Three Fates

offshoot had developed such a keen interest in the Greek gods. It was his assignment to find out, by whatever means worked best, what she knew about the Three Fates.
    If she’d been, well, softer, he supposed, he might have tried and enjoyed a seduction angle. It was fascinating what people would tell each other when sex was tangled into the mix. She was attractive enough, in a scholarly sort of way, but he wasn’t entirely sure what button to push, romantically speaking, with the intellectual type.
    Frowning a bit, he turned the book over on his lap and gave the photo another look. In it she had her sunny blond hair tucked back in some sort of bun. She was smiling, rather dutifully, he thought now. As if someone had said, “Say cheese!” It wasn’t a smile that reached the eyes—very sober and serious blue eyes that suited the somewhat sober and serious curve of her lips.
    Her face tapered down to a bit of a point. He might have called it elfin but for that primly styled hair and the somber stare.
    He thought she looked like a woman in need of a good laugh . . . or a good lay. Both his mother and his sister would have belted him for that opinion. But a man’s thoughts were his own business.
    Best, he decided, to approach the prim Dr. Marsh on very civilized, very businesslike terms.
    When the applause, a great deal more enthusiastic than he’d expected, broke out, he nearly cheered himself. But even as he started to rise, hands shot up.
    Annoyed, he checked his watch, then settled himself for the question-and-answer session. As she was working with an interpreter, he decided the session might take the rest of his life.
    He noted she took the glasses off for this portion, blinked like an owl in sunlight, and seemed to take a very long breath. The way a diver might, he mused, before plunging off a high board into a dark pool.
    When inspiration struck, he lifted his hand. It was always best, he thought, to knock politely on a door to see if it opened before you just kicked it in.
    When she gestured to him, he got to his feet and sent her one of his best smiles. “Dr. Marsh, I’d like to thank you first for a fascinating talk.”
    “Oh.”
    She blinked, and he saw she’d been surprised by the Irish in his voice. Good, something else to use. Yanks, for reasons that eluded him, were so often charmed silly by an accent.
    “You’re welcome,” she said.
    “I’ve always been interested in the Fates, and I wonder, in your opinion, if their power held individually or only because of their union.”
    “The Moerae, or the Fates, were a triad,” she began, “each with a specific task. Clotho, who spins the thread of life, Lachesis, who measures it, and Atropus, who cuts that thread and ends it. None could function alone. A thread might be spun, but endlessly and without purpose or its natural course. Or without the spinning, there’s nothing to measure, nothing to cut. Three parts,” she added, sliding her fingers into an interlocking steeple. “One purpose.” And closed them into a joined fist. “Alone they would be nothing but ordinary if interesting women. Together, the most powerful and honored of gods.”
    Exactly so, he thought as he resumed his seat. Exactly.
     
     
    SHE WAS SO tired. When the Q-and-A session was finished, Tia wondered how she didn’t simply stumble her way to the signing area. Despite the precautions of melatonin, diet, aromatherapy and cautious exercise, her internal time clock was running ragged.
    But she was tired, she reminded herself, in Helsinki. And that counted for something. Everyone was so kind, so interested here. Just as they had been at every stop since she’d left New York.
    How long ago was that? she wondered as she took her seat, picked up her pen, plastered on her author smile. Twenty-two days. It was important to remember the days, and that she was more than three-quarters of the way through this self-imposed torture.
    How do you conquer phobia? Dr. Lowenstein had asked. By facing the phobia. You’ve got chronic shyness with whiffs of paranoia? Get out there and interact with the public. She wondered when a patient came to Lowenstein with a fear of heights if his solution was a fast leap off the Brooklyn Bridge.
    Had he listened when she’d assured him she was positive she had social anxiety disorder? Perhaps agoraphobia combined with claustrophobia?
    No, he had not. He’d insisted she was merely shy, and had suggested she leave the psychiatric evaluations