"Miguel called you his _daughter_," he said loudly. "How come? That's impossible, of course." "How do you know?" she snapped, turning to face him. Her dark eyes glittered angrily. "I'm Miguel's daughter. Who says I'm not?" "Miguel. He told me you were adopted. He told me Immortals were sterile, that their children didn't survive. Whose daughter are you?" "What is it to you?" Kesley shrugged. "Curiosity, I guess. You're quite lovely, you know." She said nothing. "You're supposed to thank people when they compliment you, milady. It's hardly polite to--" "Quiet!" She crossed the room and faced him across a desk. At close range her faint perfume reached Kesley's nostrils; it was a delightful odor. The violet of her eyes, he saw, was flecked lightly with gold. "Why has Miguel promised me to you?" "He wants me to carry out a job--an assassination. You're the price." "Blunt, aren't you?" "Would you rather have me lie?" "No," she said, after a moment's thought. She threw back her shoulders and glared defiantly at him. "Well, do I pass your inspection? Am I fit for you?" Kesley made no answer. Instead, he circled deftly around the desk, drew her close, pulled her mouth up to his. He kissed her warmly without eliciting any response. She remained passive in his arms, as if she were a particularly lovely statue rather than a living woman. He released her. "Are you through?" she asked acidly. "You pass the test," he said. Then he shook his head tiredly. "No. This is insane. Narella, who are you?" Apparently his sudden sincerity, after the romantic pretense of the minutes before, told upon her. "My father was a court singer in Chicago, court poet to Duke Winslow. I was raised at the court. Four years ago, my father disappeared. Then Duke Winslow gave me to Miguel as a wife, but Miguel didn't want any wives. He adopted me instead. I've lived here ever since, as his daughter. As for my father, I suppose he's dead. He was blind, and--" "_Blind?_" Kesley snapped instantly out of his mood of weariness as if a bolt of electricity had seared through him. "Did you say your father was a blind court singer?" "Yes," she said. Words came from nowhere and rumbled in Kesley's mind, words spoken on an Iowa farm in the deep, booming voice of van Alen the Antarctican: "_We have the treasure, now; we lack only the key to the box. Daveen the Singer, the blind man. The search for him continues._" Slowly Kesley raised his head. He blinked a little as his eyes encountered the flashing glitter of the girl's jewelry; then he looked at her eyes and at the lips whose cosmetic fluorescence remained in neat array despite his kiss. "Your father's name--was it Daveen?" "Yes," she said. "Yes! But how do you know?" "I don't. It's a name I've heard mentioned, a name that has something to do with me. Only ... have you ever seen me before?" "I think so," she said slowly. "But I don't remember it. Were you ever at the court of Duke Winslow?"