From her sleeve, she removed a dark and shining coil, rather like a bracelet. A tiny hank of silken hair, very long, wound around and around until it seemed to have no end. She thrust it at him. "Here. It was all I could think of." That's because it is all you have that you truly own, milady. All else is a gift of your constellation, or the Star Creche, or the haut, or your emperor. You live in the interstices of a communal world, rich beyond the dreams of avarice, owning...nothing. Not even your own chromosomes. Miles took the coil from her. It was cool and smooth in his hand. "What does this signify? To you?" "I truly do not know," she confessed. Honest to the end. Does the lady even know how to lie? "Then I shall keep it. Milady. For memory. Buried very deep." "Yes. Please." "How will you remember me?" He had absolutely nothing on him that he could give away right now, he realized, except for whatever lint the embassy laundry had left in the bottoms of his pockets. "Or will it please you to forget?" Her blue eyes glinted like sun on a glacier. "There is no danger of that. You will see." She moved gently away from him. Her force screen took form around her slowly, and she faded like perfume. The two bubble flaoted after the emperor to seek their places.
Cetaganda, by Lois McMaster Bujold
