"The tears of an elf are sacred." Moira's father's face was marble in the eternal Allothorian twilight.
"Don't waste your tears on a short-life," Moira's mother murmured.
"Elves can't cry on command," her xenobiology instructor told the Space Academy class. "They give us their pain to heal us." Moira's hands made fists under her hyperdesk.
The music at the exclusive club throbbed heavily in Moira's bones. The lash drew tears; they dripped to the floor unheeded. She wept not for another but for herself, and her soul and body sang.
Not until Adarsa--Angela Sarfire's clone--did she find someone who understood.