“We are what we repeatedly do.”

--Will Durant

The book in your hands is a sequel. You may wish to set it temporarily aside while you read Unweaver. However, the author understands the flow of literature is not always under the reader’s control. Perhaps you spend a rainy weekend in a cabin where you find this book on a dusty shelf. Or you are desperate for reading material on a journey of a thousand miles. Or an ancient chest containing this single volume washes ashore on the island where you have been so long marooned.

What happens if at some later date in a dim shop in an unfamiliar neighborhood you come across a copy of Unweaver and in a flash of recognition realize it is the missing story, the first book in the pair of which you have already read the second?

That might be fun, and no harm done.

The books were conceived as a triptych, one of those sets of three paintings that together tell a tale. The viewer’s attention is drawn first to the large picture in the center. This experience is enhanced by viewing panels on either side, but the artist must consider those who examine the work from left to right and visitors from exotic lands who may take it right to left. In this book, the reader will find the side panels, Unweaver’s past and future, prequel and sequel in one volume. Since we begin with the prequel, you simply need to know that Emily and Sapphire suffered under QiLina and that, for their own protection, both witches and prostitutes assume professional names.

“When those doors open again, a goddess will come out. Papa said so. Right, Papa?”

“Not quite, Lacey.”

“You said we’d see a goddess.”

“We will, but she won’t come through those doors. Before she comes, the doors will change.”

“How will the doors change?”

“Ask your brother.”

“I want you to tell me, Papa.”

Her brother answered anyway, as they knew he would.

“The numbers will be different.”

“So what,” said Lacey. She had not meant it as a question, but her brother pretended she had.

“When the numbers change, those doors will be on Earth, and doors from Earth will be here on Bacab.”

“Is that right, Papa?”

“Almost, dear. It isn’t just doors.”

“The whole building changes,” said her brother.

“Does it, Papa? Does the building change?”

“More correctly,” said Papa, “buildings change places.”

“I knew that,” said her brother. “This building will go to Earth, and a building on Earth will come here. They are teleportation containers.”

“How does a whole building come from Earth, Papa? Grandpapa says Earth is far away.”

“It’s magic,” said her brother.

“It’s not,” said Papa, “although they used to call it that. In the old days, before you were born, or I was, or your Grandpapa, they used to call it magic, but it’s the science of teleportation.”

“How does science move a building all the way from Earth?”

“To be completely correct, the building doesn’t move. Teleportation engineers make changes to the universe, kind of like folding the quilt on your bed, so places on the quilt next to one place are now next to another.”

“How do engineers fold the universe?”

“Ask your brother.”

“No, you tell me, Papa.”

Papa did not answer, and neither did her brother.

“He doesn’t know, Papa. You tell us.”

“Look! The numbers changed.”

The children saw that this was true and more. Lacey noticed the new building was a slightly different color. Her brother decided its styling indicated a recent model. Both watched impatiently as agents unlocked safety seals. Massive doors were finally swung open, officials inside the building helping those from Bacab. Passengers exited the building and poured over the broad stripe marking the teleportation boundary, many of them excited to arrive on their new homeworld.

“Which one is she? Which is the goddess?”

“I don’t see her yet.”

“Are you sure, Papa? Do we know what she looks like?”

“Of course we do. You’ve seen the Avatar’s picture hanging over our dining room table.”

“Yes, I have. And look, Papa, she is here: that pretty lady in the yellow dress.”

“That’s not the Avatar. That’s the one who travels with her, though.”

“Sapphire!” said the boy. “The goddess must be near.”

Lacey flushed bright pink and said nothing. She was too embarrassed. All this time she had been mixed up. It was not her fault. Everybody knew the picture of the Avatar and Sapphire. Lots of Doller families had one. Papa had never told her which was which, and she had assumed the lady in front was the goddess. They were both so lovely. How could she have known the important one was in the back?

So it was now. Sapphire had come first, but then the girl saw them both. “Oh, Papa, they’re beautiful.”

“Yes, they are.” Papa had gone down on his knees.

So had her brother and the rest of the Dollers who had come to meet the goddess. Lacey went to her knees as well, the last to do so, embarrassed once again, but indiscretion was soon forgotten as Sapphire came toward them and stood right in front of Papa, the lovely lady from the picture come to life.

“Welcome to Bacab,” said Papa.

“Thank you. Now please stand. All of you.” Sapphire’s voice reminded Lacey of Mama giving orders: kindly, but with no tolerance for nonsense. Dollers stood and watched as the second lady, the Avatar, began to walk.

“Papa,” asked Lacey, “is she all right? Why does she move like that?” The Avatar’s halting steps drew the attention of those around her. Some stared, but most politely looked away from spasmodic jerking of limbs and neck as the apparently handicapped woman crossed the plaza from the building to the waiting Dollers.

“She’s fine,” said Sapphire. Lacey was awestruck to realize the lady from the picture was talking right to her. “This is how she chooses to move.”

“It’s her dance,” said Papa. “Non-believers don’t understand, but we know the Dance of the Avatar.”

Many among the Dollers repeated his phrase with awe. “The Dance of the Avatar.”

“It does look kind of like a dance,” said the girl, “but a strange one. I don’t hear music. Why does she dance, Papa?”

“She hears music we do not,” said Papa. “It’s her dance that makes our world.”

“Really? She makes the world?”

“Yes.” Sapphire’s tone was businesslike. “As a matter of fact, she does.”

“Then she must have always danced,” said the girl. “Even when she was a kid like me.”

“No, not then.” Sapphire gently touched the child’s hair. “Much had to happen to her first.”

The snail on the garden gate was not responsible. It was not even a snail. Emily blamed it anyway.

Emily had made her own breakfast that morning, as she always did. Chloe was a good mother who loved Emily, but Chloe was not a morning person. Once upon a time, she had reveled in the magical light of sunrise, but that was a time before Emily could remember. The Chloe in Emily’s life was, in Chloe’s own words, “pretty much worthless before noon.”

So was Duane, Emily’s father. Emily placed her bowl on the counter, looking up at the framed saying on the wall and, as always, thinking of Duane. The saying read, “If it ain’t broke, break it!”

The words were beautifully embroidered, the exacting work done by Chloe during mornings while Emily had been waiting to be born. The glass pane over the cloth was cracked. Duane, proud of the gift from his wife, had cut the glass, mitered and glued the frame. Chloe had dropped it because she was startled by Emily’s first kick inside her.

Duane had immediately offered to fix the glass. He loved fixing things. That was the joke of the gift. Duane liked things to be broken so he could fix them. Chloe insisted the glass be left just the way it was to remind them of the moment when Emily first made herself known.

Emily loved the story of Chloe’s gift to Duane, and Duane’s to Chloe, and her gift to them. Emily did not yet know the word nostalgia but felt it for a time she could not remember. Duane would recite the story at her command, including her favorite part, the explanation of how the cracked glass worked well with the saying and how Emily’s first act in the world had been to make a good thing better.

Emily was no longer a baby but still much younger than she should have been, considering what was about to happen. She was a beautiful child with bright eyes, though they would be much brighter someday, and just enough facial asymmetry to add a touch of interest. The most noticeable thing, her parents said, was how much older she was than how old she was. By this they thought they meant how intelligent she was for her age, but it was more than that.

As Emily poured sparkling cereal into her bowl, she remembered being told how Duane always used to fix things. In fact, his fixing was responsible for Emily making her own breakfasts. Duane had fixed things at home, and at work, and all around the neighborhood. One day, a grateful neighbor thanked Duane with a gift. The gift was illegal, not out of character for that neighbor, though it was for Duane, who had never before possessed an illegal substance. He felt it would be unneighborly to reject it though, so he sampled it.

Before that day, wives in the neighborhood often said to their husbands, “Couldn’t you at least try to be more like Duane Putnam?” They soon stopped saying it. Husbands in the neighborhood rejoiced to learn Duane had a flaw after all. It had taken the arrival of the illegal substance to bring that flaw to light. Duane stopped fixing things.

Chloe, cradling baby Emily in her arms, had watched Duane’s drugged devolution in great distress. She knew he was still the same good man at heart, but that heart was drifting away from hers. She did the only thing she felt she could. She followed. The couple’s dilemma was solved when they discovered Chloe shared Duane’s flaw.

The problem with this solution was Emily. Two addicts can swirl together down the drain of drug abuse, but the presence of a child they love adds complexity. Duane and Chloe both lost jobs, incentives, and sunrises. As soon as she could toddle, Emily learned to make her own breakfast.

There was no milk. This displeased Emily, but she knew from experience cereal could be eaten with water so took the bowl to the sink. In one way water was better, bringing out the colors of each flake. Their social worker tried to get Chloe to buy a boring brand, but Emily had no difficulty making her mother pick the right kind, colorful and sugary.

After breakfast, Emily took her favorite doll outside to play in the garden. She was supposed to ask permission first, but it would be hours before her parents arose. How could she wait on such a lovely summer morning?

She went to the backyard because certain perennial flowers there withstood neglect, and because the high fence made her feel safe. Duane had built the fence before Emily was born, back when he still did things like that. It went from the house all the way around the yard and back to the house again. Nobody could see in. There was a gate near the house on each end. Emily always began her play by checking the gates. The gate by the kitchen window was locked tight, but the gate near the front door worried Emily. That was where the snail was failing to do its job.

It was not a real snail. It was a curved piece of metal that came down over a round bar to hold the gate in place. The bar slid back and forth but could not slide out of its holder because a hard nub on the shaft kept it from moving out too far from its post and being lost. The shiny plate, cut into a curve reminding Emily of a snail, was supposed to lock onto the bar’s bulbous end and keep the gate closed.

Only it did not. Over the years the post holding the bar had settled one way, the gate settled the other, and the end bulb did not quite get to where it should be. Emily tried to pull the bar, but the nub held it short of the snail. She tried to bend the snail but was not strong enough.

Duane should have fixed the gate, but he did not do fixes anymore. He could make it work well enough by pulling gate and post together, but he had not remembered yesterday, and little Emily certainly could not pull the post or the gate.

And that was why she died.

Afterward, she always blamed the snail. If she had been able to lock the gate, if the snail had done its job protecting its garden, the witch QiLina would not have gotten in. Emily was sure of it.

QiLina was unsure. She had a routine with which she was comfortable, a way of finding people she wanted in any town, but not the person she apparently needed today. More and more of late she caught herself wandering aimlessly through neighborhoods, always seeking sounds of playing children. These were not hard to find, but once located, they never satisfied. At first she had not understood her own behavior, but eventually she realized what she wanted. She was looking for the next QiLina.

This day she had begun as she always did, in a library. It was in such a place that she had been recruited when she was a child and where, in each new community, she now found people for her use. Public libraries were her familiar home and happy hunting ground. Today she found what she always did, potential players for her pleasures, but not the one she sought, so she waited for a person of prosperous appearance to follow home.

QiLina liked prosperity. It was not that she needed money. She had that, although one always wanted more. QiLina liked prosperity as an ambiance. It had a color, a sound, and most of all a smell she found relaxing. One can breathe on private jets in ways unknown to bus passengers.

QiLina followed a randomly chosen well-dressed guide into the town’s best district and then abandoned that lead to begin a morning of wandering. The sun was warm, the air soft, the homes and gardens lovely. QiLina used a technique unavailable to most to cover ground extremely quickly, yet the walk was unrewarding. Eventually, as she had in towns before this, she raced beyond the nicer places, submitting herself to streets lined by dwellings of a lower status. Lower and lower and lower.

She was no longer comfortable, but she could not stop. QiLina distracted herself with observations of the ways of poverty. Rich people’s homes were fascinating, but the massive majority of any town was boring beyond belief. In poverty, she again found contrast. Where middle-class homes were required to maintain standards and became therefore standardized, on the poor side of town one house might be beautifully kept with the next an utter ruin.

Here was such a home. All the trimmings spoke of an old woman who pleased herself with inexpensive decoration. Tiny and tidy, it sat across a fence from a crumbling wreck. A gate between these lots was blocked.

“Did naughty boys and girls trample your asters, Grandma? Did their wandering dogs dig up your daisies? Do you smell meth cooking in the neighbor’s house that used to be so nice? Look at this leaning shutter. Somebody who cared once lived beyond your fence. Nobody cares now, do they? But Grandma hasn’t given up. No, she still totters around the place, pulling weeds, repainting trim and righting tipsy garden gnomes.”

QiLina’s commentary was cut short by the sound of a child’s singing. It was the siren song, and she must follow. The voice was sweet. Perhaps QiLina would find value.

She walked beside a tall fence, so solid in construction she could not see what lay beyond. But she could hear. And something more! Wall or not, a tingle told QiLina she had to meet this child.

She made her way along the fence, around a corner and up a walk. Yes, this place had been well kept once. Former owners may have sold and moved into the middle class or perhaps fallen on hard times. And still dwelled here? Were they at work? Inside? Was no one attending to the child?

Where the wall reached the house, a gate slumped in disrepair, hanging slightly open. After a glance at windows of the home, confirming absence of parental observation, QiLina pulled the gate.

Hearing hinges squeak, the child looked up. She was beautiful, but QiLina had found beautiful children often enough. The child met her eyes with intelligence, another valuable quality but again not unique. Finding beauty and intelligence together was not as rare as people pretend. QiLina walked between weedy flower beds, the path bringing her necessarily closer.

The child pushed her doll into a pile of leaves, instinctively hiding her baby from the predator. Then she looked up to meet QiLina’s gaze. “You smell funny.”

QiLina smiled. She loved the directness of youth. “Do I? Are you sure? Is it a smell, or could it be something else?”

The child rested a hand on her delicate chin, her features serious in thought. “I was wrong. It isn’t a smell.”

“What is it?” asked QiLina. “Can you name it?”

“I don’t know the word. Do you?”

QiLina dropped to her knees, reaching trembling fingers toward the girl. “You’ll call me QiLina. Others won’t. What’s your name?”

“Emily.”

“Not for long, Emily. Where are your parents, Emily?”

“Duane and Chloe are in bed.”

QiLina stood. “How handy. You stay here, Emily. I’m going to have a chat with Duane and Chloe. Sing to your doll, Emily, so she won’t be afraid. I’ll be back soon, Emily.”

Emily stared suspiciously. Each time QiLina spoke her name, it sounded more wrong than the time before.

QiLina walked between flowers and weeds, out the gate and up the steps to the door of the formerly well-kept house. She looked back to confirm the child was still present, still playing in the yard, still real. QiLina whispered, “Stay exactly where you are, sweet treasure, while I express my condolences to Chloe and Duane.”

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

“We were home when we started.”

“Not that home, dear. That was no one’s home.”

“My house is where you found me.”

“You’ve a lot to learn of houses, and nobody can teach you better than I. As for homes, yours is with me. Whenever you’re with QiLina, you’re home.”

“I live with my mom and dad.”

“Chloe and Duane? Not anymore.” QiLina patted Emily on her shoulder. “Forget them.”

“Are you kidnapping me?”

“No, dear. Kidnappers don’t have the kid’s best interest at heart. If I were kidnapping you, I’d be planning to sell you back to your parents. What happened today works the other way around.”

“What do you mean?”

“I bought you.”

Emily looked out the window while she gave this thought. She liked that QiLina let her sit in the front seat. Chloe never let her. But that was because Chloe loved her.

“My parents wouldn’t sell me. My parents love me.”

“Yes, they do, dear. That’s why they sold you. I made them understand how your life will be better with me.”

“Why?”

“Because your forgotten parents can hardly take care of themselves, much less a girl who’s twice as smart as both of them combined.”

Emily had to think again. She could find nothing in QiLina’s statement that was not true.

“How much did you pay for me?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Emily’s experience of such sums was limited. If people really did buy children, was five thousand dollars a believable amount? Too little? Too much?

“What else can you buy with five thousand dollars?”

QiLina had a ready answer. “Enough dope to keep two forgotten people high until they forget how they got money.”

Again this had the ring of truth. Emily recognized landmarks on their route. “Are we going shopping?”

“Not yet, dear, although we will. First we’re going to the library to find you a new name and some new friends.”

“I want my doll. Why didn’t we bring her?”

“Your fault for hiding her from me.”

Emily stuck out her lower lip.

“But your act was wise. She’s safer where you left her. You and I will travel light with no trinkets from our past.”

The library was not new to Emily. She had come here on better days when someone could at least try to follow the social worker’s advice. Emily started straight for the children’s section, but QiLina held her back.

“Not yet. We’ll read first.”

“I was going to read.”

“Those books? They’re for children.”

“I’m a child.”

QiLina laughed. “You were. I won’t wait years for you to grow. We’ll accelerate you in mind if not in body.”

On earlier visits, Emily had been told she would not be able to read books in the grown-up section, but this turned out to be a lie. Under QiLina’s guidance, Emily discovered she could read anything. Once a librarian questioned Emily’s choice of a book intended only for adults and not even for all of them, but QiLina spoke a few words to the librarian, touching him on the shoulder while she did, and the librarian found other things to worry about.

With Emily and a stack of books settled into a soft chair by a sunny window, QiLina made her way around the rest of the building. She was interested less in reading than in readers. Now satisfied with finding Emily, QiLina could concentrate on her more usual interests. She sought two things: the Greek ideal of the well developed mind and body, and money held by lust. It was QiLina’s avocation to bring these profitably together. Even with her years of experience, it took a while to find someone who smelled right.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Pardon me?”

“The woman at the table, chatting with her friends in such an animated manner. The one in the white blouse. The one you were staring at.”

“I wasn’t staring at anyone.”

“Resting your eyes, were you?

“Yes.”

“I can see why. Rather dense print in your book.”

“It is.”

“Mind if I ask what you’re reading? Not that it’s any of my business, but . . .”

“Not at all.” The book’s cover was revealed.

“What an interesting choice. Anything to do with your profession?”

“No. An item in the news drew my attention.”

The profession was not named, but now QiLina knew. Her prompt had brought it to the surface of his mind.

“You can have her, you know.”

“What?”

“I can arrange it for a price you can afford.”

“What are you talking about?”

QiLina moved her hands in unexpected ways, mumbling unfamiliar words. She gently touched his shoulder. Suddenly the message was understood, and that it was true, and that it was what was wanted more than anything in the world.

“An opportunity like this comes along once in a lifetime.” QiLina’s words were close. “Pass it up, and spend the rest of your days in regret.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am, and so are you.”

“How? Where? When?”

“I’ll be in touch. You go back to your reading, but over the next few days, stay close to this library. Bring friends from work, your peers and especially those above you.”

QiLina moved on. Not every contact was successful, but it was a start. Hours later, she came back to Emily. “Learn anything, dear?”

“Yes. Quite a lot.”

“I should imagine you have. We’re going now. Leave the ones you’ve finished here. Bring the rest.”

Emily slid aside the stack whose contents she had absorbed, realizing only now what she had done. “Grown-up books are easier to finish than kid books.”

“Because they’re more interesting. Honestly, I don’t understand how children wade through the stuff they’re expected to read.”

Emily gathered the remaining books into her arms. “Why do they keep kids away from these?”

“I can’t imagine.” QiLina added Polly Adler’s A House is Not a Home to Emily’s stack. “Come. We won’t bother with the circulation desk. My relationship with librarians goes far beyond presentation of cards and keeping of records.”

This was apparently true, as the woman on duty only smiled at them as they walked out. “The librarian must wonder where my mother is,” said Emily.

“Who?” asked QiLina.

Emily intended to say a name but couldn’t. “How could I possibly forget her name?”

“The librarian? Mrs. Molaison. It’s on her name tag.”

“Is it?” asked Emily.

“Name tags are more real than names.”

Outside, distracted at having missed something, Emily initially failed to notice where they went until after she got into the vehicle.

“Wait! This isn’t your car.”

“It is.”

“Your car was smaller and not this color.”

“How observant,” said QiLina. “The way I acquire automobiles, it’s good to change them often.”

“Did you buy a new one while I was reading?”

“I don’t buy. I use.”

“So, this isn’t your car.”

“It is now.”

“Are we stealing a car?”

QiLina shook her head as she started the engine without a key. “Next time we’re in the library, I’ll find you anarchist writings to teach you that all property is theft.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing, but it was a step in the right direction.” QiLina pulled the car away from the curb. “The truth is, property is illusion. Two children who barely speak will shout, ‘Mine!’ at the tops of their voices, each passionately expressing what they feel is truth. They scream until a parent takes the disputed toy away. It never belonged to either of them, yet they don’t learn the lesson.”

“What lesson?”

“There is no property. There’s only possession.”

“Are you saying it’s OK to steal things?”

“I’m saying it’s impossible. Since property is illusion, so is theft.”

“That can’t be right.” Emily noticed QiLina was staring at her. “Shouldn’t you be watching the road?”

“It’s a good thing I found you when I did. Even so, it’ll take time to undo damage already done. You’ve much to unlearn, my nameless child.”

“My name is . . . Emily.”

“Good place to start.” QiLina looked forward at last, but then, to Emily’s distress, took her hands off the steering wheel and closed her eyes. QiLina chanted unfamiliar words while moving her hands in strange ways. How the car stayed on the road was a mystery. Then QiLina touched Emily on the shoulder. Or anyway, she touched someone.

“What’s your name, little girl?”

“Emily?”

“Does that sound right?” QiLina’s hands were on the wheel and her eyes back on the road.

“No. It doesn’t.” How could Emily possibly have forgotten her own name? She had not. It was Emily. Only she knew as she thought of it how wrong that was.

“Perhaps your name is Chloe. Does that sound familiar?”

“No.”

QiLina smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll look through books and find a nice new name for you.”

In the hotel, it was Emily’s suggestion they take a suite, an odd moment for Emily since she had not realized that she knew the word suite. One of QiLina’s first recommended books had been a dictionary. Emily liked it because text came in neat bunches, and each entry was a new idea. As with every book, she felt she had not memorized it, but when she needed any portion, there it was.

“I understand the gaps in your memory,” said QiLina. “So much of the wrong sort of knowledge has gone into your head, other things were bound to be knocked out.”

“Did I read too much?”

“Absolutely not. Your mind was starved, and you’ve only had a snack. I’ll arrange for you a banquet over many days.”

She did. Each visit to the library began with QiLina selecting from the shelves, adding book after book to the pile cradled in Emily’s arms. When the child could carry no more, she would settle into her favorite chair, which was always free no matter how crowded the library became.

And it was crowded. Whenever Emily set a book aside, she noticed people around her, more and more of them each day. QiLina added an anthropological tome to the waiting stack as Emily finished a handbook of business practices.

“This place is a growing concern,” said Emily.

“A fact that warms my heart.”

“They require additional floor space.”

“Wonderful observation! We must see what we can do for their expansion fund.” Then QiLina was off again, circulating among library patrons as if they were her guests.

That evening, Emily and QiLina went out to a movie. The rating excluded children from the audience, but somehow QiLina got Emily in. Afterward, they took a late dinner in the town’s best restaurant, enjoying excellent champagne. 

QiLina expected the film to have raised questions, but from her reading, Emily understood almost everything she saw. “A couple of things I didn’t get, but I’ll look them up tomorrow morning.”

“No,” said QiLina. “Tomorrow’s not a reading day. We’ll sleep in late and then shop for party clothes.”

“Are we going to a party?”

“We’re hosting one.”

“In our suite?”

“Too small. The party will begin in the library, then move to the home of one of our new friends.”

“Do librarians allow parties?”

“They’ll allow this one. It’ll be a fundraiser. We must dress for money. You’ll meet the best people, and they’ll be impressed by you.”

“Will you introduce me?” asked Emily.

“It’ll be my honor.”

“How?”

“Pardon?”

“How will you introduce me? By what name?”

“Did I let that slip my mind? We’ve been so busy. Have you any idea who you’d like to be?”

Emily struck a dramatic attitude. “Antoine Amédée Marie Vincent Manca Amat de Vallombrosa, Marquis de Morès et de Montemaggiore.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“Did I pronounce it wrong?”

“Difficult to say. What language were you speaking?”

“It wasn’t a language. It’s just a name.”

“If that’s how I am to introduce you, there’ll not be time enough. Four or five of those and the evening will be over. Where did you find it?”

“A book about the American west. There was a chapter on great hunting expeditions.”

“Ah, the Marquis de Morès. In that case, yes, your pronunciation was terrible.”

“I can practice.”

“Please, not the whole thing. You’ve chosen the name of a man of wealth and passion, of violent pride and dreadful prejudice, a man who was marvelously interesting, yet he was a man. I’ve seen you in our shower, and young though you may be, I’m sure you’re a girl. In your books, were no other characters appealing?”

“I like Jane Austen’s Mr. Darcy.”

“Pride and prejudice again, but also wealth and passion. The course of your thinking shows promise. Still, you chose another man.”

“Darcy can be a girl’s name.”

“So it can. You’ve provided material. Give me time to cut you something fitting.”

“OK.” Emily, or whoever she was, yawned. “I’m tired.”

“Understandable. Champagne does that. Time for bed.”

Soon they were home and Emily asleep. QiLina stood over her, wondering what the child would dream. The notion was irresistible, so she peeked. Results were fascinating, if a bit jumbled. Had any girl so young ever had such dreams?

“Yes, of course. So long ago. Sometimes I forget.”

“Allow me to introduce my companion, Miss Darcy deMores. This is Mr. Thomas Lindonberry, an officer in the city’s premier banking house.”

Emily inclined her head to a recommended angle, QiLina having explained, following an introduction earlier in the evening, that the curtsy Emily had read about was no longer in fashion. “Mr. Lindonberry, a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine.” The young banker was elegantly tall, particularly when seen from a child’s perspective. “Companion, Janessa? Not a relative, I hope?”

“No, but special to me nonetheless. I trust Darcy to entertain while I do business.”

“Since you already have my donation? Of course. Hit George up for twice that contribution. He can afford it.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.” QiLina struck out across the library, a woman on a mission.

“And now Miss . . .”

“DeMores. Like the Marquis, but without the space. QiLina says spaces in names are obsolete affectation.”

“Who?”

“Janessa.” Emily must remember to use QiLina’s alias. This rule QiLina had insisted on. “You may call me Darcy.”

“I hope you’ll call me Tom.”

“I like your necktie, Tom. Those are pretty colors.”

“Thank you, Darcy. I like your dress.”

“Janessa helped me pick it out today. She said the fabric complements my hair, and the cuffs bring out my eyes.” Emily held them close to her face so he might see.

“Absolutely correct. Such beautiful eyes deserve the attention. I don’t think I’ve seen a dress quite like that. Not in a child’s size, anyway.”

“We made alterations. Janessa said the design of children’s formal clothing is often ridiculous, but we could trim it back to sublime.”

“So you have.”

“I suspect she introduced us knowing you were one of the few gentlemen in the room who could appreciate these fine points.”

“If so, I’m honored.” The banker inclined his head.

“Banking must be rewarding work.”

“You do realize the money I deal with isn’t mine?”

“Sure, but think what you get to do with it. How many of this evening’s donors owe their success at least in part to your financial skills? This town prospers, and so will have a better library. The banker facilitating capitalization of that prosperity must feel pride in such achievement.”

“I do, now you mention it, but what does a little girl like you know of capital?”

“A well-managed balance of short and long term investment is the foundation of a healthy economy.”

“Half the adults I know don’t understand. Some lack even the vocabulary. What school do you attend, Darcy?”

“I’m not sure I do anymore. Janessa has been recommending books. I’m an avid reader.”

“You must be. How long have you been with Janessa?”

“Not long, but it seems like I’ve known her forever.”

The banker nodded. “I know that feeling.” 

“She’s friends with everyone in the room. A week ago, she’d never been in this town.”

Tom’s expression was pensive. “Makes you wonder.”

Across the room, QiLina looked their way. George was writing a check. QiLina flamboyantly hugged him, praised him to his friends and then returned to Tom and Emily.

“How are you and Darcy getting along?”

“Beautifully. I was going to ask you something.”

“She’s lovely. I suppose you’ll inquire about availability.” QiLina touched Emily on the shoulder. “Darcy, did you notice Tom’s drink?”

“Oh, dear. It’s empty. Let me get you more punch.” Emily took the cup from his hand and walked across the room with a grace unexpected in one so young.

Tom admired the fascinating flow of her dress. “Availability? Is Darcy on the evening’s menu?”

“Too young, Tom. Even for your tastes. Not to mention the question of gender.”

“I know, but she’s a special case. Hardly a child at all. More like a fairy. Darcy makes me believe in magic.”

“You’re too perceptive, Tom.” QiLina touched his arm. “Allow me to draw your attention to the boy helping our librarians with chairs.”

Tom nodded appreciatively. “He’s handsome.”

“You’ll get to know him better at the after-party.”

By the time Emily returned with the filled punch cup, the banker had almost forgotten who she was.

The party after the library fundraiser, held in one of the community’s best private homes, was an affair never to be forgotten. The house was perfect. The architect’s official motivation had been efficient use of solar energy. A long wall of glass faced southern gardens. Inside, thick granite flooring had spent the day absorbing sunlight. In evening, its warmth passed over a gallery on the second floor and filtered gently into first-floor bedrooms, each in open-ceiling contact with that gallery.

Guests entering from the north passed by a wet-bar and climbed stairs, drink in hand, to the second-floor walkway. Here they might sip while strolling the length of the building, on one side admiring a view of the party taking place on couches and carpets over that massive floor, and on the other looking down into each bedroom to see which goings-on appealed to them. QiLina wondered, was the architect so blind to anything but thermal flow he did not realize he had designed the perfect setting for an orgy, or was this fantasy playground intentional?

QiLina restricted Emily to nothing stronger than champagne but otherwise left the child free to wander as she saw fit. “You’ll find it educational.” Guests commented on Emily’s beauty, and one or two could not resist the desire to touch. QiLina stepped in. “She isn’t ready.” QiLina took Emily into a utility room, one of the few fully private spaces in the house. Strange words were spoken and gestures made. QiLina sent Emily off on her own again. Now no one commented on her party dress, or touched the child, or spoke to her, or even smiled in her direction.

QiLina had been correct. Emily, who went everywhere and saw everything, found much to learn. Late in the evening, QiLina located the child stretched upon the floor at the edge of the gallery, her chin resting on her hands, looking down into one of the larger bedrooms.

“What are you observing, dear?”

“I think it’s called sex. Is that right?”

QiLina considered the complex acrobatic grouping on and around the bed. “An unusual example, but yes, that’s sex. You should know it from your readings.”

“I wasn’t sure. In the books you gave me, descriptions of sex are rather vague.”

QiLina sat beside Emily, resting arms on a rail and dangling long legs off the edge down into the bedroom. “Much as I love public libraries, sex is an area in which the content is somewhat censored. Do you know what censorship is?”

“The suppression of unwanted communication, often by government or religious authorities.”

“That sounds like a dictionary definition.”

“It is.”

“An incorrect one.”

Emily looked up. “Can dictionaries be wrong?”

QiLina smiled. “Of course they can. In this case intentionally or nearly so. Censorship would like to be seen as communication prevented but is itself a form of communication. The censor who strikes the word ‘fuck’ from a text pretends this is to protect the reader from exposure to the word, but if the reader didn’t already know the word, seeing it in print would be meaningless. The only way the reader could be affected by the experience is if the word was already defined inside the reader’s brain.”

“How is that communication?”

“Censorship says, ‘Here is a word I have the power to unnecessarily suppress.’ This carries the underlying report that someone has that power. The primary message of every act of censorship is assertion of authority to censor.”

Emily nodded.

QiLina chose to extend the lesson. “There are ancillary messages as well.”

“Such as?”

“Let me give you an example. You remember Tom?”

“The banker? I like him.”

“So do I.” QiLina looked along the gallery.” Right now, Tom and an adolescent boy are in a bedroom farther on, doing things the censor would forbid.”

“I saw them earlier.”

“Did you? Well, if Tom were to take a gun and shoot the boy’s brains out, censors would allow a detailed accounting. One might write of the bullet penetrating the boy’s head, of spurting blood and spasmodic trembling in death. Some would be horrified by such description, but the censors wouldn’t stop it. Use the same words to describe what’s actually happening though, and a censor would step in. The boy is underage. Children must be protected. Books could be withdrawn and the author fined or even imprisoned. In making this choice, the censor’s message is clear: sex is bad and violence is good.”

“You object to that?”

QiLina looked startled. “Me? Goodness no. I object to nothing. Like you tonight, I merely observe.”

They did.

Emily saw more things she had read about and others QiLina had to elucidate. “An excellent variety. I hadn’t realized what a fine educational experience I was providing. I suppose I’m a natural teacher. All I’d intended was to throw a good party.”

“Is this a good party?” asked the child.

“The best parties take time to recover from. Some people will spend days getting over this one. Others will need years. A few will never be the same again.”

“So, it is a good party?”

“All I could have hoped for.” QiLina gave Emily a hug. “And more.”

“Everyone is having fun?”

“Everyone important.”

Emily walked across the gallery to look down at people on couches and carpets. “Which ones are important?”

“The ones with money. The largest donations won’t be made until tomorrow, when guests have had time to recall how much fun they had.”

“The purpose of this party, then, is only raising funds for library expansion?”

“No, dear. The purpose is my amusement. Library fundraising and your education are secondary delights. The ultimate goal is always my happiness.”

“What of the people who don’t have money?”

“What of them?”

“Are they happy? Are they having fun tonight?”

“Some are.” QiLina indicated a woman wrapped around a thriving entrepreneur. “She’s in a dream come true.”

“Some aren’t?”

“No. The boy with Tom, for instance.”

“He seemed like he was having fun.”

“I cause him to behave in ways that give Tom pleasure. The boy appears a willing partner but, without my influence, would make a desperate escape.”

“How do you control him?”

QiLina brought her lips close to Emily’s ear. “Magic.”

Emily found memories of the week arranged before her. Things made sense, although she only now realized they had not done so before. “You’re some kind of witch.”

“Yes.” QiLina hugged Emily tightly. “Yes, we are.”

Emily wriggled free of the embrace. “Why do you make a boy do things like that if he doesn’t want to? Do you enjoy that kind of stuff?”

“Not me, dear. I’m merely the facilitator. My interest is having a party and helping a library. What the boy does is dictated entirely by Tom’s desires.”

“I thought Tom was a nice man. Why would he hurt the boy?”

“Tom has no idea the boy would be unwilling. Even so, without my guidance, Tom wouldn’t have come tonight, no matter what the boy’s frame of mind. He wouldn’t have made such a large contribution to the library, either.”

“You force him to do these things?”

“I allow him. Left to his own devices, the banker Thomas Lindonberry’s actions would be good and practical and less generous. It’s through magical liberation he’s freed to donate the sort of sum he truly wishes he would give.”

“And to abuse the boy.”

“Abuse? When I was your age, I wasn’t so judgmental. My mentor saw to that. It’s time your mentor did the same.”

“Who is my mentor?”

“I’ve not been positive up to this moment. I now believe I shall assume the role.”

“What if I don’t want a mentor?”

From somewhere QiLina produced a dark stick. She closed her eyes. Emily looked around. They were sitting on a couch. How had that happened? She did not recall coming down the stairs.

QiLina opened her eyes and moved the stick, speaking strange words again. The few partygoers near them noticed nothing. A spark crackled from the tip of QiLina’s wand where it touched Emily’s forehead. QiLina smiled. “You want me to be your mentor.”

Emily knew this to be truest truth.

QiLina put the wand away. “Tonight has been a good first lesson, but understanding comes hands-on. Grasping is grasping. As is being grasped. You’re too young yet to learn magic so will concentrate on other aspects of our profession. You’ll experience abuse first hand, along with other things the censor would keep hidden.”

For a moment, Emily was afraid, but the fear passed into a kind of fog. “I’m having trouble concentrating.”

“You drank too much champagne.”

“I only had a glass.”

“For someone your size, a single drink may be excessive. In future, I’ll monitor your portions closely. I intend to take excellent care of my apprentice.”

“Because you love me?”

“Yes.” QiLina hugged her close. “That must be it.”

Emily looked out the window at passing countryside. “Why couldn’t I bring my party dress?”

“It’s not your dress.”

“It wasn’t stolen. You paid for it. I saw you.”

“That would make it my dress, dear.”

“You gave it to me.”

“If you paid closer attention to your lessons, you would understand how unlikely that is.”

“I love that dress. Everybody said how beautiful I look in it. What will I wear next time we have a party?”

“A new dress.”

“Am I going to have a new one every time?”

“People like us don’t wear the same dress to two different parties.”

“We could still have brought it with us.”

QiLina sighed. “Haul a mountain of useless party dresses everywhere we go?”

Emily’s eyes grew wide. “A mountain? How often do we have parties?”

“The world is full of underfunded libraries.”

“Do we get to see the library expansion?”

“Such things take months or even years.”

“Couldn’t we stay and watch? Or will we come back? ”

“When you throw the kinds of parties I do, it’s best not to stick around. You remember my saying people take time to recover from a good party?”

“Yes.”

“Such recoveries are often ugly. A bunch of them at once can spoil a place. Not to mention talk of stolen cars.”

“Is this what we do: ruin towns and move on?”

“The town isn’t ruined. Some people are, perhaps, but others will be improved. The vast majority never knew we were there. Who cares for them? They don’t read.”

“I thought everybody could read.”

“Most can. Most don’t.” QiLina shuddered.

“Will Tom be all right?”

“Tom?”

“Mr. Lindonberry. And the boy he was with. You do remember them?”

“When I leave a town, I leave it. I don’t drag along the people left behind.”

“You don’t care what happens to them?”

“I care what happens to me. And to you. We’re together as teacher and pupil. For now, you must accept the things I tell you without question. You’re young and inexperienced. In time, my methods will make sense to you.”

“They make sense to me already, but I want to understand their deeper purpose.”

QiLina pursed her lips and nodded. “I like the way you’re thinking now. When your training is complete, you’ll understand everything.”

“Good.” Emily looked through the windshield and far down the road. “Everything is exactly what I want to know.”

They found this to be true. During a week of travel, they stopped often in parks and playgrounds where Emily could stretch and run and climb. These were things she had always done, but now she did them differently. Before she met QiLina, Emily might admire flowers for color and scent. Now she pondered the purpose of those characteristics and considered what chemicals produced them. Where formerly she had run through green fields, lately she recognized photosynthetic populations and their interlocking patterns of growth.

“Where does the purple in the iris come from? Why do trunks split on some trees but not on others? If plants need dirt to live, how does this one grow on rock?”

“Remember these questions. You’ll want them later.” This was QiLina’s favorite answer. Emily stored each query to bring out again in the next library, although she wondered why her mentor had never looked them up.

The next library came, and the next, and the next, and between them parks and playgrounds. Emily adapted to the pattern: one week study culminating in a library fundraiser, another week spent in travel and exercise. “The Greek ideal,” QiLina said, “neglecting neither mind nor body.”

QiLina lived this ideal. Emily noticed many mothers only watched while kiddies played, but QiLina was an active participant in parks, organizing games of hide and seek or tag. Although careful not to find them, QiLina always knew where the children were hiding, and she could run faster than even the oldest. Sometimes QiLina got a few of the more athletic mothers to participate in a race. She always won by inches while Emily clapped and cheered. Emily improved her own skills, but being so young, she rarely won. In fact, she preferred to race against those who would beat her.

In library weeks, Emily would begin by answering every question she had saved. Each answer led to other questions. Emily never ran out of facts to seek. She had to do this between the books QiLina recommended. Emily became a student of history, literature, the arts and sciences, economics, mathematics, culture and philosophy. QiLina helped her understand one reads the library itself.

“The ignorant think a librarian’s job is closet tidying, a place for everything and everything in its place, but librarians practice a most complex profession, organizing all of knowledge for rapid recovery of any fact or dream or truth. If humanity is a single organism, the library is the key location in its brain. How many of our best ideas owe existence to material recovered inside walls like these? By supporting such institutions, we improve our world.”

Every week of study ended in a party. Librarians wept with gratitude early in the evening, and donors with ecstasy as the night progressed. Little Emily, under the name of Darcy deMores, always in a newly purchased dress, went from observer to participant, learning her craft under QiLina’s attentive mentorship. Emily imagined, hovering in a cloud like angels over each rich man’s home, a throng of weeping censors.

