"I never learned love in the sense you mean," he said. "Nor had I thought of you again, in that way—after Monta Park. You were too alien for me. I understood that. Too alien for any kind of love I knew. You were—repulsive."
In silence, then, thoughts blocked out, Songeen guided Newlin. She seemed aloof, withdrawn. They filed slowly amid towering masses of smoky crystal. She led, drifting like a smoke wraith, before him. Newlin picked a cautious pathway over treacherous, unstable footing. He followed, bemused, and reluctance grew into agony of mind.
What was wrong with him? He grappled with himself, and strains grew into open rebellion. What did he want?
Near the portal, sensing it or another like it, he balked.
"Songeen!"
At his call, she glided back, phantomlike. "Yes?"
"You're in trouble here, aren't you? Because of bringing me?"
Shoulders as translucent as thin ivory shrugged. "No matter."
"But you are?" Newlin insisted, as if it mattered suddenly to him.
"Yes," she granted softly. "But do not alarm yourself. Only misunderstanding. I will explain my motives. They will point out my error. There is no punishment here."