"I better go take my cake out," Mary said. She fled the room in a swirl
of shimmering glastic.
Anne sneered, "I don't see why Miss Bestris puts up with her the way she
does."
"You're jealous," June said quietly.
Anne did not answer.
"Mary's decent," Adele said. "Maybe that's why. She's from the sticks,
and her parents still come to see her on visiting days, and there's
something about her so--so innocent. Maybe that's why Miss Bestris likes
her."
June said, "I think she's better than the rest of us. I think Miss
Bestris feels sorry for her in a way."
"Don't make me laugh," Anne said, facing June. "The only one that'll
ever feel sorry for her is herself!"
"You shouldn't have talked like that to her!" June snapped. "Why don't
you let her alone? She'll feel bad enough without you helping!"
Anne rolled over on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. June took a
helox lamp from her drawer and started to bake her hair darker. Those
Earthmen were so funny about colors.
In the kitchen, Mary took the cake out of the oven. It was steamy and
light and fluffy, and it smelled sweet and warm. She set it on the table
and mixed a two-minute green frosting which she spread, carefully, over
the cake. She patted here and there with the spatula and stood back, her
eyes proud and serious.
She hummed a little tune under her breath as she scrubbed the pots and
pans. Her hands moved in practiced rhythm, and the water splashed and
gurgled. When the kitchen was again spotless, she looked once more at
the cake, and then, turning out the light, she went back to her room.
Anne and Adele had left, but June was sitting quietly in the dusky
moonlight. Her white dress seemed vaguely luminous.
Laughing, Mary flicked on the light.
"It's a wonderful cake," she said. "The best one I ever made. Just the
way it should be."
"I wouldn't feel too bad, Mary, if he doesn't come to eat it," June
said. "I don't want to sound like Anne, but there was a lot of sense in
what she said."
"It's just like a real wedding cake." She hummed the snatch of Martian
tune. "Like in the tele-papers." She laughed with her eyes. "The
bridegroom takes the silver knife and cuts two large pieces of the cake
while the bride, dressed in filament coral, stands at his right hand.
She carries a bouquet of--Anne just likes to be mean!"
June frowned. Mary crossed to the dressing table. She studied her face
in the mirror. It was heart shaped, elfin; her purple hair was a riot of
curls, and her eyes were amethyst and gold. She smiled at herself. "I
want to look as pretty as I can tonight." She twisted around. "You don't
think he'll come either, do you?"
"I--no, Mary."
Mary looked back at the mirror. "He likes our canal blossom perfume."
She dabbed some of it on her ear lobes. "I like it best, too."
June stood up, crossed to the musikon, found a slow five-toned waltz.
She turned the music very low, and left the color mixer dim enough so
that only the faintest ghosts projected hues moved on walls and ceiling.