One such evening, QiLina noted Emily had difficulty with a lesson. After the experience was over, since the memory would be useful, rather than expunge the source of pain, the mentor chose to distract her apprentice, “Let me show you magic and a tool you’ll later need.”

QiLina used magic every day, a background to Emily’s reality. The child had almost forgotten the fact that, like her mentor, Emily was supposed to be a witch.

“OK. Show me.”

The two were sitting in an overstuffed chair in a thickly carpeted hallway in an ostentatious mansion, around them bedrooms filled with recent library donors and their human playthings. Although QiLina did not rise, her mind wandered through the nearest rooms, seeking an appropriate example. “Ah, here’s a good one.” The witch pulled out her wand and closed her eyes.

“Why do you do that? Why do you close your eyes whenever you take out your stick?” Emily, by now less protective of soon-to-be discarded party dresses, was naked in QiLina’s lap.

The witch did not answer. After a moment, she opened her eyes and began to chant, moving the wand through a series of strokes, each delineating some invisible plane. When the structure she created was correct, she pressed her cheek down against Emily’s soft hair.

Emily thought at first she was drifting off to sleep, her mind filled with what she took to be a dream. She and QiLina were in the doorway of a home much less pretentious than the evening’s mansion. The entryway opened quickly on a living room, small and simply furnished.

QiLina walked in, beckoning Emily to follow.

“Where are we?” Emily’s voice sounded distant in her own ears.

“Wally. A donor. You met him in the library. The man who owns a chain of gas stations.” QiLina’s voice was closer.

“What about him?”

“He’s where we are.”

Emily looked around for Wally, but they were alone. The house was smaller even than . . . than where? Emily had the odd sensation of measuring this experience against one she could not quite recall: a house with a garden and a snail.

“Forget the past,” QiLina said. “Learn only from the present. See what Wally has in there.”

Emily followed QiLina’s direction and entered a kitchen. Here was a sink and a refrigerator but no stove, only a microwave oven. QiLina opened the refrigerator and the cupboard doors.

Emily investigated, a process taking no time. “If this is Wally’s house, he doesn’t have much to eat.”

“That’s why he stays so thin. Food holds little interest. Now come upstairs. Let’s see the bedroom.”

The stairway was narrow. At its top was a landing with two doors. One opened on the bedroom and the other on a bath. Both were tiny.

“What a dinky little house,” said Emily. “I thought Wally was a rich donor.”

“His contribution will create a wing that others will only fill with books. The librarians may name it after him.”

“Why does a rich man have such a little house?”

“What happens in these small spaces doesn’t interest him. Come back downstairs.”

Emily realized there was no dining room. The table in the kitchen seated only one. Everything in the house seemed smaller than the thing before.

“Now,” said QiLina, “what do you supposed is beyond that door?”

“I don’t know?”

“What do you do when you don’t know?”

Emily looked at the knob but was not sure how to reach for it. QiLina opened the door for her.

“Wow!”

“Go on.”

Emily walked onto an indoor balcony hanging over a space stretching too far to see. Below her was an endless concrete surface covered with automobiles, trucks, motorcycles, bicycles, lawnmowers, and the occasional small boat or aircraft. “What’s this?”

“The garage. Many homes have one.”

“Not like this. There must be a thousand cars. And all the other stuff?”

“And the elevators.” QiLina gestured to a dozen garage doors. “Did you notice them?” She used her wand—which was somehow both its usual size yet tremendously long—to press a distant button. A door rolled up, revealing a limousine.

“Elevators for cars? Why?”

“Dozens of floors above us and as many more below.” QiLina stared up at the ceiling. “Half of them are devoted to antiques. And did you notice, no two vehicles are alike?”

“Those down there look pretty similar.” Emily waved an arm at a row of sedans beneath.

“Different model years. Variations on a theme.”

Emily ran numbers through her head, using formulas she had acquired in libraries, taking accounts. “How many gas stations must Wally own to pay for all of this?”

QiLina laughed. “This wasn’t made with money.”

“What then?”

“Look behind you.”

Emily turned. On either side of the kitchen door, and extending well above it, were shelves of books. QiLina took one down. She flipped it open to a picture of a car with extravagant tail fins. “I remember that one.”

“I don’t understand.”

QiLina waved a hand. Lights grew brighter. Shelves extended to vanishing points on either side.

“He divided his youth between garages and libraries, but he didn’t divide his interests. Dewey decimal 629.2. Library of Congress TL. Class technology, subclass vehicles. By the time he took up a profession, Wally was prepared.”

“Even so . . .” Emily turned and looked out over the sea of conveyances. “To afford all of this?”

“I told you, money didn’t build this place. It was the garages, mechanics Wally met, books and magazines.”

Emily felt an idea in emergence. “This isn’t real?”

“It’s certainly real but not material. In the physical world, Wally’s home is bigger, and his garage much smaller. He’s never seen a hundredth of what we see here.”

“What are we seeing?”

“We’re seeing Wally. We’re inside his mind.”

Emily reached out a hand and managed to touch a shelf. It felt distinctly solid. “I’ve read about brains. They’re as big as a coconut. They’re grey and soft and squishy.”

“His mind, not his brain.”

“What’s the difference?”

QiLina turned pages in the book she held. “It’s the difference between what this author has to say and the inked paper with which he says it. You’ll understand better in time. For now, the lesson’s over.”

The vast space with its vehicles and books was gone. Emily was looking at the handsome pattern on a rug in a mansion. “Are you going to show me how to do that?”

“You’re too young. A child your age can’t hold the symbols in her mind.”

“Are you sure?”

QiLina lifted Emily from her lap down to the floor, the child’s bare feet sinking into soft carpet. “Oof. You’re getting big.”

Emily smiled. “I am.”

Go find your clothes. Or what’s left of them. If anyone grabs for you, duck. I’m ready to be out of here. Wally will be fine, but others not so well by morning. We’ll be on the road before they wake.”

QiLina watched the child head toward the room in which her clothing had been torn from her. “Am I sure you aren’t ready? At your age, I wasn’t. No one was until now. But you, Emily? I bet you could do it. I’m so sure it gives me goosebumps.” QiLina shuddered as she realized she could make her apprentice the youngest witch who ever lived. “How’d I get so lucky as to find you? I really don’t know.”

She should have.

“What you seek, Darcy, is not in any local Carnegie, nor university, nor even the Library of Congress. The volumes you require are entirely in private hands. Fortunately, you have the perfect mentor. I hold such a collection, but you may not see it until I know you are ready beyond doubt.”

QiLina took no chances. Emily spent months in a process she did not quite understand, always impatient to move on but forced to have faith in her mentor’s method: endless variations on the excursion into Wally’s mind. In mansions, libraries, parks, playgrounds, restaurants and hotels, Emily and QiLina would sit quietly, heads together while they wandered through some magically imagined home representing a nearby person’s personality.

“These are analogies,” QiLina said. “We could look at physical brains, fantastically complex yet uninteresting blobs. The trick is seeing not the brain but its emergent property. Do you know that term?”

“Emergent means coming into existence.” Emily smiled naughtily. “And property is an illusion.”

“In its common meaning, yes, but this time it has another definition.”

“An attribute.”

“Correct. A brain brings into existence an attribute called mind.”

“What does that mean?”

QiLina sighed. “Teaching is more fun with easy subjects. How can I explain?” Emily and QiLina were sitting on a park bench. The day was moderate and sunny, which made it tolerable for Emily to wait, particularly since they had already gotten in some pleasant games and races.

“Do you remember when I showed you one of Wally’s books and asked you to think about the difference between the author’s ideas and their ink-on-paper representation?”

“Are ideas emergent properties of books?”

“Not quite. By themselves, books contain no ideas. They’re stacks of bleached fiber supporting patterned ink stains. If all readers of a language die, books in that language have nothing more to say. When someone reads a story, that story is an emergent property of ink patterns plus the mind and experiences of the reader.”

“If that were true,” said Emily, “different readers would get different stories.”

“They do. A judge reading Fanny Hill saw nothing but vile debauchery, whereas I thought the book good fun. Art is collaboration between artist and viewer. Ink-on-paper patterns are interpreted according to strict rules: this shape is an A; this one a B. Thus words are built in the reader’s mind, but the story is the emergent property of what’s in the book and what was already in the reader.”

“Would that be true for a painting?”

“Of course. Also sculpture, dance, music, or any form of expression. How else could one critic think some work was a masterpiece while another hated it?”

“So an author has to think about the reader since the emergent property, the story, will be more than what’s written in the book.”

“Or a different way of looking at the same thing. An illiterate sees sheets of ink-stained fibers, incomprehensible signs on a white field, where we see Homer’s Odyssey. The reader’s ink is no more detailed than the illiterate’s. The difference is interpretation. Similarly, each person’s mind is an emergent property of their brain. The houses you and I walk through are our interpretations.”

“We see the houses so we can be mind readers.”

“Precisely,” said QiLina. “This teaching stuff isn’t so bad when one gets good at it. And one has a brilliant pupil.”

Emily blushed. “Could we interpret the mind some other way, like a book with different readers?”

“We could, but the house is how my mentor taught me and so how I teach you, at least for now.”

QiLina took Emily through a multitude of minds. “Notice trends,” the teacher said. That was easy. Wally had been a well-chosen first example. Each house they entered was different in some way reflecting a person’s interests. 

Garages were not common in the park, but sewing rooms appeared, some small, others containing numberless bolts of material and racks of pattern books. Kitchens tended to be larger. Visitors might find one well-worn cookbook, or shelves of them, or stacks of cooking magazines on neverending counters.

Mothers in parks often had large children’s rooms. One elderly woman’s mind was a huge nursery, like Wally’s garage, with the rest of the home appended as an afterthought. It took Emily a moment to realize the bassinets in the nursery were organized by generations, for baby parents of other babies, adults the woman always saw as children.

At first, Emily was worried. “What if she catches us?”

“Who?”

“The homeowner. The woman whose mind this is.” Emily peeked around a corner. “She must be in the house.”

QiLina laughed. “You’re talking of the tiny person inside the head, that locus of consciousness wandering mental corridors. You fear Wally might have seen us in his garage and taken us for car thieves.”

Emily nodded. “Something like that.”

“You’re not the first philosopher to make that error. You need to understand, when we were in Wally’s mental home, we were in Wally. You can’t find Wally in any of the rooms because Wally is the house.”

Emily shook her head. “I’m not sure I get that.”

“It’ll take time. Meanwhile, let me know if you spot any homeowners.” QiLina’s tone made it clear she doubted that would happen.

Beyond the parks, they entered minds of people in hotels, restaurants, and naturally in libraries. Library patrons tended to have larger mental homes containing more variety. Some held libraries of their own, rooms inside people who read for the simple joy of reading. Elsewhere, houses without books were common.

“As in real homes, some hold no literature, fiction or otherwise.” QiLina frowned. “Many have a single book.”

“Why only one?”

“A Bible. A Koran. A work of scripture. The owner’s mind is often plain but may include a glorious chapel.”

“I’d like to see one,” said Emily.

QiLina shuddered. “Religion makes me queasy.”

They found one man whose mind contained what seemed a reasonably balanced set of rooms until they went into his basement. His hobby room contained toy trains. 

Emily tried to look at them in detail and became lost. Somehow her attention had been drawn down to the railroad layout’s scale. She walked along the tracks, peering into windows of accurate depots, well-stocked shops, furnished homes and factories. She felt she might have stayed forever if QiLina had not plucked her out. “The reason his house seemed balanced,” said QiLina, “is that he models it on models.”

“Are you saying we can construct our own minds?”

“What do you think I’m doing with you? You were a backyard playhouse when I found you. I’m your mental architect and intend to build you into a palace.”

“Why did his house have pipes and wires in the basement? Do I need that stuff in my mind, too?”

“It’s already there. In every mind we see elements representing intermediate states of emergence: things halfway between the physical brain and consciousness. In the old days, these were represented differently, but the spell draws upon our own experience when building the analogies. Have you noticed the fireplaces?”

“Yes. I like those. Does everybody have one?”

“A fireplace or furnace represents emotion as the generator of motivation. Each mind contains a source for the heat that flows through all the rooms. If you find a cold room, perhaps cut off by a closed door, it represents a subject in which a person has lost interest. Some adults keep a chilly library behind such a door, meaning they were readers at one time but have given up the practice. So sad!”

“What else should I be looking for?”

“Many men—and some women—have a dungeon.”

“Yuck.” Emily stuck out her tongue.

“One may require a place to force nightmares into submission. And dungeons serve a dual purpose. You’ll often notice a torture chamber adjacent to a bedroom. This adds a tangy spice to sexuality.”

“I haven’t seen any dungeons yet.”

“Brave people don’t need them. As in the outside world, dungeons are an artifact of fear. The maintenance of a torture chamber is the surest indicator of a coward.”

“No dungeon in your mind, then?”

“I have one, but mostly for the sake of fun. My iron maiden’s spikes are rubber. My rack is comfortable foam.”

“Can I see it?”

“No, but I suppose it’s time I let you into a portion of my mind since that’s the purpose of your lessons.”

“Really? We’re going into your mind?”

“You must. My head is where I keep my spellbooks.”

It was only reasonable, considering what she had been told about mental homeowners, that Emily would enter QiLina’s mind alone, yet QiLina would still be her guide. “I’ll see through your mind’s eyes. Out here, your physical ears will hear my words. I’ll direct you to books, but you must open them on your own. I’ll show you how.”

In a hotel suite, behind double-locked doors hung with do-not-disturb tags, they lay on a bed, eyes closed and heads pressed together. QiLina’s wand was moving in her hand, for this inverted version of the spell was tricky.

The first thing Emily noticed was an amazing column of orchids rising from a tall vase in the middle of a highly polished table and sinking into that table in reflection. Blossom colors complimented the surrounding room. Emily’s attention spread from flowers to the table, to the shelves, also richly shining wood, and finally to books. Smaller vases with single blooms and fascinating works of art broke up the collection.

“This room is beautiful.”

“Thank you, dear. Over the next few years, I hope you’ll find the atmosphere conducive to your studies.”

Emily instinctively looked for QiLina, but she was not there. Or more properly, she was everywhere. “It’s strange knowing I’m inside your mind.”

“Think what it’s like for me. I know this room so well yet rarely see it. Look for a book on your left, at child’s eye level, with gold embossing on a white spine.”

“Here it is. I can’t read the title.”

“Not yet. Today you’ll take a step in that direction. Pull the book down, and put it on the table.”

Action inside an analogy was tricky. Emily managed it only because she had had lessons inside so many minds.

“Now sit, and open it.”

She sat. The symbols on the spine were repeated on the cover and again on an inside page. They were clear, crisp, easy to make out, particularly on the paper. If they were letters, they were like none Emily had ever seen.

“Is the chair all right?” Emily realized she was hearing QiLina’s voice not as it would be if the witch were here in this library but with the echoes of their hotel bedroom. How odd it would be to anyone observing them, with QiLina carrying on a one-sided conversation since Emily’s words were heard only inside QiLina’s mind.

“It’s comfy.” Emily swung her feet. “A little high, perhaps.” The chair lowered and the table with it.

“How’s that?”

Emily’s feet rested on the floor. “Perfect! Thank you.”

“We want to get it right. Anything you need, merely ask.”

“Will do.”

“Turn the page.”

Emily did. The next page held a symbol, a complex set of strokes and dots, and beside it an image of a horse, its mane and tail on fire, standing on a huge wheel half-sunk in water beneath a leafless tree from which hourglasses hung like fruit. “What’s this?”

“The magical equivalent of an alphabet book. ‘A’ is for apple, that sort of thing. And so your studies begin.”

Emily settled into the chair, glad of QiLina’s effort to make it comfortable. Aware of incomprehensible titles all around her and the thickness of the book on the table, she saw this was going to take some time.

Like the room in which she sat, the images in the book turned out to be analogies. The burning horse on the waterwheel represented transformation of elemental energies. The tree had to do with space and time. The whole thing was a magical concept which taken together had no equivalent in any normal language. Emily needed these new symbols to help her speak new words so she might think in ways otherwise inaccessible.

Understanding such things should have been difficult. As Emily progressed over many sessions in many weeks, QiLina expressed praises for the child but had to work to keep awe out of her voice. Emily absorbed in each day what QiLina had learned in a week and that at twice Emily’s age. After surprisingly few sessions, Emily was reading magic with genuine understanding. QiLina directed her to a book of cosmetic incantations. “These will be easy. Such old spells have been often simplified.”

“Why are cosmetic spells so old?” asked Emily.

“The first thing magic users ever did was make themselves healthier or at least appear that way.”

Emily studied eagerly. “I think I know this one. You’ve used it on me on party nights.”

“One of my favorites. It enlarges the eyes and gives them enough glow to dazzle without being unsettling. I cast it on you and selected guests.”

“Why not everybody?”

“Some faces work better without it. Wide-eyed innocence is lovely, but narrow eyes can be seductive too. One must also consider the person admiring the face.”

“Are you saying desirability is an emergent property of a visage and its observer?”

“We have a prettier way to say that: beauty is in the eye of the beholder. It helps to get behind the beholder’s eyes.”

“You can do that?”

“Every other week. Your party partners have been seeing what they wanted through modification of your face and body as well as filtering of their perceptions. The result has made them happy, as you may have noticed.”

“Can I cast this spell myself?”

“I should say no, but learn it to my satisfaction, and I’ll show you how.”

Again, Emily’s ability to absorb magical knowledge both pleased and worried QiLina. It quickly became obvious the child could grasp whatever was placed within her reach. Perhaps for this reason, the single door out of QiLina’s library was kept locked.

Before Emily would be allowed to cast any spell, QiLina made her learn a dozen, holding her back until QiLina grew comfortable enough with the idea of such a youthful witch. The time came too quickly when the mentor had no justifiable reason to deny her apprentice.

“All right, but not for an important party. To be safe, we’ll try it on our own.”

It took more time than Emily anticipated. As QiLina unfolded to her the process of spellcasting, Emily came to understand the inadequacy of books. They contained the knowledge but lacked the art. Hours of practice went into each portion of the spell. “Why does anyone become a witch if it’s so much work?”

QiLina laughed. “I believe I asked my mentor that same question. She told me it would get easier in time.”

“Did it?”

“You tell me ten years from now.”

Despite the struggle, eventually Emily was ready. QiLina selected a location where a mirror would be handy but was not visible during actual casting. This was not easy, as their suite held many mirrors. Emily made the gestures and spoke the words. QiLina could tell her apprentice had it right, not just knowing what to do but why to do it, yet results were still surprising.

“How do I look?” Emily trembled with anticipation.

QiLina did not answer.

“Are my eyes beautiful? What is it? Too much glow?”

“Not at all. The glow is lovely.”

“What then?” Emily ran to the next room, looking for a mirror.

“Keep in mind the results are not permanent.” QiLina followed the child. “Without renewal, cosmetic spells revert to normal within hours.”

Before the mirror, Emily shrieked. “I look like a frog!”

“There is some bulginess.”

“You think so? At our next party, if I came into a bedroom like this, what would the man waiting for me do?”

QiLina considered the face in the mirror. Denial would be pointless. “Hide under the blankets, I should think.”

“Or scream and run away.” Emily’s initial horror dissolved into laughter at the thought, although mixed with tears. She spun about to face her mentor. “Boo!”

“Eek! Eek! Eek!” QiLina feigned terror and fled, her apprentice chasing her from room to room.

“Ribbit! Ribbit! Beware the giant frog!” Emily ran a few steps into the sitting room, caught one of her reflections and dropped onto the floor in a heap of tears overwhelming laughter. “I thought I’d done it right.”

“You did dear.” QiLina joined her on the carpet and squeezed the sobbing child in her arms. “The failure was my own.”

“Are your spellbooks wrong?”

“Never! My collection is perfection. The error took place in other libraries. I neglected your study of anatomy. Beauty isn’t skin deep, you know. It rests on underlying tissues. You require knowledge of muscles, ligaments and bones. As soon as your eyes retract, we’ll visit a library and find you anatomical texts.”

“Why haven’t we done that before?”

“I suppose I was trying to spare you. They’re damned heavy books. My poor mentor had to cram them down my throat, and even then I only skimmed what was necessary.”

“Good for her. She must have been a better teacher.”

“Oh, listen to you. I make one mistake, and the frog princess is all over me about it.”

Emily howled and pounded QiLina with her fists, but the attack lasted only a moment. The child slumped. “I think I may have hurt myself. I feel hollow inside.”

“Missing magic.” QiLina hugged Emily more gently. “You’ve never cast a spell before so don’t recognize the sensation. It happens every time. You’ll need to build up magical energy again.”

“How long will that take?”

“Quite a while, at first. You’ve been accumulating magic all your life, but when one is inexperienced, one tends to let it all out at once. With practice, you’ll learn to conserve, and recovery will come faster.”

“I’ll never do magic again. I’m terrible at it.”

“Nonsense. I told you the problem came from lack of information. Your spellcasting was exactly by the book. I was twice your age, or even three times, before I cast that well. You’re a natural witch.”

“I’m a failure.”

“Never fear failure. Your choices in life are to fail and fail again or to do nothing that challenges you. People have followed both paths. If you’re to be great, you must join those who can laugh through many disasters.”

“Am I to be great?”

“I insist upon it. How else will I become known as the finest teacher who ever lived? So much better than my own.”

Too much magic had indeed been used. It was the next afternoon before Emily’s eyes subsided enough that she would go out. They went straight to a library and its anatomy shelves. QiLina recommended specific sections in specific books, trying to reduce the difficulty of the assignment, but Emily, as always, found answers raised more questions. She combed each book cover to cover and sought others. Her study of beauty took her from the surface to the core, skin to spine, eyes to brain to heart and all the other organs. QiLina found this as pleasing, and unnerving, as Emily’s precocious reading of magic. “I suppose if you fail as a witch, you can always practice surgery.”

“Can you afford to send me to medical school?”

“No matter what career I train you for, I suspect it’s going to cost me in the end, but money isn’t a concern. In fact, our treasure ship is coming in. I’ve been in contact with an old client who’s doing extremely well of late. He’s one of my golden geese. My plan will take some preparation, but that goose will soon be laying.”

“You’re mixing metaphors, but who cares. All the money will go to a library anyway.”

“The metaphor is unmixed; a ship can carry a goose. As for money, the amount I’m thinking of would be more than any library could handle. When sums this large appear, I always keep them for myself.”

Emily set a medical text aside. “Why?”

“Hotels. Restaurants. Parties and party dresses.”

“Why not cheat and steal?”

“We could, but it’s easier to pay.”

“You steal cars.”

“I’m impulsive that way, but we could buy them if we had to, so long as geese are golden.”

“When do I meet this goose?”

“Preparation first. We require a script, a cast, and a location. Leave it all to me. I have a plan. We’ll gain a fortune and meet a spirit in a haunted house.”

“When we get inside, don’t say a word. I do all the talking. You be enigmatic. Think you can handle that?”

“I shall be as silent as the grave.” Emily’s tone dripped melodrama.

“Don’t overdo it. You’re my mysterious child companion, not a vampire.”

“Quiet as a mouse, then?”

“Perfect.” QiLina steered off the road and onto a long driveway, eventually pulling their roadster up to a gate.

“Is that it?” asked Emily. “I expected it to be bigger.”

“I believe this is the gatehouse.”

“What’s a gatehouse?”

“A little house in front of a big house, where a uniformed peasant lets us in and keeps other peasants out.”

The child was excited by the concept. “I want one.”

“Where would you put it? You have no house.”

“Do you have a house somewhere?”

“I have a marvelous home.” QiLina slowed the car but was waved through the gate. The guard had undoubtedly been told to expect them. “Much nicer than this place.”

“When do I get to see it?”

“Someday. Maybe. For now, think of Margo Jaeger’s mansion as our home away from home.”

“Who’s Margo Jaeger?”

“Our hostess, our employer, and the latest most beautiful woman in the world, or so some believe.”

“Why latest?”

“Most beautiful is a position with a lot of turnover.”

“Why?”

“Youth is an important qualification.”

“So I must be gorgeous. Will the golden goose be here? I bet he’ll think I’m gorgeous.”

“He’ll be among the guests, but you’re not his type.”

“Why not?”

“He favors women of legal age, though not for legal reasons.”

“I bet he likes Margo Jaeger then.”

“Exactly.” QiLina guided the car around a bend. The mansion appeared before them.

“Wow!”

“Wow enough. Quite a pile.”

“Margo Jaeger must be rich.”

“Her recent films have had success.”

“I want to be a movie star.”

“Hold that wish. You may feel differently when we’re done here.” QiLina pulled up the drive to stop before the house.

A servant met them, introducing herself as Mrs. Darcy. “Please follow me to your rooms. Your bags will be brought up. Should your car be garaged?”

“That would be best,” said QiLina. “Come, Ginevra.”

Emily hesitated.

“Ginevra, I said come along.”

“Sure.” Emily followed QiLina and Mrs. Darcy. She found the house, from its dramatic entryway, through its tastefully decorated corridors, to their comfortable bedrooms, larger and more impressive than any real home she had ever seen. The servant left them to settle in, promising dinner when their hostess returned from town that evening.

“Time for a nap, I think.” QiLina tested one of the beds. “Driving exhausts me, and the evening may be long.”

“Before you go to sleep, who am I again?”

“Ginevra. A lovely name.”

“How did I get to be Ginevra?”

“The servant is Mrs. Darcy. It would never do to have two Darcys. I decided the moment she introduced herself. Quick adaptation to circumstance will be key to our activities this week.”

“Where did Ginevra come from?”

“A painting by Leonardo. The woman is young, beautiful, and intelligent.”

Emily was making her way around their rooms, examining various pieces of furniture and decoration, giving most of them approving nods. She nodded now for her new name. “That’s appropriate. Ginevra deMores. Can I still be deMores?”

“I think so.” QiLina stretched and closed her eyes.

Emily opened a double door onto a small balcony. “Margo has a swimming pool! Did we bring suits?”

“Ask the servants. I’m sure they’ll find swimwear we can borrow.”

“May I do that now?”

“Yes, but generally keep quiet, as I said. Pay close attention to all you see. Learn as much as you can while revealing as little as possible. When you return, you may wake me and give a full report.”

“What are we doing here? Who are we?”

“Madame Delphine, a hired hunter of ghosts, and Ginevra deMores, her gifted companion.”

“What gift?”

“You’re a spiritualist. You commune with the dead.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“No one does. I’ll take care of the details when the time comes. For now, Ginevra, be mysterious.”

“And who are you named for, Madame Delphine?”

“No one you’d know. A friend of a mentor of a mentor of a friend.”

Emily considered probing further, but the lure of the swimming pool proved too much.

QiLina’s rest was concluded by liquid sounds and laughter. When she looked down from the balcony, she saw Emily and a teenage girl splashing water on each other. “Ginevra, I see you located a swimsuit.”

“Blanche found one for me. There’s one for you, too. I put it on your dresser.”

QiLina stepped back into the room. “So I see. Is Blanche your new friend?”

“No. This is Rose Park. Blanche is Mrs. Darcy.”

QiLina returned to the balcony. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Park.”

“Likewise, Madame Delphine. Please, call me Rose.” The teenager’s features suggested partial Asian ancestry, which made her Texas drawl unexpected.

“Rose is a movie star like Margo,” said Emily.

“Not yet,” said Rose. “I’ve had only minor roles.”

“But she’ll be a star soon, if Mr. Slivovitz will let her.”

“I’ll join you,” said QiLina, “and you can tell me the whole story.”

The swimsuit was not a terrible selection, but still a miss. QiLina cast a minor spell bringing shape and color nearer to perfection without so much alteration as to arouse suspicion. To pull this off, she made small adjustments to herself as well, emerging ready to accompany, but not outshine, local stars and starlets, the crafted choice of a thoughtful guest.

At QiLina’s arrival, Rose Park performed a transformation at which teenage girls can be adept, a quick turn from splashing with another child to chatting with a fellow adult. Emily took the game one splash too far but caught the current, and soon three ladies were sunning by the pool.

“Rose,” said QiLina, “tell me more of your career.”

“She’s been in movies and on television,” said Emily.

“Is that right?”

Rose nodded. “The television thing was only a guest shot. My serious work is in motion pictures.”

“But Mr. Slivovitz is holding her back.”

“Who is this Slivovitz?” asked QiLina.

“My agent,” said Rose.

“And Margo’s,” said Emily. “His name is Floyd Slivovitz, and he’s a guest here at the house, and he’s made Margo a huge star, but he’s not putting enough effort into finding good parts for Rose.”

QiLina smiled. “I see.”

Rose blushed. “I may have exaggerated to Ginevra. I’m sure Floyd tries, but the biggest role he’s found for me was seven lines. If I’m ever going to be a star like Margo, I have to get things moving before I’m too old.”

QiLina considered the slender teenager. “You want your talent discovered while youthful beauty can make it shine.”

“I do.”

“Perhaps this week may become an opportunity for Mr. Slivovitz to appreciate your range.”

“Are you in the theater?” asked Rose.

“A related field. If we’re to help, I’ll need to know the situation. Who else is here? Your parents, I suppose.”

“No. They couldn’t take the week off. Too much work.”

“Really? What do they do?”

“Boring stuff. Dad is a dentist. Mom is his hygienist.”

“No wonder you have such lovely teeth.”

Rose smiled broadly. “Thank you.”

“You must be sorry they couldn’t come.”

“No way,” said Emily. “Rose is an escaped prisoner.”

“Are your parents so terrible?”

Rose rolled her eyes, a surprisingly attractive expression on her exotic face. “Do you know what they’d be wearing if they were here right now?”

“Dental smocks?”

“T-shirts with stupid sayings. Mom has pants with stupid sayings. If she could get them, she’d have stupid sayings on her shoes.”

“Your parents are readers, then?”

“Only when it comes to clothing.”

QiLina shuddered. “They let you wander the world on your own?”

“I’m under Floyd’s watchful eye this week.”

“Your parents trust him?”

“He brought them caps from Hollywood with stupid sayings on them. They love him.”

“I understand. With whom will we be sharing Margo’s mansion, then?”

“Captain Curry,” said Emily, “a dashing pirate.”

“I knew we’d have ghosts and movie stars, but piracy comes as a surprise.”

“He isn’t really a pirate,” said Rose. “Ginevra and I have been calling him that because he has one eye.”

“And he is a captain,” said Emily.

“A one-eyed captain. Yes, I see. Does he wear a patch?”

“No,” said Rose. “He has an artificial eye. It matches the other perfectly. You can hardly tell.”

“I think he should wear a patch,” said Emily.

“And a hook? A peg leg? A parrot?” asked QiLina.

Emily shook her head. “That goes too far.”

“Did you say there’d be ghosts?” asked Rose.

“I hope so, since ghosts are the purpose of our presence. What do we know about this captain?”

“Not much,” said Emily. “A few minutes after he arrived, he went into town looking for Margo. He’s an old friend of hers, according to Blanche. She knew about his eye. We’re not supposed to talk about it.”

“What ghosts?” asked Rose.

“The ghosts of Kaaryn Negré and her lover.” QiLina looked suddenly up toward the house. “But we mustn’t speak of them. Does Margo have any other guests?”

“One more,” said Emily. “The one Margo went to town with in the first place. His name is Jack Zeleny.”

“Margo says we must be nice to him,” said Rose. “She and Floyd are courting him as a backer for her next movie. She says Jack is a billionaire.” 

“That much?”

“Maybe if I’m interesting enough, I can get him to back a movie for me, too.”

“Poor man,” said QiLina. “Make that kind of money, and everyone you meet wants a piece of it.”

“I suppose so, poor man.”

Emily said, “Poor, poor Mr. Zeleny.”

“Ginevra, I take it you approve?”

“Yes, Margo, I do.” Emily was nodding regularly throughout the meal. She nodded for the location. She had worried that a picnic after dark would not be wise, but the evening was lit by colorful lamps and candles receiving individual nods. “I like the silver frogs on these candle holders.”

“They’re favorites of mine. Captain Curry found them for me in Africa.”

“Ribbit,” said QiLina. Emily giggled.

Though the air was cool, heat coming from the house through open doors augmented a well-placed fire at the edge of the broad deck. Each time Emily felt chilly, warmth arrived from somewhere, and when she was almost too hot, in came a breeze carrying garden perfumes eliciting more nods. She nodded for the food as well, observing that it was “nicely seasoned without going overboard.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d like the eggplant bhurtha,” said Margo. “Indian food is kind of exotic.”

“We eat in lots of restaurants. I’m used to new things.”

“I’ve attempted,” said QiLina, “to inform Ginevra’s palate as well as her mind. It’s safe to say she’s experienced more than most girls of her age.”

“What kind of food does she get at home?” asked Margo.

“Ginevra’s parents are no longer with us.”

“Oh, I am sorry.”

“That’s OK,” said Emily. “I don’t remember them.”

“Madame Delphine,” asked Mr. Slivovitz, “what’s your relationship to Ginevra?”

“None by blood. That’d never do. Ginevra’s parents asked me to care for their dear child, and I count it as honor and opportunity.”

“So, you’re her guardian?”

“I certainly am.”

“I see what you mean by opportunity,” said Captain Curry. “Ginevra must be a charming companion. I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl quite like her.”

“I’m sure you haven’t.”

“The Captain is sweet on you,” said Rose.

Emily’s eyes grew wide, and she blushed prettily. “Oh, I doubt that.” Her eyes glowed in firelight.

QiLina frowned. “She’s much too young for him.”

“I don’t think so.” The Captain looked admiringly at the child. “I was speaking with her earlier this afternoon, and I’m sure Ginevra could hold her own in conversation with any of the women I’ve known.”

“Really, Captain? What sort of women do you know?”

“Mostly relatives of fellow officers. Visits to Margo’s are a treat for me. My social circle is otherwise in uniform.”

“Other pirates,” said Rose. She and Emily giggled.

“What’s this about pirates?” asked Mr. Zeleny.

“Probably my eye,” said the Captain.

“Girls!” said Margo.

“It’s not a problem.” The Captain smiled and took a sip of wine. “When I lost my eye, fantasies of swashbuckling were one of the things that made it bearable. I have playful siblings and am, by now, quite used to pirate references.”

“Still,” said QiLina, “an apology might be in order.”

“Arrr.” The Captain swung his goblet jauntily. “I demand an apology, or ‘tis the plank for both o’ ye.”

The girls giggled again.

“Never mind.” QiLina met the Captain’s goblet with her own and drank a hearty gulp.

Zeleny asked, “Captain, how did it happen?”

“The eye? Motorcycle. I ran into a badly designed tree with a branch in exactly the wrong location. Could’ve been worse, of course, but one can say that of any accident, if one can still say anything.”

“No battle at sea?” asked QiLina. “Dreadful disappointment to the girls.”

“I must disappoint them further. I’ve never controlled a craft at sea nor even on a lake.”

“What kind of captain are you then?” asked Emily.

“Air Force. I used to pilot an attack jet.”

“That’s fairly swashbuckly,” said QiLina.

“Used to?” asked Zeleny.

“The eye. Having two points of view, even if only inches apart, turned out to be essential. Depth perception.”

“I imagined modern planes were flown on instruments.”

“Not the kind of flying I did.”

“Must’ve been hard to give it up.”

“I’d never have volunteered for the change, but my new job involves new challenges even if they’re on the ground. I still fly, but not professionally.”

“I understand that,” said Slivovitz. “I tried to be an actor, then to teach actors, but ended up representing them. It turns out to be fascinating work.”

“Which you do so well,” said Margo.

“He does.” Rose cut off a comment before Emily could begin it. “I look forward to the next role Floyd finds for me.”

“A big one,” said Emily. “Will there be a part for Rose in Margo’s next film?”

“I recall no Asian girls in that script,” said Slivovitz.

“How about a person?” said Rose. “I can play those, too.”

Slivovitz frowned at Rose. “I’ll give it consideration.”

“I can ask no more.”

Margo touched Zeleny’s hand. “It’s a wonderful script, Jack. I hope you get a chance to read it. This will be my best role since I played Jill Drake in The Leopard’s Spots.”

“I loved you in that,” said Zeleny.

“This’ll be even better.”

“Impossible!”

“Oh, that’s who you are,” said Emily. “Mr. Zeleny is right. You were wonderful as Jill.”

“You saw The Leopard’s Spots?” asked Margo. “I’d think it’d be a little old for you.”

Slivovitz said, “She shouldn’t have been allowed into the theater.”

“Ginevra may have been in and out of the room while I was watching a recording.” QiLina gestured in a way that said nothing to anyone except Emily, who responded with silence. “I envied you in that film, Margo. You got to wear such wonderful things, especially the dress in the nightclub scene. So glamorous.”

“So revealing,” said the Captain.

“I agree,” said Margo, “about the glamour. In fact, I own that dress. The opportunity to buy it came up recently.”

“We’d love to see you in it,” said Zeleny.

“But not tonight.” QiLina looked up at the house. “Not until we’ve dealt with . . .” Dramatic pause.

“The ghosts?” asked Rose.

“Ginevra, dearest, are you up to a sitting?”

Emily had no idea what this meant so replied as honestly as she felt able. “I’m not sure.”

“I understand. Travel can be exhausting, but it would benefit our hostess if we could begin our work.”

“I suppose I could try.” Emily put both weakness and courage into her voice. It came off rather well.

“We’ll require time to prepare. Please excuse us.”

Emily stood beside the bed on which QiLina rested. “You said we were preparing.”

“I am, dear.” QiLina’s eyes were closed.

“What’s a sitting? Do I just sit?”

“You commune.”

“With ghosts?”

“Of course.”

“How?”

“Leave that up to me.”

“But what do I do?”

“The same as every party night. You let me guide you.”

“Do you guide me on party nights?”

“Surely you don’t think you came up with so much debauchery on your own.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“This’ll be a learning opportunity. Pay close attention, not to what you or others do but to what’s happening inside your mind. In order to understand my skills, which will soon be yours, you must see them from both sides.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. And try not to be startled by the sound of your own voice. Let no ghost frighten you.”

“I’m not sure I believe in ghosts.”

“Good for you.”

“I don’t think this is a ghost story. I think this is a murder mystery.”

QiLina opened her eyes and sat up in the bed. “How do you know that?”

“I’ve read a few of them. A big house full of guests is perfect for a murder.”

“Insightful. Who do you think will be murdered?”

Emily considered her options. “Margo’s agent, Mr. Slivovitz.”

“And who’ll be the murderer?”

“Rose will be accused, but it’ll be your job to find out who really did it.”

“Why me?”

“You understand people and would make a natural detective.”

QiLina reached out to hug Emily. “I think your imagination is what I like best about you.”

“You do?”

“I love listening to you the morning after a party when you explain to me what really happened. So creative.”

It required no explanation that midnight was the proper time for contacting a ghost. QiLina did mention, “Ginevra is used to such hours.”

Emily agreed, since that certainly was true, although after a day of travel, and swimming, and meeting all these people, she was tired.

The windows of the great room were dark, a two-story wall of night reflecting flames. QiLina had insisted lighting be limited to fireplace and candles. Margo, with Mrs. Darcy’s help, had made it so. The servant would have been off duty by now but was willing to stay up assisting with a séance.

Guests selected drinks. Emily and Rose had herbal tea. Adults took stronger beverages, except Captain Curry, who had switched to iced water. The billionaire, Jack Zeleny, sat on a davenport between the actress and her agent. The Captain and Rose occupied a smaller divan. Emily was in a high-backed chair facing the couches, the focus of attention. QiLina stood behind her, the witch’s hands obscured by furniture. Mrs. Darcy waited beyond the couches, ready to observe and be of service.

Emily was rambling on the day's events: the journey here, the qualities of the mansion, the swimming pool, and these people she had met. She actually heard the word ramble in her head so knew this was all right. She had heard such words before and obeyed them without questioning even their source. Now she realized they came from QiLina. How could she not have recognized that before?

