Bianca stared at the blue spot on her wrist, then plunged her hands back into the soapy water to hide it. She stood there for nearly a minute before looking at her wrist again, in the faint hope that it was something she'd imagined.

It wasn't. It was still small and pale, and she might not have noticed it if she hadn't been looking for it, but she was sure that the spot would fluoresce faintly if she examined it under black light. It wasn't as though she hadn't been expecting it. She swore softly, and plunged her hands back into the dishwater, wishing again her in-laws had given her something practical--or at least less malicious--as a wedding present. An autochef, maybe, or even a dishwasher... but the ancient kitchen would have earned an approving nod from an Amish woman. Most of the dishes she was washing were genuine breakable antiques, and while some of the knives had monatomic edges, they were otherwise ordinary knives.

She left the dishes in the sink, wiped her hands on her apron, and walked into the bathroom to stare at her face in the mirror. Nothing yet. The silence of the dark, empty house was beginning to get on her nerves, so she reached for the 3V remote. The Chief Justice was defending the Supreme Court's decision that unmarried women could not claim damages for sexual harassment unless the alleged harasser was married. "We can't criminalise courtship behaviour," he sound-bit. A newsreader, aided by gory computer graphics, told the story of a man who'd turned up for a job interview armed with an Uzi and fired at those ahead of him in the queue. Eleven had died, three of them because they'd hesitated too long before running. Bianca shook her head and channel-hopped. Baseball, cartoons, basketball, soaps, low-g gymnastics from Mars, het softcore, het hardcore... she watched with dull amusement as the couple on the screen lit up cigarettes. Tobacco advertising had been banned everywhere but the adults only channels; she was surprised that the cigarette companies still bothered with the domestic market. More basketball, music videos, gaymale softcore, the Star Trek channel, more soaps. She switched back to the news channel, and walked back to the kitchen, rubbing at the spot on her wrist. Jesus, she thought, it's not as though that pre-nup gives them the right to both my kidneys or anything. I can leave if I want...

And go where? she asked herself. Unemployment was still rising, Levin Act or no Levin Act, and the price of a divorce had been increased to more than most people made in a year. Even if she'd been single, her chances of finding a job at twenty-seven were minimal. Social Security had been scrapped in every state except Alaska, Canada was deporting illegal immigrants by the truckload, her parents were living in a retirement home thanks to her income, and that only left the re-training camps. Shivering, she plunged her hands back into the water, half-wishing that Simon had gotten her pregnant. It might have mollified his parents; his mother was constantly buying gifts for the prospective grandchild, and she might even have done something to make her life less miserable if she became the mother of the Sanderson heir, though she doubted that they'd leave her in charge of her child for very long. But Simon was content to wait for his parents to die, as long as he had Crystal, and she knew she couldn't rely on Rick... and Crystal was apparently still determined to make his parents as near-immortal as possible. Bianca clenched her fists in the water, cutting her fingers on the monatomic edge of a kitchen knife. She withdrew her right hand, watching with little more than mild intellectual curiosity as blood dripped from the incredibly fine cut into the water. She stood there for several seconds, then wrapped a tea-towel around her wounded hand and walked to the bathroom.

The phone rang. She ignored it, letting the computer answer. "Bianca, dear," said her mother-in-law's sour syrupy voice, as Bianca fumbled in the cabinet for the first aid kit. "I need to come around some time before Saturday. The insurance company needs to check on the paintings, to make sure they're being maintained according to their dreary little agreement. I don't know precisely when, but I'll try to call you beforehand. Goodbye."

Bianca stood in the bathroom, staring into the mirror and trying to stop herself shaking. Simon's family found an excuse to visit and examine some part of the antique collection nearly every time Simon was out of town for more than a few days--as though they suspected her of stealing items or replacing them with forgeries. She attempted to bandage her fingers with her left hand, but after less than a minute, she dropped the kit in anger and stalked back into the kitchen and grabbed one of the knives. I'll show you bad luck, she thought, as she walked back into the sitting room and looked around at the paintings, wondering which one to start on.

She looked down at her bleeding hand. The mark on her wrist was now bright blue. She glanced at her left wrist; the mark there was smaller, but just as distinct--maybe even a little brighter. With a shriek, she stabbed at it with the knife, slicing across the vein and into the tendon. The mark remained. She drew a deep breath, and began systematically cutting along the vein. The monatomic blade sliced through the flesh easily, with almost no pain. She looked at the incision with faint approval, and then grabbed the bloody knife with her left hand and attempted to make an identical incision on her right wrist. A few seconds later, she dropped the knife at her feet, and staggered towards the phone.

"Crystal? It's Bianca. Look, I've... I need your help."