Fú wú chóng zhì, huò bú dān xíng

-- Fortune seldom repeats; troubles never occur alone.

**

The girl has beautiful eyes; dark and shining, long lashes black and soft against fine, alabaster skin. She peers across the small table at the man with the stylus and pen, and her eyes burn with an eagerness to please, to impress. He can see they have within their depths a slight fragility, a tiny hint of fear that shows how keenly she is aware of her gift--that a mind so valued by this man and his kind should not be imprisoned by one so young.

Awareness. It is a palpable thing, not easily broken; this one is truly an asset. The long, detailed map of her destiny they will never reveal, but she must be awake to its ramifications. So they have to take care.

All around them, the ice is thin.

The man offers a small smile, encouraging her to open up. He knows he must keep her focused. "You're very intuitive."

She cocks her head, bird-like, and presses her lips together shyly. "Simon says I was born with a third eye," she says, letting white teeth show. The man tightens the grip on his pen, shifting his weight slightly in the rigid chair. "He hates when I can tell which girl he likes."

He nods carefully, trying to appear neutral. It doesn't feel right, really.

They continue 'chatting'. He presses her about her brother, and can hear the pride in her voice, the fraternal longing already missed. The girl is so fast to prove her own stake by pouring her love into this boy, that the man, after a moment, feels the time is right to place the first pin onto the map.

And so he tells her.

When he has finished the girl remains silent, looking down at the table with a great stillness in her body. The long stream of her hair gleams in the dim light, and the man with the pen watches, presses dry fingers on the edge of the stylus and for a time wonders if she hears his breath catch with anticipation. All around them, and they are sitting on ice so thin he can feel the cracks open within his bones.