Everyone enjoyed the conversation of this charming child. Whenever she paused, an adult would ask a question to set her off again. There were additional voices though. Or were there? Emily almost heard a distant crowd, like a party going on outside. She looked around and saw others doing the same. Mrs. Darcy even left the room a moment, returning in confusion. Emily might have asked who was making the sound if she had been more certain that she heard it. A new word, presence, resonated inside her mind. This was QiLina, and Emily knew what was meant.

“They’re here.” Emily had adopted an upright posture and faraway look to add impact to the statement, a strategy so effective it sent a visible chill throughout the room.

“They?” asked Floyd Slivovitz. The agent always wanted to know with whom he was dealing.

“The multitude who went before.”

“Ghosts!” The Captain seemed amused.

QiLina stepped forward. “Ginevra has opened the doorway to the spirit world. Now she must find her guide.”

Emily did not wait for a word in her head. Taking her cue from QiLina’s remark, she looked high and low, letting her eyes drift in a way she imagined would be suggestive of seeking in unseen realms. “Are you there?”

The next sound came from Emily, but she was as surprised as anyone by the ancient masculine, “I am.” She almost slapped her hand over her mouth but recalled QiLina’s instruction not to be startled.

“Who is that?” Margo’s voice quavered.

QiLina had returned to her position behind Emily’s chair. “Don’t be afraid. It’s Ginevra’s grandfather. I know he sounds imposing, but the old man had a kind heart and serves now as Ginevra’s willing guide in the spirit world.”

“Na Pa Pa,” said Emily in her own childish tone. She could picture the old man. He had been a favorite in her life, yet she had not given him a thought in all the time she had been with QiLina. If Na Pa Pa was in the spirit world, that meant he had died! How had she not known? Na Pa Pa was such an important person to her, the father of . . . whom? Emily could not recall. Tears ran down the child’s cheeks, glistening in candlelight.

“Ginevra loved the old man,” said QiLina.

“Still does.” Na Pa Pa’s voice expressed warmth and longing from the other side.

“You can tell he loves her, too,” said Margo.

“This is why he guides her.” QiLina cast her eyes toward the dark wall of windows. “Na Pa Pa, we’re contacting you from inside the home of Margo Jaeger.”

“You mean the home of Kaaryn Negré.” The old man’s voice was stern.

“Of course,” said QiLina. “You know her, then?”

“We’ve met.”

“That seems a lucky coincidence,” said Captain Curry.

“Everyone here has met everyone,” said Na Pa Pa. “That’s how it works. Someday you’ll understand.”

The Captain glanced toward the windows, thinking for an instant he saw someone outside, but no.

“Na Pa Pa,” asked QiLina, “can you bring Kaaryn to us?”

“Why?”

QiLina looked to Margo. The actress took her cue. “Living in Kaaryn Negré’s home, I’ve felt—I think—her presence. I hope to learn the reason. I wish to know what I can do for her?”

A pause was followed by a sigh that was deep, distant, and melancholy. “Very well, but this takes time,”

“We thank you,” said QiLina. “Now I believe Ginevra requires sleep.” Indeed, the child was almost nodding off.

“Is that it?” asked Slivovitz. “Hello, Ghost, and goodbye.”

“Time is different for the spirits than it is for us,” said QiLina. “They have so much more of it. When Na Pa Pa says a task will take time, there’s no call to wait around. We’ll communicate again tomorrow or perhaps the next day.”

“Poor Ginevra, you really are exhausted,” said Margo. “Floyd, we’ve asked too much of her.”

“I suppose we all could use some sleep.”

“Those tears,” said QiLina, “were a lovely touch. Nothing pulls at the heartstrings like a silently weeping child. Thank you for them.”

“I didn’t know Na Pa Pa was dead,” said Emily.

“I don’t believe he is.”

“Then how can he talk to us from the spirit world?”

“Your Na Pa Pa wasn’t the one talking.”

“Who was, then?”

“That was me.”

“It didn’t sound like you.”

QiLina opened her mouth. An old man’s voice said, “You bet your sweet ass it didn’t.”

Emily shrieked. “How do you do that?”

“A spell. Next time you’re in my library, I’ll show you.”

“How do you get his voice to come out of my mouth?”

“I place it where I like,” said the ancient voice from somewhere behind Emily. She spun around and saw no one. The voice came from directly overhead. “You’ll find instructions in a book.”

“If that wasn’t the spirit world we spoke to, then how will we find Kaaryn Negré’s ghost?”

“The same way we found Na Pa Pa. We’ll be creative.”

“Are we running some kind of scam?”

“No, dear. We’re in the entertainment business, and we’ll take payment for services honestly rendered. Now get some sleep.”

Emily settled into bed. “I’m glad Na Pa Pa’s all right.”

“But remember, for our purposes, your grandfather is in the spirit world, where he stays until this job is done.”

Emily struggled against sleep. “Funny, I can’t remember how Na Pa Pa is related to me.”

“Good,” said QiLina. Then she helped the child lose the struggle.

The scream came not the next day, nor the following, but early in their third morning at Margo Jaeger’s house.

For Emily, it had been two days of purest pleasure. She wandered all through Margo’s home, reading every interesting book she found. She also spent time with Rose, running on the lawn, admiring the gardens, and swimming in a pool superior to that of any hotel. The lawn had plenty of room to run, garden fountains sparkled, and water was just the right temperature when days became too hot. Despite their age difference, Emily and Rose discovered a true affinity. Their only discord came in an effort to enumerate Margo’s servants. Rose insisted there were three. Emily claimed four but, when pressed, could not recall the fourth.

As for other guests, the girls saw little of Jack Zeleny. Billionaires are busy men even on vacation. Floyd Slivovitz also spent much of each day with entertainment phone calls, although Rose and Emily took every opportunity to display some aspect of the starlet’s talent or beauty before him, flying often between the agent and QiLina, whom they consulted for ideas.

QiLina tolerated interruptions in her perusal of Margo’s film library and offered up advice. One exciting plan after another was pulled off, yet all seemed ineffective. Captain Curry enjoyed the show, however. Though not their target audience, the off-duty officer was free, and they appreciated his appreciation.

Midnight séances were held, but Na Pa Pa did not reappear. Candles flickered prettily while QiLina explained this was the way of the spectral world. “The spirits have their own concerns. We’re fortunate to receive any communication from the other side. Be patient, Margo.” 

Conversation on this side was lively enough, and all retired satisfied with peaceful days, which made the shouting that third morning all the more disturbing for being unexpected. The shout was Margo’s. It was her habit to rise early for exercise, part of the ritual required of a most beautiful woman in the world. She turned a corridor and came face to face with Kaaryn Negré, or so she said. “As close to me as you are now.”

“How can you be sure who it was?” asked the Captain.

“I have her movies. I live in her house. Do you think I wouldn’t know her?”

“Sorry, but it was so early. Talk of ghosts may have influenced your perception.”

“She was floating in the air. Who else would be floating six inches off the ground outside my . . . outside Kaaryn Negré’s bedroom? Madame Delphine, what do we do?”

QiLina walked silently through the corridor that had so recently held the apparition.

“Another séance tonight?” asked Slivovitz.

“Talk to Na Pa Pa?” asked Rose. “Or to Kaaryn Negré?”

“To Na Pa Pa, of course,” said QiLina. “If only to thank him for bringing her to us. Then we see if she will speak.”

Later, alone in their rooms, Emily asked QiLina, “How did you do that, make her appear and float and disappear?”

“Days and nights of anticipatory tension have taken a toll on Margo Jaeger. She saw Kaaryn Negré on her own.”

“You mean you can’t do that kind of thing.”

“Of course I can, but I didn’t.”

“Was it a real ghost?”

“There are no ghosts.”

“But if Margo saw her, maybe she’s real.”

QiLina sat Emily on a chair and then took the one beside her. “Don’t go down that path. There are no ghosts.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I know what a ghost is and is not. Pay attention. This is important. You and I have skills described as supernatural, but that term applies to much nonsense. Because of who we are, we need to understand reality better than most. Ghosts are a misunderstanding. People believed in ghosts because they didn’t understand emergent properties.”

“You mean like stories and minds.”

“Minds specifically. Even before we knew what brains were, it was obvious to people their conscious thoughts were different from their bodies. Knowing the brain is where the thoughts take place doesn’t change that. Neurons are physical. Thoughts are not.”

“Like ink and ideas in books?”

QiLina nodded. “Lacking the concept of emergent properties, people invented an invisible spirit and imagined this was what they really were. Since the spirit isn’t physical, why should it die along with the body?”

“It becomes a ghost,” said Emily.

QiLina frowned. “We who understand emergence know much better. Looking for a ghostly spirit after a person has died is like burning Moby-Dick and then searching the smoke to find the white whale.”

“Are you saying people don’t go to heaven?”

“I hold no religious opinions, but where people go, they take their bodies with them. If minds could exist without brains, why would we have brains? Why have bodies at all? Once you start down that road, you have to invent a multitude of nonsense to justify existence of the flesh.”

“But if there aren’t any ghosts, what did Margo see?”

“Her own imagination. Margo is ready to be entertained. Tonight, we’ll give her a show worth waiting for.”

Emily brightened. “Something spectacular?”

QiLina shook her head. “We’re dealing with moviemakers who fling helicopters into a volcano to give the opening credits a little punch. No, we witches shall exploit magic’s subtleties. Kaaryn Negré’s final performance will be a quiet role, but unforgettable.”

Flickers defined depth in a glassy wall of midnight. Emily had not noticed before how many candles were mirrored, surely more than were burning in the room, and how far away some looked. Long reflection paths must have resulted from double surfaces on panes of glass and double panes of insulated windows.

Earlier in the evening, Emily had noticed a moth fluttering against those panes. She wondered now if it had been a death’s-head. Popular in literature, they always foretold doom. Perhaps it was time for Floyd Slivovitz to die and turn this into a murder mystery. But did death’s-head moths live in this part of the world? Emily thought not.

Double, double, so much light. So much sound as well. The voices were back, more of them than on the night of Na Pa Pa’s communication, but farther away. As with the lights, one was not quite sure if they were truly perceived or only misinterpreted. Were those words or the breathing of the group gathered for the séance? Was that music or a breeze through branches? Did one hear wind chimes on Margo’s deck or tinkling ice cubes at a spectral cocktail party? Beyond the windows, Emily heard laughter, saw sparkling jewelry and shimmering gowns, and knew at the same time none of it existed.

Only Emily and QiLina faced the windows directly. Everyone else had to turn: Rose and Captain Curry to their left; Margo, her potential backer and her agent, to their right. Mrs. Darcy had to look behind her. Everyone looked, one after another, then turned back saying nothing because nothing was what they saw or heard, yet in a moment they would turn again. It was only when they caught each other turning that they thought, I don’t see or hear it, and neither do you, but isn’t there a reason we turn together?

In the first séance, Emily had been as ignorant as the others, thinking voices came from another world. Now she knew it was QiLina, and this made the craftsmanship of the illusion noteworthy. Despite a lack of witches to compare with, Emily felt pride in what her mentor did. Such subtle phantasm must be a skillful work of art. Why did QiLina make it go on so long though, with Emily unmoving, and Na Pa Pa silent? Emily began to fear QiLina had made some mistake. Would they sit the night through outside this faint impression of a party? Yet when the tap came, Emily understood QiLina’s timing had built up tension flawlessly.

The tap was a tiny sound, a woman’s fingernail on glass, barely audible yet loud enough to dispel all that came before, the difference between hallucinated symphony and reality crystallized in a single note. Everyone in the room, Emily and QiLina included, looked to the windows. Only reflected candles were visible, far fewer than imagined to have been seen a moment earlier.

Emily heard the word sync in her head. As her lips parted, she wondered at QiLina’s magic. Even though sink and sync sound exactly alike, she knew it was the latter she heard and had no doubt of what it meant. She would synchronize her face to sounds QiLina’s magic generated. What Emily heard next was a voice QiLina placed so perfectly inside Emily’s mouth that she could modify its volume with movements of her lips. To even closest observation, it must appear Emily was speaking, but the voice was Kaaryn Negré.

“What must we finally pass through on our way to the looking-glass world?”

Every face in the room showed in its expression a recognition of the speaker’s identity. Margo was in awe, billionaire Jack Zeleny shocked, but Margo’s agent Floyd was accepting, and her friend the Captain sneered.

The ghostly voice answered its own question. “Ourselves reflected, both artist and audience.”

Margo, Floyd and Rose all nodded.

The actors understand, thought Emily.

Whether it was truly Kaaryn Negré’s speech or not, this would be a performance. Captain Curry’s sneer became a smile, but none of his doubt was gone. Emily felt she knew its source: Kaaryn Negré’s voice had a quality less supernatural than mechanical. Emily realized QiLina copied it from films she had been watching. One heard not only the intonations of the actress but artifacts of a Hollywood soundtrack. Kaaryn Negré’s speech tonight made one think of popcorn.

“I am told you seek me.” Emily looked at Margo.

“Ever since I bought this house, I have felt you near.” Perhaps in response to Kaaryn Negré’s style, Margo also spoke dramatically. “I never feel alone here, but a tension accompanies your presence. Is there anything I can do?”

“For me, nothing.” Emily had no idea what the deceased performer was going to say yet found her lips always positioned correctly, another masterful aspect of QiLina’s spellcraft. “It is not my spirit you apprehend in your home. I am at peace infinitely beyond this sphere.”

“I’m so glad to hear it.” Margo’s empathy was genuine.

“What was Margo feeling then?” asked Rose.

Emily turned to look at her new friend. As lips parted to deliver more of Kaaryn Negré’s revelations from the beyond, Emily felt guilty at deceiving Rose. In all her time with QiLina, this was the first shame Emily had known.

“The papers called it murder-suicide. I had no part in it except to die. No stain fell upon my immortal soul.”

Emily doubted QiLina believed in immortal souls so found the use of the term in Kaaryn’s speech incongruous. But it expressed views of the character, not the author, so was appropriate after all.

“If not your spirit, what is it I feel?” asked Margo. Dread in her voice suggested she already suspected the answer.

“The murderer. The suicide. His existence echoes inside these walls. While he freed my soul from the mortal plane, he condemned his own and trapped it here to suffer.”

Captain Curry laughed. Emily had to admit the tone QiLina created might have gone too far. And was it possible her own expressions pushed it further? Had Emily enjoyed her lip-syncing role too much, overacting the actress’s part? In each evening session, the Captain had let it be known, not through words but by his attitude, that he was the doubter in their midst. Would his mirth destroy the mood QiLina had created?

Emily felt her mouth open again, but before a sound emerged, brilliance flashed in space between the couches. A woman of supernatural beauty stood before them. More than one observer gasped. The Captain was transfixed. Any hint of doubt vanished from his expression in an instant.

Observations. Emily heard the word in her head, not understanding why, but knowing what to do. She spoke softly in her own voice, only for QiLina’s ears. “I see Kaaryn Negré’s spirit in front of us.” Emily felt her shoulders tightly gripped. Her mentor bent to hear, so Emily could drop her voice to the barest whisper. “Kaaryn is telling the Captain his youth excuses his foolishness. She turns to Margo now and warns her there is danger. Time is short, and Kaaryn can say no more. An iridescent cloud surrounds her apparition. It rises, filling the space between us. Kaaryn is gone.”

QiLina whispered, “Damned well better be.”

The séance over, Emily lay stretched on QiLina’s bed. “If you were creating the illusion, how is it you needed me to tell you what was going on?”

“What did you mean by iridescent?”

“Colorful shimmers. The cloud had rainbows in it.”

QiLina wrinkled up her nose. “Rainbows! I suppose we must count ourselves fortunate Kaaryn Negré did not ascend to heaven on a unicorn. She didn’t, did she?”

“No. Can you make unicorns?”

“Not if you held a gun to my head. No rainbows, either.”

Emily’s eyes grew wide. “It wasn’t you who did that? Was it really a ghost?”

QiLina sighed. “I wonder if school teachers have a high suicide rate. How often must I explain this? The whole concept of ghosts arises out of misunderstanding. The species makes no sense and therefore can never exist.”

The child’s look of astonishment remained fixed. “What was it then?”

“This is what we must find out. Get up. We need to talk to Captain Curry before he goes to sleep.”

The Captain’s bedroom was down the hall from theirs, separated from Margo’s only by the video library. QiLina’s knock was insistent. 

The Captain’s voice called back. “Come in.”

When QiLina entered the Captain’s bedroom, he stood. She looked around as if expecting him to have company. Emily wondered whom. Margo? Surely not Rose! Yes, it must be Margo. Although tonight, the Captain was alone. QiLina moved unusually close to him. He stood his ground.

“I want to hear from you exactly what you saw.”

“The same things we all saw, I suppose.”

“But you see with different eyes.”

“Because of my skepticism?” The Captain’s smile was gentler than it had been during the séance. “I apologize for that.” His room, Emily noticed, was smaller than those she and QiLina occupied, and more masculine. She suspected he had used it often.

“Are you no longer a doubter?” asked QiLina.

“Not after what I beheld tonight. Will you sit?”

The Captain had been reading in one of two chairs by the window. QiLina took the other. She pulled her chair closer to his. “Our previous sessions didn’t convince you. You weren’t taken in by auditory illusions, so why does a visual hallucination overwhelm your resistance?” 

Emily walked, examining objects in the Captain’s room. He had fascinating handicrafts from Africa and Asia.

“That was no hallucination.”

“What makes you so sure, Captain?”

“The evidence of my own eyes. Under painkillers and in foreign places, I’ve seen hallucinations. I know reality. That woman was more real than anybody in the room.”

“Does reality come in degrees? What makes you say she was more real?”

“She was more physical. I know I could have touched her. No projection, hologram, or trick with smoke and mirrors could do that. She was so real it made the rest of our company seem unreal to me. Kaaryn Negré was with us.”

QiLina gripped the Captain’s arm. Then she smiled and nodded. “I’m sure she was.”

“Forgive me, Madame Delphine. I was wrong to have been so unaccepting. As Kaaryn said, an error of my youth.”

“It takes a big man to admit his mistakes.” QiLina released his arm. “Come, Ginevra. It’s after our bedtime.”

Emily held back questions until they had returned to their own suite.

“So it was really Kaaryn Negré’s ghost?”

“Ginevra, have I ever hit you?”

Emily hoisted herself onto QiLina’s bed. “No.”

“Don’t make me start. Kaaryn Negré’s body long ago ceased to be and with it any emergent property of mind.”

“The Captain is sure he saw her.”

“And that’s how we know she wasn’t there.”

Emily considered this. She wanted her reply to indicate she understood how Captain Curry believing he had seen Kaaryn Negré would prove the murdered actress’s absence, but no matter how she calculated, nothing came to mind.

QiLina joined Emily on the bed. “Because he is a pirate.”

“He’s not a pirate. Rose and I only said that.”

“I was giving you a hint. The reason you pretended he was a pirate is the same reason we know he didn’t see Kaaryn or anyone pretending to be Kaaryn.”

“I’m still confused.”

“Good. At your age, that should be possible. I’ll confuse you every chance I get, because the chances are becoming rare.” QiLina hugged Emily close. “Captain Currey is sure Kaaryn Negré was real because he saw her with his own eyes. She looked more real to him than we did.”

“And that makes her unreal?”

“His eyes!” QiLina sat up straight, her expression triumphant. “Your pirate has one eye. The ghost seemed more real to him than reality because he was seeing her with both eyes. We looked flat, two-dimensional. In the Captain’s perception, which I examined in his memories just now, Kaaryn had three-dimensional depth, which is what made her seem more real.”

As QiLina spoke, Emily tried looking around the room, first with both eyes, then with one eye covered. This was a new concept for her and had to be explored.

“When everyone reacted to Kaaryn’s apparition, and when you reported all you saw but I didn’t, I knew there were two possibilities. Either someone was really there, and magic was keeping me from seeing her, or she was an illusion I wouldn’t perceive because my mind is protected from such tricks.”

“I saw her.” Emily looked at QiLina, first with one eye, then with two. “Why isn’t my mind protected?”

“I haven’t shown you that spell yet. Perhaps the next time you’re in my library. The point is, when the Captain told me Kaaryn seemed to him more real than reality, it confirmed she was illusory. The image projected into his mind bypassed his eyes. Had he seen her with his one good eye, she would have looked no more real than any of us.”

Emily bounced to the edge of the bed. “I bet that works because the Captain lost his eye only recently. I remember a story in which a man born blind had his vision established by surgery. He had a terrible time seeing then because his eyes were working but his brain wasn’t. Visual centers had atrophied or turned to other purposes. If the Captain had been born one-eyed, he wouldn’t have seen the ghost”—Emily caught herself—“fake ghost, in three dimensions. Because he used to have two eyes, his brain was ready for the perception even if his eyes weren’t.”

“Is that so?”

Emily nodded emphatically.

“Your recent medical studies have been of more value than I anticipated. Thinking now outside the Captain’s head, do any questions come to mind?”

Emily nodded again. “Who created the illusion?”

“Exactly. Tomorrow you’ll have a mission. You’ll need to be unusually alert, so now you must have sleep.”

Emily was going to protest she was far too excited, but QiLina’s hand moved over the child, and she was asleep before her words could escape.

The mission, as Emily learned in the morning, was an easy one. “Do the same things you’ve been doing. Wander the house with Rose. Play in the gardens. Swim. Browse bookshelves. Do whatever you did before exactly as you have done, only this time, do it mindfully.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning pay attention.”

“To what?”

“To everything in general but specifically to the person to whom you do not pay attention.”

Emily nodded, believing she understood this as a mild rebuke for her failure to attend to her mentor, perhaps because she had taken so long to abandon the notion ghosts might be real. She set off intent on keeping QiLina’s words fixed in her mind. The child silently wandered the corridors of Margo’s mansion, passing servants in their early duties, waiting for Rose to awaken. Why did teenage girls sleep so much? Emily must find a book explaining that.

At one point, Emily passed through a room in which a servant was busy doing something. During the course of their visit, this servant seemed always to be engaged in uninteresting occupations. Rose and Emily had watched the other servants at their more fascinating duties, learned bits and pieces of domestic lore, but always ignored this one.

Emily stopped. She whispered to herself. “The fourth servant!” This was why Rose thought there were only three, because when they listed servants by their roles, nothing of this servant’s duties came to mind. This was a servant forgotten because they never paid her any attention.

Mindfully, Emily turned around. She approached the door of the room she had passed through, moving with a touch of apprehension. She leaned, putting her head in far enough to see what the servant was doing.

The servant was doing nothing except smiling. “Yes, Sweetie? Is there something I can do for you?”

“I’m not sure. What do you do?”

“Whatever I damned well please, Sweetie.”

It struck Emily there was nothing in the manner of this woman, or in her dress, or in her actions, to suggest she was a servant at all. There never had been. Why had Emily always assumed this person was a servant?

“Because that was how I chose to be perceived.”

Emily backed away, disturbed to have her question answered without it being asked. That was the sort of thing only QiLina could do consistently.

“I am the one who taught her how to do that.”

Emily was going to say, “What are you talking about?” but did not because she already knew, and knew this woman knew she knew. This was QiLina’s mentor, the person who was to QiLina as QiLina was to Emily.

“Pedagogically, I am your grandmother, though if you called me Na Ma Ma, I might make you regret it.”

Although her grandfather was Na Pa Pa, Emily had always called her grandmother Granny. She had never noticed this asymmetry before. QiLina’s mentor looked both older and younger than Granny. She seemed ancient in a way implying wisdom from another time, but filled with an energy Granny never displayed. For a moment, Emily tried to recall how Granny was related to her, but as with Na Pa Pa, these thoughts led nowhere.

“Sweetie,” said QiLina’s mentor, “we need to talk. We will take a walk in Margo’s garden.”

Later that afternoon, when Emily was reporting her morning conversation to QiLina, it occurred to her how odd it was she had had the opportunity to question the mentor of her mentor, the only other witch she had ever met, and all they talked about was gardening. “Nothing but flowers and sun and water and seeds and weeds and insects and stuff like that. I didn’t even ask her name.”

“Just as well,” said QiLina. “That question is always impolite among magic users since it can never be answered honestly. If someone wants to volunteer what they are currently being called, you accept it and move on.”

“I never asked about her life or yours. I only asked her about flowers, and that’s all we discussed.”

“She never mentioned magic?” QiLina seemed only mildly curious.

“She taught me gardening spells. She said her mentor had learned them from a man in India. What did you call her when you were growing up?”

“Various things. Whatever name she goes by now is almost certainly not one she used back then and not important, either. In her youth, I understand she was a great communicator, but as she got older, she had fewer and fewer interactions. You only noticed her this morning because she wanted to speak with you. What spells did she teach you?”

“She taught me a spell for weeding, one for picking flowers, and another for grafting.”

“You need spells for that? She never taught those to me. Must be her new hobby in her dotage.”

“She said the flower picking spell is much better than gardening shears because it does no damage to the stems. Nothing gets crushed or cut. Each plant cell smoothly separates. She showed me how to seal the opening on the plant and on the blossom leave it wide to take in water.”

“I suppose that might be useful.” QiLina went to the window. Her eyes scanned the pool and gardens beyond.

“The weeding spell was neat. It runs down the plant stem into the soil and follows every fork in every root all the way to the tips. The bonds with soil particles are broken, and the weeds just fall out of the ground. You can rake them up or let wind blow them away.”

“Interesting.” QiLina turned back and looked at Emily. “Could one use it to take down trees?”

“No. She explained to me how her gardening spells scale badly. The man who made them had only flowers in mind. I can cut a single blossom at a time. The weeding spell has to be used every week, because if a weed gets big, it takes too much magic to follow all the roots. They operate at a very short distance, so one has to walk through the garden, but one need not bend. ‘Easy on the back,’ she said.”

“How handy that would be.”

“The grafting spell is guaranteed to work.”

“If we had a garden.”

Emily had a vague memory of a garden she had once thought of as her own but could not recall where or when. She believed it had a snail in it.

After the evening meal, QiLina informed Margo the spirit world would be disturbed by events of the previous night, and Ginevra could not possibly risk contact again this week. Margo was worried. Kaaryn Negré had warned of danger. Floyd Slivovitz tried to calm his client, assuring her she could not be hurt by ghosts. Captain Curry, on the other hand, began to talk of moving Margo out of this house and into some protected environment.

“Perhaps a good idea,” said QiLina, “although no rush is necessary. As you saw with Na Pa Pa and his seeking of Kaaryn, those in the spirit world generally move slowly. I doubt Margo is in any present danger.”

“Could the house be exorcised?” asked Margo. “Can the spirit of the murderer be driven out?”

“I’m not entirely convinced that spirit is here to any threatening extent, but I’ll ask around and see who might be free to perform such service.”

“Why not call a local cleric?” asked Captain Curry.

“Rituals have rules. Not just any priest will do, and pre-approval by a bishop is required. The church, too, understands these matters involve no rush.”

“Can’t you perform the ritual yourself?”

“Don’t suggest it! In our profession, we must remain on friendly terms with all occupants of the spiritual plane.”

Jack Zeleny seemed to find this funny. “What friends you must have, Madame Delphine. Maybe you should let someone less interested engage the exorcist.”

“Mr. Zeleny, you might find it in your interest to keep your big nose out of a business of which you know nothing.”

The billionaire took QiLina’s rebuke surprisingly seriously, apologized and withdrew from the conversation. It was the first time Emily had seen anyone speak harshly to the rich man. Margo and her agent followed Jack from the room, fears of ghostly threat set aside by more worldly concerns.

“Captain,” said QiLina, “I understand your worry for your friend’s safety, but attacks from the spirit realm occur far more often in films than in real life. In this atmosphere of conflict, Ginevra cannot return to this house, but let me arrange protection. Where can I reach you next week?”

The Captain gave QiLina contact information for the military base to which he must soon return for work. “Please don’t delay. I hate to think of Margo in this house with only servants.”

“They won’t be here,” said Emily.

“What do you mean?”

“Blanche told me. After a week of houseguests, Margo is giving everyone time off. She likes having the house full of people but afterward likes quiet time alone.”

This news did not please the Captain.

At week’s end, guests had places they must go. Captain Curry failed, in a long telephone call, to talk superiors into extending his leave. He made a poor case, unable to bring himself to fully describe the situation and that his request was based on fear of ghosts. It did not occur to him to lie.

Poor Floyd Slivovitz was double booked. A client’s needs pulled him one direction while returning Rose Park to her parents required he go another. Rose had a solution for Floyd and for the Captain as well.

“I’m still on summer vacation. If Margo will put up with me, I can stay another week.”

Emily snickered, knowing how uneager Rose was to return to her parents, so this proposal solved three problems. It was quickly accepted, although the Captain’s manner suggested he would have been happier if Rose had been a soldier rather than a teenage girl.

Jack Zeleny was the first to leave. The billionaire had made no commitment yet but was looking favorably toward backing Margo’s next film, although one thing had disappointed him. All the excitement over ghosts had prevented them from finding a time for Margo to show off the dress she had worn in the role of Jill Drake.

“Your next visit, Jack. I promise. You will come again?”

“You can count on it.”

Floyd Slivovitz went soon after, having first promised Rose he would find a good role for her for certain. Emily nodded her approval. Just as well he had not been murdered.

The last man to leave, while Emily and QiLina oversaw the packing of their roadster, was Captain Curry. Even after starting his car, the Captain got out of it to get assurances once more that Margo would be safe. Margo insisted she felt under no present threat, and Rose promised to stick to her side. QiLina reaffirmed her conviction the spirit world was quiet and an exorcist could be found well before one was needed. The Captain would be kept informed.

He drove away, glancing into his rearview mirror, not picking up speed until he turned the corner where he lost sight of them and they of him. QiLina spoke softly to Emily. “My mentor made quite an impact on the Captain. Weak as she is, she has her particular skills.”

After another turn, the Captain drew comfort from the presence of the man in the gatehouse. It would be days before he recalled this, realizing too late how foolish it was to have imagined this costumed guardian offered any protection from the supernatural.

QiLina delayed their departure so Emily might have some final hours with her new friend Rose. The servants had already left when Margo marked Madame Delphine’s parting with presentations. QiLina received an envelope and Emily a small box. She opened it to find a charm bracelet with two shiny frogs.

“Because you liked my candle holders,” said Margo.

“They’re beautiful,” said Emily.

“Real silver. I’ve named them for you. The one with the ruby eye is Ginevra, and the diamond is Margo. Because you’ll always see them together, you’ll never forget me.”

“How could I forget you, Margo? I’ll see you in lots of movies.”

“Not some role like Jill Drake. I want you to remember the real me.”

Emily let Margo place the bracelet on her wrist. “Yes, Margo, I’ll remember you always.” They hugged goodbye.

“And I’ll remember the little girl who enjoyed my home so much and made it possible for me to meet its former owner.”

Emily was not sure how to respond to that. She looked to QiLina, who shrugged her shoulders and started the car. As they drove away, after waving to Margo and Rose, Emily admired her bracelet.

QiLina’s attention divided between road and child. “Don’t get too attached.”

“Why not? I love it.”

“We keep no baggage. Stuff in this car stays behind when we take another.”

This was true. Between them they possessed almost nothing they had held last month. Emily recalled a dress she had liked long ago, one with cuffs that matched her eyes, and wondered where it was now.

QiLina did not need to hear the question. “It’d never fit. We outgrow things, or wear them out, or they become obsolete, or our tastes change. Objects always disappoint eventually.”

“Don’t you have treasures stored up somewhere? Maybe in that house you said you have?”

“My home is full of treasures but has no room for trinkets. I keep only my wand.”

Emily fingered the silver frogs at her wrist. “I’ll keep only this. It holds happy memories.”

QiLina smiled knowingly. “We’ll see.” They passed the gatehouse. “Will the guard stay while the other servants are away?”

“I think he lives there,” said Emily. “The place is big enough for a single man. I don’t know if he’ll travel.”

“Does he spend much time at the main house?”

“Never that I saw.”

“Good.”

They drove a short distance, turning twice before QiLina brought the roadster to a stop behind dense bushes. She got out of the car and took a small bag from the back seat. Emily followed her to a tall chain-link fence with a padlocked gate.

QiLina pulled out her wand and spoke a spell Emily did not know, one that sounded like a foreign language, perhaps an African tongue or maybe Hawaiian. Magic could sound like that. When the last word was spoken, the wand was flicked, and the padlock opened as if they had used a key. “Locks protect property, and you know how I feel about property.”

“How come I don’t know that spell?”

“You’ll learn it someday.”

“I want to learn it now.”

“Today you’ll have more than enough lessons.”

“What are we doing?” Emily followed QiLina through the gate. “And where are we?”

“Behind Margo Jaeger’s mansion. Most places with a grand entrance have other ways in for those with deliveries or services. Or spells. Beyond those trees is the swimming pool you enjoyed all week.”

“Why have we come back?”

“To do what we came here for. We aren’t spiritualists.”

“So we really weren’t scamming Margo?”

QiLina pulled out the envelope Margo had given her and waved it in the air. It vanished in a burst of flame.

“We never scam, dear. Our client isn’t Margo Jaeger.”

“Who, then?”

“The golden goose, of course. Hello, Jack.”

Emily turned, startled to see Jack Zeleny step up behind them. He was carrying a small bag.

“Is everything ready, Janessa? I certainly am.”

Emily thought at first he was talking to her but then realized he had said Janessa, not Ginevra. He had used one of QiLina’s old aliases.

“Don’t be impatient, Mr. Zeleny. You want all to be just so. Final staging must be arranged. And costuming.” QiLina bumped her bag against the one he carried. “The presence of Rose Park adds an unanticipated twist.”

“I’m not interested in the kid.”

“I’m fully aware of your interests, Jack. None of this will happen if you don’t trust me. For now, go that way straight to your room, change, and then to the video library. You won’t be seen or heard.”

“Don’t be long, Janessa. I can’t take more waiting.”

Jack went one way around the pool, Emily and QiLina the other. “Are we sneaking?” asked Emily. “Shouldn’t we be hidden?”

“We are, dear. So is Jack. You saw my mentor only when she wanted to be seen, a skill she passed along to me. Our presence won’t be noted.”

“Is your mentor still here?”

QiLina glanced around. “Who knows? The woman no longer reveals herself. I haven’t seen her in many years.”

“Why did I get to see her, then?”

“Fascinating question. One we may address when we have time. For now, all we need to know is that she’d never dare to interfere with important plans of mine.”

“What are your plans?”

“To keep you confused because I can. To educate you. To make a pile of money. To have some fun. Stay close.”

Hiding in plain sight was a new experience for Emily. She and QiLina stood in a hallway, looking straight through an open door into the kitchen where Margo and Rose were conversing. If either had looked up, they would have seen the witches watching, but neither looked.

Are we invisible?

Emily’s unspoken question was answered in her mind. 

Unnecessary. As always with QiLina’s terse projected thoughts, Emily understood. She watched from the doorway as her mentor entered the room. The chatting women never turned in her direction. Each of QiLina’s footsteps was masked by a loud word from one or the other of them. Margo peered out a window, focusing attention on flowers just in time to not see QiLina step behind Rose.

Emily saw QiLina’s lips moving but heard only Margo delivering a lengthy speech on how she would like to be forever in her garden. QiLina’s hands came within an inch of Rose’s hair. Rose closed her eyes, her head drifting slowly downward. QiLina reached around her, almost touching the back of Margo’s head. Then she withdrew from the room. Rose jerked her head up, eyes open. Margo turned too late. Emily and QiLina, entirely undetected, were gone.

“What did you do? And how did you do it? And why didn’t they see us?” asked Emily.

QiLina was making her way upstairs. “Often it occurs to us that someone may be present. We look around. This instinct has saved many a life, so evolution prefers it. Most of the time, we see no one and forget we even looked. When we do see someone, we think, ‘I knew it,’ and remember. Thus the legend that you can tell when someone is watching you.”

Emily realized she held that very superstition.

“The magic suppresses that instinct. This alone often makes it possible to pass through an occupied room unnoticed. Today I actively directed, focusing attention to places where I wanted it. With practice, one could walk naked through a church service and cause no comment.”

“Have you ever done that?”

Turning down a hall, QiLina smiled. “I’ll never tell.”

“Why did you have to get so close?”

“Much is riding on today’s actions. As with pistols, proximity increases accuracy.”

“What did you do to them?”

“Took advantage of natural inclinations. Rose is tired and soon will take a nap. We need her out of Margo’s way.”

“And what’ll Margo do?”

“Get into costume just for the fun of it. Margo loves to do that.” QiLina opened the door to the video library and stuck her head inside. “Twenty minutes, Jack.”

Emily heard a grunted reply, a strange, almost inhuman noise. “Is Mr. Zeleny all right?”

“Never better. Full of pep.” QiLina closed the door, shutting out the audio from a movie Jack was watching. 

She opened the next door over, the bedroom Captain Curry had used. QiLina rearranged furniture with Emily’s assistance, moving a dresser out of the way and sliding the bed against the wall dividing the bedroom from the video library.

“Why are we doing this?” asked Emily.

“Proximity again. Lie on the bed, with your head as close to the wall as possible. I have an important job for you and need to get you ready.”

QiLina joined Emily on the bed. Their heads pressed together. She took out her wand and began the spell to move them into someone’s mind. Emily closed her eyes and found herself in a long corridor.

“How do you like the atmosphere?”

“You mean the air?” asked Emily. “Pleasant. Cool.”

QiLina led her past many open doorways. Emily glanced into rooms in what seemed to be an office building.

“Where are we?”

“Jack Zeleny. You’re seeing the mind of the dedicated businessman.”

“Not very homey.”

“Wait until you see the bedroom.” A door at the end of the corridor blew open as they approached. QiLina stepped through, pushing the door shut behind them. Emily gasped at the change in temperature. The bed was no more than a cot. The only other furniture was a folding screen, its colorful panels holding scenes of a jungle filled with plants and birds.

“Why is it so hot in here?”

“Concentrated attention. Emotion. Motivation.” QiLina led her behind the screen. It hid an archway into the next room, a narrow space of heavy stone.

“And such a tiny dungeon. What’s it mean?”

“In most cases, it would mean a man with little fear or anger, but Jack Zeleny is different. Jack has this.” QiLina indicated a fire pit surrounded on three sides by racks of branding irons, some of which were being heated in the flame. “This is the mind of a man who has a lot of energy to direct toward possession. This is how you build a billionaire.”

Emily looked up. “The opening above is blocked.”

“Ordinarily this energy warms his many offices. Cold air returns through his disregarded bedroom. But today, that flow is diverted.”

The smokeless fire was the dungeon’s only light source, giving close walls a furious glow. Emily had never been uncomfortable inside a mind, but the temperature in this place was too much. She withdrew into the bedroom, which was only a little better. Here she noticed images were moving on the jungle screen. Leaves fluttered as birds flew from branch to branch. In one spot branches parted. A distant human couple was revealed behind them.

QiLina followed Emily into the bedroom. “Jack borrows his imagination from the movies. That may explain this room being no bigger than it needs to be. His mind is otherwise vast and well organized. Those offices have bright windows. His bedroom, though, is usually cool and dark. He doesn’t sleep much.”

It was dim now, lit mostly by a glow from the screen, but certainly not cool. Emily was drawn toward the door back into office corridors where drafts promised relief.

QiLina blocked the child’s way. “No, dear. I’ll be busy elsewhere, and so I need you here. Keeping this door closed is your mission. You can only do it pushing from inside. Jack needs his bedroom hot as Hades.”

QiLina showed Emily how to hold the door. This was more difficult than one might imagine, since the door was not a door but an analogy for a mental state. Except for reading QiLina’s spellbooks, Emily had taken no actions inside a mind. When she finally understood how it was done, she realized holding this door shut opened a new set of mental possibilities.

“See? I said you would be learning.” QiLina rose from the bed beside Emily in reality. “You keep that door closed no matter what. It’s vital to our plan.”

“Where are you going?”

Emily heard QiLina’s fading voice. “I need to set up Margo. You hold that door!”

