In the meantime she rearranged the vase of carnations and roses in the hall three times. Distraction failed in the flower arranging, she checked with their cook, a hedge wizard with no little talent in the tisane craft, to be sure he had obtained the proper cut of meat from the market butcher. The obliging burly man had guaranteed with little tension in his voice that he had indeed gotten the lean cut of beef. In spurts she went into the informal workshop on the first floor next to the parlor, set the magnifying glasses upon her head, folded down the thick lenses over her green mottled brown eyes, and worked upon the gears of the gyro engine for her gyrocycle.

But even that delicate task, fingers employing pincers and probes into the cogs and components of the machine lain belly open like a cracked, brass coconut upon her work desk would not consume her concentration for long. Within a few minutes, the tools were set aside, glasses drawn off, and fingers reformed the curls of her auburn hair into their pins once more. Drawing her hands to her lap, she saw the hints grease and grime from her gear working underneath the whites of her nails for the third time that day. Faina stood from her workbench and walked to the small sink with its brass pipings and fixtures polished bright against the porcelain white.