Free Moongather by Jo Clayton

the spiral and stepped into a short hallway with an arched roof, little more than an alcove shut off by a large panel of bronze. She turned and looked up at the Noris, puzzled.
    â€œOpen the door.” His voice filled all the space, stroked her like a caressing hand.
    â€œHow?” She scowled at the metal.
    â€œExamine it.”
    She marched up to the slab of bronze and looked it over. A little higher than her head a bronze hook stuck out of a slot. She pulled it down and pushed. Nothing happened but a metallic clunk. She rubbed at her nose, then pulled the hook down again and tugged the door toward her. It slid smoothly open. She pushed it against the wall and swung around with a wide grin. “I did it.”
    â€œSo you did. Now, go inside.” The Noris folded his arms over his chest, his eyes twinkling at her.
    She stepped into the room, eyes wide with excitement. There was a bed set up on legs like a cart without wheels. She had no trouble guessing what it was though she’d slept most of her five years on piled-up vinat skins only inches from the frozen earth. She crossed to it and touched the shimmer-soft coverlet, then stroked her hand over the bright, blue-green smoothness, oohing her delight. Still petting the cover she looked around at the other strange things in the room. With great zest she trotted from wall to wall, touching everything she could reach. There were two tapestries, simplified plant forms in strong rhythmic designs, worked in threads that gleamed richly in the brilliant light pouring in through the open window. A bronze chair and a table with a marble top and bronze legs stood next to the window, on the table a bottle of ink, several sheet’s of paper, two pen-holders with silver nibs. She lifted the holders, touched the points to the tip of her forefinger. “What are these?”
    â€œFor writing.” At her blank look, he joined her at the table, took a pen from her, dipped it into the ink, pulled a sheet of paper close and wrote SERROI on it.
    â€œWhat’s that?” She touched the first letter with the tip of her finger, pulled the finger away and scowled at the small blue-brown stain on it.
    â€œYour name, child.”
    â€œShow me how to do that.” She fumbled with the pen, started to plunge the end into the ink bottle.
    The Noris caught her hand and took the pen from her. “Later. Come here.” He led her to a rack on the wall a little way from the table. “These are books.” Slipping a roll of parchment from the top of the small pyramid, he unrolled it in front of her. She stared at the black marks on the smooth cream-colored surface, touched them tentatively, exclaimed with delight at a delicately painted design on the border. After returning the parchment to its place, he slid a section of the wall aside. Serroi gasped with surprise as she saw her own clothing hanging on hooks and a spare pair of boots pegged to the back wall. “The servants will keep these clean for you. You can dress yourself?”
    â€œI’m not a baby,” Serroi snorted with disgust.
    He nodded, the twinkle back in his eyes. He opened a door and displayed a small neat bathroom, showed her how to use the toilet and bathtub. With a chuckle he led her away from the toilet, which fascinated her almost as much as the pens, taking her back into the bedroom. In their short absence the hands had been busy scattering potted green plants around the room. The Noris turned to Serroi. “Does this please you?”
    Serroi nodded shyly. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
    â€œGood. Come. There’s another thing I want to show you.”
    She followed him out of the room and back down the spiraling stairs, still disliking intensely that wormhole in stone.
    The Noris moved down the corridor, his booted feet making no sound at all. Serroi was startled by this; her own boots made scuffing and grating sounds that echoed dully in the dimly lit