Emily had never been inside a mind alone. She wanted to wander but could not desert her post. At least she could look around Jack’s bedroom, but besides the screen, there was nothing to see. The couple on the screen were talking. As lips moved, she heard muffled sounds corresponding to their words. These, she realized, were coming to her real ears through the wall from the video library. She was seeing what Jack was seeing as he watched a movie.

For a moment, Emily thought she had found Jack’s visual cortex, that portion of the brain initially interpreting signals from the eyes, but this was a mind, not a brain. There were correlations, but not one-to-one correspondence. This was not so much Jack’s eyesight as his perception and response.

Emily looked behind the screen. It was the same scene there but in reverse, swapping left for right. She looked into the dungeon beyond the arch. The ruby flames seemed both hotter and darker than before. A brand glowed bright red.

The door! If she were in the dungeon . . . but she was not. Somehow she had moved her awareness outside the bedroom but kept herself in place. And why not, if all this was analogy rather than real space. Emily brought her perceptions back to the door and then beyond it. She was aware now of the corridors and offices.

Emily peeked into office after office. Each held a desk, a computer, sometimes a file cabinet, always a bulletin board with papers tacked to it, and a window. She came to realize the view outside each window corresponded to the items on the bulletin board and computer screen. In each of these offices, Jack organized some aspect of his business life. Sometimes a computer screen was partially taken up by what appeared to be the screen of another computer. It took Emily a moment to understand these were computers in other offices. This was how Jack made connections between one aspect of his empire and another.

These connections were mental, yet a physicality underlay them. She could find it if she concentrated. This mind was the emergent property of a brain, and that brain was everywhere she looked. She began to associate patterns in Jack’s mind with the complex interconnections of fibers they represented, branching like roots inside his head.

“Door closed?”

Emily felt a moment of panic at QiLina’s unexpected words so close to her ear, but yes, despite wandering awareness, Emily had held the door between these cool offices and Jack’s overheated bedroom. “Got it.”

Her attention back with her magically imagined body, Emily saw the actions on the folding screen. Jack perceived both the small couple and a woman now beside them, one present in life-size and three dimensions. This person was in the video library with Jack but also in the movie. It was Margo, yet it was not.

“Enter Jill Drake.” QiLina settled on the bed, her head resting against Emily’s. “What do you think of Margo’s costume? Marvelous design. Covers more than any swimsuit, yet so provocative she may as well be naked. The technique is often cheaply done but can be, as here, quite elegant.”

The women Jack perceived in movie and reality were wearing the same dress, and they were saying the same words loudly enough that Emily could hear them through the wall or perhaps by way of Jack’s mind. Emily found the more she concentrated on the screen, the more she was perceiving all that Jack perceived, even feeling what he felt.

Margo and Jack took turns, each delivering speeches that made no sense until Emily recognized them for what they were: dialog from The Leopard’s Spots.

“They’re acting out a scene.”

“Yes, and rather well, I think.” QiLina was moving her hands, one of them holding her wand. “Jack’s acting isn’t bad. Often a skill of billionaires. And I’ve always wanted to direct.”

Emily felt a tingle of fear brought up by memory. “In the movie, Jill Drake kills him. Is Mr. Zeleny in danger?”

“Not at all. You see, Jack identified rather strongly with the villain in that film and didn’t care for the conclusion. He’s requested a new ending.”

Emily experienced the strange sensation of a tingle of fear shifting its target. She used her new skills to send her awareness everywhere she could in Jack Zeleny’s mind. She was drawn to an office that was warmer than the others, containing material of interest. “QiLina, he’s thinking of his pocket and an object in it.”

“Is the door shut tight?”

“It is. What’s in his pocket?”

“You tell me, dear.”

Emily could feel Jack’s hand slipping into the pocket as he and Margo shouted at each other. The object was long and smooth. He felt for a button on it.

“A knife.”

“I’m surprised you can tell that from where you are.”

“It’s an out-the-front double-action switchblade.” Emily felt Jack draw the knife from his pocket, heard him press the button, and felt the jerk in his hand as heavy metal sprung forward to lock in place. “Six-inch blade, double-edged, martensitic sintered stainless steel.”

“Where are you getting all this?”

“A brochure pinned to a bulletin board in one of his offices.”

“Get back to that damned door!” QiLina’s shout was loud enough to mask Margo’s from the next room.

“I never left the door. It’s shut tight.”

“And you’re looking into another room at the same time? I had no idea your skills had come that far. You make me proud.”

“If one can be in two places at once, why did you need me to hold this door.”

“I’m in my brain and Margo’s. You’re in yours and Jack’s. Though one may wander widely in a mind, two brains is the limit. It has to do with magical energy. To be in both Jack and Margo, I’d have to abandon my own brain. The body prefers to live and wouldn’t allow that for long even if I tried.”

“There are pictures of women on this board, pinned to it with knives. Who are they? Why are they here? Do you know these women?”

“Is there a freckle-faced red-head among them, with an adorable crook in her nose?”

“Yes.” Suddenly Emily’s attention returned involuntarily to Jack’s mental bedroom. “QiLina, it’s way too hot in here.”

“Hold that door. I’ll tell you when it’s too hot.”

Emily saw the blade, now in black silhouette across the folding screen. “We have to stop him. He’s going to use the knife on Margo.”

“Not yet. Wait until I tell you.”

Margo’s expression, visible on the screen, was distorted in a way Emily could not explain. QiLina had promised to keep Emily confused, and she certainly was. It looked like Jack would stab Margo with the knife.

And he did.

Over and over again.

Emily felt him enjoying the blade sinking into soft flesh.

And felt Margo’s frantic struggle against him.

And his enjoyment of that as well.

“QiLina!”

“No need to shout, child. You’re inside someone’s head, and out here I’m right beside you. Just hold that door.”

Emily knew the temperature inside Jack’s mind was only an analogy, yet she was frightened by it. Was this stabbing real? Surely it could not be.

“Here it comes.” QiLina’s voice was calm. Margo fell to the carpet. Between firelight from Jack’s dungeon and blood before his eyes, the folding screen was a study in scarlet. “Pay close attention. Things are going to happen fast.”

Emily also fell, out into the hallway in Jack’s mind. Cold air rushed over her as she lay on the hard floor. It brought relief, but had she failed? Where was the door? She rolled and looked behind her. Jack’s bedroom was lit in white.

“QiLina, I’m sorry. The doorway is open. I couldn’t stop it. The door is gone. There’s nothing to hold anymore.”

“Not a problem, dear. He only has that door when he needs it. If it’s gone, he doesn’t need it anymore.”

Emily stood. She stumbled into Jack’s bedroom. The light came, as before, from behind the screen, which now appeared to be dark wood. She drifted as in a dream. Cold air rushing in from the vast office building pushed her through the arch into the dungeon, to the fire pit roaring with a brilliant flame shot through with new colors, greens with golden sparks. Heat flowed upward unobstructed. “What is this? What happened?”

QiLina rose from the bed in the real world. “Get up. Jack’s film has had its climax, and he requires our services.”

Emily opened her eyes. She was desperately confused, seeing the real bedroom in Margo’s house but still perceiving Jack’s fiery dungeon.  She shook her head to clear it, which helped only a little. She followed QiLina into the hallway and then the video library.

Margo lay on the floor against the far wall, her dress shining silver over which poured crimson blood. Jack stood across the room, his back to them, his face against the wall. In his hand he held the knife. He pressed a button, and the blade retracted with a snap. Double action, as promised.

“Look at that.” QiLina spoke in awe. “He never touched the dress. I don’t think he even broke a thread.”

Emily saw she was right. Every cut into Margo had been made through revealing slits designed into the material.

“I need to be out of here,” said Jack. His voice was businesslike, as though he was at a meeting and had only checked his watch.

“Remove your clothing,” said QiLina. “Every stitch.”

Emily realized the clothes Jack took off were not what he had been wearing earlier. They were similar to what was worn by the actor playing opposite Margo in the movie, except Jack’s costume was drenched in Margo’s blood.

Naked, Jack started for the door.

“Leave the knife,” said QiLina.

“It’s a damned expensive one. I bought the best.”

“So I’ve heard. You can afford another.”

Jack dropped the knife onto the bloody pile of cloth. “True enough.”

“If you want a last look, take it now. There’s no returning once you leave this room.”

Jack walked out without glancing back.

QiLina followed him as far as the doorway. “Straight to the shower. No wandering. Use the special soap.” After Jack was gone, QiLina turned back into the room and walked to Margo’s body. “Amazing! He was slashing like a madman, but you could wash that dress and wear it tomorrow. Such self-control in frenzy. No wonder he got rich.”

Emily asked, “Special soap?”

“Not really, but Jack can’t know our methods. You were right, dear. This was a murder mystery, and I’ll make an excellent detective. I already have a theory on who did it.”

“We did it.”

“Nonsense. We’d never lift a finger to harm Margo. We only facilitated a client.”

Emily looked doubtful. “What do we do to help her?”

“Margo? Nothing, dear. Magic has its limits.”

“What are they?” Emily’s voice was surprisingly demanding.

“Raising of the dead is one. As an old saying has it, ‘Real witches are no good against gravity or grave.’ So no flying, either. Sorry.”

Emily joined QiLina beside Margo’s body. “What’s the matter with her face?”

“Acting. She died in character as Jill Drake. In a sense, we’ve allowed Margo Jaeger to escape death. She felt it, but not happening to her.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me?”

“Comfort? No. An honest answer to your question. I’d not realized you took this so personally. Listen, I can handle clean-up on my own.” QiLina firmly gripped Emily’s shoulder. “You sit down. Relax.”

Emily slumped into the chair farthest from the body. QiLina took out her wand again and, as always, closed her eyes for a moment. Emily envied her this escape. The child’s own eyes refused to stop taking in the scene of slaughter.

But QiLina’s eyes soon opened as she began a spell. Red mist rose up from the carpet, condensed into droplets that fell back down and ran in rivulets between the fibers of the rug. The air was full of fluid converging toward Margo. A small trickle ran in from the hallway, blood that had left with Jack.

As this washed over and into Margo’s body, Emily had the oddest sensation she was feeling it, hot drops running down her skin to cleanse her, blood washing blood away. The pile of Jack’s clothing was spotless now. The carpet held no stain. Emily sat up. “How do you know this spell?”

“A dirty little secret from the history of witchcraft.  You’ll hear of potent ancient lore, but we weren’t always powerful. At one time, many of us were servants. Some of my oldest spellbooks are devoted to housekeeping.” As QiLina spoke, wounds closed. Except for the expression on her face, Margo might have been asleep.

“You can fix her?”

“Only superficially. This spell treats her body as a sack.”

Emily’s flicker of hope died. “I want to go away.”

“Not yet. Our task is but half complete. I wonder where our client is.”

“Out of the shower. Getting dressed.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m not sure,” said Emily. “I just know.”

QiLina walked to Emily and put a hand on the child’s forehead. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Emily had not given the question any thought. She was wondering how it could be she knew where Jack was. She concentrated on this and realized a part of her awareness had never left his mind. It was not Margo’s blood she had felt on her skin but the cleansing water of Jack’s shower. She was in the doorway between his bedroom and his dungeon. More than that, she was in his entire mind and his brain as well. In the office with the brochure advertising the switchblade knife, a publicity photo of Margo Jaeger as Jill Drake was now pinned to the bulletin board.

QiLina lifted the pile of Jack’s clothes, carried them across the room and dropped them on Margo’s body. The knife fell out and thudded to the floor.

“He doesn’t understand that she’s real,” said Emily.

QiLina picked up the knife and placed it in the pile.

“Or any of them.” Emily shook her head. “Or us, either.”

QiLina opened the window behind Margo’s body. “To the billionaire, the world is a toy.”

“Not to all of them.”

“Just the interesting ones. This lesson has been difficult for you. You sit there until you feel ready. I can do this part alone.” QiLina lifted Margo’s body, exhibiting unexpected strength, and dumped it with the pile out over the window sill. Witches could not eliminate gravity but apparently could make their muscles strong to work against it.

Emily hardly noticed what QiLina was doing. Jack had finished dressing and was standing in the bathroom. He waited until he heard QiLina pass on her way out of the house. Then he crossed the corridor and came into the bedroom where Emily and QiLina had rearranged the furniture. He laid down on the bed, his head close to the wall. Emily’s chair was on the other side of that wall, their heads a meter apart.

How could Jack not understand Margo or anyone besides himself was real? He knew it intellectually, but not emotionally. When Emily looked only at his mind, she could not pinpoint the source of his problem, but when she connected the plumbing in his building to the underlying structures in his brain, she saw the flaws in his anatomy, a missed connection here, a blockage there, an open channel that should have been a feedback loop.

If only she had a way to fix this mess. These fibers in the brain, these neurons and glia, they were much like roots and stems. Would gardening spells work? Perhaps. They might need modification. She would have to give it thought.

Emily was startled to realize that Jack was in that bedroom because she had brought him there. She released him. Jack was up again and walked away. Emily arose from her chair and went to the window through which Margo had been pushed. She looked down, expecting to see the body and possibly QiLina, but all she saw was fog covering the lawn for some distance around the mansion. She decided to go out for a look.

She went to a door she had used often to reach the pool. Here she feared she might fall in, the fog being so dense she could not see the water's edge. The misty air had a strange aroma, but it was fading fast as fog dispelled, appearing to sink into the ground. Near the mansion, Emily saw QiLina waving her wand slowly back and forth, moving it lower and lower until it finally touched the grass. By that time, the mist was gone.

“What are you doing?”

“Protecting Jack. The clothing, the knife, the body, all are gone beyond recovery.”

“How? What have you done with Margo?”

“Swept her under the rug.” QiLina walked to Emily, spreading her arms wide. “Under the lawn, actually. Her dream come true. Margo will be forever in her garden.”

“The police will dig her up. Their dogs will find her.”

“Not the way I did it. Before she was buried, she was dissipated. She’s not a corpse in a shallow grave. Margo became a cloud, her molecules individually separated and uniformly spread through a cubic furlong of soil and rock. Odd unit, I know. Old spell. I never learned a metric version. At any rate, if a policeman’s puppy gets her scent, he’ll wander in wide circles. Even if they dig, they’ll find nothing to identify.”

“Chemical analysis, perhaps?”

“Of what? Soil is composed to a great extent of remnants of the ancient dead. A squirrel who died here a million years ago would be easier to identify than Margo now. The papers will run stories of Margo Jaeger’s disappearance, not her murder. More complete accounts will also mention the vanishing of Rose Park.”

Emily dropped to a sitting position on the ground, spread her hands and held them an inch above the grass. “You don’t mean . . . ?”

“Oh, no. Rose is asleep upstairs, but she’s coming with us. I’ve seen things in that girl, in her mind and more. Her beauty is of a rare type, she’s more intelligent than you would suspect, and her acting is quite good. Margo had examples in her library. Rose isn’t magical, of course, but we can use a girl like her.”

Emily let out a quivering breath. The child-witch waved her hands slowly above the grass, feeling it tickle her palms. Silver frogs on her charm bracelet, diamond-eyed Margo and ruby Ginevra, played together among the blades.

“Where are we going, Madame Delphine?”

“Nevada. And call me QiLina.”

“Is that your first name?” Rose looked puzzled. “Or your real name?”

“Names aren’t real. QiLina is what you’ll call me.”

Emily, condemned by stature to the back seat of the newly selected automobile, leaned forward to be heard. “Why Nevada?”

“Because Nevada isn’t where we were, and we don’t wish to be where we were. Do we, Rose?”

“Nope!” Up front where long legs had room, Rose Park was enjoying warm breeze in her hair, sun on her face, an unfounded sense of newfound freedom, and a bucket seat so comfortable it was easy to fall asleep. Her perception of the conversation was therefore somewhat disjointed.

Emily was wide awake. “But why Nevada?” 

“The state suits me. I have connections.”

Emily sat back. After her experience with Mr. Zeleny, she would reserve judgment on QiLina’s connections. “He wasn’t happy, you know.”

“Who, dear?”

“The golden goose. We didn’t make him happy.”

“Ecstasy is a state distinct from happiness. I think it fair to say he enjoyed an enthusiastic frenzy.”

“I mean afterwards. He wasn’t happy in the shower.”

“Was he sobbing? Or moaning in remorseful despair?”

Emily considered. “No.”

“Some of them do. His attitude was good enough.”

“Why does he pay if it doesn’t leave him happy?”

“What we sold him wasn’t the period after, or even during, but the moment before. Anticipation is often truest pleasure. He was happy while you held his door.”

“Then why’d he actually have to do it?” As she said this, Emily kicked the back of QiLina’s seat. “Why not just anticipate?”

QiLina contemplated Emily in the rearview mirror. “How wise you are for one so young. Many people never think to try that. I’m not sure it’d work for a man like Jack. Good thing too, for our finances and your education.”

“What are we talking about?” asked Rose.

“Nothing of interest to you, dear. Go back to sleep.”

She did.

“I shouldn’t have held that door.” Emily’s tone was certain. “I had no idea what was going to happen.”

“I asked you to hold it, you did, our client was satisfied, and we earned a small fortune. Nothing wrong in that.”

Emily was on the verge of tears. “What about Margo?”

“First a kick and now this outburst?” QiLina took one hand off the steering wheel to give Rose a pat that deepened her slumber. “As I told you before, Margo wasn’t our client.”

“Still, what we did to her was wrong.”

“Oh, listen to Judge Ginevra. What do you know of right and wrong? Do you know how many people died that day? I mean around the planet.”

In her mind, Emily reviewed her readings. “No. And my name isn’t Ginevra.”

“Good point, Darcy. We leave the name behind us with the dead. A hundred thousand, more, die every single day.”

“So?”

“So you need to look outside your little world. You’re upset by the death of one person because you knew her. And how long did you know her? A week? During that week, a million people died. Were you concerned for any of them?”

“We were responsible for this one.”

“Our client was responsible. The motivation came entirely from his emotions. Yours and mine were not involved. If you wish to prevent deaths, look for a cure for heart disease. Work to ban tobacco. Support suicide prevention or automotive safety. Devote an hour a day to any of those causes, and you’ll save more lives than all the serial killers take.”

“He is a serial killer, then?”

“I never said he wasn’t.”

“And you’ve helped him before.”

“He’s made previous use of my services. So have others.”

“How many others? How many vanished victims?”

“You want to do arithmetic? I’ve supported those good causes I just mentioned. Calculating the sum, plus and minus, I believe my work has increased the human population, not to mention providing them with much to read. Your concern, dear, is understandable. I’m asking you to give this serious thought before you rush to judgment.”

Emily looked at passing landscape with its lush greenery already thinning toward an interesting desert. “Why did he want to do such a terrible thing?”

“The same reason he’s a billionaire. It gives him a sense of control. This reduces his fear. By using his fiery dungeon to its full on rare occasions, he keeps it small the rest of the time. Most days, it’s just the office furnace.”

“Then fear is the source of his violence?”

“Fear is the ultimate source of all violence.”

Emily wanted to take this as the lesson, sit back and enjoy the ride, but there was one more thing she had to know. “Why was I holding that door?”

“Rationality is the enemy of violence. You kept the draft of reason from chilling him too soon. Fine work.”

“It was awful being inside his head.”

“Think of me inside of Margo. What a rush!” 

QiLina accelerated. Rose woke joyfully as wind blew back her hair. QiLina joined with her in laughter.

Nevada proved to be, for Emily at least, a return to normal, normal being hours in local libraries. She began with grim research on mortality statistics. QiLina had been right, as always.

When small libraries held nothing Emily did not already know, she spent time in QiLina’s mental collection, absorbing and rehearsing spells. Emily learned the one to open locks, but found, on an afternoon when her mentor was distracted, it did not work on the library door inside QiLina’s mind. Emily began to wonder if that door was even real. It felt unusually solid. Perhaps it was only decoration intended to add a false sense of possibility.

Rose, restricted to real libraries, did not read as fast as Emily, or as widely, but well enough to satisfy QiLina that it had been the right decision bringing her along. The girls’ studies were punctuated by the occasional philanthropic orgy and hasty move to the next town.

Rose proved popular with donors, although it took a few parties before she settled in. Those first fundraisers were a strain, leaving the teenager in tears. QiLina spent time massaging tension from Rose’s shoulders until the girl was calm. At their teacher’s suggestion, Rose drank more champagne than Emily, and stronger beverages which helped her to relax. Rose acquired quite a taste for alcohol and soon became, as QiLina said, “the life of every party.”

Stories in the press on the mysterious disappearance of Margo Jaeger held no interest for Rose even when she was mentioned. She no longer used the name Rose Park, taking instead, like Emily, a series of aliases suggested by QiLina to suit various occasions. Both girls came to feel the news items were about strangers. After months, and years, the press also forgot.

When Emily was old enough to pass for old enough, QiLina made use of Nevada’s famous legal brothels as another source of instruction. At first, Emily believed this would be a waste of time since by then she and Rose had seen it all, but the desire in every human heart is unique. As one experienced pimp put it, “compared to folks, snowflakes is all alike.” QiLina’s ladies found new things to know.

But bordellos were not universities and QiLina not one to pay tuition. Her ladies worked for their educations, freelancing across the state. Sometimes they traveled farther, visiting houses legal and otherwise in America and abroad. If prostitution awarded advanced degrees, Emily and Rose earned them and did post-doctoral research.

Nevada remained home base, particularly after murders. “This strangler was certainly enthusiastic, though might have had more fun by letting up a little, taking proper time.” QiLina spoke to Emily as Rose slept in the back seat. Emily was as leggy as Rose now, so they always took roomy sedans. They were returning to Nevada following a profitable transaction in New England.

“Why don’t we ever fly?” asked Emily.

“Magic and gravity, as I’ve told you before, don’t play well together. Real witches use brooms for sweeping.”

“I mean in an airplane. We can afford it.”

“You sound like my mentor. She loves those things. Personally, I like to see where I’m going and have been.”

“You could learn to fly. Or I could. Get my license.”

“They track aircraft, you know. Flight plans. Radar. It’d hardly suit our lifestyle.”

Emily nodded. QiLina’s powers to obscure would not work over the kinds of distance radar covered. “What do you do with all the money?”

“Our hotels. These clothes. Food. You and Rose consume enough steak and lobster to support Montana and Maine.”

“Three women could never spend what you take in.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of women to spend, but you’re correct. I have outside expenses.”

“Heart disease? Cancer? Automotive safety?”

“How do you know that?”

“You told me. A long time ago. Ban tobacco and prevent suicide if I want to save lives.”

“Not all suicide. Some people have earned the right to escape. I do support expensive causes.”

“And that justifies the murders?”

“Justify? You mistake me for a utilitarian. Who justifies? I do what I enjoy.”

Emily nodded again. QiLina had summed herself.

Orrin Viderlick fell into his computer. Nothing was broken, but when he was at the keypad, his friends knew Orrin was no longer with them. Falling through the screen was how they described the state. His local friends, that was. Orrin had other friends, and the computer was how he got to them. For distant correspondents, Orrin only existed when he was online. He spent the morning being friendly in this cyberworld, which may have explained why he was unaware of what had happened in his home, although other explanations were possible.

Orrin felt the stirrings of hunger and realized it was well past lunchtime. He set the computer to a lengthy task not requiring supervision and headed for the kitchen. On his way, as he passed his living room, something caught his eye. Two somethings. Orrin was not alone. Finding strangers in one’s home can set the heart pounding, but in this case the pounding was happily increased by the nature of the strangers, the most exotically beautiful creatures Orrin had ever seen: nude, identical, and motionless.

Orrin ignored them. An unanticipated set of intensely gorgeous twins was just the sort of thing a knowledgeable enemy might place in Orrin’s path with the intention of distraction. His attention focused everywhere except on the intruders. Other than naked women, however, nothing in Orrin’s house was in any way extraordinary. At each dormer or bay he spoke a few words, and at each door the same, with a gentle touch upon its lock. Assured the rest of the house was empty of outside influence, he finally concentrated on his undressed guests.

They faced a window, eyes upon some distant object, although when he followed their gaze, Orrin saw nothing unusual outside. Their postures were not identical but complementary, one standing and one kneeling, arranged into a structure pleasing when viewed from any angle, an artfully composed human sculpture.

When it comes to feminine beauty, men often prefer a specific body part. Orrin was not a leg man, or breast man, or favorer of the bottom, although he did appreciate each aspect of the female form and found fine examples here. Years of admiring online images had taught Orrin what he liked. No matter how spectacular, if a woman’s eyes were not visible in the photo, even obscured by sunglasses, Orrin clicked away.

These eyes were more than merely visible. They carried deep intelligence but innocence, a contradictory yielding strength. Orrin moved close, seeking to understand how this effect was achieved. He switched his gaze from face to face, attending to detail. A characteristic he had anticipated was confirmed. The left eye of each beauty, examined to the tiniest detail, matched the right of the other better than it did her own.

He moved his attention to other features: eyelashes, lips, perfect teeth, cheeks, various alluring elements mirrored exactly on each face. He moved down throats, over curving shoulders and breasts, past bellies, hips, genitalia, thighs, calves, and feet. These twins took the notion of identicality to extreme. It was witchcraft almost certainly, assuming human cloning had not secretly advanced. So far, the only distinction between them was that the standing beauty wore a charm bracelet with a dozen silver animals on it, tiny jeweled eyes sparkling.

Orrin was moving behind the two, intending to compare certain dimples, when the girl with the bracelet spoke. “If you think we’re wax-works, you ought to pay, you know.”

Orrin smiled. Difficult as it was to abandon the shapely fannies, he came back around to faces.

“Wax-works weren’t made to be looked at for nothing, nohow!”

Orrin looked to the kneeling girl, knowing it was her turn, but the standing one continued her remarks.

“Contrariwise, if you think we’re alive, you ought to speak.”

“I am sure I am very sorry,” said Orrin, “but I believe that was her line.”

“She’s my silent partner.”

“Ah, then I can guess your name. You must be Dee.”

“I am.”

“And QiLina is your mistress.”

“How do you know that?”

“Who else knows my tastes both in women and in literature? Where is QiLina?”

“She’ll join us when you’re satisfied.”

“Satisfied?” Orrin’s eyes widened. “Did she tell you who I am?”

“I know you’re a wizard.”

Orrin nodded toward the kneeling twin. “Does she know?”

“In her current state, it’d be hard to say she knows anything. Nothing need be hidden.”

“And she is silent.”

“Non-verbal, for now.”

“She can moan in pleasure though?”

“Of course.”

“And you?”

Dee stepped close, put her arms around Orrin’s neck and kissed him passionately. Contradiction again: stuttered hesitation implied this was new to her, but the kiss that followed was backed by years of wild experience.

“What does she want?”

“To please you.”

“No,” said Orrin. “What does QiLina want?”

“You’ll have to ask her when she gets here.”

“After I am satisfied?”

Dee nodded.

“Excellent.” Orrin limbered his fingers in anticipation of casting one of his favorite spells. “That gives us lots of time.”

Three days passed before Orrin heard the knock. He arose from the table where he and the girls had been conversing over breakfast and went to the back door. “QiLina! What a pleasant surprise.”

“You could have put on pants. How’d you know it’d be me?”

“Oh, sorry. It has been so long, I had almost forgotten clothes existed.”

“Braggart.” QiLina entered.

“How did you know you would not be interrupting?”

“The reflection spell had to have dissipated. She needed to recharge. You must have learned by now they weren’t real twins.”

“I never thought they were, but the magic was so good I played along. Sometime yesterday, Dee resolved into her natural state. By then, I was ready for a change and found her new form not displeasing.”

“Really?” QiLina looked Emily pointedly up and down.

“She has a certain something.”

“She’s not your type.” QiLina went to the kitchen to gather her own breakfast. “But you kept on screwing.”

“You sent them. They are good at what they do.”

“They are indeed. No criticism of you intended. Still, it might have occurred to you to invite me in.”

“Were you standing on the lawn all this time?”

“You could’ve told Dee you were ready to talk. She knew how to reach me.”

“Is that what we are doing? Talking?”

“Sharing a meal.” QiLina looked in the refrigerator. “No bacon? No sausage?”

“Go to hell.”

“Still a vegetarian?” QiLina took her simple selection to the table. Emily was drinking coffee. Rose had a boozy concoction. “Dee, my coffee could use a touch of cream.”

Emily might have passed it, but instead she stood, carefully took the pitcher up and, with eyes downcast, poured a delicate white stream into QiLina’s cup.

“Good to see you again, Orrin. How long has it been?”

“Years and years.”

QiLina sniffed the coffee, hesitated, then sniffed again. “What’s this stuff?”

“Almond milk.” Orrin grinned. “I am vegan now.”

She sipped. “Not bad.” She gulped. “Even tasty. I approve, Orrin. Makes me glad I found you.”

“You have been searching for me all this time?”

“Off and on. I’ve had other projects.”

He glanced at Emily’s bracelet. “So I have heard.”

“Been chatting, have you?”

“Dee holds up her end of a conversation quite well.”

“When the other one is sober, she’s not half bad either.”

“We experienced that after Dee ran out of magic. Before Tweedledum found my liquor cabinet, she was fascinating.”

“You have a liquor cabinet?”

“For guests. Like the coffee.”

“I gather Tweedledee has said a lot.”

“Not enough for me to guess what is going on.”

“Going on, Orrin?” QiLina spread jam on toast.

“My current name and address. How did you find me?”

“Not easy. It took a while.”

“Years, I hope. And why winkle me out?”

“I felt like restriking our old acquaintanceship.”

Orrin passed his cup to Emily, who was still standing beside QiLina. “Hit me again.”

Despite days of independent operation, including control of Rose and in some sense even Orrin, Emily waited for QiLina to nod authorization before going for herbal tea.

“Your actions are never without purpose, QiLina. What do I have that you want?”

“Your time. I miss the old days, Orrin. We were friends.”

Orrin nodded. “True. Now that you mention it, I have wondered where you were, what you might be doing.”

“Soliciting funds.”

“I could have guessed soliciting.”

QiLina took a playful swat at Orrin. He ducked and laughed, taking care that her hand did not fall on him. Emily was approaching but stepped back into the kitchen.

“No, no, dear. Bring his tea. Nothing bad will happen. Orrin and I really are old friends.”

“And if we were not, being in the kitchen would not save you. Were your mistress and I dueling, the neighborhood would be flattened.”

“Braggart, as I observed before.”

“We would tear it up and burn it down.”

“Tear it down and burn it up.”

“And then rebuild it.”

“It’d be razed and raised.”

The witch and wizard fell to laughing.

“There was no bragging earlier, QiLina. With breakfast, the girls and I would have been back at it.”

“After three days? Even with your spells of enhanced virility, I doubt that.”

“I let the girls do most of the work. Sometimes I just watch. They are wonderful together.”

“They’ve had ample opportunity to practice.”

“Your customers like that?”

“My donors’ tastes are wide-ranging.”

“Donors, yes.” Orrin took the tea from Emily, who sat again between Rose and QiLina. “All the money for good causes. Hospitals and libraries.”

QiLina smiled modestly. “I try to make the world a better place.” The smile faded. “She never understood.”

“Your methods are unorthodox.”

“Visionary.”

“Our mentor never saw the vision.”

QiLina pursed her lips as though the jam was sour. “Let’s not speak of that. Recall, rather, our happy memories.”

“Do we have any?”

“The time you used magic to do your chores and ended up flooding the house.”

“You call that a happy memory?”

Rose looked up from her drink. “I saw that cartoon.”

Orrin leaned toward QiLina and asked, “Can she know this stuff?”

“Tweedledum lives her life in a fog and remembers only what I allow.” QiLina turned to Rose. “Yes, it was much like that cartoon. Orrin and I worked together sending water out to the backyard. We used all our powers drying carpets.”

Orrin spoke to Emily. “Once the water was outside, we hoped it would sink into the ground.”

“When our mistress came home, we tried to distract her. I’m afraid I don’t recall exactly how.”

“Musical theater, QiLina. How could you forget?”

“That’s right. We sat her down facing the front of the house, so we could look over her shoulders out the door behind her and see into the yard.”

“We strung together every song we could think of, building them into a story. It was opera off the cuff.”

“No matter how much we sang, the water just sat there.” 

Orrin frowned. “Damned clay soil.”

“She knew all along what we were up to.”

“Sure she did. Just playing with us.”

“Did you get in trouble?” asked Rose.

Orrin and QiLina looked at each other and laughed.

“We were in trouble,” said Orrin, “from the moment she found us. Whole lives of trouble.”

“In this instance, once she tired of our performance, she went straight to the backyard and boiled away the water. An odd choice, now I think of it. Must have killed her garden.”

“What garden?” asked Orrin.

“She had flowers, or was it vegetables?”

“She had desert inside a fence. You know that.”

“I must be thinking of another place. When did she take up gardening?”

“Never, that I know of.”

“Not even now? You must see her from time to time. What’s her yard like these days?”

“She is still living in hotels, the way she did when we got older. No yard at all. I doubt she has ever grown a flower.”

“Is that right?” QiLina glanced at Emily. “Now where did I get the idea she was gardening? You’d know her current address then, Orrin.”

“Thinking of striking up that acquaintanceship again?”

“Perhaps. How might I reach her?”

“I doubt she wants you to.”

“Our falling out was so long ago.”

“Falling out? You tried to kill her. On multiple occasions. I fear she may still hold that against you.”

“I was a teenager. My emotions got the best of me.”

“I am sure, but I will not be the one to reconcile you. If you want her address, find her the same way you found me.”

“Taking no chances, eh? I suppose I understand.” QiLina stood. “Come Tweedles, it’s time to go. Your clothes are in the car.” Rose and Emily obeyed.

“So soon?” Orrin followed them to the door. “One reminiscence, toast, and goodbye?”

“If I’d come earlier, you’d have had less time with them. Look me in the eye and tell me that’s how you wanted it.”

“I have relished the whole visit, theirs and yours, and could wish for any part of it to be longer. Honestly, QiLina, I never expected to see you again and did not anticipate enjoying it if I did. I was wrong.”

“Always a thrill to hear a man say that. Especially you.”

“I mean it. Come again any time you like.”

“We may do that, Orrin.” QiLina pecked him on the cheek, which he allowed. She and the girls walked to the car as if nobody were naked. The neighbors would not notice.

“Plan a longer visit next time.” Orrin waved from the door as they drove away. “Bring triplets.”

“Well done, ladies.”

“What’d we do?” asked Emily.

“You exhausted Orrin and softened him up nicely, putting him right where I wanted him.”

“For what?”

“To give me information.”

“But he didn’t give it to you.”

“That’s right.” Rose was stretched across the back seat, but not yet asleep. “You never got her address. He said you had to find it for yourself.”

“I asked the address in order to fool him, just as I fooled you. He’d already told me what I needed. Had he not been drained and distracted, he’d never have made that error of revelation.”

“What was revealed?” asked Emily.

“She doesn’t garden. At least not openly.”

“So what?”

“So why’d she spend her time with you talking gardening? Why’d she learn those skills?”

“That was years ago. You’re still thinking about that?”

“People like us, dear, play games stretching over decades. You’ll understand someday.”

“Will we?” asked Rose. “I don’t understand anything.”

“You don’t have to. You’re nobody. Go to sleep.”

“I’m not nobody.”

“Double negative? Ugh.” QiLina waved a hand over her shoulder. Rose, already under the influence of her morning dose of alcohol, dropped easily into slumber.

 Emily frowned. “Why do you treat her like that?”

“Why do I treat Tweedledum like a drunken nobody? Hmmm. Let me think.”

“If anything is wrong with her, it’s your fault. You made her this way.”

“If anything is wrong with her, it’s unimportant, so who cares whose fault it is? You and I and my mentor are the important ones. Now that Tweedledum has served her purpose with Orrin, her value has diminished.”

“Is that why you brought Rose with us all those years ago? You were planning to use her against Orrin?”

“She displays the particular biracial exoticism he prefers. I told you, we witches make long plans. Our next stop is Reno.”

“Do we have too much money?”

“Not casinos. The university has a medical library, an agricultural department, and extension service. I’ve research to do on poisonous plants and their uses, both offensive and defensive.”

“You think your mentor is trying to poison you because she spoke of gardening when I was a child?”

“She’s just the one to plant a seed intending harvest in some later decade. Think long term.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Trust me. In some sunny corner of this world there’s a toxic root or leaf or blossom with my name on it. Her meeting with you was a warning. She’ll enjoy her triumph all the more for knowing that I knew. But not if I can help it.”

“She was your mentor. In that story you and Orrin told, she didn’t seem so bad, but you tried to kill her, and now you think she wants to do the same to you. What on earth happened between you two?”

QiLina pulled the car onto the highway, taking advantage of a tiny gap in traffic. “It started with contractions she found unbearable.”

Emily thought for a moment. “You mean . . . Are you saying your mentor was your mother?”

QiLina laughed hysterically. “What a filthy idea! No, dear. Not that kind of contraction. I mean contractions of speech. Saying it’s instead of it is. Can’t instead of cannot. That sort of thing.”

Emily blinked her eyes, trying to brush away a fog of confusion. “And she found that unbearable?”

“You instinctively see how wrong she was.”

“Why was she bothered by contractions?”

“Superstition.” QiLina was changing lanes aggressively. “Most magic users, damned near all of them, believe one must avoid the habit of contractions, thinking sloppy speech will carry over into spells, which could be disastrous.”

“Well, it could be, couldn’t it? Think of how carefully spells are crafted and the power in each sound.”

“Of course it could, but you’d have to be an idiot not to be able to distinguish between chatting and spell casting. I use contractions all the time. So do you. Has it been a problem for us?”

“Is that why Orrin sounds so formal?”

“So artificial. He always was the obedient little wizard, doing as his mentor told him.”

“And you didn’t?”

“I did at first. Then I noticed how other people spoke. Mostly ones she had us having sex with. I liked the way they sounded.”

“During sex?”

QiLina sneered. “I started talking like them. She had a fit. I refused to bend my tongue to her will. Every time I opened my mouth, it started an argument, not about what I said but how I said it.”

“You couldn’t give in, of course.”

“She tried to run my life in every detail. I could put up with that kind of nonsense for only so long. But what happened between my mentor and me isn’t of interest to me now. I’m curious what happened between you and Orrin.”

“During sex?”

QiLina grimaced. “The conversation.”

“We talked about stuff.”

The grimace dissolved into a sigh.

“He didn’t ask about you.”

“Naturally not.”

“Mostly we spoke of books.”

Now a smile spread over QiLina’s face. “The advantage of the literary life. When you and the stranger in bed are both readers, you have experiences in common to discuss between rounds.”

“Only we didn’t have things in common. He started by referencing Through the Looking-Glass, and I got that because you made me memorize it.”

“His favorite. I knew the combination of his taste for exotic twins, plus the Tweedledum and Tweedledee thing, would prove irresistible.”

“Then he talked about Alice in Wonderland and couldn’t believe I didn’t know it. ‘Who the hell knows the sequel,’ he asked, ‘but not the original?’”

“Good point.”

“Rose knew it.”

“She would.”

“She knew a lot of other books, too. They both knew a book about a spider and a pig, and a kid who wins a ticket to a chocolate factory, and a boy who tricked people into painting a fence, and on and on. I felt like I’d never read a word in my life.”

“You may thank me for the fact you wasted no time in the children’s section.”

“Orrin said you stole my childhood from me.”

“Stole it? Rescued it, rather. You know more of value than anyone your age on earth. Certainly more than Tweedledum.”

“Not just books. He said I’ll never fall in love because you ruined the mystery for me.”

“As if he’d know. Another thing to thank me for. I did for you what our mentor did for me and Orrin, only better. I started you sooner and gave you both broader and deeper experience. The horrors of romance need never trouble you.”

“Is that what happened to you and Orrin? Did you love each other?”

QiLina laughed heartily. “Love Orrin? Never!”

“What about me? I might want romance like that.”

QiLina did the disturbing thing where she looked away from the windshield, first at Emily, then over her shoulder to Rose in the backseat, and then a long stare at Emily again while the car continued despite lack of the driver’s attention. “Don’t tell me you think you and Rose should be in love. That’s unnatural! Love between a witch and a leefer?”

