go so soon.  The thought surprised him – he had believed that he had successfully buried his burgeoning desires.  He’ll have her for a lifetime, he said to himself.  I just want to be with her a little while, to follow her safely to her destination.

            With that rationalization firmly intact, he walked around the desk and put his hand on Starling’s shoulder.  She started violently, whirling around in her chair.  He caught her upraised hands and laid them gently in her lap.  Kneeling to her level, he looked her straight in the eyes.

            “Whatever happens, don’t lose you, okay?” he managed to say before his throat betrayed him.  He felt her come back into herself, saw the person he knew once more behind her gaze.

            She reached out and traced the line of his jaw with her finger.  “You’re a true friend, Coop.  I’ll never forget that.  It means so much to have someone who doesn’t…” she trailed off as the tears began to come.

            He wrapped her in his arms as she sobbed the last tears she would shed for her old life. 

            It was five, perhaps ten minutes later when Clarice raised her head from Cooper’s chest.  Her face was puffy, streaked with tears, but no trace of regret was apparent to his searching gaze.  She smiled at him, and her eyes were bright between the swollen lids.

 

            “Thanks,” was all she could say.  She was too full for words.

 

            He couldn’t respond.  Biting his lip, he stood and let her go.  He turned and walked out of the office, hoping only that he wasn’t walking out of her life.

 

            Starling still felt the touch of his hands warm on her back.  His smell, reminiscent of pine trees and coffee, lingered in her nostrils.  She allowed herself a moment only to savor the might-have-been.  The place he so clearly desired in her life was reserved for another, and there was no changing that.  Even had she wanted to.

 

            She leaned back in the chair and pulled his drawings to mind, each line etched on her memory with acid and fire.  She felt a renewed anger burning in her, but with a strange detachment was able to laugh at it.  Men just don’t understand the Little Mermaid, she thought.  Not even Dr. Lecter knows what she means to us.  Her story can’t scare us – women face her choices every day.  Why would I be upset at being compared to her?  Apparently even he can be wrong once in a while.  I don’t know if that’s comforting or frightening right now.  But to think that he would believe I needed a reminder?  Like a schoolgirl?  Oh, by the way, Clarice, we’re playing for keeps here.  Well, no shit.  “Thank you, Dr. Lecter, for that insight. I’d have never come up with it on my own,” she said out loud, bitterly.  Will anyone ever realize that I’m a grownup?

 

            Then start acting like one, Starling, she told herself.  “Listen to me!  Talking to myself like some damn fool,” she muttered.  She collected herself, smoothing back her cropped hair and straightening her crumpled blouse.  Using an old trick she’d learned in college, she extended her arms straight out from her sides and put on a broad smile, hoping that the physical openness would trigger a similar emotional response.

 

            Stewart walked in to find her in that strange position.  “Um, excuse me, but I thought I’d bring the letter back, since I’ve gotten everything off it that I can.  Which is nothing, by the way.  The drawings will take longer, but I’m not very hopeful.”

 

            Starling’s smile grew into a grin.  “Thank you, Amanda,” she said, and took the letter.  She sat back into her chair and drew the paper from the envelope.  Unfolding it, she swiveled so that Stewart was left with only the view of the back of her head.  It was an unmistakable dismissal.

 

            Stewart left the office confirmed in her feelings that all the strange rumors about Clarice Starling didn’t even compare with the truth.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

 

            Starling greedily read the words again and again.  No matter that she knew them by heart. 

 

 

There was a pricking on the back of her neck and a tickle at the base of her spine that told her that there was something to be found here.  She recalled Jack Crawford telling her to never ignore that sensation.  The memory no longer hurt – she’d left the pain behind when she packed for this journey.  Two fathers down.  One more to go.  Have to erase that association, she thought.  Even if I am southern…

 

            Her mind grasped the word “southern” and tugged at it.  Lecter’s never forgotten where I come from; he’s taunted me with it enough.  So why did he address me as his boreal Clarice?  The arboreal part is fairly clear, but to call me northern?  It doesn’t make sense…

 

            Except if he’s talking about in relationship to himself.  Remember, girl, he doesn’t know that you know he’s in Brazil.  He’s starting the clues here.  He wants me to think in terms of spatial relationships… she ran it through again and again in her mind, but came out sure that she was missing something.

 

            Just go on, it’ll come, she told herself.  She felt a tightness in her temples and a dryness in her mouth.  Excitement.  She looked at the words on the page.  The first two paragraphs were relatively self-explanatory, even with the Lecter slant.  But the third…

 

“I long to hear your answer, my Leda, my Lyra, my beauty crowned.  When you’ve reached your zenith, do come find me.  From where I’ll sit, your warrior has long since gone to ground.  Let the hunter reemerge to avenge the sting.  Use the telescopic lens of your precision and I know you’ll find more jewels for your head.  And perhaps some silence for your bed.”

 

An outsider might assume he’d called her those names before, that they were allusions to past events, but she knew they weren’t.  My Leda.  My Lyra.

 

            Leda was easy.  Leda and the Swan.  She savored the salacious thrill that danced in her lower abdomen.  The animal/god and the girl.  But strange for Lecter to choose that image… he always rejected those who viewed him as an animal.  It didn’t ring true, this metaphor.  What the hell was he driving at?

 

            She jogged through her memories of mythology, which were actually fairly extensive, but could not recall a Lyra.  A nymph, perhaps?  Was she another of Zeus’ conquests?  Move on, Starling.  Just go with the flow.

