she sees one," Maya called as she departed, knowing full well Selene would hear her. Geminis were like that.
With a smile, Maya turned to greet the first student traipsing in for the day. "Boffo butterflies, sugar. Did your mommy put those in your hair for you?" She hugged the beaming little girl and forgot about all the other problems waiting outside the door.
* * *
"Constance, you ought to be dressed by now. You'll be late for school."
Harassed by an early morning call from a constituent, Axell wiped his sleep-blurred eyes and struggled for patience with his eight-year-old daughter. Still in her pajama top, her mousy hair a tangle of snarls, she stood in bewilderment before a closet full of the finest clothes money could buy, arranged in a neat row at a level she could reach. He'd thought organizing her closet and drawers would help her to get ready faster in the mornings. Apparently, the choices only prolonged her indecision.
He couldn't see anything of himself in Constance's dainty features and fragile bone structure. Constance's mother had been petite and elegant. His wife's brown hair had been tipped with golden highlights and her lovely face had been awash with color and life.
Axell slammed the door on that memory. Angela's highlights had been artificial and the color, cosmetically applied. Female emotion might forever be a mystery, but he'd learned about feminine artifices the hard way.
There was nothing artificial about his daughter. Her wide-eyed silence tugged at every heart string he didn't possess. He had no idea how to reach her.
"Let's wear the blue dress today, shall we?" he asked hopefully, pulling out a denim jumper.
Constance regarded the jumper with doubt but began unbuttoning her pajama top. Wondering if it was healthy for a father to help dress an eight-year-old daughter, Axell turned and searched her drawers for appropriate underwear and socks. He had to crawl under her bed and dresser for her shoes. Finding only one ballet slipper, a pair of bunny slippers, and an ancient tennis shoe, he combed the closet for a complete pair of anything. A clunky pair of Nikes in hand, he turned to see how far Constance had progressed.
The shoulder straps of the blue jumper hung loosely on her bony shoulders. It definitely needed a shirt underneath. Frustration mounting, Axell grabbed a red blouse from the closet rack. "Here, put this on—under the dress," he amended, remembering another morning when she'd worn the shirt over the top. Didn't girls automatically know what clothes to wear and how to wear them?
Through it all, Constance remained silent. She never spoke unless absolutely necessary. Some days, he wished she would chatter to fill the silence of their monstrous house.
He didn't know how to fill the silence any more than he knew how to reach his daughter. She was growing up like one of those forlorn waifs from the hideous velvet paintings his mother used to collect. He wished his mother were here to guide him, but she had died when he was twelve. All the women in his life had died and left him. The knowledge drained Axell's mouth dry as he watched his frail daughter reach for a brush. Should he lose her...
Rubbing his face, he stopped those thoughts. Constance was just going through a stage. The new after-school program would bring her out of it. He didn't have time to run her to ballet classes and music lessons and tennis lessons every afternoon as Angela had. The after-school program was just what she needed.
He had to find some way of preventing the mayor from shutting the school down as well as forcing that airheaded school administrator to recognize the seriousness of the situation. Those were things he could accomplish easier than persuading his daughter to talk.
Recalling the auburn-haired gypsy from the New Age shop, Axell wondered if he just shouldn't start shopping for a new school.
* * *
Glancing at his line-up of blue phone-message slips, organized in order of priority, Axell crumpled the one he'd just answered, and dropped it neatly in the wastebasket at his feet. He scribbled a corresponding note in his day-planner, then sat back in his chair as he recognized the brisk knock at his office door. There was no need to tell the visitor to enter. From long acquaintance, he knew Katherine would enter whether he wished it or not.
His assistant sailed in, impeccably attired, as always. He'd often been told they'd make a good pair: they were both tall and blond with