A cloud of passenger pigeons temporarily blocked the sun. They were a migratory bird, Mary knew, shuttling between two homes, one in the north and the other in the south. Mary let out a long sigh and continued to walk. She knew why the female Neanderthals she was passing could smile. It wasn’t as though they were going back to a lonely existence. Rather, they were returning to their female lovers, to their children if they had any, to their families.

Mary lifted the collar of her mammoth-hair coat; a cold breeze had come up. She hated winter in Toronto—and suspected she’d hate it here even more. Toronto was so big, with so much industry, so many people, and so many cars, that it modified the local environment. North of the city—and south of the city, in Western New York—everything got hammered by snow. But in Toronto, there were only a few snowfalls each year, and usually no major ones before Christmas. Of course, she wasn’t in what corresponded to Toronto; Saldak was 400 kilometers farther north, where Sudbury was in Mary’s world, and Sudbury did get tons of snow. Saldak must get even more of it.

Mary shuddered, even though it wasn’t that cold yet. As she walked along, she thought about asking her Companion to tell her about winters here, but she suspected Christine would just confirm her worst fears.

At last she came to the distended, squat tree that formed the main structure of the house she shared with Bandra. Its leaves were falling off. Mary entered the house. She was wearing Neanderthal-style pants, with built-in shoes, but she’d instinctively reached down to try to remove her footwear as soon as she’d come through the door. She sighed again, wondering if she’d ever get used to this place.

Mary went into her bedroom, put down the codon writer, and came back into the living room. She could hear the sound of running water. Bandra must already be home, her man-mate perhaps having gone back to the Rim aboard an earlier hover-bus. The sound of the water must have masked the noise made by Mary entering, and since the door to the bathroom was closed—a nod to sanitation, not privacy, Mary knew—doubtless Bandra couldn’t smell Mary yet.

Mary went to the kitchen and got herself some fruit juice. She’d heard that the Neanderthals who worked in the south harvesting fruit shaved off all their head and body hair to help them better survive the warm temperatures. She tried to envision what Ponter would look like without hair. Mary had seen bodybuilders on TV, and for some reason they all had hairless chests and backs. Either they shaved them, or else the steroids they took had that effect. Anyway, she decided Ponter looked just fine the way he was.

Mary had expected Bandra to emerge from the bathroom by now, but she hadn’t—and Mary really needed to pee. By sheer necessity, she’d forced herself to overcome her privacy concerns about sharing one washroom. She walked over to the closed door and pushed it open with the flat of her hand.

Bandra was standing in front of the washbasin, hunched over, leaning into the square mirror above the sink.

“Excuse me,” said Mary. “I just need to—oh, my! Bandra, are you okay?”

It had taken a moment for Mary to see that there were splatters of blood on the polished granite washbasin; the red drops were difficult to make out against the pink stone.

Bandra didn’t turn around. Indeed, she seemed to be making an effort to hide her face. Mary loomed in.

“Bandra, what is it?” Mary reached up and took hold of Bandra’s shoulder. Had Bandra really wanted to, she could have stopped Mary from turning her around—she was certainly strong enough. But although she resisted a bit at first, she did allow Mary to turn her.

Mary felt herself sucking in air. The left side of Bandra’s face was bruised horribly, a yellow rim around a black-and-blue area perhaps ten centimeters across running from just above her browridge, down her wide, angled cheek to the corner of her mouth. There had been a central scab, half the diameter of the bruise, but Bandra had picked much of it away; that’s where the fresh blood was coming from.

“My God,” Mary said. “What happened to you?” Mary found a cloth—square, coarse—dipped it into the water, and helped Bandra clean the wound.

Tears were running down Bandra’s face now, falling from the deep wells of her eyes, detouring around her massive nose, flowing over her chinless jaw, and dropping onto the granite washbasin, diluting the blood there. “I—I never should have let you come here,” said Bandra softly.

“Me?” said Mary. “What did I do?”

But Bandra seemed lost in her own thoughts. “It’s not so bad,” she said, looking in the mirror.

Mary set down the washcloth and put one hand on each of Bandra’s broad shoulders. “Bandra, what happened?”

“I was trying to remove the scab,” said Bandra softly. “I thought maybe I could cover the bruise, and you wouldn’t notice, but…” She sniffled, and when a Neanderthal sniffled it was a loud, raucous sound.

“Who did this to you?” asked Mary.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Bandra.

“Of course it matters!” said Mary. “Who was it?”

Bandra rallied a little strength. “I took you into my home, Mare. You know we Barasts require very little privacy—but in this matter, I must insist upon it.”

Mary felt nauseous. “Bandra, I can’t stand by while you’re being hurt.”

Bandra picked up the washcloth and dabbed it against the side of her face a few times to see if the bleeding had stopped. It had, and she put the cloth back down. Mary led her out into the living room and got her to sit down on the couch. Mary sat next to her, took both of Bandra’s large hands, and looked into her wheat-colored eyes. “Take your time,” said Mary, “but you must tell me what happened.”

Bandra looked away. “It had been three months since he’d done it, so I thought he wouldn’t do it this time. I thought maybe…”

“Bandra, who hurt you?”

Bandra’s voice was almost inaudible, but Christine repeated the word loud enough for Mary to hear. “Harb.”

“Harb?” said Mary, startled. “Your man-mate?”

Bandra moved her head up and down a few millimeters.

“My…God,” said Mary. She took a deep breath, then nodded, as much to herself as to Bandra. “All right,” she said. “This is what we’re going to do: we’ll go to the authorities and report him.”

“Tant,” said Bandra. No.

“Yes,” said Mary firmly. “This sort of thing happens on my world, too. But you don’t have to put up with it. We can get you help.”

“Tant! ” said Bandra, more firmly.

“I know it will be difficult,” said Mary, “but we’ll go to the authorities together. I’ll be with you every step of the way. We’ll put an end to this.” She gestured at Bandra’s Companion. “There has to be a recording of what he did at the alibi archives, right? He can’t possibly get away with it.”

“I will not make an accusation against him. Without a victim’s accusation, no crime has been committed. That’s the law.”

“I know you think you love him, but you don’t have to stand for this. No woman does.”

“I don’t love him,” said Bandra. “I hate him. ”

“All right, then,” said Mary. “Let’s do something about it. Come on, we’ll get you cleaned up and into some fresh clothes, and we’ll go see an adjudicator.”

“Tant! ” said Bandra, slapping the flat of her hand against the table in front of her. It made such a loud sound, Mary thought the table was going to splinter into kindling. “Tant! ” Bandra said again. But her tone wasn’t one of fear; rather, it was filled with conviction.

“But why not? Bandra, if you think it’s your duty to put up with—”

“You know nothing of our world,” said Bandra. “Nothing. I can’t go to an adjudicator with this.”

“Why not? Surely assault is a crime here, no?”

“Of course,” said Bandra.