 

            But that was the trouble; there was very little flow to be had in this bizarre passage.  The crown reference she didn’t get at all, as he had always called her on her common roots. The zenith was easy… hadn’t he been her “therapist,” and just pronounced her finished?  So she assumed she was at her high point now, her “zenith.”  But the warrior going to ground?  She had always thought that was what he admired about her.  The hunter he had referred to before, and she knew that’s how they both thought of this game.  The lens of precision?  She had once dared him to use his lens of perception.  “Oh, God, none of this makes any sense at all,” she groaned.

 

            Except, of course, the silence for her bed.  That was all too clear.  Even the indirect mention of her lambs started them off.  She gritted her teeth until the piercing shrieks died away.

 

            Think, think, think.  She got up and began to move around the room, looking at the pictures of victims on the wall, forcing her conscious mind to consider every detail.  All the while, her subconscious bubbled beneath the surface, churning constantly.  She reached the grisly crime scene photo of Paul Krendler, his blank eyes staring from his mutilated head.  Blood ran down his face, into his eyes and out again.  Dripping from the corners, the scarlet tracks looked like tears.

 

            She raised a hand to the picture and traced the lines with her finger.  In all her agonies and self-deception, she had never tried to trivialize this.  This thing that Lecter does for… well, who knew why?  The taking of life.  Consumption.  That label made it sound like a disease.

 

            For the millionth time, she wondered if Lecter was truly insane.  Is that even relevant, she asked herself, laughing.  This whole thing is insane, I’m probably insane, and this whole fucking world has gone insane.  For all I know, he’s the only sane person around.

 

            Perspective.  It all comes down to perspective.  I’ve learned my lessons well.  When someone controls your perspective, they control you.  “Like you tried to do, Paul,” she said to the gruesome image on the wall.  Her voice was not unkind.  “Lecter tried to do it too, and he succeeded where you failed, Mr. Krendler.  Because I wanted him to succeed.  But that’s over.  Now I know, because he taught me so, that the only perspective that matters is my own.  And, from my perspective, you deserved to be punished.  Perhaps not to die, but I wasn’t making the decisions there.  And you’d have given up my life without a qualm, wouldn’t you, Paul, if it would have furthered your pathetic career.  So I don’t feel much regret at your untimely demise.  In fact, come to think of it, I really don’t feel any regret at all.”

 

            She walked back to the desk, her head feeling as oddly light as it had on the night of Krendler’s death.  She sat and picked up the letter once more.  The word “boreal” still hummed at her.  She sensed it had more to say.

 

            “Boreal, boreal,” she whispered under her breath, hoping that she would find something different in the sound of the word.  Where have I heard that before?  She thought about the Greek myths, the winds that blew Odysseus on his journeys.  Tempting, and very Lecteresque, but she couldn’t make it fit.

 

            The humming in her mind turned into a tune, one that she couldn’t quite place.  She became very still in her chair, trying to sneak up on the memory.  When it came, she almost slid off the chair onto the floor, so incongruous was the snatch of music that played in her head.

 

            She remembered weekends in Bozeman, when she was pressed into service as a chaperone for the younger children’s trips to the movie theater.  The old couple who ran the small cinema were kind folks, and when a kid’s picture played they always had a special matinee for the orphanage children.  She recalled The Muppet Movie vividly, remembering that she had laughed as much as her younger charges, and been touched in a way they could not understand by the sweet sentiments underneath. 

 

            “Aurora Borealis, shinin’ down on Dallas, can you picture that?” she sang, a little off-key.  Chuckling at the memory, she was about to dismiss it when she felt a sliding in her mind, and heard the click of a key in a lock.  Tumblers fell into place, and she whirled to face her computer.

 

            Aurora Borealis… Corona Borealis… The Northern Crown… Leda and the Swan, that’s Cygnus… Lyra?  That’s the Lyre… the warrior gone to ground must be Orion, dead of Scorpio’s sting… Sagittarius is the hunter -- oh, sweet Jesus, he’s giving me a map… a star map, how could I have missed that?  After all he said before!

 

            She didn’t merely surf the web, she flew across the sites until she found what she wanted… and then her exhilaration turned to ashes in her mouth.  A time.  Of course, you idiot.  You need a day and a time.  No, wait. “When you’ve reached your zenith…”  Okay, so I’m Corona Borealis.  She decided to use nine p.m., knowing it as the traditional time for star maps.  And Lecter is nothing if not traditional, she mused.  She clicked and clicked until she had it.  Corona Borealis, at zenith at nine p.m. over Washington, D.C.  On August 5^th.  Surrounding the crescent constellation were Cygnus and Lyra.

 

            She clicked over to the Southern Hemisphere, picking Rio as a random example, and punched up the night sky for August 5^th.  It would be close, and she could refine her search once she found out more about the southern constellations that residents of northern lands never get to see.  As she waited for the page to load, her fingernails tapped her desk calendar.  That’s only three days away.

 

            When the picture appeared, she smiled.  There was Scorpio, Sagittarius close by, and, lo and behold, a tiny constellation called the Telescope.  Off to the side was the Southern Crown, and she smiled.  “More jewels for my head,” she said, and her voice was rapturous.

 

            Okay, he connected “telescope” and “precision,” and said to use it, so that must be what’s at zenith.  Let’s try… Belo Horizonte?  No, not a coastal town.  São Paulo?  It’s the biggest city left… It’s not exactly on the sea either, but it’s only about 70 kilometers away, and there’s a river…

 

            She watched the screen as the stars of the constellations connected themselves.  The Telescope lay dead center in the circle of black.  She could not contain the animal cry that burst from her lungs. She whooped and hollered, screamed and jumped, leaving her chair far behind in an excess of satisfaction.

 

            In the end, it was one word that she repeated over and over.  “Yes!  Yes!  Yes!”