Free The Stone Dogs by S.M. Stirling

well—"
    "C'mon," Mandy said. "Well all join in."
    "Oh, all right." Yolande bent her head, then tossed it as the long pale ripple of her hair fell across the strings. She swept through the opening bars, a rapid flourish, and began to sing: an alto, pure but not especially strong.
    Twas in the merry month of May
    When green buds all were swellin',
    Sweet William on his deathbed lay
    Fo' love of Bar'bra Allen—
    The ancient words echoed out along the lonely beach; everyone knew that one, at least. They all had well-trained voices as well, of course; that was part of schooling. Myfwany's sounded as if it would be a soprano, rich and rather husky. Muriel's was a bit reedy, and Veronica's had an alarming tendency to quaver; Mandy's was like her own, but with more volume. They finished, gaining confidence, and swung into "Lord Randal" and "The Wester Witch."

    "What next?" Veronica said. "How about something modern?"
    "Alison Ghoze?" Muriel said.
    Mandy made a face.
    "Oh, moo. Call that modern? It's a hundred years old; modern iff'n yo' count anythin' after the land-takin'."
    "I—" Yolande strummed, forced the stammer out of her voice.
    "I've got somethin' new, care to hear it?"
    The others nodded, leaning back. Calm. Breathe deep. Out slow. She began the opening bars, and felt the silence deepen; a few seconds later and she was conscious of nothing at all but the music and the strings.
    It ended, and there was a long sigh.
    "Now, that was good," Myfwany said. She half-sang the last verse to herself again:
    "An we are scatteriris of Dragon seed On a journey to the stars!
    Far below we leave—-fo'ever
    All dreams of what we were."
    "Who wrote that, anyways?"
    "I—" Yolande coughed. "I did."
    They clapped, and she grinned back at them. Mandy laughed and jumped to her feet.
    "C'mon, let's dance—Muriel, get yo' flute out!"
    The silver-bound bamboo sounded, a wild trilling, cold and plangent and sweet. Yolande cased her mandolin and joined the others in a clap-and-hum accompaniment. The tall girl danced around the outer circle of the firelight, whirling, the colored driftwood flames painting streaks of green and blue across the even matte tan of her skin and the long wheatblond hair. She spun, cartwheeled, backflipped, leaped high in an impossible pirouette, feet seeming to barely touch the sand.
    "C C'mon, yo' slugs, dance! " she cried.
    … as we dance beneath the moon
    As we dance beneath the moon!"
    Myfwany came to her feet and seized Yolande's hand in her right, Muriel's in her left. "Ring dance!" she said. "Let's dance the moon to sleep!"
    "Oh, wake up, Pietro," Veronica said, kicking the serf lightly in the side. He started up from the grass beside the little electric runabout and loaded the parcels as they pulled on their tunics and found seats.
    "Do y' know," Mandy said, tying off her belt, "that the Yankees wear clothes to go swimmin'?"
    Veronica made a rude noise. "And fo' takin' baths, too. "
    "No, it's true, darlin'," Muriel said. "My Pa visited there, an'
    they do." She outlined the shape of a bikini. "Like underwear."
    "Strange," Myfwany said. They settled in for the kilometer ride back to the main buildings; nothing else moved on the narrow asphalt ribbon of the road, save once an antelope caught in the headlights for an instant with mirror-shining eyes. It was much darker now after moonset, and they rode with an air of satisfied quiet.
    "Go into Naples tomorrow?" Veronica said. Tomorrow was a Sunday, their only completely free day.
    "Fine with me," Mandy said; Muriel nodded agreement, and Myfwany nudged Yolande with an elbow.

    "How bout' it?" she said casually.
    "Why—" Yolande smiled shyly; this was acceptance, no longer tentative. "Why, sho'ly."
    The runabout ghosted to a silent halt by the eastside entrance.
    They made their farewells and scattered; Yolande blinked as she walked into the brighter lights of the halls and colonnades. It was after twelve and there were not many about; twice she had to skirt