Then, in a glade, surrounded by the willows, he saw the blonde. The sun was not visible; there was just the pearly glow. But she was sunning herself.
If it was a dream, his senses were with him. He could feel the strong grass underfoot, smell the rich growth, hear the blood pounding in his temples. He walked down the hill toward the blonde.
He pushed through the willows and came into the glade, and saw her quick smile of recognition.
He smiled in return. "I won't believe it in the morning." He sat on the grass beside her. "Is it Venus?"
"Where else?" Her face was finely modeled with faintly discernible cheek bones and a smooth jaw line. "The lover's planet, hidden from the universe by its atmosphere. Hamilton's work, I'll wager."
"Hamilton?"
"You know him, our friend from the nutmeg tree. He arranged it, didn't he?"
"I suppose. He—or destiny. I shouldn't be here, really. Because I do love my wife, in a lot of ways, but—"
"Please don't say she doesn't understand you. She probably does. Most wives do."