“A what?”

“Leefers are the ones we left behind. People like Tweedledum and all the rest. The non-magical.”

“The leefers whose lives you improve with your library fundraisers and your donations.”

“Yes. We improve them. We draw upon leefers for magical children, but we don’t fall in love with them.”

“I’m probably not in love with Rose.”

“Probably?”

“How would I know? We were having sex together to please your donors before I even knew what love was.”

“Love is nothing you’ll ever need to know. Love exists for procreation, and as I said, we let others do that for us. All love could ever be for a witch or wizard is unnecessary complication and the inevitable disappointment of a pointless union producing nothing.” With a disdainful toss of her head, QiLina indicated Rose. “Nothing better than Tweedledum.”

“Orrin is right. Something’s wrong with you.”

“Orrin’s erroneous opinions are known to me. One thing you need never fear is something wrong with your mentor.”

“Sometimes I wonder what’s right with you.”

QiLina’s smile was genuine. “So much to learn and teach. Your next lesson then: a spell we cast together. I’ve another golden goose, but nothing like the others. No bloodshed this time. You’ll see my better side and learn something of love. Together we shall cast . . .”

The lighting in QiLina’s library was subdued. Always before, the first thing Emily had seen was a spray of orchids reflected in the tabletop, but today the vase held a spot-lit bird of paradise standing out from books in shadow.

“The shelf above the door. You must climb.”

Emily rolled the library ladder into place in front of the door she had never been able to open. “Why haven’t I noticed this shelf before?”

“I doubt it was there.” QiLina’s words reached Emily’s real-world ears. “I haven’t thought of this book in years.”

“How do we know you’ll recall the spell correctly?”

“The One is as hard to forget as it is to learn.”

“Like riding a bicycle?”

QiLina chortled. “Remember that time we took bikes from some park and rode them all over town? What fun!”

“I wonder if the owners ever got those back.”

QiLina hissed at Emily’s use of the word owners.

At the top of the ladder, Emily found a narrow vase holding a stem with two rosebuds and beside it a slender volume like a book of poetry, bound in red satin. “Not much to this one.”

QiLina did not reply.

Emily brought the book down and opened it on the table. She intended to take it near the illumination on the bird of paradise, but there was no need, for the pages produced a glow of their own. “What is this stuff?”

“Look closer.”

What first appeared to Emily as a texture on the paper was revealed to be magical writing densely packed, in places overlapping, in others interlocking, each layer defined by lights and shadows of its own. “I can’t read this mess.”

“That mess is the greatest achievement in all of witchcraft. Writers of fiction constantly have us initiating romance through charms and potions as though it was the simplest thing, but in reality, it’s monstrously difficult.”

“Difficult? This is impossible!”

“So it seemed for centuries. Fiction posits love spells because people wish such things existed. When witches could make one beautiful, healthy, and even wise, the world was disappointed. Love was wanted. The principles of its generation are simple enough. Love happens all the time in nature, yet no one could magically force it to occur.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Emily’s tone was bitter.

“Not lust, dear. Lust is easy. When you’ve read this spell, you’ll understand. Even better when you cast it.”

Emily doubted she would ever be able to read it, but she was wrong. She spent hours in careful decipherment, picking text from text, disentangling sigils from the paper into her mind where they had to be reentangled to be understood. She felt as though her head expanded to encompass this knowledge. She learned much of love and of a world in which love exists. It all made sense until it did not.

“QiLina, something is missing.”

“Pay closer attention.”

“To what?”

“The shadows.”

Sure enough, the concluding lines, entwined onto a middle page, were not present. Only shadows were cast on earlier writing to make their existence known. Working them out was a challenging puzzle. The final glyph felt as though it should have been dead center but was necessarily offset. As Emily unraveled it, she understood the reason and wept when she realized what this spell would and wouldn’t do.

“QiLina, love can’t last.”

“I took months to accept that.” QiLina’s voice held envy, pride, and even awe. “Some take years. Some never get it, but as soon as you’d read, you knew. Love can’t last.”

“Nothing can last.”

“The witches who devised this spell tried too hard and learned too much.”

“Nothing!” Emily’s voice echoed in QiLina’s head.

“Remember where you are and be quite quiet. You should be grateful to be so smart. Generations struggled to absorb the implications, but you got them in a single day. I really am the best teacher who ever lived.”

In the real world, Emily sat up, turned, and shook QiLina’s shoulders. “No matter what we do, no matter what anyone does, change is the mandate of existence. Nothing lasts forever.”

QiLina’s eyes opened. “You and the Buddha understand this, but come down to the mortal plane. The One takes two. You and I will cast this spell together, which we can’t do until you’ve learned to cast it. Having read The One, you must read again and again. Memorize, for we have work to do.”

The mentor was not surprised it was so few weeks later when the brilliant student declared herself ready. Weeks versus months or years, Emily’s usual, but the prodigy had a problem. 

“This spell forces an asymmetry. Why?”

“What are you talking about?”

“One participant must be aware in advance, while the other must be ignorant.”

“Oh, that. As I understand, theory allows variations, but only the variant most desperately sought was discovered. The client for the spell always knows, but never the target.”

“That seems unfair.”

“Your point?”

Emily gazed at the eccentric glyph and then closed the book. She withdrew from QiLina’s mind. “No point, I guess. Do we contact the next golden goose now?”

QiLina stood up from the bed. “Hang on, fledgling. Your saying you’re ready isn’t proof. We need a test flight.”

“On whom?”

“I was thinking Orrin might appreciate the opportunity.”

“Who will be his true love?”

“We know he likes Tweedledum, and she’s handy.”

“And she won’t know until it’s too late?”

“I’m not sure too late is how I’d phrase it, but yes, Orrin is a skilled magic user, so we can’t get inside his head without permission. She must be the ignorant partner.” QiLina smirked. “I think she can handle that.”

Orrin’s permission was not difficult to get. “Although I must be mad letting you into my skull.”

“If you’re not interested, we can look elsewhere.”

“You know I am interested, or you would not have asked. Our mentor never let me near The One.”

“Perhaps she felt you might enjoy it too much.”

“I bet I will. I want to pick the girl.”

“Tweedledum.”

Orrin leered. “Or Tweedledee?”

“Dee is the other caster.”

“Makes sense. I bow to necessity. Tweedledum will do.”

Emily was inside Rose Park’s head when she cast the spell. The apprentice witch’s mutterings and gestures occurred there, as well as in Orrin’s guest bedroom where she lay beside QiLina, who was also casting in bed and inside Orrin. Both witches’ spells concluded in a single instant.

“This is less like being in two places at once,” said Emily, “and more like being two people.”

QiLina’s head nodded against Emily’s. “Or four. The house analogy isn’t enough for such powerful magic. We’ll be more than visitors within these minds.”

Rose was walking through Orrin Viderlick’s backyard, reading a book she had found inside, a collection of poetry composed by someone Orrin met online. She knew Orrin was good with computers, a genius she imagined, but was impressed now by the depth of feeling expressed in this book he treasured. She wondered how a practical guy like Orrin found value in such passionate writing.

She looked up from the pages. The yard was mostly grass. Orrin had some sports equipment. He must have friends over at times for manly games. She could easily picture him winning contests of skill and strength.

The gardens, one by the house, another near the street, were small enough Rose had taken little note of them before. Now she admired lovely blossoms. Orrin had made artful selections, and in this dry climate, must have cared for these flowers tenderly. His choices and actions revealed a beauty in his soul to parallel the poetry.

Here was Orrin now, standing at the door. What a handsome man! To find such a combination, physical perfection, brilliance of mind, purity of heart, in a single being, could such a thing be possible?

She looked into shining eyes as he approached and saw he found in her the same perfection, the mirror to his love. There could be no doubt. He was the one for her and she for him, soulmates, destined for each other from the dawn of time, eternally to dwell within each other’s hearts.

Orrin took her in his arms and kissed her as she had never been kissed before. She had certainly been kissed before, but he would not care. Nothing in her past could come between them. No shame could quench this fire.

Orrin kissed as he had never kissed, and he had kissed often enough to know the difference. What a difference! He felt as she, for today and tonight, love would make them truly one. That this was only magic made no difference.

Emily was in Rose’s mind, not just a guest in its mental structure but feeling her host’s emotions even more strongly than when facilitating murders. “QiLina, are you getting this? I’m really her.”

“And I am Orrin. And she and Orrin are each other. And you, my angel, you and I, we see why this is called The One.”

Emily snuggled closer to QiLina. Such sensation! She knew how safe she was. Deep within her own mind, Emily recognized this moment. Somewhere, with someone, she had done exactly this before. Never with QiLina. Who was it then? Who had held her close, forever safe and warm?

But nothing lasts forever. Orrin looked up from the breakfast table. “Did QiLina send you to make sure I do not kill myself? How unexpectedly considerate.”

Down the corridor behind Emily, a closing door muffled the sound of Rose’s sobbing. “QiLina wanted me out of the room. She felt I was too emotionally involved.”

“The theme of the morning.”

“Are you going to kill yourself?”

Orrin laughed. “Do you think I should?”

Emily shrugged her shoulders.

“Pretty much how I feel. I will be fine, though. My view on suicide is simple: keep my options open. Death limits choices. If staying alive turns out to be an error, I can always correct it later.”

“Good point.”

“Not that I am all that well just now. I almost wish magic users had a legislature so I could demand The One be outlawed as a menace to society.”

“No one should have to go through what you did?”

“Not again today. Or next week. Maybe in six months.”

Emily stared in disbelief. “How can you say that?”

“Love is like any drug. Craving will overcome the memory of withdrawal.”

A wailing sob penetrated walls to reach them. “After what the spell did to Rose, you’d still want it again?”

“Rose?”

“Tweedledum. Her real name is Rose Park.”

“Seriously? Sounds like a romantic location. I found true love in Rose Park.” Emphasizing the word in, Orrin giggled.

Emily grabbed a plate from the table and threw it at his head. He ducked skillfully. “QiLina needs to show you how to do that. She would hit me seven times in ten.”

“Why let her in your mind, then? She probably knows all your secrets now.”

“I kept her out of places she did not need to go for the spell casting. She had no access to my memories.”

Emily sat. “You can do that?”

“Of course I can. So can you, I assume.”

“Naturally.” Emily had never given a moment’s thought to the possibility but hid her ignorance from Orrin. “You would do The One again despite how you feel now?”

“Any low is worth such a high. You must have felt some of it yourself. I understand it works that way.”

Emily nodded.

“And how did you like it?”

The warm sensation Emily had experienced with QiLina was painful in its absence. “It felt familiar.”

“You have been in love before?”

“No. Never. Only sex.”

“It need not be romantic love. If you have cared deeply for anyone, you could recognize the emotion.”

“I haven’t cared.”

“For your parents, say. You must have loved your mother at one time. Everybody does.”

Rose’s sobbing faded to inaudibility.

“Not that I recall.”

“What do you remember of your mother?”

Emily shrugged again. “Nothing.”

“QiLina! Why does a universe tolerate the existence of such a witch?” Orrin put his head into his hands. “I lied. It would not take six months. I would do The One again tomorrow and every day until it drove me mad. Next time I see my mentor, I must thank her for keeping me from this.”

“Are all your golden geese insane?”

“Insanity is a judgmental concept. They’re rare birds.”

“Good thing.” Emily’s eyes flicked to Rose, drugged into slumber in the back seat, then back to the driver. “Does your next bird understand what The One will do to her?”

“She’s had the pleasure and desires a repeat. She knows nothing of magic but, with my help, once found the ideal weekend companion. She wants another perfect weekend.”

“But the after effects?”

“This bird appreciates the bittersweet.”

“Who do you have in mind for the companion?”

“No one yet. I need to give that contemplation.”

“Can I help?”

QiLina looked at Emily. “Good idea. You should have the full experience. We’ll poke around inside the client’s mind and jointly pick a target for the spell, a task with which my mentor never trusted me. You’re so fortunate.”

“To have such a good teacher? Yes, I am.”

The galleon gently rolled as reflected sunshine poured through tall windows of the captain’s cabin, pulling shimmering highlights from dark wood. Emily had not understood the movements, or the strangely slanting panes, until she saw the ocean swell beyond the glass. “Has this golden goose grown rich through piracy?”

“High-risk hedge funds. A modern equivalent.”

The room was handsomely furnished with polished brass on cabinetry and rich brocade on cushions and seat backs. Pressed tight against a bulkhead, the bed was suitable for a queen, a marvelous place to be rocked to sleep. “She’s a stylish pirate.”

QiLina admired tiny jewels on the sextant. “The whole ship is like this, immensely and magnificently detailed.”

“What does it represent?”

“A mind of depth and breadth and playfulness. One eager to break rules. An accumulator.” QiLina brushed her hand across leather spines of books in built-in cases. “A reader, a thinker, and a doer.”

“She can’t get a boyfriend?”

“For her, the fact that The One doesn’t last is key to its appeal. We must locate a candidate for temporary love.”

“From what I’ve seen, The One could make a princess kiss a frog.”

“But after it wears off, will that princess feel insulted or complimented by the experience? Bittersweet memory shouldn’t be tainted with disgust.”

“Is she looking for a slave?” asked Emily.

“This ship has neither shackles nor leg irons. This is the mind of a person without fear. She seeks a willing partner, a companion and intellectual equal.”

“So we require a man of style, elegance and erudition, who will get along with a pirate but have no interest in her afterward.”

“Ideally a pirate himself.”

Emily’s face tightened in puzzlement but then brightened with apparent inspiration. “I know just the man.”

QiLina’s smile was only slightly hesitant as she sat on the edge of the golden goose’s mental bed. “Do you really? Are you certain? Whom do you have in mind?”

Emily was so proud of her candidate she bounced as she spoke. “Thomas Lindenberry!”

QiLina frowned. “The name is somehow familiar.”

“The banker! The one who liked my party dress.”

“Perhaps if I had more detail?”

“You must remember. At the first party you took me to, you paired him with a boy. Thomas Lindenberry is tall and elegant, intelligent, has a strong sense of style, and is a real financial pirate.”

“I do remember, now that you describe the situation. Many fine qualities, but I don’t recall him being any more piratical than the next man.”

“You must have missed that conversation. I think you were schmoozing with potential donors when he and I discussed his business practices.”

QiLina stood and walked to the windows where she looked out over a sea of memory. “That sounds plausible.”

“He’s quite clever and dishonest. Cheated half the people in the room, he said.”

“Did he?” QiLina paused. “Sounds like our man, then.”

“Of course, the spell would need to get around his romantic preferences.”

“That’s what The One is all about. And you’re right. He certainly won’t trouble her afterward.”

“I was so young that I don’t recall the town in which he lives. Do you remember where we met him?”

QiLina paused for quite a long time now, watching the ocean rise and fall. Emily wanted to repeat the question but held back.

At last QiLina sighed. “I do. Shall I fetch him for her?”

Emily joined QiLina at the window. “This ship suggests our golden goose must fancy travel. Let’s take her to him.”

“I’ve just had the strangest day of my life.” The banker Thomas Lindenberry reclined on a wicker divan surrounded by tropical plants. He wore a robe that was somehow both extravagant and elegant. “The second strangest was the last time you were here. You and your mistress certainly make things interesting. How do you do it?”

“We have a skill for pairing people.” Emily walked from plant to plant, admiring blossoms. “What did you call this room again?”

“Lanai. A Hawaiian word I picked up from my uncle in Florida. Around here, most folks would call it a sun porch. Only place I can get these flowers to bloom.”

“They’re beautiful. Rose, don’t you love this room?”

Rose took a moment to look up from her drink. Emily had only recently started calling Rose consistently by her old name. Sometimes Rose did not recognize it. “Yes. The furniture is perfect.”

“Old wicker,” said Mr. Lindenberry. “I pick it up at garage sales and repaint it. She loved it, too.” He paused, struggling through a question to which he found no answer. “How the hell did I fall in love with her? Not just shared taste in furniture. I swear, I’ve never looked at a woman that way in my entire life. I don’t feel like I ever will again, but for that one moment, it seemed so right.”

“I hope the experience wasn’t difficult for you.” Emily sat in a high back chair, settling comfortably between its wicker wings. “I suspected you might go well together.”

“Difficult? Not at all. It seemed almost natural. It was a joy to both appreciate someone and be so appreciated.” Mr. Lindenberry sighed deeply. “How did such passion evaporate so quickly? It came and went like magic.”

“As we once observed, you’re too perceptive. I suppose I may as well reveal the truth. Rose is a witch.”

“Am I?” Rose sipped as she gave the idea consideration. “That’d explain a lot, but how is it I didn’t know?”

Looking beyond Rose and Mr. Lindenberry, Emily saw QiLina outside, giving the golden goose a hug before she got into her car. Nothing else was exchanged between them. The money would move from bank to bank, Emily supposed. “Fairies stole your memory.”

Mr. Lindenberry chuckled. “Or the vodka.”

Rose sat up straight. “Fairies stole the vodka?” She pointed. “You, sir, need a lock upon your liquor cabinet.”

“And upon my heart. Too late in both cases.” He sighed melodramatically now. “Women have left me with nothing but memories, a circumstance I never anticipated.”

“You’ll be all right, though?” asked Emily.

“Well enough. Better than I deserve.”

“You did nothing wrong.”

“Not so much today. The last time your mistress was here. That woman is the definition of bad influence.”

Rose cocked her head like an attentive puppy. “What happened last time?”

“It was long before we met you.” said Emily. “Nothing special. Just a party.”

“And a fundraiser?”

“Naturally. How did that go, Mr. Lindenberry? Did they expand the library as planned?”

He stood, walked over to Rose, took her drink from her and downed it. “The boy killed himself.”

Rose cocked her head to the other side. Emily looked past Mr. Lindenberry to QiLina on the lawn.

“Not then. Years later. Teenage angst. My friends told me I had nothing to do with his suicide.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

“Are you?”

Outside the window, QiLina gestured to Emily.

“Mr. Lindenberry, we have to go now. I really am sorry if we’ve been any trouble.” Emily pulled Rose to her feet, and together they headed for the door.

“I look forward to your next visit,” said the banker. “Perhaps you could give me warning?”

Emily opened the door and pushed Rose out ahead of her. “We will. I promise.”

QiLina waited for the traffic light to change. “That was truly beautiful. I don’t know when I’ve seen a more satisfied client. She volunteered a bonus.”

“A generous pirate?” asked Emily.

QiLina nodded. “Pirates can be munificent when one pleases them.”

“I told you Mr. Lindenberry would be a good match.”

“You did, although I still don’t quite see it. I found nothing of the buccaneer in him, but our golden goose was satisfied, and that’s what matters.”

“I did well, then?”

“Absolutely!”

“Deserving of reward?”

QiLina pulled the car to the curb. “Deserving is a word I don’t recognize, but I too can be munificent. Ice cream all around!”

“I could go for that,” said the voice from the back seat.

Emily reached back to high-five Rose, but the moment their hands touched, Rose fell asleep.

QiLina arched her eyebrows. “I take it you have something else in mind.”

“I want to see the place where you found me.” Emily’s tone took the words beyond request.

“What place is that?”

“It was a garden in this town. There was a metal snail on the gate.”

“The magic left that garden when I took you from it.”

“I want to see it anyway.”

“I know.” QiLina pulled the car back onto the road and did a U-turn at the next intersection. As they drove through neighborhoods progressively older and more impoverished, QiLina became visibly uncomfortable. She parked beside a crumbling fence. “Is this what you want.”

“Where are we?” asked the groggy voice in back.

“I’m not sure,” said Emily. “The fence was taller.”

QiLina said, “You were shorter.”

“I need to look around.”

“Be my guest.”

Emily got out. Rose joined her but was disappointed to find no ice cream parlor. Eventually QiLina followed, walking to where Emily and Rose had stopped beside a gate fallen from its hinges.

Emily touched a post. “That’s the bar the snail should lock on, but there’s no snail.”

“What is she talking about?” asked Rose.

“Wood rots,” said QiLina. “Metal rusts. That discolored spot with weathered holes? Your snail was probably attached there.”

Emily looked into the garden and then climbed up on the porch. Boards felt loose beneath her feet. The sun was at a bad angle for seeing. Emily came close to a window, held her hands around her face to shade the glass and peered.

It took a moment to realize the moving shapes inside were people. They bolted from the room. Emily heard a door opening. She cast a spell and in an instant’s run was at the back of the house where a couple had emerged.

They were a man and woman, thinly dressed, dingily tattooed. The sight of Emily confused and frightened them since no one could possibly have come around the house so quickly. The woman cursed and ran. The man pulled a board up from the steps, held it threateningly but then threw the board toward Emily and scampered after the woman.

A panting Rose trotted up. “Who was that?”

“Not my parents.”

“Your parents? Not unless they fell in love in kindergarten. She’s younger than me. What made you think they might be your parents?”

“This was my home. Why did they run away?”

“Squatters, I expect. See the orange sign on the door? The place is condemned.”

“QiLina!” Emily shouted as she went back around the house, passing through crumbling gates and the abandoned garden. “Where are my parents?”

“How on earth should I know?” QiLina was sitting on the edge of the front porch, her feet dangling among weeds. “Amazing enough I remembered this place at all.”

“You have connections. You know everybody.”

“Connections in my areas of expertise: magic, prostitution, murder, philanthropy. Your parents aren’t magical. If they’re involved in any of those other pursuits, they’re small-time players. No one mentions their names.”

Emily did not exactly charge QiLina, but her walk was forceful. “You know their names?”

“Of course, dear.” QiLina kicked at a weed. “So do you.”

Emily looked first at QiLina in disbelief but then at the garden and the house. Everything seemed smaller, but none of it was unfamiliar. “Duane and Chloe Putnam. And I’m Emily. But that’s not true.”

“No?”

“I know my name isn’t Emily Putnam. What is it?”

“How could anyone not know their own name?”

“My name isn’t Emily.”

“Who said it was?”

“You did.”

QiLina smiled but shook her head. “You did, dear. You’ve always known your name and those of your parents.”

“Then why am I so sure that it’s not Emily?”

QiLina looked over Emily’s shoulder. “Shall we get Rose a drink before we have this conversation?”

“She’ll forget it anyway. She always does.” Emily looked at Rose, who looked back in bewilderment. Emily turned to QiLina. “You do that to her. Since you have that power, why do I recall my parents’ names?”

QiLina slid off the porch onto her feet. “Memories are like these weeds. Catch them early enough, and they’re easily extinguished. Let them get away from you, and only drastic measures will control them.”

QiLina stepped toward Emily, but Emily stepped away.

“By the time I met you,” said QiLina, “the names Duane and Chloe and Emily were all over in your mind, attached to a multitude of memories. Their extraction would have ruined you. The easy answer was to build a garden gate between memory and awareness. When you think your name, or those of your parents, your next automatic thought is that you’re wrong.”

“Why?”

“Witches like you don’t have families.”

Rose stepped forward. “You can’t talk to her like that.”

“You have no idea what we’re talking about.” QiLina patted Rose on the shoulder. “Go sit in the car.”

By the time Rose reached the vehicle, she had forgotten that her friend Emily Putnam had been called a witch or had even been called Emily Putnam.

“I want to find them,” said Emily. “Maybe they still live in this town.”

QiLina smiled. “Maybe they’re buried here.”

“We’ll check directories. Take me to the public library.”

“Now I’m your chauffeur?” QiLina tipped her forelock. “The library, Mistress Putnam. Right away.”

When Emily heard the name Putnam, she knew something was wrong. 

The old library was half hidden behind a handsome expansion. Once they were inside, it took but a moment to find Duane and Chloe Putnam in the phonebook.

“Shall I drive you again, Miss?” QiLina’s mood was resigned, but as they passed through neighborhoods rising progressively in wealth, she visibly cheered up. “The people who claim this country lacks a class system are those who fail to properly appreciate it.”

The house they stopped at was not the best in town, but it was close enough. Emily reached for the handle to get out. QiLina held her back. “Not yet, my darling girl. Let us rest here first.”

Through no volition of her own, Emily sat back. She was tipped toward QiLina. Their heads pressed together. In an instant, Emily found the orchids had returned.

“What am I doing in your spell library?”

QiLina’s voice came to her, but not through her ears. QiLina spoke directly into Emily’s mind. First.

Emily understood. She looked to her left, at child’s eye level, for a book with gold embossing on a white spine, the first book of magic she had ever read, the witch’s alphabet. Starting from a flaming horse on a waterwheel, she flipped familiar pages. How challenging this once had seemed to her, yet now how simple. She reached the final symbol but felt there must be more. She turned the page and found a brief spell. How had she not noticed it before? “What’s this?”

Protection.

Emily learned the spell in a matter of minutes. It must have been intended as every child’s first spell. QiLina had hidden it from her all these years. “Why show this to me now? Duane and Chloe Putnam aren’t magic users. Why do I need this power?”

QiLina broke the connection between their minds.

Emily’s focus of attention was back inside the car. Outside was what she hoped would be her parents’ home. “How can they possibly threaten me?”

QiLina waved a hand dismissively toward the house. “Not protection from them, dear.”

“From whom, then?”

“From me, of course.”

Emily heard his breathing. Not wishing to open her eyes, she cracked the lid on only one. There he was, asleep. She could have known his name but had chosen not to. He was a client. He knew her as Brandi Capriz, another empty alias.

She did not like his face. The problem was not its asymmetry, disproportionate features, or coarsely textured pores. Her objection was merely to the face’s presence. If only to distract herself, she would look to what lay beyond, inside his skull.

Emily explored every client this way, comparing brains to minds and to anatomical studies found in libraries. She explored her powers as well, coming to understand that a spell is not carved in stone. Magic is a living pattern capable of growth. Emily tried to grow. Sometimes she made small modifications to her clients’ brains, helping them to grow as well, but inside this client’s mind, a minimalist structure, she found no repair worth undertaking.

Often in the past, Emily had awoken this way, naked beside strangers, and thought nothing of it. She realized her discomfort these days came from absence of QiLina’s influence. This, like everything, was QiLina’s fault. QiLina had cut the rope allowing Emily to escape. The shepherd had left an open gate. For months now, the lamb had wandered on her own.

Of course, QiLina had her reasons and had even explained them on the day she cut that rope. “How will you trust me if I don’t trust you? My mentor kept me ignorant of ancestry. For me to do the same to you would harm the development of the witch whose qualities must someday prove my superior teaching skills. If you entered your parents’ home in a magically deluded condition, you’d always doubt what you had seen.

“Your scheme to bring us to this town, and your demands to see your parents, make it clear the time has come. I must now build you into an equal or leave you forever stunted. A weak apprentice would be safer, but the product of great teaching must be strong. You must know that what you see in Duane and Chloe Putnam’s home is real. By your own action, you must rid your mind of my covert influence so that in future I can openly guide that mind.”

Emily had walked into her parents’ house alone.

The home she entered that day was a happy one, filled with comforts, warmth, and the sound of children’s laughter. Chloe was not home, but Duane was. Emily had imagined her father would be ancient. Instead, she found him in the vigor of middle years. Her new power allowed her to extend the protection of her own mind to Duane’s as well. She knew QiLina was not present, twisting no realities, as Duane told her, “I have people I rely on to run my businesses, which frees me, when necessary, for the pleasures of house husbanding.”

Emily had used magic and her social skills to open Duane. Although she was a stranger and chose to remain so, providing only vague hints that she was gathering some sort of data, Duane gladly told the story of his life. And why not? “I wish to be a good example of how a man can fall and rise again. I see my life as a river in which the current had become too weak. I drifted through the backwater of drug addiction and dragged my wife there with me. We might have spun forever if not for a flood carving a better channel.

“Chloe went back to school, intending to become a nurse, but a fine teacher became her mentor and pushed Chloe to become a medical student and now a surgeon. My work was intended to support Chloe’s education, but the work became a business, then businesses and I the boss. Joining incomes, we could afford this house and enough besides to raise our brood, including foster children. We have investors and student loans to pay. When we had no debt, we were so poor. Now we owe a fortune and are rich.”

Emily found the story almost unbelievable. “What made the difference? How did you get off the drugs? Duane, what was the flood that cleared your channel?”

He took her to a corner of the living room. On a side table sat a vase with flowers, a candle, a doll, and a framed photograph of a baby girl.

“Her name is Emily. We don’t have pictures of her after this. We were so messed up we didn’t take them. We misplaced her records, even lost track of where she’s buried. That was the fact that brought us to our senses. You see, we weren’t the kind who take drugs to escape sorrow. We took them first for pleasure and later out of habit. It was our sorrow that allowed us to escape the drugs. When Emily was taken from us, we knew our failure in parental duties was the reason, and the cause of that was drugs.”

By “taken from us,” what did he mean? Emily recalled mention of a cash transaction. This appeared in Duane’s mind but only in muddled form. Emily’s death, the stronger recollection, must be QiLina’s work, initially installed by magic but now a permanent part of Duane and Chloe Putnam’s memories.

Duane touched a blossom. “Fresh flowers. This table is our substitute for Emily’s lost grave. We light her candle six times a year: the anniversary of her departure, her birthday, Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving and—because children love it—Halloween. This perfect angel saved our lives.” Duane could not stop tears from coming as he spoke. Emily saw, in both his face and mind, that he believed what he was saying. “Despite her death, Emily is forever a member of our family, and we love her.”

Until that moment, Emily had been considering how to reveal herself. What could she say now? Here I am Daddy, your perfect angel: a witch, a prostitute, and a murderer.

The angel was dead and said goodbye.

By the time Emily got back to the car, Rose had wandered off in search of ice cream. QiLina suggested they look for her together. Emily declined. She had no intention of doing anything with QiLina now or ever.

“I understand, dear. I’ll find her. You take all the time you need.”

No amount of time would be enough. Emily could thank QiLina for a useful set of skills. She never wanted for cash, but here she was months later, in bed with yet another stranger, learning yet another mind and brain.

Emily wanted something. To cry? To scream? So many times that would have been appropriate: the day that she was taken from her family, the first time she was raped, the day of Margo Jaeger’s death. The occasions were too numerous to count, but opportunities had passed. All the times she should have shrieked in terror, rage or pain, she was denied even the chance to know that was what was wanted. Too late.

What did she want? Revenge? No, and nothing like it. Too late again. At some point in her youth, had she been free, she might have rejoiced at QiLina’s death, but since then she had studied, reading more than QiLina recommended. Emily knew too much of the world to find any joy in outrage. Still, she wanted something she knew that she could have, that she had had before but could not quite name. What was it?

To be out of this stranger’s head and home?

Having money of her own was appealing, but what was its ultimate purpose? She was lying with this lout in order to have some of his money. Was he really a lout? Did she know? Or care?

Emily got out of bed, dressed and exited before the lout awoke. This was a skill she had mastered beyond reason. Emily could extricate herself from beneath a pile of naked sleepers and be gone without their notice, taking not only their money but much of their memory of her. Though she had made love to them, no love remained behind. Orrin had been right. QiLina had ruined her. Emily was a traveler who left no trace. The world she traveled left no trace on her.

But she wanted something. What did she need?

Coffee?

She found a coffee shop and a park bench. As she sipped, her phone rang. It was Orrin Viderlick.

“How did you get my number, Orrin?”

“How did QiLina get my address?”

“No idea.”

“Speaking of QiLina, what do you hear from her?”

“Nothing, Orrin. We don’t talk.”

“I figured that would be the case. I have news of her that might interest you.”

“I doubt it.”

“You must remember Jack Zeleny?”

“The billionaire?” Emily fingered a frog on her charm bracelet. “We had some business.”

“QiLina is going to make another fortune off him.”

“Good for her.”

“Seems the last time she worked with him, a seed was planted that grew into a fixation.”

The bottom dropped out of Emily’s stomach before she was conscious of the reason. “Fixation with what?”

“A girl, of course. He is mad about Rose Park.”

Emily felt something she never had before. It was difficult to identify, particularly since she had been feeling nothing for quite some time.

“Where are they?”

“I guess he wanted to work with her in Margo Jaeger’s mansion, but that burned down.”

“What? When?”

“Years ago. Arson. A friend of the vanished actress, a guy named Captain Curry did it. He was trying to exorcise a ghost. It was in the news.”

“We never paid attention to the news. Where are they?”

“Rose and QiLina and Jack Zeleny?”

“Yes!”

Orrin paused—Emily suspected for effect. “Not sure just now, but they will be getting together tomorrow at my place. I agreed to let QiLina use it. She wanted me to participate, but I drew the line. I loved Rose Park, if only for a day, and will take no active hand in her murder. QiLina said that was understandable. She says she can handle it alone.”

Orrin was talking to himself. The connection had gone dead. He turned and said, “She is on her way.”

QiLina nodded.

Emily half expected the whole story to be false. Waiting in the airport, she poured news archives through her phone. Sure enough, poor Captain Curry, her one-eyed pirate, had burned the mansion down. He was happy now, convinced exorcism by fire had succeeded. That element was in Orrin’s tale to lend authenticity, but Emily was not fooled. This had to be a trap. Jack Zeleny might not even be there.

But he was. The long car in Orrin’s driveway was not the only clue. She felt his presence. Since when had she been able to do that? Hard to say. It only worked in extreme cases like Jack Zeleny.

At the door, Orrin’s smile gave everything away and nothing. He knew she knew it was a trap. Without words, he let her know QiLina also knew. QiLina’s plan must be a deeper secret not depending on that secrecy. It was goddamned nesting dolls all the way to the bottom.

As Emily entered, Orrin left. “I will be outside. Let me know when it is over.”

Emily passed Jack Zeleny pacing in the living room. Farther on in the dining room, blankly staring, Rose Park waited. In Orrin’s guest room, Emily found QiLina sitting on the bed and joined her.

Eyes closed, QiLina spoke. “I suppose you never needed my advice on clothing, dear. You look adorable in that.”

“I understand you require an assistant.”

QiLina opened her eyes and smiled. “Orrin got cold feet. I said I could handle it alone, but I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you here. Saves me having to pop back and forth between brains since I can’t be in both at once, you know.” QiLina reached to hold her. The hug had no effect.

“Where do you want me?”

QiLina considered for a moment. “Inside Jack Zeleny would be best. You know the lay of the land. Rose will need close guidance, so I’ll take her. Jack has plans and is self-motivated. You only need to hold his door.”

“Like old times.”

Soon Emily was inside the businessman’s mind, holding the door of his mental bedroom against the cool draft of reason from his offices. But she was also elsewhere.

In the office with the bulletin board on which women’s faces were posted, a photo waited on the desk: one of Rose Park’s publicity stills, a little older than the teenage girl she had been at the time of Margo Jaeger’s murder. Beside it lay a brochure for a new knife: a better blade, a more mature selection. The knife was in Jack’s pocket. In another was a diamond sharpening steel warm from use.

Emily was in Jack’s dungeon, too. Branding irons glowed in crimson fire. QiLina, in the victim’s mind, would not see what Emily did here, but Emily must be careful nonetheless. This was, after all, a trap. QiLina wanted Emily back under her control, but methods would be subtle now that Emily had the spell of protection from mental magic.

Jack was walking down the corridor to the dining room where Rose Park waited. Emily saw this on Jack’s bedroom folding screen, the image tinted with ruddy dungeon glow and distorted by the madness of Jack’s lust. Emily felt the weight of the blade in his pocket as he walked, and his anticipation of the girl’s soft body. How disturbingly exciting it was to share the serial killer’s desire.

As Emily examined Jack Zeleny’s mind, she built a picture of the brain from which it emerged. At the same time, she experienced his damaged point of view. She found the underlying flaws and calculated how one might repair them, but she shared the motivation they induced.

Jack entered the room where Rose waited, a budding starlet in her bikini. QiLina had taken account of Jack’s fixation on the days of Margo Jaeger’s murder, remolding Rose into an earlier version, just old enough to meet Jack’s tastes. Emily, on first meeting Rose, had looked up to her from a childish viewpoint. Rose had seemed so mature. Now Emily looked down from inside the mind of the man who meant to murder this adorable babe. Emily had forgotten how young Rose had been. Years working beside her drunken fellow prostitute had washed away that image.

Now Rose was so innocent, so pure, so sexy. Her death would provide such pleasure. Emily could hardly wait to feel the blade again, the yielding resistance as steel pierced Rose.

QiLina could no longer penetrate Emily’s mind, but Jack Zeleny was another matter. With Emily sharing the billionaire’s consciousness, to some extent their minds became one emergent property of two heads, as perusal of a book brings forth an entity melded from both reader’s brain and author’s words. QiLina had been right about that.

Emily had to concentrate on a task, but Rose, Rose, Rose was so desirable. The rare opportunity for this sort of pleasure must not be lightly dismissed. What was the task? Difficult to recall. The door? QiLina had ordered her to hold Jack’s door. Was it tightly closed? Yes, and so it must remain.

Emily saw confusion in Rose’s eyes and heard it in the girlish voice. “Did we meet at a party?”

“You could call it that.” Jack’s tone bore confident amusement. “A wonderful party a long time ago. I neglected to get to know you then, a mistake I won’t repeat.”

Emily reached into Jack’s pocket. She felt the knife in their hand. This was no boy’s switchblade, no springs involved. She would open this knife with a man’s practiced skill. They pulled it out, their thumb resting on the proper nub, their wrist turned just so. She made a cut before they released the blade, and closed a feedback loop. As steel appeared, Rose Park’s eyes popped wide.

Rose was sober at Margo Jaeger’s mansion. QiLina had seen to it Rose was sober now as well. For Rose, this gave her mind an unfamiliar clarity and every object a supernatural realism. Shattered memories snapped into place with alarming speed. “I know who you are and what you did. You’re what happened to Margo Jaeger!”

Jack Zeleny spread arms wide, the knife held by thumb against a palm. “The curse of secrecy is that I rarely meet an admirer of my work. My skills arise from talent and dedication. Allow me to demonstrate.” He moved the blade just so, driving reflected light along its edge. The tip flashed.

Rose opened her mouth to scream, but terror stopped her throat. Every atom of her trembled. The knife came up. 

Emily was so excited she could hardly stand it.

“I can’t do this!”

For a moment, Emily was uncertain who had spoken. Then QiLina was in Jack’s mental bedroom with her. “You fool! The door! You need to . . .” QiLina’s words cut short at the sight of Emily unmoving, her shoulder braced solidly, holding back any breath of reason from Jack’s unbearably hot bedroom. The scarlet glow of dungeon flame poured in from behind the screen.

In the real world, Jack stumbled backwards, falling into a chair. “I can’t hurt you. I mustn’t. I never should have.” He held the knife before his eyes as if uncertain of its function. Rose stepped toward him, her swimsuit baring so much skin, her attention also fixed upon the blade.

“What the hell is going on?” QiLina saw the knife on Jack’s bedroom folding screen, waving purposelessly in air, partially obscuring the view of Rose, who attended to it as though it were a snake. “What have you done?”

Emily stayed braced against the door, certain of what she had done but uncertain what she wanted yet to do. “You tell me.” She did one thing more, too little she knew, but all she could manage before QiLina walked into Jack’s dungeon.

“Curtains? He’s put up curtains.”

“Did he?” Emily let the door open just a bit. The cool draft was refreshing.

“They’re lovely, but what man hires an interior decorator to do over his darkest fantasies?” 

Emily let the door behind her open and followed QiLina around the screen into Jack’s dungeon. A breeze began to change the flames from red to green. Heat flowed upward, representing emotions redirected into other interests.

“I’m very sorry.” They heard Jack’s words as though they were their own. “I hope I didn’t frighten you.”

“Curtains alone aren’t enough.” QiLina pawed her way along the draperies, feeling for an opening. Emily had dreaded this, but nothing could be done. “Something else has happened here.” QiLina found an edge and pulled. The curtains parted to reveal a window set deeply in thick dungeon walls. Through it, Rose Park was sharply visible.

“No. I’m not afraid.” Rose’s words were more distant, entering by way of Jack’s perceptions.

QiLina, still not satisfied, stamped across the dungeon, passing around the hearth that shot green flames upward through a fountain of golden sparks. On the other side she found another gap and threw the curtains wide, revealing a floor-to-ceiling mirror. In it she saw Jack’s fire, and through the window, Rose.

