081413 #worm Have you seen Votym? Deteb asks. You don't really want to tell her; he's right over there by that pile of planks, talking with some people. You know he'd probably rather she didn't go over there and talk to him. You know he'd probably just rather not get into it with her. But of course, you do tell her, either because you're mischeivous, or else because you're merely a little slow, and of course she does go over by him. Even the way she walks suggests recalcitrance wearing a feather boa. She's an odd duck, Votym concludes, watching her approach. He takes her cold fingers in his leonine hand, and leads her graciously back across the little slice of glaciation between the wood pile and the fire. Together they step in, and they become a perfectly matched set of lighter-than-crystal champagne glasses. They overflow with bubbly bathing goodness. Butterflies take their waters and grow into other bonfires, in other locales, where people need them the most. Maybe there's a butterfly in the last, licking flames around the downtown curb where Jelse lies. Maybe.