of the Parilla de Andina and poked her head inside.

Seduced by the wonderful smells coming from the rear of the building, she crossed the dimly lighted anteroom and peered around the beaten gold fretwork of the room divider.

A few folk were milling about, trying to judge the best seating arrangments, but Vashti was beyond caring. Her feet hurt, and the night air was turning decidedly cold. Not to mention the fact that she was having trouble breathing.

The Queen says it's the altitude, she thought, but that only the old or infirm died from it -- usually.

Creeping to a small table in a corner, the Persian noblewoman sat down and gingerly wiggled her toes in their beaded slippers.

Not precisely the appropriate footwear for this terrain, she chuckled ruefully. Serves me right for caring more about fashion than comfort!

Pulling off the frayed slippers, she rubbed her feet gently, trying to ease the stone bruises and blisters.

No dancing for me tonight, she smiled.

"Now, if I could only find this Heraklia person," she muttered to no one in particular. "Then I could rest easy for an hour or two and enjoy myself."

"I wonder what she's like."