“Oh, crap!” QiLina stared in horror. “Here in the heart of his emotions, Jack has developed empathy. He sees her as a fellow human being. He’ll never kill her now.”

“I suppose you think I was involved.” Emily almost imagined she was not, her mind having been so recently divided, yet she knew her blame and fate. She braced for the battle of a lifetime, but there was no need.

“Even under the influence of magic, deep changes to a mind take time. I couldn’t have done this in a month.” QiLina looked skeptically at Emily. “You do it in a minute? Not a chance, my dear. Jack has probably been working on this ever since he sliced that stupid actress who believed in ghosts. He must have actually cared for her.”

Inside Jack’s mind, and in Orrin’s spare bedroom, Emily breathed a shaky sigh. Then she saw what was in the mirror. Rose grabbed Jack’s hands between her own, plunged the knife into her naked belly and opened herself wide.

Emily screamed. “You bitch! You’ve murdered her. No blaming Jack’s emotions. This is all on you.”

“What?” QiLina ran to the window. “Ridiculous. You’re my alibi. One can be in no more than two minds at a time. I’m in my head and here in Jack’s. Rose is operating on her own.” QiLina saw Emily appear in the window and rush to get the knife away from Rose, who collapsed on the floor. QiLina turned, confirmed she was alone in Jack’s mind, and opened her eyes on Orrin’s guest room. She followed Emily into the real world.

Jack was staring at his hands covered in Rose’s blood. “I didn’t do it. I couldn’t!”

“Yes, Jack.” QiLina patted him on the shoulder, not to impart magic but simply as a gesture. “We get that.”

Emily’s hands were inadequate to press shut Rose’s lengthy wound. “Help her!”

QiLina leaned over them. “What did you have in mind?”

“Do for her what you did for Margo. Close her up.”

“As I told you then, that spell is not a healing process, more like housekeeping.”

“Do it anyway. Stop the bleeding until we can get her to a hospital.”

QiLina shrugged. She touched Jack on the shoulder again, this time sending him into shallow slumber. Soon his hands, the knife and the carpet were clean. Rose’s skin rejoined as if by a hidden zipper, but still she moaned.

“Help me get her to a car.” Emily had learned the strength spells QiLina once used to toss Margo Jaeger’s corpse out a window. Between them, they had no difficulty with Rose even though QiLina’s heart was not in the task. 

Jack awoke, picked up and pocketed the knife, and followed, holding doors and muttering about his innocence. Had there even been a crime? Where was the blood?

Orrin was bouncing a ball against his garage. He was startled when he saw Rose Park. “Still alive?”

QiLina shrugged.

“We need to get her to a hospital,” said Emily. “Can you drive us?”

“Jack’s car is bigger. I will navigate.”

The ride to the hospital seemed to last forever, although as far as Emily could tell, Orrin recommended a direct route, and Jack ignored traffic laws whenever possible. Jack parked the car. By the time he joined them in the emergency room, a quiet but heated discussion was going on. The topic was confusing to him, as was the fact Rose Park appeared desperately unwell, strangely older, but also uninjured.

“We have to reverse it,” said Emily, “or the doctors will have no idea what to do. You have to open her again.”

“Fine.” QiLina plucked the knife from Jack’s pocket, flipped it open with less skill than Jack, but well enough, and stuck it into Rose. “That should do it.”

Jack was in a panic. “For God’s sake!”

Rose ripped the knife out of her belly and tried to stab herself in the throat. Jack stopped her.

“Oh, Mr. Zeleny!” said QiLina. “You’ve ruined yourself. Who would ever think to see you save a woman’s life?”

Jack stared around, convinced their actions must have consequences, but incredibly, everyone in the waiting room had glanced away just before QiLina stabbed Rose. They drew no more attention than any other bleeding emergency.

Hours later, they were thanking a surgeon who had assured them Rose would survive with no permanent harm. The wound had been showy, lots of blood, little muscle damage, and no crucial organs touched. In the doctor’s opinion, however, the patient needed more than physical care. “She wanted us to let her die. When she wakes up, we will have her under suicide watch.”

Orrin and Jack thanked him. Emily seemed distracted. “My mother is a surgeon. She went back to school and got a medical degree. I suppose she does this kind of thing.”

“You must be proud of her.”

Emily realized the thought had not crossed her mind. After the surgeon left them, she sat next to QiLina. “This is your fault: Rose, Jack, me. All your fault.”

“It’s my fault your mother is a surgeon. If not for me, she’d still be a drug addict and probably dead by now. Not that I expect your gratitude. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless apprentice. What must it have been like for your parents, hopeless dopers sharing a home with such a judgmental child? Your whole family owes me.”

“You don’t believe in debt.”

“Absolutely right. Forgive me such inconsistency.”

Emily found nothing she could say.

Emily bought a car of her own despite QiLina’s disapproval. With it she ran errands meeting people’s needs. She felt like a regular nurse’s aide when she pulled into Orrin’s driveway, bringing groceries to his door.

Orrin met her. “At last. Did you get the eggplant?”

Emily nodded. “More bags in the car, if you would.”

“Anything to get me outside. I will take care of all of this. You go have a talk with her.”

“Has she been having a bad day?”

“Does she have good ones anymore? Why is she in my house, anyway?” Orrin went to the car, almost skipping as he relished the sensation of escape. Before he got the groceries, though, he turned back to look at the house. Perhaps a walk around the block first? Yes, a quiet walk.

Inside, Emily heard her name before she could put down a bag. “I have groceries. Orrin is teaching me to cook. We’ll have something Indian tonight.”

“Good.” QiLina’s voice came strongly from a distant bedroom. “Perhaps that’ll improve my outlook.”

Emily rolled her eyes as she put a container of yogurt into the refrigerator. “I visited Rose in the hospital today. She’s getting stronger. Physically, at least. Maybe mentally.”

“Is that supposed to cheer me? You do realize what Tweedledum’s continued existence cost me?”

“Her name is Rose. No, I don’t think I do.” Emily came down the corridor into Orrin’s spare bedroom.

“And not just me.” QiLina was sitting up in bed, wearing a robe similar to one Emily had once seen on a banker. “I’d have been only a conduit for most of the money. Important vaccine research has been put on hold because Jack Zeleny refuses to pay me for services not rendered. He says I’m the one who stabbed her. As if that was my fault. I did that on your order. Probably saved Tweedledum’s life.”

“Rose. And thank you. I did appreciate that. You’ll get Jack’s money somehow.”

“The hell I will. He’s giving it away.”

“To whom?”

“Battered women’s shelters. How obvious is that? As if he could undo his murders. The man’s brain is damaged.”

“Or repaired.”

QiLina looked at Emily in a way that made her nervous. “I suppose you like the new Jack better because he spared your Tweedledum.”

“Rose Park.”

“You’re a fine one to worry about getting names right, Brandi Capriz.”

“When I was on my own, I felt the new name would suit my new situation.”

“Did lacking my guidance make so much difference in your life? Yes, I suppose it did, but you could have chosen something less obvious. May as well be Sukey Tawdry.”

“The name did what I needed it to do. You taught me that. Right now, I’m Darcy deMores again.”

“Good. I liked that one. We came up with it together. What’s Miss deMores doing these days?”

“Figuring things out. Looking for answers.”

“To what?”

“How did Jack Zeleny get fixated on Rose Park?”

QiLina took on a look of puzzlement. “Difficult to say. Who can fathom the mind of the serial killer?”

“We can. We were in it. I saw a photo there.”

“He has quite a collection.”

“A signed photograph. Rose looks to be in her late teens or early twenties.”

“Is that so?”

“Only she was working with us by then. Her publicity stills would have been shot when she was younger.”

“Those Hollywood photographers can make a woman any age they like.”

“This photographer made her look exactly the age that would appeal to Jack Zeleny.”

QiLina nodded. “You saw that photo in Jack’s mind. In his lust, he recalled her as he wished her to be.”

“So you never sent him a photograph of Rose?”

QiLina smiled. “Now you mention it, I believe I did. It occurred to me that he might find her to his tastes.”

“How could you?” Emily caught her hands together to steady them before she continued. “Would you do that to me if the price was right?”

QiLina was shocked. “You can suggest such a thing? You are my apprentice and my legacy.”

“And Rose?”

“Rose is an aging drunk who wants to die.”

“Aging?”

“In her business, yes. Youth is the universal characteristic men of every culture seek in women. When a man pays the kind of prices we demand, he expects to get it.”

“What characteristic do women look for?”

“Wealth. Anthropology confirms this.”

“And when I’m her age in just a few years, will they still pay for me?”

“You’ll have your magic. Without it, Rose is beyond the peak of her earning capacity. I adjusted her appearance for Jack because the potential profit was great. It was the best use of her available resources.”

“I suppose you thought you were doing her a favor.”

“I wouldn’t waste such energies on her for lesser gain. Neither would you. Rose sensed the purpose of Jack’s visit and would have appreciated the magic.”

“Are you saying Rose knew Jack would kill her?”

“When he failed to do so, Rose attempted suicide. Twice. In your presence. She’s aware of her situation. I suspect this is why she wants to die.”

“I know exactly why she wants to die. She told me.”

“You don’t need to ask an old alcoholic whore why she wants to die.”

“You are why.”

QiLina sat up straight. “The harsh realities of the world.”

“The reality you created for her.”

“The inclinations were already present. I facilitated.”

“She told me what you made her do while I was gone.”

“Without your assistance, I was forced to make do with what I had at hand.”

“Those twisted perversions eat away at her.”

“Twisted perversions? Exactly the sort of judgmental phrase I’d expect from you.”

“You made her murder kittens.”

QiLina laughed. “That was motivated entirely by a client. He was sexually aroused at the sight of a woman in high heels crushing their furry skulls. He paid good money for it. What a character! His emotions were the source of that behavior. We, as always, served his needs.”

“She thinks it was her idea.”

“That was how the client wanted it. Tweedledum was his bad girl.”

“Rose!”

“Whoever. The point is that the client was satisfied.”

“The point is that Rose Park thinks she’s a monster. You had her doing horrible things but, because she knows nothing of magic, she thinks all that horror came from her. She was a dentist’s daughter who wanted to be an actress. You made her into the foulest creature in the world and let her think she did it on her own. At least I know how I got to be what I am.”

“What you are is a woman with the potential to be the best witch who ever lived.”

“So I can be the best whore?”

QiLina hung her head and sighed. “I’ve made mistakes, and for those errors, I’m truly sorry. Try to understand. My mentor was such a terrible example. I did the best I could.”

Emily waited in silence, doubting what she heard.

“I was so worried about you.” QiLina reached her hands toward her apprentice.

Emily did not take them. “I got along fine on my own.”

“Did you meet any witches? Any wizards?”

“No. Just people.”

“Leefers. That’s why you survived. You think because I gave you one spell of protection, you’re safe. I beg you, let me show you other spells you’ll need before you go away again.” QiLina’s hands remained extended.

“Rose needs me. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You will someday. Please, don’t put me through those fears again. Allow me to protect you by showing you the other spells you need to protect yourself.”

“You want me in your library.”

“I open my knowledge to you. I lower my own protections to let you in. You need not lower yours.”

Emily was wary of a trick or trap, but it had been so long since she had learned a spell. That was what she had needed. She craved the experience as much as any addict. What QiLina said was true. Emily should be safe. She took QiLina’s hands and lay down on the bed beside her.

Orchids reflected in the tabletop. Behind them was a rectangle, bright and unfamiliar. Emily looked up and gasped. The door was open—the door leading out of QiLina’s library!

After stepping through the doorway out of QiLina’s library, Emily looked back and forth between the rooms. They appeared at first to be the same space, orchids mirrored in mirrored tables, but another door beyond this new library was also open wide. Through it, she saw a corridor and a stairway up and down.

Books on these new shelves were thicker, heavier, and darker. Could they be spell books? Yes, hundreds of them, filled with formulas, commentaries, discussions of spells and spell research. She recognized, in both joy and terror, that the room she knew so well, the one in which she had studied for so many years, was QiLina’s children’s library.

The largest books here rested on stands where they could be consulted without the burden of lifting them down. Emily opened one of these. It was difficult to make out, the glyphs and sigils taking forms only partially familiar. Another tome proved incomprehensible, apparently written in some unfamiliar tongue. Until that moment, it had not occurred to Emily that magic might have other languages. Their presence here proved QiLina knew them. Emily did not.

Emily’s first impulse was to learn some spell, a practice she had missed for months, but how would she decide which one, and how long would it take? What would be the cost to indulge her addiction? Would the door beyond this room ever be opened again? Was it open for a reason? She asked but got no answer. The opportunity must be seized. Reluctantly, she set aside a spell book full of promise.

She told herself she would explore for a moment and then come back. The moment stretched to hours. This structure, the analog of her mentor’s mind, was huge. In the real world, a mansion like Margo Jaeger’s could serve as gatehouse to such a castle. Emily found bedrooms, dining rooms, kitchens, ballrooms, everything from grand halls to glorious baths, but most of all libraries organized along a multitude of topics.

She found a wing of offices, not unlike Jack Zeleny’s mind, full of documents relating to donations. QiLina’s knowledge of medicine was limited, but she knew everything one could of how to finance medical research. Emily had doubted her mentor’s references to philanthropy, but evidence abounded here where nothing could be fraudulent.

Perhaps the most amazing thing about the building was perfection of its plan. Emily kept thinking she would become lost but never did. No signage guided her. A doorway, hall, or staircase somehow expressed its purpose, form alone telling where it led. Study here could be of benefit to architects.

Emily sought two things. One, she never found. The other seemed accessible from everywhere, and so finally she abandoned the search and went there. The room was open, bright and airy. Steps went down to a circular depression at its center. A built-in couch ran the circumference, broken only for the stairs. Before the seat, low tables followed the couch’s curvature. Tabletops were decorated with inlaid tile and the couch with embroidered cushions. Selection of fabrics and materials expressed intelligence and wit.

QiLina leaned on a pillow, sipping tea. Emily was startled. “What’re you doing here?”

“Enjoying the hospitality of myself. Do you approve?”

Emily rotated once, taking in the whole of QiLina’s mind. “Amazing, but you told me I’d never find the person living in the house, since the house is the person.”

“Yet here I am. I cheated. I’ve magically projected myself into my own mind. Although I knew the principle, I haven’t previously tried the practice. It’s disorienting.” QiLina nibbled a cookie from a silver tray, sipped her tea and lowered the cup meticulously. “In your investigation of my mental premises, I believe you were disappointed.”

“Not at all. Every inch of your mind is perfect.”

“That was your disappointment. You sought my flaw.”

In the center of the room, surrounded by the table ring, was a fire pit lined in honey onyx. Dancing flames reflected into deeply polished stone. Emily watched them as she sighed and sat next to QiLina. “I’d hoped to find an explanation,” said the apprentice.

QiLina offered tea and cookies. “Why your mentor is so cruel? Mentors often seem so.”

“I’ve seen your offices and know the good you do, but that good is founded on such suffering.” Emily looked up above the fire. The ceiling was tremendously high. Warmth flowing from this center of QiLina’s emotions would energize the entire house. “Your victims are all innocent.”

QiLina sipped her tea. “And people like their victims guilty. The man who bombs a city tells himself the children would have grown up as wicked as their parents. The torturer thinks always of the crimes of the tortured. I’m burdened with no such deceptions.”

“I think,” said Emily, “that may be the problem.”

QiLina’s fire surged and swirled. “Never seek a comforting illusion. Self-deceit leads to willful ignorance. When the world reveals itself, you must take it as it is.”

“Just because there’s evil in the world doesn’t mean we need to be evil.”

QiLina smiled. “A fine example of illusion. There is no evil nor any good. Judgmental people assign these labels to help them sort their biases into piles.”

“How can you believe that?”

“After all the training I’ve given you, how can you not? In those years you spent in public libraries, did you skip over the philosophers?”

“On the contrary, I found them enjoyable and enlightening.”

“Did you read the books on ethics and morality?”

“Quite a number of them.”

“Be honest now, what did you think?”

Emily leaned back and closed her eyes. In Orrin Viderlick’s spare bedroom, her eyes were closed to let her concentrate on QiLina’s mind, while in that mind they were closed to allow her to examine her own. “Honestly, the arguments were weak.”

“Weak?” As QiLina spoke, Emily felt warmth increase from the fire of emotions. “The arguments are fictitious. Like belief in property, they’re invented by the human species to serve its purposes. The only strong arguments in any ethical system are the ones disproving other ethical systems.”

In QiLina’s mind, Emily opened her eyes. “There are moral principles we can all agree upon.”

“That old nonsense! Tell me it’s wrong to murder children. I’ll show you altars where pious heroes cut out toddler’s hearts. Is sexual assault forbidden? Most of us wouldn’t exist without some rape among our ancestors.”

“Are you saying the human race couldn’t exist without rape?”

“No. I’m not an idiot. But the race would all be different people.”

“The kind of people who aren’t descended from rapists. Better people.”

“Better? Now you judge the human race. Queen Putnam would swap out the whole population. You are worse than royalty. A king only wants to rule a country. An ethical philosopher wants to rule the world. Say it’s criminal to steal. Every worthwhile inch of this planet was stolen and restolen a thousand times. The most recent thief is overcome by moral outrage when the next thief comes along.”

As she warmed to her subject, the flame in QiLina’s hearth rose higher. “Ethics is a house of cards built on a foundation of vapor. Philosophers devise unnatural systems of natural order, and theologians invent gods to justify their moral codes, but in the end it all comes down to whim. Whether the moralist’s objection is to eating babies or to mixing meat and dairy on one dish, the universe commands you to obey the moralist’s preferences. Each moral argument reduces ultimately to this: do as I tell you and shut up!”

Emily found the heat uncomfortable. “I have a preference. Do I need to make an argument, or may I ask?”

“I know your interests, dear. You’re worried about your friend.”

Emily nodded.

“You’ve seen my libraries. You can estimate the years it took to build that knowledge. Long before you were born, I knew more than you know now. I’ve opened my mind so you can understand, trust, and fear me. You must take my word that I’ve your best interests at heart. Tweedle . . . Rose Park is nothing but a burden to us.”

Emily silently shook her head.

“I’m much older than I look. You will be someday, too. Long before you’re as old as I am now, Rose will be dead, if not by murder then by booze or illness or old age. She’s a doll you loved in childhood. The time has come to set such toys aside.”

“Rose is not a toy.”

“No, she’s an asset. Jack Zeleny may have spoiled himself, but I have other clients. Do you remember that strangler in Connecticut? There’s a serial killer who needs a guiding hand. Rose is a training opportunity. I’ll teach the strangler to take the necessary time to enjoy the victim fully. We’ll be richly rewarded, vaccine research moves forward, and Rose gets the release from life she seeks.”

“No!”

QiLina gestured, indicating the house around them. “Intellect and experience affirm my authority. Once we pry Rose away from the medical community, the rest of her life will be profitably short, and that community will benefit.”

Emily stood, fists at her sides. “I won’t let you do it.”

“Eventually, you’ll see the wisdom in my decisions. Until that time, you have no say in the matter.”

Emily turned her back, her shoulders trembling. QiLina anticipated argument, or plea, or possibly even a scream, but instead a massive concrete cylinder descended from the ceiling, surrounding the fire pit and cutting it off from both room and house. Emily placed her hands upon it. The surface, an insulated double wall, was rough and cold.

QiLina jumped up to join her. “What the hell is this?”

Emily said nothing.

“Impossible! Minds don’t change so quickly even under influence of magic. Do you claim to have done this?”

Emily nodded.

“Then Jack Zeleny! You made those changes to his mind, the mirror and the dungeon window. But how?”

“I changed the underlying structure in his brain. It’s a skill I practiced in the months away from you. Results are instantaneous. You should have studied more anatomy. Progress has been made. You didn’t keep up.”

QiLina grew strangely calm. “I don’t recall Jack’s skull being cracked. What magic performs this surgery?”

“I modified some gardening spells.”

QiLina dropped back onto the couch.

Emily knelt beside her. “I make tiny cuts in neurons, subtle reconnections based on spells to prune and graft.”

“You’ve perverted peaceful magic meant for twigs and blossoms.” QiLina deeply sighed. “Oh, the energy I wasted testing food and drink, everything I touched or even breathed, and all the time the poison was inside my own beloved apprentice.”

“You know I’d have preferred to do repairs.”

“Only you found nothing needing fixing.” QiLina smiled. “I understand. Hardly your fault. My mentor finally got me.”

The cylinder stayed cool. Emily knew fire raged inside, but no heat escaped. The room chilled rapidly.

QiLina leaned back, her eyes drifting shut. “I should’ve made more effort to be sure I killed her first. I suppose I was too gentle.”

The air was freezing. From high above, snowflakes drifted down. This seemed impossible, but after all, the room was an analogy. The snow, like the cylinder, represented emerging properties. This was QiLina’s mind cut off from the fire of her emotions, the source of motivation. QiLina lay quiescent as increasing snowfall covered her.

Emily leaned forward, touching her mentor’s hand. “You’re not going to do anything?”

The answer came slowly. “No.”

“Why not?”

QiLina spoke her final word. “Why?”

Emily opened her eyes. Orrin was looking down on her.

“Is it over?”

Emily nodded.

Orrin leaned across QiLina and then pulled himself sharply upright. “She is still alive!”

“What?” It was a single word shouted from the hallway outside the bedroom. Emily had not heard the voice in many years, but she knew who to expect.

“I said QiLina is alive. She is breathing.”

The woman who had been QiLina’s mentor, and Orrin’s as well, poked her head around the doorframe. “Everything all right, Sweetie? Do you kids need any help?”

Emily shook her head.

“I understand. She is your teacher. A bond exists between you. If you would like, I can finish this.”

“It’s finished.” Emily got up from the bed. “A bond should’ve existed between you and your apprentice.”

“That bond broke the third or fourth time she tried to kill me.” QiLina’s mentor walked into the room. “I am not sure I understand. If she is still alive. . .”

“You’re safe. I’ve disconnected certain structures in her brain. Lacking awareness of her emotions, she’s utterly unmotivated. QiLina will do nothing to you or anyone.”

“I am not sure your solution to the problem is adequate or acceptable. Like I said, you let me finish this.”

Emily stood her ground. “You’ll leave her alone. She can’t hurt you, and that’s enough.”

The old witch considered Emily for a moment and then backed away. “I take it on your say so, Sweetie.”

“You planned this from the day we met.”

“Not the part where you leave her alive, but yes, I had something like this in mind when you met me, and much earlier. QiLina and I loved flowers but never made the effort to raise them. She would not know gardening spells or anticipate what they could become.”

“She told me witches make long plans.”

“We do, Sweetie. I have projects I started before I guided QiLina to you, or even found QiLina, and at last I can get back to them.”

“She told me many things, and all of them were true.”

The old witch rolled her eyes. “One of my apprentice’s most irritating traits. She never let me win an argument.”

“She was right about everything, and there was nothing wrong with her.”

“That is what made her so damned dangerous.”

“Because she wasn’t broken, the only thing left for me to do was break her, and you knew that.”

“You did what you had to, Sweetie. You defended your friend. Nothing wrong with that.”

Emily stalked out of the bedroom. After she left, the pair remaining bent over QiLina. The mentor drew forth a wand.

Emily shouted from the hallway. “I found powerful spells in her library. She’s protected.”

“Fine, then.” The wand was put away. “Orrin, you got anything to eat in this house?”

Orrin happily accepted a change of subject. “If you can wait while I prepare it, I have plans for an eggplant.”

Spring air was chill, but sunshine warmed a bench beside a garden where the hospital groundskeepers had turned soil in anticipation of planting. Rose found these preparations fascinating. For Emily they held little interest, but she noted them for Rose’s sake. “Gardens are a lot of work.”

“Worth it, I think.” Rose reached down to touch the warming soil. “Nothing is more beautiful than flowers.”

“We know people who prefer beautiful women.”

Rose grimaced. “We know people who prefer shit.”

Emily tipped her head. “Too true, but we know how to use those preferences to our advantage. Dung becomes fertilizer. We can make a fortune off those people.”

Rose sighed. “QiLina’s fortune.”

“Ours. QiLina and I have come to an understanding. We no longer work for her. She’s out of the picture.”

Rose sat up straight and looked Emily in the eye. “Really? I never want to see that woman again in my life.”

“You never will, then. You and I shall be independent operators, and the money will be ours.”

“I don’t want to drag myself all over the world to satisfy other people.”

“We stay right here in Elko.”

“What, move in with Orrin?”

“No. We’ll build a place of our own. I have ideas. Every brothel we ever worked in had things wrong with it. Ours will be perfect.”

“You’re dreaming.”

“I already own the land. It’s not far from here, near a charming ghost town.”

“Where did you get money?”

“I earned some while I was away, and I have investors.”

“Who?”

“People from our past, but as we make that fortune, we’ll pay them off and never see them again.”

“Like that banker? Mr. Lindenberry?”

“He could be one of them.”

Rose sat up and took a deep breath of spring air. “Do we have to never see him again? I kind of liked him.”

“I suppose we’ll keep some of our past with us, but only what we really want.”

“Good. He owes me a drink.”

Emily put her hand on Rose’s shoulder. “You may not want it. You’ve had enough already.”

“I haven’t had a drop in weeks.” Rose looked around them as if seeking something she did not find. “You could be right, though.”

“I am.” Emily put her hand back in her lap. “This is a completely new beginning for us.”

“No more Tweedledum and Tweedledee?”

“Rose Park and . . .” Emily was not sure which name to use. All of them seemed tainted.

“I don’t want to be Rose anymore.”

“New names then?” Emily brightened. “We pick our own.” She fingered her charm bracelet. “I think I’ll be Ruby.”

Her friend laughed. “After the mountains?”

“What mountains?”

Rose pointed down a street. “Those mountains.”

Emily looked at snowcapped peaks in the distance. “Sure. I’ll be Ruby after the mountains. I’m not sure yet what last name I should use.”

“If we’re successful enough, we won’t need last names. You can be Ruby, and I’ll be Diamond.”

Emily looked down at frogs on her charm bracelet. A diamond eye stared back at her from a memory. “No. Not diamond. How about . . .” She turned her wrist, rejecting one gemstone after another until she thought of one that was not there. “How about Sapphire?”

“I like diamonds. They’re pure and white.”

“Sapphires can be white. The purest are the white ones.”

“Then I’ll be Sapphire,” said Rose, who was never Rose again.

“And Ruby and Sapphire will run the finest and most profitable brothel in the world.”

“We’ll be the bosses, right? We hire people to do the work? I want us to be the ones giving orders.”

“You’ll be the madame. I’ll be executive director of planning and operations.”

The patient smiled in a way she had not in years. “You make this sound like you mean it, like it’ll really happen.”

“It will, Sapphire. I feel it already has.”

Those who had already read Unweaver perhaps enjoyed this origin story for some of the characters in that book. To readers in the remote cabin or on the desert island, your author hopes the prequel stood adequately on its own.

Now we move on to the sequel.

Between the last chapter and the next, rather a lot happens. The reader who has no access to Unweaver may question how it is that Emily and Rose, now Ruby and Sapphire, went from starting up a brothel to operating an interstellar transportation system. It is admittedly quite a jump, but Unweaver constitutes a novel spanning many years. To summarize it here would bore the reader and do the novel a disservice.

So, what does one really need to know to continue into the sequel? That Crystal lived the better life Emily could have had but died too young? That Free magically unwove Crystal’s world in a failed attempt to save her, destroying himself and the Old Man as well, giving rise to the darker reality of Ruby, Sapphire, Will Hilsat and Nomik Motchk? That Nomik revealed the existence of magic to the rest of humanity so he could hire engineers to help him destroy the human race for the benefit of a pack of alien nanobots? That Peregrine Arnold, Will and Ruby tried and failed to murder the Eighth Doll in their effort to stop Nomik?

No, the reader should be able to enjoy the sequel without all that. There is the Eighth Doll, though, and the reader must know of her, a witch created by Nomik Motchk to assist him from her base of operations in a pocket universe outside our own. She plays an extensive role in Unweaver, being, among other things, its author. Also known as Beta, the Eighth Doll will make a significant contribution to the second half of this book. She may have made a contribution to the first half.

The Eighth Doll, who might think of herself as Beta if only because Nomik Motchk thinks of her by that name, gets out of bed, puts on a warm bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, goes first to the bathroom for morning ablutions and then the kitchen where she makes coffee and toast.

All this is analogy. The Eight Doll has no bed, neither bathrobe nor slippers, no coffee or bread or toaster, no bedroom or bathroom or kitchen, and no way of going from place to place. Her universe has only one place; she always occupies it. Yet the analogy makes sense. She understands her universe and ours better than we understand either, and as she finishes breakfast, she would tell us she feels much as we do when we finish our own.

She is free now to work on her task of every day, keeping our world safe for Nomik Motchk, the wizard who created her. She looks. She weeps in frustration. Despite her best efforts to prevent it, the universe has gotten short again. Billions of years are missing. And if that were not bad enough, in the wrong time and place, Cory Lariston is dead.

Detective Broome opened an office door. His supervisor did not allow this arrival to distract from paperwork.

“Auggie, I need travel authorization.”

“No.”

“Virginia.”

“No.”

“I need to interview a professor at a university.”

“Our community college is within walking distance. Travel approved.” Auggie looked up. “Heck, I’m in a generous mood. Take a car.”

“This Virginia guy is the leading expert in his field.”

“Lower your standards to the level of our budget.”

“The only expert in his field, really.”

“Call him.”

“I did. He refuses to talk over the phone. His information on this case could really help, but he says only face to face.”

“Video chat.”

“Real faces.”

“Which case?”

“Cory Lariston.”

“Approved. Darlene gets every receipt within fifteen minutes of your return to the office. No entertainment.”

“I might need to buy the man a drink.”

“I believe professors have their own. When he offers you a glass of port, point out that you’re on duty.”

“He may want to meet in a restaurant. He’s the one doing us a favor.”

“Yeah, OK. Lunch on the entertainment budget.”

“My plane lands in the afternoon.”

“Dinner then. Not the best place in town.”

“I was thinking oysters.”

“The Lariston case, you said? If you must, oysters for the professor. Get yourself fish and chips.”

“Thanks, Boss.”

“What’s this guy an expert on? Mummies?”

“No. The mummies were a dead end. Professor Hilsat’s field is mathematics. And real magic.”

“Seriously?”

“I have a theory.”

“You always do, but magic?”

“We know magic exists, Auggie. It has to be considered.”

“In this case, I suppose so.”

Detective Broome passed the peas to his youngest child. “Frog eyes?”

“Yes!” Detective Broome’s son, Dennis, refused peas but would enthusiastically gobble frog eyes. Older sisters made the anticipated “eww,” which caused the boy to giggle while he ate. His sisters, bless them, made the sound because they knew that if they did, Denny would eat his peas.

The sisters were not quite the saints Detective Broome believed them to be. They made the sound so their brother would eat and they would not have to listen to another futile lecture on the nutritional value of peas. The sisters felt it their duty to guide conversation to more interesting topics.

“Father, I understand you won’t be joining us at dinner tomorrow.” Calling Detective Broome Father was an affectation the older girl had recently adopted. The younger siblings tried to copy her but often fell back on Daddy out of habit. “Where will you be going, Father? Does your trip involve a case?”

“I’ll be visiting a college in Virginia. While I’m there, I’ll ask if they take early admission students, perhaps a brilliant high school freshman.”

“I shall pack my bag.”

The boy looked up from his peas. “If she goes, can I have her room?”

“Nobody’s going anywhere,” said their mother, “except Daddy, and only for a day.”

Detective Broome put a touch of surprise into his voice. “I thought you liked your room.” 

“Hers is bigger.”

“Is not,” said the owner of the bigger room.

“Yes, I’m working on a case. I’ll be meeting with a famous professor.”

“What’s he famous for?”

“Mathematics.”

The “eww” came from younger siblings this time. The oldest did not join them as she was getting As in math these days and had learned to appreciate the subject.

“And magic,” said their father. “This professor is a magician.”

“Stage or real?”

“Asks the math wizard,” said her mother.

The Broome children were used to parental praise. The eldest daughter did not blush. “Well?”

“The real thing,” said her father. “No tricks.”

This news brought a moment of silence. The town was small enough that it held no magic users, at least none who had chosen to come out of the shadows since the time of Nomik Motchk’s revelation. The silence was then broken by a flurry of questions. Detective Broome crafted responses to keep his children’s interest while avoiding details of the case.

“Everyone asleep?”

“In bed, but after your announcement that Father is going to visit a wizard, it’ll be a while before they sleep.”

“Sorry if I stirred them up.” Detective Broome hugged his wife. “I had to tell them something, and you know I’m not good at lying to the kids.”

“First in their generation to learn there is no Santa.”

“Exactly.”

“This wizard thing may make up for that.”

“Oh good.” Detective Broome hugged his wife tighter. “I’m finally off the hook.”

“Plenty of other hooks.” His wife hugged him back, although not as much as he might have liked. “You’re the real magician, getting an airline ticket out of Auggie.”

“Nothing to it.”

The detective’s wife cast a doubtful glance. “Which case is Merlin the Magnificent helping you with?”

“I believe he’d prefer the title Professor. Maybe not even that. He’s Dr. Will Hilsat.”

“They give doctorates in magic?”

“He got his math degree before he started doing magic.”

“I thought magic users start while they’re children.”

“This one’s different. I understand there’s quite a story behind it.”

“Which case is it? Not the . . .” Detective Broome’s wife tapped her head and then gestured toward the carpet.

“Yeah, Cory Lariston.”

“And you think this professor is involved?”

“No, but he may be able to tell me how it was done.”

“Magic? Or mathematics?”

“Right. Cory Lariston tried to solve a math problem so hard it knocked his brains out.” Detective Broome allowed himself this remark because his wife’s hesitant hug had already told him there was no mood to spoil tonight.

“No oysters for me. They do a fish in orange and garlic here that reminds me of tikin-xic, a dish I love in Yucatan.”

Detective Broome scanned the menu for the indicated item. It was fairly inexpensive. “I may have the oysters, then. Back home, we never see them fresh.”

“By all means, take advantage of the opportunity.”

“I like the way you think, Dr. Hilsat.”

“Please, call me Will. My students do. And friends.”

“My friends call me Donald. Or Don.”

Will and Don ordered dinner and made small talk about the charming restaurant, the town, the university and the Virginia coast until Will began to feel a pang of guilt. “Don, you said your department was buying our meal. I believe you mentioned on the phone I might help you with a case.”

“Are you sure you want the gory details during dinner?”

“I’ve seen things, Don. Never ruined my appetite.”

“All right then. A body was found in a locked apartment, and I was called in to investigate.”

“A locked-room mystery? Do those actually happen?”

“I’d think a locked-room murder would be easy for someone with your skills.”

“Perhaps. I can unlock doors without a key. It might be a reversible spell.”

“The lock isn’t the problem. The deceased lived alone, but the landlady had a key, and the door could have been locked without a key by anyone while leaving.”

“So, where’s the mystery?”

“Method. The murder victim was found with his brains beside him on the carpet.”

“Gun? Blunt instrument?”

“His skull was undamaged.”

“Not sure what you mean?”

“I mean, Will, a landlady went into an apartment because neither she nor anyone had heard or seen the occupant in days, and there was an aroma indicative of trouble. She found her tenant looking as if he’d tripped and fallen, or maybe just laid down and died. No sign of struggle. His head was perfectly intact, no blood around it. A few feet away from him, a large chunk of his brain was sitting on the carpet. Blood had pooled and dried beneath the brains with no other stain between them and the victim’s head.”

“If his head was undamaged, what made you think they were his brains?”

“At first, we didn’t. When examination determined the tissue found on the rug was human brain, we weren’t sure if we had one homicide or two. Or none. The autopsy was unusual. Our medical examiner was mighty proud of himself when he proved the brains had come out of the corpse, but he couldn’t explain how it’d happened.”

“Ancient Egyptians could do it.”

“We looked into mummification. Egyptians took brains out in pieces or liquefied, through the nose or the base of the skull. The block of tissue on the rug was desiccated, a little moldy at the surface but otherwise intact. If someone had been trying to mummify him, certain small bones would have been damaged and his brains scrambled.” At that moment, their dinner arrived.

“I take it you have a theory?”

“I’d prefer to hear if you can come up with one.”

“You came to me thinking magic was involved.”

Don shrugged, slid a naked oyster into his mouth and chewed. The oyster started briny but developed a sweet, buttery finish. The detective smiled.

“There are many kinds of magic, Don. I wonder if one exists that could do it?” Will Hilsat took bites of spicy fish and ate while contemplating crime. “A spell generating impact would produce results similar to conventional weapons. A vacuum, magical or otherwise, would do damage you say wasn’t observed. My own specialty is time magic, but our spells, while powerful, are limited. If a spell could shift a person’s brain to a time when his head was somewhere else, results might resemble what you found, but I know of no such spell.”

“What about teleportation?”

“What about it?”

“Will, I understand you were involved with Nomik Motchk when ACT was developing the magic used in interstellar transport. An article said your contribution to the development of teleportation was crucial, perhaps that you were the first magic user to teleport.”

“How are the oysters?”

“Splendid. Nothing like this at home, but I didn’t come this far for oysters.”

“My fish is excellent. It always is here. Not tikin-xic, but good banana leaves are scarce in Virginia. When we finish this, I propose we adjourn to a nearby bar for after-dinner drinks. Until then, we can talk of other things while I give your problem consideration. Don, are you a family man?”

“I am. My oldest girl is in high school. She shows an aptitude for mathematics.”

“Does she? Tell me more.”

Donald Broome was always ready to brag about his brilliant daughter.

The bar Will selected was dark and nowhere near as popular as the restaurant. They picked up beers. Will directed Don to a corner booth in a back room that they had to themselves. The detective found music in the bar irritatingly loud, but it stopped as they sat—although the speakers sustained a deep hum.

“Will, are you sure you’re a magic user?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You don’t sound like the ones on television.”

Will nodded. “When I talk, I use contractions.”

“And they don’t?”

“Nope. That’s why they sound the way they do.”

“What’s different about you?”

“If you ask them, I was brought up badly, sloppy in my speech and so in my spell casting. They could be right. Maybe that’s why I concentrate on research rather than practical application.”

“The research that developed the Spell of Teleportation?”

“Teleportation isn’t the answer to your mystery.”

“What is, then?”

“Got me, Detective.”

“It seems to me that teleportation would be an ideal method of moving brains out of a skull without cracking it open. If you can’t think of an alternative, why should I rule it out?”

“Because you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Which is why I came to Virginia. Educate me, Professor.”

Will took a slow sip. His chosen brew was bitter and complex. “Teleportation is one of the hardest spells to use and one of the most difficult to cast correctly. Your source was right that I was the original user. I did structural damage then and nearly killed myself another time. I have an acquaintance who was crippled in a teleport.”

“So, it’s potentially life threatening.”

“Which is why we got it under control. It’s used today exclusively in interstellar travel. A spaceship is moved to a location near, but not too near, a planet. Assuming the ship survives, not always the case, it flies the remaining distance to the planet and lands. Once on the ground, the crew magician, using a complex mechanism to assist his casting, comes back to earth bringing lander and crew with him. In his head, he now holds exact location information needed to teleport back and forth between worlds, but he still needs the mechanism every time he casts.”

“Maybe our killer had the mechanism.”

“Extremely unlikely. ACT keeps them under tight control using security methods only magic can enforce.”

“But if he got his hands on one?”

“These mechanisms are programed with specific spell castings in mind. The only things we teleport are large, the ships or building-sized teleportation containers, with the magic user going along because the easiest teleport encloses the location of the caster.”

“You’re telling me the people who control the transportation system have set things up so nobody should be able to teleport a brain out of a skull, but not that it’s impossible?”

Will drank. He did not answer.

“Maybe it wasn’t murder. Maybe someone tried to teleport without a mechanism and accidentally moved some brains around.”

“In that case, maybe the guy whose brains were moved was the wizard.”

