Solon was good at everything, and this drove Quiana to distraction. The injustice of her complaint rankled her especially, for he was kind, considerate, and tactful, and indeed seemed not to notice his surpassing ability at all. He was tall (though not monstrously so), slender (although well built), and graceful (but not to the point of dandyism). He played games indifferently as to attitude, but with the same commanding ease that marked everything he did. He was a world-class tennis player, a lightning-quick runner, a champion equestrian, and moved over the surface of the snow like a hare. He was learned in the ways of wine, women, and song, and could order a glass of beer with the same equanimity as a bottle of wine, or play the most complicated piece of baroque clockwork and follow it up with rumbling gin-joint jazz.
Next to this, Quiana dwindled into insignificance. She had her own beauty, skills, and learning, but he was superlative. It was after yet another night of brilliant conversation and transcendent lovemaking that the Plan grew in her heart. Long she revolved it in that more than Stygian blackness, until, polished smooth, it nestled quietly within her, and grew.