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Power stalks through Meg's dreams. It whispers down wide corridors, between towering columns and scatters the birds from the eaves in a rushed beating of wings.
In her dreams she looks out over a sunlit plaza that stretches to the horizon. It is filled with thousands and thousands of people, a silent, still audience, faces turned up, waiting for her. They will be her puppets; they will dance to her tune. She will play games with their little lives. She will own them.
She turns her back on infinity and addresses the air, "Not for all the ambrosia on Olympus, pal."
Cuddy rearranges the three masks on her desk, placing them in a line: clever Esther in her bright crown flanked by wicked Haman of the evil triangle beard and impetuous Ahasueras. She tries to prop them into a tee-pee, like Janus the two-faced god. Will Rachel enjoy playing Esther? Will she also wear yellow wool braids? She wants Rachel to be older and to grow more slowly. She treasures every swiftly passing moment, celebrates it, mourns it, and wants more.
She's still playing with the masks when House storms in. Grinning, she holds Haman up to her face.
Ziva is so embarrassed, she has never told anyone. Not Tali, who would have been the obvious choice for her confidence. Not Ari. Certainly not Papa.
A little girl laughs and yells, waving a sceptre as she chases a masked king through the crowd of children in the park.
It's just... something about the foolish king, a man distracted by beauty and charmed by flattery and sweet words, rash, impulsive. One who, when tested, put aside sycophants and recognised worth. One who finally made the right choice.
He skirts the children, walking towards her, sunshine gleaming off his hair.
"Hello, Tony."