Don gulped a mouthful of beer. “You think so?” 

“Who was the victim?”

“A gentleman named Cory Lariston. Ever hear of him?”

“No, but magic users often change their names.”

“Why?”

“Professional reasons. They feel safer that way.”

“Same as criminals.”

“Don, do you have a problem with magic users?”

“Sorry. That was inappropriate. Maybe I have a problem with a specific magic user. Being unfamiliar with them, it’s hard for me to say. How could I find out if Cory Lariston was one of them or had become involved with one?”

“I know people who might be able to help you. Is the body still accessible?”

“It is, but I doubt I can get funding to fly a team home with me.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“You going to teleport us there?”

“We never use teleportation on the surface of a world. Not anymore. I’ll fly my people there at my expense.”

“That’s generous. Then you do think Cory Lariston may have been murdered by teleportation.”

“I jump to no conclusions, but I want to take a look.”

“I appreciate that, Will. Would you like another beer?”

“Not yet. It’d seem suspicious.”

Detective Broome looked around the empty back room. “How so?”

“The bartender knows me. He knows I don’t chug my drinks, and we only came back here a second ago.”

“A second?”

“I wanted us to have this discussion in private. ACT doesn’t like their methods being talked about. A conversation held in a fraction of a second is hard to overhear.”

“You said you were a time wizard. I think I get the idea, but why not do it in the restaurant?”

“It’s best to cast speed-up spells in places where no one’s watching. That way nobody sees a sudden jerk if you’re out of position after the spell is broken. For the moment, I assume our murder-related conversation is at an end.” The professor brought his hands above the table so Don could watch as he moved them. He spoke his spell aloud. Speakers stopped humming. Music started exactly where it had left off.

“I wish my kids could have been here to see that.”

“What if I said they should be more impressed by what I can do with mathematics?”

“What can you do?”

“Understand the magic, or so I hope. Perhaps someday your daughter will work on such research.”

“Forgive me if I find that idea disconcerting.”

“How so?”

“Do you have children, Will?”

Will looked into his glass. “No. About the time I might have, distractions happened in my life.”

Will Hilsat was true to his word. Their next meeting took place in a county morgue. Don walked there from his office, but Will flew, bringing in two people from two different cities. “Toby Bis is good at seeing things I don’t. I suspect you may have heard of Taffy Golyam.”

“Sorry, no. Before this incident, I must admit I haven’t paid much attention to the magical world. Wait? Golyam? Any relation to Xerxes Golyam, the founder of MICA?”

Taffy nodded. “My husband.”

“Taffy is a necromancer, if you know what that is, Don.”

“I know the word but never thought about it. Some kind of magic user, I suppose.”

Toby offered help. “Necromancers draw on reserves of magical energy found in dead animals.”

“Are you another necromancer?”

“No.”

“Taffy,” said Will, “was particularly informative regarding a problem I faced a number of years ago.”

“Always delighted to assist you, Will.” The woman standing before Detective Broome wore clothing of a conservative cut but in brilliant colors. He would never have guessed Taffy Golyam’s craft.

“I had no idea dead animals were magical.”

“Most of them are not, Detective. Finding good ones is the first skill of necromancy.”

“And you have that skill?”

“She certainly does,” said Will. “Most magic users have a sense for active magic. I can sometimes feel the presence of a spell, but necromancers have a special gift for locating magical potential energy even in small quantities. I’ve never found a magical child, but Taffy could tell you if there’s magic in the guppy floating at the top of that kid’s aquarium.”

“How long does this magical energy remain in the body after death?”

“Forever,” said Taffy. “As far as we know, anyway. Will once found ancient magic in oil, perhaps from dinosaurs.”

“OK. I see where this is going. Taffy, would you be willing to look at a human body for us.”

“People are not my usual material, but for you and Will, sure. Is it behind one of these?” Taffy waved her hand to indicate a steel wall gridded with shiny doors.

“I’ll have the attendant pull him out for us.”

“First let me see if I can locate him. If I do, you will have evidence of my ability. We will make it fun.”

As Taffy stepped to the first door, Will explained her attitude to Don. “Necromancers work with death every day.”

Don nodded. “I’m in homicide. I get that.”

Taffy worked systematically, starting at the top left, down, then top of the next column and down again. At each door, she held her hands close to the metal but did not touch it. Her fingers were in constant motion, sometimes stretching as if following a thread through air. After she reached the lower right, she rejoined the men.

“Well?” asked Don.

“Do you have your magic meter, Will?”

“I have it.”

“Care for a little competition?”

Will pulled a box from a pocket. He pressed a button on the meter. “Setting the squelch, Don. It wouldn’t do to pick up our own magic. Taffy, Toby, please stay where you are.”

“Of course.” When Will moved to the steel wall, Taffy crooked her finger, asking Don to bend his head down. She whispered in his ear. “Far left, middle row.”

Will moved his meter back and forth, up and down, waving it continuously in front of the wall, watching for tiny movements in the needle. He took longer than Taffy but eventually confined his movements to the space in front of the far left door in the middle row.

“We have a magic user, then?” asked Don.

“Could we get a look?”

Don had the attendant open the door and pull out a steel drawer. “They keep them chilly here. You can feel cold radiating off the bodies.”

“Heat radiates,” said Will. “Cold, the absence of thermal energy, doesn’t, but we get what you mean.”

“Not sure I get what you mean?”

“Careful, Don,” said Toby. “Say that to the professor, you are liable to hear a lecture. Energy is his current research.”

Taffy laid her hands upon the frozen corpse of Cory Lariston and gently brushed hair back from his forehead. “A young man. Such a pity.”

“Is he magical?” asked Don.

“Definitely, although not a large amount of magic. He may have used his reserves before he died.”

“Fighting off his assailant?”

“Or casting the spell with which he killed himself,” said Will. “Impossible to say. Pity we didn’t get to him sooner.”

“Why’s that?”

“While magical potential hangs around indefinitely, active magic, once expended, leaves a residue that dissipates quickly unless contained. If you can get to that residue in time, you can ID the magic user who cast it.”

“How?”

“A Spell of Identification.”

“Could you try it?”

Will threw a switch on his magic meter, flipping from the passive setting to detection of active magic. He held the box between Cory Lariston’s head and a labeled plastic bag beside it. The needle sat stubbornly at zero. “Too late. Nothing here to ID. Any observations, Toby?”

“Nope.”

“Don, I love this about Toby Bis. When he has nothing to say, nothing is what he says.”

The magical genealogist’s phone rang. She answered on a glowing screen. “Jinasu, good to see you.”

“Will Hilsat, what a treat! How long has it been?”

“Too long and my fault. Virginia and Atlanta aren’t that far apart.”

“Neither are Atlanta and Virginia, so we share blame.”

“How’s your husband?”

“The knee troubles him, as always, but everything else is perfect.”

“And the children?”

“Mai is in college this year. My Ivy Leaguer.”

“Already?”

“I know. I swear she just started high school.”

“And Miguel? Is he still with Nomik?”

“Could that house function without a member of my husband’s family to run it? We still supply Nomik’s servants even if technically we own the place.”

“And his oil business, as I recall?”

“Not like he had any use for it after everything was over. His only interest in oil was the magic and that for a single spell. We acquired the fortune, and he does not miss it. My son and Nomik have a relationship of mutual respect.”

“Glad to hear it, Jinasu”

“We pronounce that more like Ginny Sue these days. Atlanta, you know. Will, are you catching up with old friends, or was there another reason for this call?”

“I hope to make use of your storehouse of knowledge of the magical community.”

“Oh good! Any excuse to wander through my files.”

“Are you familiar with a wizard named Cory Lariston?”

“Familiar? I am on the lookout for Cory.” This reply brought a second head briefly into view beside Will’s in the video screen on Jinasu’s phone. “Who was that?”

“Donald Broome. A friend. Jinasu, when you say you’re on the lookout for Cory, what do you mean?”

“My son asked me to alert him if Cory showed up.”

“What’s Miguel have to do with Cory Lariston?”

“Cory is working with Nomik on a project.”

“What project?”

“No idea. You know Nomik likes to keep things secret.”

“What do you know about Cory Lariston? Why is Miguel looking for him.”

“I am the one who convinced Nomik to offer Cory a second apprenticeship. Apparently, they have lost him.”

“I’m afraid we found him. Cory Lariston has met with a fatal accident.” Donald Broome’s head appeared again, whispering to Will. “Jinasu, would you be willing to look at a photograph. We need to be sure we’re talking about the same Cory Lariston.” 

It was some time before Jinasu was able to respond.

The young man walked purposefully across the courtyard, through tall wooden doors, and into the great hall. He veered left, entered the center of three arches, down the corridor lined with manipulated photos of his relatives, climbed two stories up a curving stairway and went through an open door into the round chamber at the tower top. As he entered, the wizard at the desk looked up. Both spoke at the same moment. “Cory is dead.”

“How in hell do you know that?”

“Jinasu called.”

“Why do we employ a network of agents around the world? We should just hire your mother.”

Miguel sat beside Nomik. “She has her ways.”

“Did she mention where Cory has been all this time?”

“No. Anything from your sources?”

“Only that the US police are investigating his death.”

“I got that, too. They have Will Hilsat advising them.”

“Hilsat? Why?”

“Jinasu didn’t know. She was pretty upset. She liked Cory quite a lot.”

“Your mother likes everybody.”

“She feels responsible. She’s the one who convinced you to take him on.”

“And she thinks I had something to do with his death?”

“Did you?”

Nomik Motchk scowled. “I have no idea.”

Auggie opened the detective’s office door. “Don?”

“Waiting for a call back from a wizard. Took two days to arrange it.”

“I thought he refused to talk on telephones.”

“Hilsat talks on phones, just not on certain subjects, but this is a Scottish wizard. Saving you a fortune on travel.”

“You have two wizards involved in Lariston?”

“Three so far. Four, counting Lariston himself. And a witch. And a necromancer.”

“Jesus, Don! What’re you getting into?”

“Following the case where it leads, Auggie. My expert has friends who knew Cory Lariston.”

Auggie dropped into the chair beside Don’s desk. “That seems a happy coincidence.”

“Turns out the world of witches and wizards is a small one, particularly if you look into a specific branch of magic. Like how all the top butterfly experts know each other.”

“Do they?”

“I imagine they do.”

“What branch of magic are you into?”

“Teleportation.”

Auggie contemplated this news, slowly extracting a conclusion. “You think somebody teleported Cory Lariston’s brains out of his head.”

“Could be.”

“Is that possible?”

“More research needed, but I think it is.”

“Congratulations, Detective Donald Broome, on a major contribution to our field: a new way to commit murder. ”

“Will I be famous?”

“Of course not. Nobody remembers the good guy.”

“Right. I have to catch the murderer so he can get his name in the papers. Auggie, we play the only sport where the losers get the headlines.”

“You joined the force for glory?”

“No, for money.”

Auggie’s laughter was still echoing in the hallway when Don’s telephone rang.

“Broome speaking.”

“We had an incident at the morgue. We’re holding a gentleman who says you can clear it up.”

“Can I?”

“He says his name is . . .”

Through the phone, Don heard a distant protest.

“Pardon me. He’s currently called Ian Urquhart.”

“Ask him where he was at six o’clock last night.”

A pause. “Scotland.”

“Treat him as if he was the goat who ate the dynamite. Don’t jostle him, but hold him until I get there.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“No more so than any wizard.”

When Detective Broome arrived at the morgue, he found two uniformed men watching Ian Urquhart as if they expected him to explode at any moment. “Good work, officers. Please give us room, but stay close.”

The Scottish wizard observed with mild interest as his captors withdrew. “They seem good lads. A little rough at first, but most respectful when they got a sense of who I am.”

“Who are you?”

“Cory Lariston’s mentor. Jinasu told you that.”

“When did you last see Cory?”

“Years ago. At first, he would come to visit. Later, I would go to visit him. One visit, he had no time for me. Scotland to Mexico is a long way to be snubbed, Detective Broome.”

“You weren’t friends, then?”

“Friends? I loved him like a son. You know we wizards have no families, but we have the emotions. I loved Cory, and they took him from me.”

“Who took him?”

“Your friend, Jinasu Mao, although she has a new last name. And Nomik Motchk. Jinasu was reasonable and polite. It all made perfect sense. Obvious to anyone I was no further use to the lad.”

“You said you were his mentor.”

“I taught him everything he knew, but it was everything I knew as well. Cory was brilliant. I was not. He loved to learn. I ran out of things to teach.”

“And that’s when they took him?”

“Not like they stole him away in the night. Jinasu made it clear how much better it would be for Cory to get a higher education. Jinasu’s husband used to work for Motchk. She always wanted Motchk to teach the way his mentors had. Motchk was in that flock that studied under the Father and Grandfather in Mexico. Motchk took no apprentice of his own. He closed their school of magic. Jinasu saw the chance to right two wrongs, but look how it turned out.”

“You blame them for Cory’s death?”

“I blame myself. I knew Cory better than any of them. Smart as the boy was, he was unstable. I knew how to handle him. I told myself he was grown up, would be no trouble, but in my heart I knew. Confronted by such powers, I lost my confidence. Yes, take him. Take my Cory.” Ian Urquhart froze. The only indication he was still alive was a tremble in his cheek as a single tear rolled over it.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” At moments like this, Don had to force himself not to think of his own children. “I have to ask, what are you doing here? I was told you’d call, not fly.”

“I needed to see Cory’s personal effects.”

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“A trinket of sentimental value.”

“Maybe I can help. What’s it look like?”

The wizard did not answer.

“Does this trinket have some magical purpose?”

“As I said, it means something to me.”

Don glanced aside, confirming for himself the proximity of the uniformed officers. “Mr. Urquhart, is this trinket used as a guide in the spell of teleportation?”

The wizard gave Don a long, hard look. “I am Ian. Must I call you Detective Broome?”

“My given name is Donald.”

“Now that is a sentence wizards never speak.”

“Why do wizards keep their real names secret?”

“Certain spells are more effective if the true name of the target is known. Only Nomik Motchk feels himself so powerful he can safely use his given name.”

“Why does Motchk feel he’s that powerful?”

“Because he is. Motchk’s enemies do not live long. They say the worst of them are never even born.”

“Was Cory his enemy?”

“Not the last time I saw them together. Donald is a fine Scottish name. It means mighty in the world. A name for a king, Donald. A man to do important things.”

“Can you cast the spell of teleportation, Ian?”

“Not to save my life.”

“But if you had this trinket?”

“Without the trinket, nobody can do it. Even with the trinket, very few, of whom I am not one.”

“Could Cory cast it?”

“Of course. Why else would he have the trinket?”

“Why do you want this trinket if you can’t cast the spell?”

“You will think me foolish. I do not want Cory blamed for losing it.”

“Not foolish. That I understand.”

“You have children, then?”

“Our subject today is Cory Lariston. I’m trying to find out if someone killed him or if his death was an accident.”

“Those people do not have accidents.”

“Could it have been Cory’s accident? Might he have cast a spell incorrectly?”

“Cory? Never!”

“You said he was unstable.”

“But not incompetent. At times, his mood changed. He could be an angel all day long then suddenly disobedient.”

“That sounds like any child.”

“I suppose, not being a father, I would not know. It seemed to me his temper was unusually erratic.”

“Could you give me an example?”

“Cory loved the frogs in a pond near our house. He taught them to dance and sing by combining spells I had given him. It was quite charming. When it was over, he sent a ball of lightning into the water. I asked him later why he killed the frogs. He was honestly upset to learn he had.”

“He didn’t know the lightning would kill them?”

“He knew.”

Don considered his options. “Would you like to see the things Cory had with him?”

“Already have. I bypassed keys and combinations. That is what upset your officers.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“If I had, I would not still be here.”

“Have you been to the apartment?”

“What apartment?”

“The one where Cory lived. Where he was found. I can take you there, if you like.”

“Thank you, Donald. This means a good deal to me.”

The journey was quick. Cory’s apartment was not terribly far from the morgue. “I’ve seen everything in this place at least once,” said Don. “If you could describe the trinket to me, I could probably take you straight to it.”

Ian Urquhart, wearing thin gloves the detective had insisted on, shuffled through a small clutter of objects. “You make me wish I could describe it, Donald.”

The detective watched the wizard move his hands from shelf to shelf, pulling each object close to his face and then replacing it exactly where he found it. Don was confused. “You don’t know what it looks like?”

“Cory only related how it was used and how important it was he never lose it. He may have mentioned some visual detail, but the conversation took place years ago.” Ian tapped his head. “Much has been through here since then.”

“If you won’t know it when you see it, how do you expect to find it?”

Ian lifted a twig from a gap between two books. He ran his fingers along its irregular surface. “This surprises me. Cory still has the wand we made together even though Motchk gave him a staff, an object of much greater power.”

Don stepped closer. “This object has power?”

“Not in itself. It would pose no danger to your officers unless they poked each other in the eye. Such devices draw their energy from the magic user.” Ian waved the wand through a short series of ritualistic positions, mumbling as he did so. A tiny ball of fire glowed at the wand’s tip. Ian seemed disappointed. “Perhaps the gloves restrict me. At one time, Cory performed wonders with this stick.”

“So, magical things aren’t dangerous unless in the hands of a magic user?”

“Not more than once.”

“What do you mean?”

Ian replaced the wand between the books and moved his attention to other objects. “A device can contain stored magic, but when a leefer triggers it—pardon me, old habits die hard—when a non-magical person triggers the device, intentionally or otherwise, the stored magic is released to do its work. None remains behind. Only a magic user can make the object magical again. Magical energy comes solely from such people.”

“Or animals, I hear.”

Ian’s face soured. “Necromancy. Filthy stuff.”

“I’ve met a necromancer. She seemed nice.”

“I suppose some of them are fine folk in their own right. I only object to how they do their magic.”

“She helped me with this case. Without her, I might not have learned Cory was a wizard. We wouldn’t have reached out to Jinasu. You might not be here.”

“A death sucker found Cory’s magic for you?”

Don nodded.

“Did she touch the boy?”

“She may have.”

Ian emptied his lungs, producing a sound of disgust as if he did not wish to keep the air that was inside him when he heard such news. “Glad I was not there. I might have acted badly.”

“I’m sure she meant no harm.”

Ian muttered as he entered Cory’s bedroom. Don followed. Ian opened closet doors. “This is sad.”

“What is?”

“At home, I have kept clothing he outgrew years ago. I know when you hear this, you will think me an old woman, but I could not throw his things away because they held sweet memories of the boy.”

Don joined Ian before the closet. “I understand. My wife and I often find it difficult to dispose of our kids old things for that very reason.”

“Now I stand before the wardrobe of my Cory, and I do not recognize a thread.” Ian reached in both gloved hands and pulled clothes to hold them bunched against his face.

“You still haven’t told me how we’ll recognize this trinket that you seek.” Ian drew in a deep breath and then eased it out again. Don realized what he had been seeing but not perceiving all along. “By the smell?”

Ian released one batch of clothes and reached for another. He held them against his face and breathed in their aroma. “Cory told me, when it is not in use, it smells like everything.”

“Like everything? What does everything smell like?”

“I am not sure, but I expect I will recognize it when I find it. May I stay at your house tonight?”

“What? Why would you stay at my house?”

The wizard moved on from the closet to the dresser. He opened each drawer to smell its contents. A small bottle made him wince. He gave it a second sniff, nodded a grudging acceptance of its perfume and put it back into the drawer. “I brought no money with me. I know no one in this town except you.”

“I think we can find a room for you in a hotel. Auggie will spring for a foreign visitor helping with the case.”

Ian sniffed his way around the nightstand and through the bedding. He stopped and stood, looking down at Cory’s bed. “Donald, please. The old woman again. I do not want to be alone tonight.”

“My children wouldn’t draw the distinction between a wizard and a stage magician. They’d pester you for tricks.”

“I love doing tricks for children.”

“We do have a guest bedroom, but I’ll have to call my wife. She has the power of the veto.”

“I know you will make her understand. Thank you for that.” Ian dropped to his knees to poke his nose under the bed. “And for this. You would surely make a benevolent king, Donald Broome.”

Denny’s peas looked up at him and blinked. His sisters ewwed with conviction, and for once their parents joined them. Denny giggled as he took up a spoonful of the best peas he ever ate. In fact, he had never really tasted peas. From this day forward, the flavor would be his favorite.

“Donald, I like your boy. He has a zest for life.”

“He certainly has a zest for frog eyes.”

After dinner, dolls played music by bowing matchsticks across their hair, the family cat learned to sing a Scottish ballad, and a fire spirit danced across the kitchen floor leaving only a hint of soot behind it. The girls were delighted. Little Denny insisted Ian must explain to him how every bit of magic worked. Although the explanations were incomprehensible jargon, Denny smiled and nodded.

Getting children into bed proved impossible until the man they were already calling “Uncle Ian” provided them a lullaby in which words became stars drifting from one bedroom to the next. The constellation over each bed was irresistibly fascinating, but as the stars faded, so did consciousness, and only adults remained awake.

Ian helped the Broomes finish cleaning up the kitchen and then asked if he might have three glasses of water. Don found the request curious but filled three glasses at the sink. From a pocket, Ian pulled a short stick that Don now recognized as a wand. The glasses changed color as Ian stirred them. He held one out to Mrs. Broome. She sniffed at it then sipped. Don tensed visibly at this, but relaxed when his wife declared the liquid to be wine.

Ian passed the second glass to Don and raised the third high. “May you never want for friends or for drink to give them. Taste it easy, Donald. Ours are not Sauternes.”

Don sipped gently at a darker beverage that turned out to be excellent Scotch whisky. “I suppose,” said Mrs. Broome, “you wizards aren’t impressed by Christianity.”

Ian placed his glass down firmly. “I am a Christian man myself, but I see what you mean. The teachings, not the miracles, impress. Next to ‘do unto others as you would have others do unto you,’ water into wine is the lesser miracle.”

Don placed his glass beside Ian’s. “I’ve heard witches and wizards share the same religions as the rest of us, but I found it hard to credit. If you can do all of Jesus’s miracles, how can you believe in his divinity?”

Ian lifted his glass again. “I would hardly call this a miracle. In truth, I find the wedding at Cana story a bit embarrassing. Any good stage magician can turn water into wine, but there are things the Lord did even we real magic users cannot attempt.”

“Like walk on water?” asked Mrs. Broome.

“Oh, we can do that. Not I, but some of us.”

“Nomik Motchk?” asked Don.

“Not that I have heard. Peregrine Arnold can, though. And his daughter Abigail.”

“So this Arnold must be more powerful than Motchk.”

“Not more. Different. Each has his skills. When they fought a duel, it was to a draw.”

“A duel!” exclaimed Mrs. Broome. “Did you hear that, Don? You be careful around these people.”

“Always am. Are Motchk and Arnold enemies then?”

“Aye. And friends. You cannot deeply hate someone unless you have loved him first.”

“But they hate each other now?”

“No, I believe they are friends again. When two men know each other as long as Peregrine and Nomik have, there is time for the relationship to have its ups and downs. The low spot came when Nomik tried to wipe out the human race and Peregrine interfered.”

Don took a stiff drink and a moment to recover from both the whisky and the revelation. “Motchk has the power to wipe out the human race?”

“No, he overestimated his abilities. And, in his defense, he was going to do it for good reason.”

“What reason could be good enough to kill us all?”

“Saving the universe, I believe. Cory told the tale, but in truth, I did not catch the entire story.” Ian sipped. “This whisky is grand. I still have the touch.”

Mrs. Broome joined him with a gentle draw from her Sauternes. “Did you say Mr. Arnold’s daughter could also walk on water? I thought magic didn’t run in families.”

“Ah, now there is something almost like a miracle. Peregrine Arnold and Nomik Motchk put together one of the greatest works of magic ever done. Never before and never since, but that one time, they pulled it off. They passed magic down from a father to his child. Two fathers. Two children. Peregrine raised one.”

“What happened to the other child?”

“In the instant of her creation, Nomik banished her to a pocket universe.”

“What’s a pocket universe?”

“A tiny universe outside our own.”

“Why would he banish his own daughter?”

“From her universe, she can protect him everywhere in ours. This is the reason he is not afraid to use his real name. Nobody can ever harm him, or so I think Cory said. Again, I may not have all the details.”

“What’s her name?”

“They call her the Eighth Doll.”

“Why?”

Ian sipped while he pondered. Mrs. Broome noticed Ian drank more than her husband, but the wizard’s glass was not emptying. “I am not sure. Perhaps their experiment failed seven times.”

Mrs. Broome asked, “What would’ve happened to those children?”

“I have no idea.”

“One hears so much about Mr. Motchk and ACT and teleportation and the space program and colonies on other worlds, yet I’ve never heard any of this.”

Ian chuckled. “If you think Nomik has a past, you should hear about his partner at ACT.”

“Don mentioned her. Ruby. She once ran a brothel.”

“Cory insisted these folks do naught but good work now. His death suggests otherwise.”

Don felt his head swimming, although he had not drunk that much. “Pocket universes? Ian, you said magic couldn’t reproduce miracles.”

The wizard let his chin drop to his chest, sighing deeply. “Not all of them. We cannot live forever, and we cannot raise the dead. I never regretted these limitations until now.”

“Does Cory have any family? We need to contact them.”

“None that would know of his existence.”

“How could his family not know of his existence?”

“That was my work. I stole their knowledge of him.”

Mrs. Broome asked, “Why would you do such a thing?”

“You need to understand, before Motchk’s revelation, things were done differently. Magic users of ancient times, in order to protect themselves from prejudice, were forced to conceal their existence. They wove that secrecy into the structure of the spells. Until Motchk found the counterspell, we could not tell the truth of magic even if we had wanted.”

“So, you stole children from their families?”

“I know that sounds wrong to you, but we did it for the sake of the child. We could not let the parents know, and we could not leave the child in ignorance of his powers. In Cory’s case, I gave his parents the idea Cory had been an imaginary boy they pretended to have before they were able to conceive. Their second child became their first and is loved all the more for this. The spell was woven in such a way the extended family still jokes of their invisible cousin.”

“You know these people?”

“I check in from time to time to be sure all is well with them. News of Cory now could only do them harm. I will not make my sorrow theirs.”

“Legally,” said Don, “that may be necessary.”

“I wonder how you will enforce that law.”

“As I understand it, magic users police themselves through the Magical Individuals’ Collective Authority.”

“Through what?”

“Your international professional organization.”

“Oh, MICA. Sorry. We always use the acronym. Yes, MICA is working on some sort of rules and coordinating them with governments, but I do not think much has come of that. You submit your request to MICA, and we will see.”

“You being a Scottish wizard, if you won’t do as we ask voluntarily, jurisdiction could be problematic.”

“I am not all that fond of MICA and new ways. Cory was my last apprentice. I have never tried taking another under this new transparency. Not sure it would work. But what started the old way, like Cory, stays the old way, I say.”

“Perhaps that’s a concern for another day.”

“Glad to hear you say that, Donald. I spent extra hours traveling westward with the sun, and this has been an emotionally trying time. I could use some rest.”

Mrs. Broome was suddenly aware of the wizard’s age, not to mention the quantity of whisky he had drunk. “Jet lag. Please, Ian, let me show you to your room.”

“Thank you very much, dear lady. Thank you both for the great kindness you have shown.”

“I’m worried, Don. These wizards are dangerous men in ways you weren’t trained for.”

Don’s wife did not know that dealing with family fears had been a part of Detective Broome’s training. “Wizards like Ian, you mean?”

“No, of course not. Ian is a sweetheart.”

“I feel sorry for him.”

“I know. You can see in every moment, even when he’s playing with the children, how sad he is because of his boy’s death.” Mrs. Broome pulled her husband close. “But you must see how sad we’d be if anything happened to you.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me. What I fear is that Ian is correct about MICA. If Cory Lariston was murdered by a magic user, the law presents no threat to that person. The reason I’m not in danger isn’t because we police are seen as a threat but because we’re too weak to be of interest.”

Mrs. Broome wished to counter this, urging additional caution, but the wine may have been too much for her. She drifted into a sleep as deep and pleasant as any she had known. An instant later, her husband joined her in that slumber. The Broome household soundly slept.

Their guest did not.

The house was a large and old one, which Don had been able to afford because it needed some repair. Ian started in the basement. Here a woodshop had been located, allowing Don to shape and build doors and door frames, steps and replacement parts for walls and floors and ceilings. Differing thicknesses of dust told how long it had been since each machine or tool was last used. The band saw had had no use of late, but the hammer might have been applied last week.

Ian found the water heater and by wandlight traced the patterns of the pipes. Here were pairs, hot and cold, to the kitchen and the baths. One pair went nowhere, indicating some formerly wet location now dry due to remodeling. He found the fuse box with its wires running throughout the house and other wires like nerves carrying not power but signals for telephone, TV and computer. He found the furnace with its ducts and beyond it a room for storage.

The storage room held furniture, some damaged and waiting for repair, and many boxes and bags. These Ian examined without opening them, their cardboard and cloth coverings being transparent to the light of magic. Donald had spoken truly; the Broomes kept many things whose value to the family was now purely sentimental.

Ian looked particularly for dolls. Some were clearly the girls’ favorites. These he ignored. Inside a box of toys he found a pair of stuffed mice, their pink felt hides worn and stained, thread whiskers drooping, and one missing a shiny plastic eye. He brought these to a sort of half-life, allowing them to wriggle their way to the top of the heap. They spoke in words only he could hear, telling of the boy with whom they had passed many pleasant hours. The pleasure had been the boy’s alone, obvious when Ian withdrew his magic and the mice returned to their inanimate nature.

Upstairs in the kitchen, Ian raided the refrigerator for cheese, amusing himself with the notion that this was what came of conversing with mice. Detective Broome and wife slept on the first floor, and as anticipated, Ian learned little in their bedroom. On the second floor, the girls’ rooms proved equally uninformative. Ian hesitated a moment when he reached the door to the boy’s room, but there was nothing for it; he had to go inside.

It was not Cory’s room but similarities were enough to make this difficult for the old mentor. He moved slowly around the walls, interrogating shelves, drawers and a closet. Everything told him what he already knew. Finally, he came to the bed. The boy was lit by moonlight streaming through a window. Why had Ian not simply come straight here? Perhaps the grieving wizard feared the truth.

He put away his wand and pulled back blankets so gently the child’s sleep was undisturbed. Ian extended his arms over the bed and lowered them into a tingling cloud of undeniable magic. He rested the tips of his fingers on pajama fabric over the boy’s chest, raising and lowering his hands in time with Denny’s breathing. For a long time Ian stood this way, knowing what he knew.

At last, he looked to face the moonlight. For the second time that day, Ian Urquhart shed a tear. “God in Heaven,” he whispered. “What am I going to do about this boy?”

Wearing flame-resistant clothing, heavy slippers and goggles, Nomik Motchk sat on a chair in a dark and empty room. The butt of his staff rested against his forehead, the other end vanishing into apparent nothingness, assuming nothingness can be apparent in the dark. He clutched the staff, which dragged his chair across the floor as universes drifted slightly in magical relation to each other.

The goggles filled his eyes with a three-dimensional image, the projection of a flattened six-dimensional curve. Three of those dimensions existed in his universe and three in another. The curve flexed slowly through two different times. Magic guided by this projection joined those universes, allowing communication of a sort to pass through the staff from mind to mind. The other mind was Nomik’s daughter Beta, more generally known as the Eighth Doll.

Nomik held the spell too long and suffered for it. The grinding at the universal juncture produced a sound beyond imagining. Walls here in the Chamber of Eternities magically converted much of this sonic energy to heat, dealt with at least partially by the room’s refrigeration units. Nomik’s spell built in protections against both heat and sound, but magic had its limits. At last he was forced to break the connection and collapse upon the floor. Fortunately, he found recovery easier these days and was soon up again.

Sensors had opened the door the moment it was safe to do so. Miguel assisted a slightly limping Nomik downstairs to the dining room where a meal waited. Nomik consumed a variety of dishes designed to restore both health and magical energy. Miguel drank coffee and judged when the old wizard would be recovered well enough to listen. “While you were preparing and then away in the Chamber, we had some calls.”

“Thank you,” said Nomik, “for not bringing them to my attention.”

“Did you have a good session with her?”

“Yes and no. I used to believe I was in charge of our contacts. Those were happy days. She seemed distracted this time, which allowed me opportunity to try to see my fate.”

“If you saw any of mine, please keep it to yourself.”

“I know. You like surprises.”

Miguel jutted his chin in acknowledgment of this trait, one he knew Nomik viewed as a failing. “Did you like your future?”

“There was too damned much of it.”

“Most men would be pleased by prediction of long life.”

“Most men are ignorant fools unaware of the difference between a million and a billion.”

“I’m not so sure of that. We know a millionaire can afford a house with servants, whereas a billionaire can make servants of a house of legislation.”

“You practiced that turn of phrase?”

“I try to entertain you.”

“Appreciated. Who called?”

“Ian Urquhart, Donald Broome, Xerxes Golyam, and our butcher.”

“What did the butcher want?”

“To let us know the special cuts we requested for our party would be available.”

“At last the day has good news in it. This fortifies me so I can face the rest. The illustrious founder and first president of MICA, why did he call?”

“He’d like to speak with you personally.”

“Of course he would. A man who did cheap illusions on stage while he could have done real magic, married to a necromancer. Together they think themselves king and queen of the magical world. Worse still, the world thinks the same.”

“Shall I get him for you?”

“I suppose we must.”

Miguel directed a servant to place the call and then turned back to Nomik. “Donald Broome is the police detective from the United States.”

“I am not so old that my memory fails me. Getting better all the time, in fact. Call as often as Broome may, he has no jurisdiction here. What did Urquhart want?”

“Advice. He’s found a magical child and wants to know what you think he should do.”

“Why ask me?”

“The two of you once shared an apprentice.”

“My only apprentice, driven mad and now deceased, yet Urquhart wants my advice on mentoring? What an idiot.”

“Urquhart is unusual. You think Cory did go mad?”

“He saw the universe.”

“You’ve seen it.”

“Not like Cory did. I have seen it moderated by Beta’s mind, which was designed for that purpose. Cory saw it raw.” Nomik shuddered and then took a bite from a particularly delicious vegetable pastry. “Our chef is a genius.”

“So was Cory.”

“Our chef is a reliable genius.”

“You blame Cory for what happened?”

“I blame Beta. She allowed it to occur because she knew how it would end.”

“I thought she couldn’t see her own future. That’s why the thing with Cory was supposed to have a chance.”

“You speak to me of futures? I saw your death today.”

“Nomik!”

“Not another word. I know.”

The servant arrived with the telephone, a corded device using a mechanical dial rather than buttons to generate its connecting signals. “I have Mr. Golyam for you, sir.”

Nomik took the phone, appreciating the weight and solidity of old equipment. “I respond to your summons, Mr. President.”

“You were president more recently than I, Nomik.”

“I understand the current officeholder is doing a better job than either of us.”

“So she tells me every night before we go to sleep.”

“How is Taffy?”

“She sends her love.”

“She would. What can I do for you, Xerxes?”

“Not for me. For MICA. We would like you to cooperate in every way possible with the authorities investigating the unfortunate death of your apprentice, Cory Lariston.”

“Authorities must have authority.”

“We are granting them authority, at least as far as an investigation. Punishment, if any, could be another matter.”

“Why are we granting them anything?”

“The magical and non-magical worlds will benefit by cooperation. You taught us that.”

“Yes, but I was not serious. I used the idea to get engineers to build the means to eliminate the human race.”

“Are you sorry how that worked out?”

“Only occasionally.”

“Whether this new world was your intention or not, we now must all live in it. We managed to get through the initial transition with a minimum of angry mobs. Cooperation is the key to our mutual future. As a famous man once said, ‘When we are working together, sharing abilities freely with one another, we will finally be able to do the great work that, united, we are meant to do.’ ”

Nomik put his hand over the mouthpiece. “He turns my own words against me.”

Miguel smiled. “Wizards have become politicians.”

“My fault.” He took his hand away. “Very well, Xerxes. I shall cooperate with Broome as much as seems reasonable.”

“Thank you, Nomik. I can ask no more.”

“Good. And goodbye.” Nomik handed the telephone back to the servant. “Get me the policeman.”

While the servant dialed, Nomik nibbled on a wedge of cheese so richly aromatic that he only took a tiny bite.

Miguel asked, “What are you going to tell Broome?”

“The truth or some portion of it.”

“Will he be able to handle the truth?”

“Will he even understand it? Will it matter? Do I care?”

“Sir,” said the servant, “the detective is currently unavailable. He’s on another line.”

“My father’s time is precious. Doctors tell him he has little left, so he uses it only when he chooses. Let us determine, Detective Broome, if it is truly necessary to bring him out of temporal stasis.”

“I recognize that Mr. Arnold’s time is valuable and will try not to waste it. I’m investigating the death of a wizard named Cory Lariston, the apprentice first of Ian Urquhart and then of Nomik Motchk. I’ve been told that Motchk and your father have an extensive acquaintanceship.”

“Bit of an understatement. Daddy and Nomik have known each other longer than any two men alive.”

“I’m hoping to get an independent opinion on Nomik Motchk’s character.”

“I can give you that. Nomik does whatever he believes is right, and if you disagree with him, you are in for the fight of your life.”

“As your father fought him?”

“Off and on. We are friends with Nomik these days. He and Daddy only really tussled once.”

“When Nomik tried to kill the human race.”

“More than kill us, Detective. Nomik intended to arrange things so we never existed in the first place, eliminating you and me, our parents and grandparents and so on, even to homo sapiens’ ancestral species.”

Detective Broome was surprised by the extent to which this revelation did not surprise him. Too much time with wizards, he supposed. “Yet you’re friendly with Motchk?”

“He had reason to believe he was in the right. If things had not worked out as they did, if we had not created interstellar teleportation so man could settle other worlds and by that process save the universe, he might have been right. I disliked Nomik at that time, but he took his defeat with grace and joined us in building a viable future. Today, I am proud to call him a friend.”

“But this friend is a man capable of killing another human being if he believes it necessary?”

“Do you carry a gun, Detective?”

“Point taken, although I try to minimize its use.”

“Despite tales of violence, possibly of Nomik’s own creation, we have reason to believe Nomik has never killed anyone. She will not let him.”

“Who won’t let him?”

“The Eighth Doll. Are you familiar with her?”

“His daughter. A being who protects Nomik Motchk.”

“Protects him sometimes even from himself. She understands the self-destructive effects of killing. She guards him from them. At least, that is what Daddy thinks.”

“How is killing self-destructive?”

“I assume, from your question, you have never done it.”

“No, but I know men who have. I may understand what you’re getting at. So, you believe it might be impossible for Nomik Motchk to kill a person?”

“He could do it, but only if the Eighth Doll knew the advantage would be great enough. Detective, do you suspect Nomik of being your murderer?”

“I’m not sure yet whether I’m investigating a murder or an accident. At this time, I seek only information.”

“Was there any more you needed?”

“Yes, but I must speak with your father directly. I promise to be brief.”

“Very well.”

On the video screen, Abigail Arnold Blake stood and walked away. For some time, Detective Broome stared into a handsomely furnished room in an English castle. Eventually he began to suspect he had misunderstood Abigail’s intention since nothing was happening. He was informed by a head poked through his office door that another party was attempting to reach him, and he might have taken the call had not Peregrine Arnold appeared on screen at that moment.

Peregrine managed to project a certain dignity despite requiring two women to support him while he walked. On one side was Abigail and on the other a woman of similar age. The wizard between them looked to be a century older, the oldest man the detective had ever seen, and not what Donald Broome had wished for. It took some effort for the women to position their burden in front of the camera.

“You wanted to speak with me about Nomik?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you for taking the time.”

“Stop wasting it.”

“Do you concur with your daughter’s opinion that Nomik Motchk would be prevented from taking a life?”

“By Beta.”

“Excuse me. I didn’t understand that.”

Abigail nudged her father and whispered in his ear.

“Sorry. The Eighth Doll, I meant to say. Not polite to use her real name, although how anything could be a threat to someone living in another universe I cannot imagine. We tried to kill her once, with laughable results.”

