"When you pick orange," A memory she can seize: High groves and rind. "You twist to break stem."

Sennara reaches for one now, speared bizarre and whole on the end of that golden fork (was it a spoon?). The bowl of fruit is new.

"To pull tears hole," She squints at navel-end. Searching, "Air gets in, goes bad. You must be gentle not to bruise it. You must wear gloves, not to burn."

Juice and skin and the winter sun, the first reaction the chemist taught them. She wore gloves, and the others didn't; arms plunged to the elbow in thick, white vitaar.

(When has she ever picked an orange? There must be machines for that,)

Rot dribbles over brocade. Beyond the dining room, a tinny bell begins to ring alarm.