“Who tried to kill her?”

“A whole bunch of us. Will Hilsat was supposed to cast the actual spell. When he failed, Ruby gave it a go. Nearly killed Ruby instead. Just as well.” Peregrine patted the arm of the unidentified woman supporting him. “My wife would never have forgiven us. Beta is our other daughter.”

Abigail whispered to her father again.

“Oh, yes. I concur. Nomik cannot kill anybody until the Eighth Doll lets him, which she probably never will. Ask me something you do not already know.”

“Xerxes Golyam says MICA has promised cooperation in our investigation, but he was hesitant to offer support in any sort of enforcement.”

“Against Nomik? I can understand that. MICA united might take him on, but uniting MICA would take a miracle.”

“You once fought Motchk in a duel.”

“I once did a lot of things and used a lot of magic to give myself the time to do them. As I am sure you can tell, things have caught up with me at last. Even magic can cheat time only for so long. Mine is about up.”

“I hadn’t realized the age difference between yourself and Nomik Motchk was so great.”

“Great? I am younger than Nomik by a couple of months. When we were boys, he never let me forget that.”

“Then you might still be a match for him?”

“Detective, were you hoping to use me as backup if you need to arrest Nomik Motchk?”

“I have no suspects but must consider contingencies.”

“Good for you. If you need to go after Nomik, you are on your own. I should be getting back to bed.”

“Please, sir, do you know Ian Urquhart or Cory Lariston?”

“I met Urquhart once while visiting his mentor. Ian seemed like a nice kid, if I am thinking of the right one.”

“And his apprentice?”

“Whose apprentice?”

“Urquhart’s apprentice, Cory Lariston.”

“Ian was about twelve when I met him. He had some pets but no apprentices. Good night, Detective.”

The old wizard slumped. The women pulled his chair away from the camera. The woman Peregrine had patted on the arm approached. “Detective, as I’m sure you can see, my husband is in no condition for lengthy conversation. We must see to his needs now, but please feel free to contact us if we can be of further assistance in your investigation.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And we would appreciate it,” said Abigail, “if you would not repeat the Eighth Doll’s actual name. Daddy never intended to reveal it. Such information could put lives at risk.”

“I understand.”

Donald Broome was disappointed in Peregrine Arnold’s condition, but if age had similarly debilitated Nomik Motchk, perhaps he would be no danger despite his previous threats against humanity.

But who was put in greater danger by knowledge of the Eighth Doll’s name: her or the one who knew it?

“Urquhart, what can I do for you?”

“Nomik, I need advice.” Long pause.

Motchk wondered if his old telephone had finally given out. “Still there, Ian?”

“Yes.”

“Advice on any particular topic?”

“Yes.” Another pause.

“Miguel told me you are taking on a new apprentice.”

“Yes. No! Not yet. I am not sure if I should.”

“Why not?”

“Am I any good at it? Look what happened to poor Cory.”

“Ian, you cannot blame yourself for that.”

“But I do. I understood Cory better than anyone. I should have warned you.”

Nomik gestured for a servant to bring tea. This call might take some time. “You did, Ian. You told us everything: the sleepwalking, the outbursts, the fights, the voices, even the frogs. You left nothing out.”

“The dreams? The nightmares? The visions?”

“You told us all of that. We knew exactly what we were getting with Cory Lariston. We had no surprises.”

“What happened, then? Why did Cory run away?”

“Cory was a grown man. If he wanted to set out on his own, who were we to stop him?”

“His teachers and his guardians. I had not seen him in years, when I should have been with him every moment.”

“That would have made no difference. He was capable of making his own decisions. I knew what Cory was when you gave him to me, and he knew what he was getting into here.”

“What was he getting into, Nomik?”

“Honestly, Ian, things you would not understand. In the years he worked with me, Cory developed skills I could barely follow. He went to places only he could go.”

“Yes, Cory was brilliant. Even I could see that. Lot of good it did him.”

“The quality of a life is not judged on length. In many ways, I envy Cory and would have traded places with him.”

“Seriously? Even now you say that?”

“I understand time better than any man alive. Will Hilsat has a similar grasp of space. Albert Einstein showed us we were looking at different pieces of the same whole. Before he died, Cory Lariston knew more than all of us together. Cory was spacetime’s first great explorer. Such brave adventurers know the chances that they take. No one thinks less of them when those risks catch up to them.”

“I understand. I was as proud as anybody could be of that boy. I felt terrible when I got the news.”

“We all did, Ian. No one wanted what happened.”

“Someone did.”

Nomik gestured for cookies. “The police think it may have been an accident.”

“Do you? Can you believe Cory accidentally got in the way of his own spells?”

“No, I suppose not. I shall cooperate with the police. MICA is seeing to it everybody does. Whether the guilty party is found or not, we will have to get on with our lives. That is why I was so happy when I heard you had found a new apprentice.”

“I am not sure I have.”

“You doubt the magic?”

“No, the boy is magical, a charming child and easy to work with. I taught him to love peas. I would love to teach him magic, but am I fit for the task?”

“You are. Cory spoke often of what a fine mentor you had been to him.”

“If that were true . . .”

“Stop it, Ian. Every school has levels. No one expects the kindergarten teacher to put the hoods on doctoral graduates. You were a wonderful master for Cory and will be for any other child fortunate enough to have you.”

“You think I should do it, then?”

“Absolutely, and I know Cory would say the same.”

“Thank you, Nomik. That means a great deal to me.”

“Glad to be of help.”

“And this brings me to the reason that I called.”

Nomik, who had been pushing away the plate of cookies, pulled it close again and selected a spicy favorite to reward himself for being nice. “What is it, Ian? What can I do for you?”

“I am concerned about my method.”

“You have far more experience than I in these matters.”

“Is my experience of any use, though? Cory was my last apprentice. I found him in the old days and took him in the old ways. Your revelation of magic changed everything.”

“A fact I regret more and more. Apparently the fomenter of change is expected to resolve all subsequent difficulties. I believe you can work this out on your own.”

“I have no idea how. The old ways are the ways I know. The idea of asking parental permission to take a child under my wing is so awkward after just taking them before.”

“I have no problem with that.” Nomik selected his next cookie, unaware how good they were for his health, another wonder of his genius chef. “I never intended to be arbiter of mankind’s working out of magical and non-magical relations. I did not expect to live to see it or to have it matter if I did. Go with your instincts, Ian. Do what seems right to you, with my blessing.”

“Thank you, Nomik. I appreciate your candor. I will do what seems appropriate.”

“Splendid, Ian. Call me back in a decade or so to let me know how things worked out.” As Nomik placed the handset on its cradle, the telephone rang, a coincidence he found disturbing. He lifted the handset again. “¿Bueno?”

“This is Detective Donald Broome. I’m trying to reach Nomik Motchk.”

“Congratulations on your good fortune.”

“Are you Señor Motchk, then?”

“I am.”

Donald was disappointed with how much stronger Nomik’s voice was than that of Peregrine Arnold. It held no age-related weakness. Donald wanted to see the face, but his phone told him no video was available. Why did the old wizard keep his camera off? “I’m investigating the death of Cory Lariston.”

“So I have heard. Ask me anything, Detective.”

“Lariston was your apprentice?”

“Cory was the apprentice of Ian Urquhart.”

“Yes, I’ve questioned Urquhart, but he said you took Cory for your own.”

“That is not exactly what happened.”

“What did, then?”

“Ian Urquhart is a nice enough fellow, and not a bad wizard as far as he goes, but he did not go far enough. Cory was a genius, one of the most interesting minds I have ever encountered, one requiring more guidance than Urquhart could possibly provide.”

“So you offered to teach him?”

“Jinasu made all the offers. Have you spoken with her?”

“Briefly.”

“Jinasu is the one who decided I must mentor Cory Lariston. I disagreed.”

“How is it that Jinasu knew both of you?”

“Jinasu knows everybody. Her magical specialties are conflagrations and dragons, both of limited applicability in the modern age. The non-magical world has mastered conflagration on its own. Dragons now appear primarily in films. Jinasu devotes her time to everybody else’s talents.”

“If you disagreed, how did you end up mentoring Cory?”

“I allowed Jinasu and Ian to think I would be a mentor, but I took Cory on to help me with a project. He received extensive training, so perhaps the distinction is only in my point of view.”

“What sort of training? What did Cory learn from you?”

“Over the course of years, quite a lot.”

“Did you teach him how to teleport?”

Nomik pensively nibbled another cookie. “I sent him to ACT to learn that. They are very particular about how teleportation is taught.”

“I thought you were ACT.”

“I am a founder and a director, although not as active as I was. ‘We are very particular,’ I should have said.”

“Why is that? Why so careful in the training?”

“Damned tricky spell, teleportation. We do not want anyone doing it incorrectly. Results could be disastrous.”

“Is that what happened to Cory Lariston? Did he make an error with a teleport?”

The pauses before Nomik Motchk’s responses seemed to Donald Broome to say more than his words. “Not a chance.”

“Could another wizard have done it by mistake?”

“No one with those skills would commit that error.”

“You believe Cory was murdered, then?”

“Detective, I am going to make your job easier. Cory’s death was intentional, and I can narrow your suspects to three: Will Hilsat, my partner Ruby at ACT, or me.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Only we three had the skill to cast the teleportation that killed Cory.”

“You rule out suicide, then?”

“I suppose that must also be considered. Four suspects.”

“I’ve read enough about ACT to know more than four witches and wizards can teleport.”

“Those who teleport into space are led around literally by the nose. They can do only what they must.”

“I need to know more about that.”

“Talk to a wizard calling himself Grover Hughlings.”

“How do I reach him?”

“No idea. Many years have passed since I last saw him. Ask Jinasu. She will know.”

“Grover Hughlings? Fascinating fellow. You will love visiting him.”

“I think a phone call should be enough, Jinasu. Do you have his number handy?”

“You must meet him, Don.”

“My boss prefers I call. Easier on the budget.”

“No, I mean you really must meet him. You have no other option. Grover Hughlings has no telephone, no electronic network, not even a mailbox. He will not respond to questions until you are close enough to smell.”

As Don cracked the vehicle door, scents both animal and chemical assailed him. Once in open air, he almost returned to the sanctuary of rental car aroma. No wonder this place was at the edge of the city. To think he had pried money from Auggie's tight fist in order to experience this miasma.

Beyond the parking lot, a path disappeared between dusty lilac bushes. On the right was an industrial facility, all pipes and storage tanks. The chemical aromas came primarily from that direction. On the left were structures more agricultural in design, shining modern barns from which drifted evidence of beasts in quantity. As Don walked down the path, the chemical side seemed more life-threatening, but it was the animals that stung his eyes. With nose cupped, he plunged through leafy branches.

What he found when he emerged appeared impossible, not for what it was but where. Don saw a simple home of two stories with clapboard siding, windows double-hung, modest hints of gingerbread in gables, and around it on three sides an open porch. In this sea of stench, what possible use could be made of such a space?

The front door opened. A man came running out. Despite the girth of middle years, he jumped the porch steps and charged down the path toward Don at top speed. The detective instinctively checked for weapons, but the man was unarmed, his expression holding suspicion but not threat. He stopped at arms distance, thrust his nose skyward and deeply sniffed the air. Considering its contents, Don saw this as an act of inexplicable courage or perhaps madness. The man said nothing, so Don spoke.

“I’m looking for Grover Hughlings.”

The man bent at the waist, bringing his head uncomfortably close to Don’s belt and breathing in another great sniff. He straightened and walked around the target of his nose. Don, because he was becoming used to wizardly weirdness, stood still for snorts behind him. The man came around to Don’s front again but now wearing an expression so friendly Don almost laughed.

“You must be Detective Broome. Yes, I am Grover Hughlings. A pleasure to meet you, sir. Forgive the smell-check. It helps me to accept you as really being real. Jinasu warned you about me, I assume.”

“She only said that I’d enjoy our interview.”

“Wicked girl! She knew how strange my behavior would seem to you yet sent you intentionally unprepared. She would excuse this, I suppose, as allowing you the full experience.”

“How did she let you know I was coming.”

“She has friends in this city. They sent a boy. He had a simple, fresh aroma. Come up on the porch, Detective. I am sure the airline has not fed you, so I have taken the liberty of laying out a lunch.”

Don had noticed wizards liked to communicate over a meal, but the thought of eating anything brought his awareness of the smells around him to a crisis. He must reject the notion quickly or risk vomiting, never a good opening to an interview. Before Don could speak, however, Grover Hughlings was bounding up the steps.

Don followed around the porch corner until he saw food on a small table. He turned away, unable to bear the sight. He held his breath while calming his stomach. At last Don dared to breathe. The aroma was delicious, a fact so unexpected it rolled his tummy over.

“Take your time, Detective. I have had visitors before. Here, maybe this will help.”

Don had no idea what “this” was, but when he drew his next breath, the air was completely free of scent of any kind, the sort of atmosphere one might encounter at a rocky mountaintop on a sunny winter day. It was so refreshing that he took in a great lungful and then another.

“Better?”

Don nodded.

“Try if the food looks good to you now.”

Don dared a glance. It did look good, soup and sandwiches with lemonade or iced tea. He approached the table and delicately sniffed, finding no aroma.

“How is this possible? What keeps those smells away?”

“Magical molecular filtration. Are you ready for the smell of food again?”

“I think so.”

Grover Hughlings gestured. Don took another sniff. The aroma of the food was no different than at first, but this time held a strong appeal.

“Lunch, Detective?”

“Yes, Mr. Hughlings. Thank you.”

“Please call me Rover.”

“Excuse me, did you say Grover?”

“I said Rover. The G is silent. Only there for legal documents. May I call you Donald?”

“Make it Don.” Grover Hughlings demeanor made formality inappropriate. Don could not think of any person to whom he had taken such an instantaneous liking, with the possible exception of his wife, or his children at their births.

“Try the soup, Don. You will love it.”

He did and did. “This is fantastic. What is it?”

“Thai gazpacho. An old dish I have modified.”

Don sipped another spoonful. “Any chance I could get the recipe. My wife would love this.”

“I give the recipe with joy, but you will never reproduce the soup exactly. I use magic to make lemongrass and cucumbers do things nature never managed. I developed the process during a collaboration with the great magical restaurateur, Lalo Kabrak. Do you know of him?”

“Afraid not. My wife and I don’t get to restaurants as much as we might like. Do you often collaborate with other wizards or witches?”

“All the time. Try a sandwich.”

Don brought a diagonally cut half-sandwich up to his mouth but stopped before he ate. An initial hint in the air caused him to close his eyes and inhale more deeply. This produced a broad smile.

“Bringing great aromas out of soup is child’s play,” said Grover, “but making a cold sandwich smell delicious takes effort. Getting the right combination so the sandwich has the perfect air to complement the soup, that is real work. I can tell by your scent I have succeeded.”

“By my scent? I’d think my smile gave it away.”

“Not really, Don. Every emotion is accompanied by protein reactions. Scents are more reliable than facial expressions. Your chemistry is the powerful truth that I perceive.”

Don nibbled the sandwich. He intended to swallow quickly and move on to a question, but the complex taste forced him to stop and savor a peculiar spiciness blooming in the back of his mouth. He had never encountered it before, yet somehow felt he knew it, even longed for it, like a forgotten love.

Grover sniffed. “Thank you, Don. It is a pleasure to know one’s work is appreciated.”

Don realized he was communicating without speaking, even without intention, by his scent. “Can you really smell emotions? I’ve heard that dogs can smell fear.”

Grover laughed. “The understatement of all time. Dogs can smell the difference between cautious hesitation and suspicious apprehension, between the sort of terror that inspires flight and the kind that launches an attack. Dogs draw more distinctions between different fear aromas than we have words to describe them. This has been a problem in my work. Our language cannot begin to express the tremendous variations a dog’s nose will detect.”

“How do you know so much about what a dog smells?”

“Because I was one.”

“Oh.” After all the oddities of wizardry Don had been exposed to, he had felt inoculated against surprise, but this revelation set him off balance. “Really? You were a dog?”

“My mentor did me that favor. His particular skill was the ability to cross the barrier of species. This was not some silly reflection spell allowing one to take on the appearance of another. His magic changed me to the core. When he made me a dog, I truly was a dog.”

“How long were you a dog? What breed?”

“I was a bloodhound for nine years. The full life, from pup to old age.”

“Good Lord!”

“Honestly, Don, I wish I could give everyone the same experience. It totally changed my outlook. I hear a man call his enemy a dog and think, both of you should be so lucky. My master made me live a dog’s life. I am forever grateful.”

“Being a bloodhound, is that what got you interested in how things smell?”

“Interested? Infatuated! When I became human again, it was like being struck blind. I have spent my life since then in an effort to recover a portion of what I lost, with extensive success. You live with your wife and three children, two girls and a boy. The boy is young and eats a lot of peas. You were physically close to him before you left home today. Probably a hug.”

“You got all that by smelling me?”

“Much more than that. I could tell you things about your home life that would embarrass both of us, but I think I have made my point.”

“If your sense of smell is so keen, how do you tolerate this neighborhood?”

“I do not tolerate. I revel in it. I sought it out. This place is my paradise. I filtered the aromas off the porch for your sake. When I am alone, I let them in and treasure every whiff. To me, living here is existing in a symphony of scent.”

“Forgive me. I didn’t intend to be critical.”

“Your criticism is understood. When you were out there, what did you smell?”

Don had taken up the second half of the sandwich but put it down again as he recalled. “A chemical aroma. And animals.”

“Good work, Don. You would be surprised how many people fail to distinguish the two and just say it stinks. What I smell is every individual chemical used in the plant next door and each animal in the feedlot.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“One morning I caught a new aroma, a floral note not present in my garden. I followed it. Turned out the plant manager’s wife had bought him a new aftershave.”

“You picked it out through all of that?”

Grover nodded enthusiastically. “I know my location would be, without aid of magic, intolerable to others, but for me it is only fascinating. I got a terrific deal on the house.”

“I suppose you would.”

Don and Grover laughed together like old friends.

“Grover, I need to ask you some questions.” Don tried to say Rover but was unable to forget the spelling so began the name with a subtle G. “Have you collaborated with Nomik Motchk?”

“Met him once. Never collaborated. Love to, though. Seems like an interesting guy.”

“He’s the one who suggested I talk to you.”

“I did consultation with his transportation company, ACT, but I worked with Ruby.”

“I’ve been hearing that name. What’s Ruby like?”

“The real boss at ACT, as far as I could tell. Without Ruby and her partner Sapphire, the human race would still be stuck on earth. Sapphire manages the people who handle logistics and finance while Ruby deals with witches and wizards doing actual teleportation. Lalo Kabrak was involved in setting up food services for ACT’s employees and clients, which is how I met Sapphire and then Ruby.”

“What did you do for them?”

Grover’s face fell. He moved his head from side to side as if looking for something on the porch he could not find.

“Is there a problem?”

Grover was unable to meet Don’s eyes. “I want to answer your questions, but I am not sure I can. I signed a nondisclosure agreement. I am not allowed to talk about my work at ACT.”

“I’m a policeman working on a possible criminal investigation. Your non-disclosure agreement is a contract. Criminal law has higher authority.”

Grover still looked down at the porch floor. “I was not thinking legally. I made the folks at ACT a promise.” Don waited quietly, allowing Grover to work through his discomfort. It took some time. At last the wizard looked up. “Tell you what. You ask your questions, and I will answer them honestly while trying not to give up secrets.”

“We can do that, but remember, if by withholding information you protect a criminal, you become an accessory to that crime.”

Grover replied with childlike earnestness. “I am sure I know nothing about anything illegal.”

“When you were at ACT, did you work on a device used to help people cast the teleportation spell?”

“I did.”

“What does it do?”

“I should not tell you the details of how the spell is interwoven with it. That would give away too much.”

“That’s all right. I wouldn’t understand it anyway. Generally, what’s the gadget’s purpose?”

“Control.”

“It helps the caster control the teleportation?”

“It helps ACT control the caster. Nobody must make unauthorized teleports.”

“Why not?”

“They did not tell me, but one could guess. ACT has a monopoly on space travel. A lot of power in that. And money. Take Bacab, for example, a planet loaded with radioactives. Bacab supplies materials that power half the human worlds. ACT charges a tariff on every ounce that leaves. Would they want to train some witch to teleport only to have her resign and set up a competing business?”

“What does aroma have to do with it?”

“The sense of smell takes place in ancient regions deep inside the brain. Ruby has an amazing grasp of how the mind works. She understands the power of smell. Teleportation engineers at ACT are trained to cast using the gadget I helped design. Rather than learning how the spell actually works, they learn to make it smell right. Without that smell to guide them, they cannot teleport at all. ACT programs devices specific to each interstellar trip.”

Don was watching Grover carefully. He sensed the man could be trusted. “So this thing guides a magic user down the right path and lets the user know by some bad odor when that path is lost.”

“There is more to it.” Grover lowered his voice, although Don found it difficult to imagine an eavesdropper braving the stench outside the porch to hide among the bushes. “The magic user’s mind is trained at a deep level. It becomes natural to cast as ACT wishes and unnatural to do otherwise. It would not occur to a trained user to even try.”

“Brainwashing by odor?”

“Smell is already used by governments in that kind of work. My technique is more comprehensively persuasive.”

“Do you have one of those gadgets? Could I get a look?”

Grover stood and walked to the edge of the porch. He leaned forward, beyond the clean aroma barrier Don assumed, and executed a set of deep sniffs in a semicircle, testing the air for hidden presences. Satisfied with their security, Grover returned to the table and dipped a napkin in the tea. “Come inside.”

As they entered the house, Grover handed the damp cloth to Don. “Hold this over your nose. Things get complicated in here. My magic may not entirely protect you.”

The house was dim. Grover kept curtains closed and did not turn on lights. Don guessed Grover used his nose to guide his steps. They made their way back to the kitchen. Pots sat on every burner on the stove. An assortment of plants was laid out on the counters. Despite damp cloth and magic, Don caught occasional whiffs: some pleasant, some alarming. Grover shuffled things in cupboards, finally pulling out a dark object. “Here it is. A prototype.”

“May I examine it in the light?”

“Sure. Take it out into the yard.”

Don clicked a light switch by the door but nothing happened. He decided to follow the homeowner’s advice. The back door opened onto steps. “Grover, there’s a giant pile of banana peels out here. And what’s behind it? Is that an animal carcass?”

“A once mighty steed, although in its present decay, one can hardly tell. I always have experiments in the works. Another reason I live out here. When I was in town, I got complaints.”

“I can imagine.” Don examined the object Grover had handed him, a perforated box with one concave surface, two parallel projecting tubes, some sort of electronic port, and an elastic loop big enough to fit over his head.

“It rests on your chin. The tubes go up your nose. Try it.”

Don held the box against his face, working the tubes into his nostrils. They fit surprisingly comfortably.

“I am dropping all my filters. What do you smell?”

Don breathed in. “Bananas and a dead horse.”

“Let me see that.” Grover took the device from Don. “The battery could be dead.”

“Magic runs on batteries?”

“This is a cyber-magical hybrid. You would be surprised how many things are these days.”

“Yes.” Don breathed as little of the fetid air as possible. “I would.”

“One definition of magic is science we have not yet adequately researched. The big advances now are all joint projects. Motchk foresaw that and was right. I get half the credit for this thing, but a guy at ACT named Orrin Viderlick, a wizard in more ways than one, did the circuitry.” Grover stuck the tubes up his nose and sniffed. “No, this is working fine.” He slapped his forehead. “Sorry, I forgot you are not a wizard.” He pulled the tubes and held the device out toward Don. “Try it again. I will supply the magical energy.”

Don wiped the tubes with the damp cloth in his hand, trying to be as thorough as he could without giving insult. He slid them up his nose while Grover held the box. He breathed, tentatively at first, then deeper. “Oh my God!”

“Anything missing?”

“No. The aroma isn’t strong, but I’m smelling everything: peppermint and body odor and apple pie and burning tires and soap and the sea and . . .” Don breathed deeply out and in. “And a thousand things I can’t identify.”

“Millions, actually. The device begins by resetting your entire olfactory system, as if presenting your nose with one of every molecule.”

“Now I’m smelling nothing. What comes next?”

“More nothing, I am afraid. The sequence of aromas is triggered by the casting of a spell. You, not being a wizard, cannot trigger them. Neither can I, since I do not know how to teleport. I could cast the wrong spell, but the stench it raised would haunt your nightmares.”

“Worse than rotting banana peels and dead horse?”

“You have no idea, Don. In order to discourage unauthorized casting, the smell is designed to be as horrible as possible. Took me months to develop. That box’s offensive stink could curdle a witch’s soul.”

Don pulled the tubes out of his nostrils, accepting the air around him as the lesser threat. “Jinasu was right. It has been fascinating meeting you, Grover, and you have been a great deal of help with this investigation.” Suddenly, Don realized removing the tubes had been a mistake. Rotting fruit and meat against a background of feces and chemistry proved to be too much. He returned his lunch, depositing it on Grover’s steps. “So sorry.”

“My fault entirely, Don. I forgot to restore the filters.”

Don saw apologetic guilt in Grover’s face, but beyond that, a silent pleading as his eyes glanced down at the mess on the stairs. “Go ahead, Grover. I understand.”

Grover Hughlings bent low and sniffed the steps with deep appreciation.

“Was I right about Grover? Do you just love that man?”

“He’s certainly interesting. And playful, in his way.”

“Once a pup, always a pup, I suppose.”

“He suggested you might have given me more warning about what I was getting into.”

“And spoil the surprise? Never! Half the fun of meeting a new witch or wizard is the astonishment.”

“I’m beginning to get that. I need your help again, Jinasu. Where can I find a person who knows everything about teleportation but who doesn’t actually use the spell?”

“Why one who does not use it?”

“I need information from someone who’s not on the list of possible suspects.”

“Has it come to that? Do we know Cory was murdered?”

“Murder or suicide. I still have no proof one way or the other. I’m looking into motivation.”

“Damn. I was hoping it was an accident.”

“I try to consider all possibilities. Sometimes what looks like an obvious murder turns out just to have been terrible luck, but not in this case if my sources are correct.”

“And now you need a teleportation expert who does not teleport. I suppose you have to talk to Toby Bis.”

“Will Hilsat’s friend? I was hoping for someone a little more peripheral to the teleporting set.”

“It is a very small set. You do not think Will could be a suspect, do you? That is impossible.”

“Why impossible.”

“Will would never do it. He is not that kind of person.”

“The kind of person who can commit a murder, given the right circumstances, turns out to be a fairly broad spectrum of humanity.”

“When Nomik Motchk was trying to destroy the human race, we were all working together to stop him. Will was too, but Will was also working to stop Nomik from killing himself. Even after we won—thanks to Will, by the way, which is why you and I can have this conversation in a real reality—Will went out of his way to stop Nomik from committing unintentional suicide. He saved the world and the villain. Will Hilsat would not hurt a fly.”

“Neither would I, Jinasu, but as someone pointed out to me recently, I carry a gun. I’ve never pulled it on a person, and hope I never will, but I practice with it every week. In my work, need could arise despite my pacifism.”

“You think Will needed to kill Cory for some reason?”

“Not Will necessarily, but someone may have felt they had to. Do you know anyone who understands teleportation but isn’t close to those who teleport?”

“I am afraid not. Your best bet is still Toby Bis. He assisted Will in development of the teleportation spell. He and his research team ran all the tests. And Toby is what you would call a straight shooter. He will be impartial.”

“Laboratory.”

“Detective Donald Broome calling for Toby Bis.”

The woman on the screen stared suspiciously.

“My call should be expected. Jinasu Mao Panza made the initial contact. ”

“OK. Sure.” The woman turned her head and shouted to someone in the distance. “Wolf, see if you can locate Toby. Tell him he has a call.” She turned back to the screen. “Wolfgang will find him for you.”

“Thank you. Perhaps, while I have you here, you could answer a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you know anything about teleportation?”

“Research in that area is strictly off-limits. Odd when you consider this lab developed teleportation in the first place.”

“But do you know anything about it?”

“Just enough to be grateful I am not supposed to know. Dr. Hilsat and Mr. Bis struggled with it for many years before the breakthrough. These days, we are all about understanding magical energy in general rather than a specific application. Speaking of which, please excuse me. We have experiments in progress, and I must stick with the present.”

“All right. Thank you.”

The woman moved away from the camera, revealing a view of the laboratory behind her. She and everyone in sight wore white lab coats with safety goggles on cords around their necks. The majority of the half-dozen people in the room looked to various monitors while a young man approached a lab bench covered with cables, movable stands, and enigmatic objects. Someone gave a warning, and everyone put on their goggles. The man lifted a stick from the bench and gestured with it. This Don recognized: a wand.

A ball of bluish light appeared at the wand’s tip. A twitch. The ball of light detached and was sucked into a black cone suspended by cords from one of the stands. For a minute nothing happened while everyone stared either at monitors or the cone. Then the screen Don was watching went completely white. The image of the laboratory slowly reappeared. Everyone was busy twiddling knobs, typing on keyboards or talking excitedly to each other.

A person in a lab coat walked past the screen. “Excuse me,” asked Don, “What was that?”

“17.35 TeV,” said the person, who then walked away.

“Right. Sorry I asked.”

Another lab coat appeared on the screen with its back to the camera. “Good run!” He turned while removing his goggles. It took Don a moment to recognize who it was.

“Mr. Bis, I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”

“Will Hilsat would not kill anybody.”

Don recalled Jinasu’s promise of Toby’s impartiality and had to restrain a wry chuckle. “Who would?”

“Most people. I might. Nomik Motchk for sure, if he could.”

“Ruby, the woman who runs ACT?”

“Yeah, I could see that. Never Will, though.”

“Thank you for your assessment. I wonder if you’d answer a general question about teleportation?”

“Shoot.”

“You were involved in the original work creating the spell. What was your contribution?”

“Went down a thousand blind alleys.”

“So, you see yourself as not really contributing?”

“You do not know much about science, Don.”

“I’ve skimmed articles describing scientific results. I guess I’m unfamiliar with the processes.”

Toby nodded.

“How dangerous is teleportation?”

“You think somebody used it to commit a murder, and you could be right. That should give you a hint.”

“Is teleportation the only spell that can be used to kill?”

Toby laughed. “Ever see wizards duel?”

“No.”

“Witches and wizards could kill you in more ways than they could count.”

“Why use teleportation as a weapon, then?”

“Been thinking about that. In a duel, you see move and countermove. Timing is key. Nobody is more dangerous than a time wizard like Nomik Motchk or Peregrine Arnold. They once fought. Love to have seen that. From a safe distance.”

“I believe Will Hilsat is a time wizard.”

“And if he somehow got stuck in a duel, Will would use his skills to protect his opponent as much as himself.”

“So if timing is important, how does that make teleportation a weapon of choice?”

“It is unusual magic. You can cast almost all of it, then hold the final gesture until you need it. A quick flick, and you have done it. If your teleport swaps your opponent’s brains out of his head, you need not concern yourself with preparing for his response.”

“Have you heard of anyone using teleportation as a weapon before?”

“Never, but the idea has been kicked around.”

“By whom?”

“Nomik, Ruby, Will and me.”

“But you do not teleport. Why not?”

“Inability. Almost nobody can do it. In order to set up the space program, ACT had to comb the planet, finding the very few witches and wizards they could train.”

“I’ve been told none of those people could have cast the spell killing Cory Lariston.”

Toby nodded. “ACT made sure the second generation does not actually understand how to teleport. They have innate ability coupled with a device that guides them.”

“Designed by Grover Hughlings.”

“And Orrin Viderlick. That thing guarantees nobody can do an unauthorized teleport, or understand how, or want to.”

“To prevent anyone from competing with ACT.”

“To prevent using teleportation as a weapon.”

Jinasu was right. Toby was a straight shooter. “If other spells can kill, why worry so much about teleportation?”

Toby picked up the laptop on which he was communicating and carried it into an office. He set it on a desk, closed the door and turned to the camera. “Like I said, teleportation is unusual.  The reason it is so dangerous is because of how it scales.”

“Could you explain?”

“Peregrine Arnold used to joke that Will Hilsat was bored by a spell unless it could destroy the world. Not true, of course, but unweaving and teleportation are scary stuff.”

“Unweaving?”

“The spell Nomik was going to use to undo the existence of the human race. The nanobots reabsorbed the rings needed to cast it, so we are safe from that one.”

“Nanobots? Those are tiny robots, right?”

“This batch was from another sun. In the conflict with Nomik, some of them were on our side and some on his. Now we are all on the same side. The nanobots came to earth with knowledge of potentially habitable planets. They guided ACT in the initial steps to opening new worlds for colonization.”

“I hadn’t heard anything like that.”

“Not common knowledge. Without ACT’s cooperation, you would find much of what I am telling you impossible to prove.”

“You were telling me why teleportation needs to be so tightly controlled. Something about scaling?”

“Every spell scales. Usually, the cost of doing a bigger version is more energy. Apprentices learn to conserve. A fire witch like Jinasu can burn down a forest in an instant, be completely drained and unable to cast again for days. Or she can use her power to set fire to a low branch on a dry tree on a windy day, wait for nature to do the rest and have energy left to play with her dragons.”

Don found images of dragons and forest fires disturbing but stayed on task. “Other spells scale differently?”

“Many have physical components to focus energy: wands and such. A spell listening back in time loses energy like water from a sieve. Nobody could use it until a physical component was added. On that spell, the component scales linearly. Listen back twice as far, your wand or staff has to be twice as long. A witch snooping back a month could be mistaken for a pole vaulter.”

“And teleportation?”

“Takes advantage of tightly bound dimensions in the fundamental structure of spacetime. I never saw it coming until after Will had cast it. First time he did, he explained he could move a bee to the next flower or an elephant to the next jungle with no difference in energy consumption. I called him a liar, but he was right.”

“And this is what makes teleportation dangerous?”

“Say I teach my apprentice to pick up her toys by teleporting them into the toy box. She gets playful and teleports the earth into the sun.”

Don had not realized until this moment that he had a prejudice against magic users. Suddenly he heard the word “leefers” in his mind and pictured his family being incinerated, or irradiated, or suffocated, or crushed, or vaporized, or whatever happened to a household relocated to the heart of the sun by a special child’s whim. For just a moment, Don hated wizards. By force of will, he made the moment pass. “Can that actually happen?”

“Yes, in theory. No, if we do not let it.”

“You’re telling me the only thing protecting the human race from annihilation is Grover Hughlings’ stink box?”

“That and blessed ignorance.”

“Ignorance protects us?”

“Teleportation is swapping of two spaces. The less accurate your knowledge of the spaces, the less likely your success. To swap the earth and a similar volume of the sun, you need a superb mental picture of where the earth is and where you intend it to be. Ask a person to close his eyes and then describe the room in great detail. The amount he gets wrong will amaze you. Training in teleportation involves not just learning the spell but learning how to truly encompass spaces in the mind. Few are up to it.”

“How does teleportation to other worlds get started then? How does one know a planet one has never been to?”

“The nanobots have been there. MICA has been running an online virtual world for years. Orrin Viderlick took that technology and used it to create a simulation where nanobots can teach teleporting magic users to visualize their targets. To improve their chances, they do not try to hit a planet surface but teleport rockets into empty space nearby where a miss of megameters has no consequence. Then they land, get good firsthand knowledge, and the route is open. Even with these tricks, it does not always work.”

“What happens when it fails?”

“Spaceship is never heard from. Maybe someday ACT will find a wreck, but that has not happened yet, far as I know.”

“So even Nomik, or Will, or Ruby couldn’t throw the earth into the sun?”

“Cannot and would not if they could. Still, I have been known to pray for their continued sanity.”

The drink in front of Ruby was an unusually potent beverage, and her usual was pretty potent. Sapphire expressed disapproval. She did not express it with word or gesture or grimace, yet the barman, who had worked for Sapphire most of his life, knew she disapproved. Not being magical, Sapphire had used no hidden magic to make her opinion known, but Ruby knew as well.

“I’m hoping this will help me sleep.”

“If you like, our barman could hit you with a bat.”

“The notorious disapproval of the reformed alcoholic.”

“Whose fault is that?”

Ruby sighed. It was hers.

Sapphire put her hand on Ruby’s wrist. “Are the nightmares that bad?”

“They’re not nightmares.”

“What are they, then?”

“I wish I knew.”

Sapphire peered into Ruby’s glass. “This doesn’t look like the way to find out.”

“She’s right about that,” said the barman. “We promise refreshment, not revelation.”

“Fine, then.” Ruby slid the glass back across the bar. “Give me whatever she’s having.”

“Another White Sapphire, coming up.” The barman poured a tall club soda and switched the glasses. Sapphire’s eyes tracked Ruby’s rejected beverage until every drop had been poured away.

Ruby sipped soda and choked. “You drink this stuff?”

“Try it with orange juice,” said Sapphire.

“You try it. I think I’ll go to bed. I may be tired enough.”

Sapphire kissed Ruby on the cheek and watched her as she left the bar. “Pleasant dreams, I hope.”

“Does her tossing and turning keep you awake?” asked the barman.

“She sleeps alone. I’ve never even seen her bedroom.”

“All this time, I’d assumed you shared a bed.”

“Not since we were children.”

“You grew up together?”

“That too.”

“So many years in your employ, yet I know so little.”

“You’d have known little without our help.”

“That can be taken two ways.”

Sapphire sipped. “You may take it any way you like.”

“Are we really worried about her?”

“She hasn’t slept well in weeks. That’s bad news for us and for ACT.”

“If she takes a vacation, can the teleportation system go on without her?”

“How would I know?” asked Sapphire. “I’m no witch.”

“I keep forgetting that.”

Sapphire smiled.

At a knock on his door, Don raised his head from his desk but put it back down when he saw it was only the boss.

“I understand naps increase productivity at work, especially for old men like you.” Being older than Don, Auggie could get away with this comment.

“Not napping, Auggie.”

“Thinking?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Avoiding, I guess.”

“Avoiding what?”

“Thinking.”

Auggie sat. “I could probably help with that. What’re we avoiding thinking about?”

“Wizards who could crush us like bugs. Witches who might set the earth on fire by mistake. Scientists who created atom bombs passing on their research methods to people who were already too powerful.”

“Nightmare material, Don. This is daytime. Get back to work on Lariston.”

“This is Lariston, and it’s affecting me.”

“How so?”

Don sat up and looked at a framed photo of his family on the corner of his desk. “I’m starting to hate magic users.”

“Do I need to take you off this case?”

Don stared at his beautiful wife and daughters, his darling son, and said nothing.

“It was the stinky guy, right? Dead horses and banana peels could push anyone over the edge.”

“No. Grover Hughlings I actually liked.”

“Is he the only good one?”

 “Ian Urquhart. My family is crazy about him.”

“And you?”

“Me too. I always enjoy his company.”

“I understood you hated magic users.”

“Exaggeration, Auggie. I only hate the ones who kill.”

“Same way you feel about the rest of the human race.”

Don nodded. “Yeah. Good point.”

“So, you OK again?”

“I suppose I am. Back to work. Thanks, Auggie.”

“My pleasure. Emotion aside, what progress?”

“I’m not yet positive I have a murder, but if I do, I have three suspects.”

“How is that?”

“Only three people had the power to cast the spell. Everyone else is restricted by a magic gadget.”

“Whom do we suspect?”

“Nomik Motchk, who all sources agree would commit a murder but can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Another restriction, one from outside our universe.”

“Religious? People get around that stuff all the time.”

“This religion comes with enforcement, if my sources can be believed.”

“A religion that actually works? That would be handy.”

“In our business, for sure.”

“Who else?”

“Will Hilsat, whose friends think he could never do it.”

“Murderers often have such friends. He was your expert consultation. Did you suspect him at that time?”

“No. Awkward, I admit.”

“And your third suspect?”

“Ruby, master of the teleportation industry.”

“I thought Motchk ran ACT.”

“So did I, but witches and wizards in the know disagree. Motchk moved on to other things. Ruby runs the business.”

“Quite a business. What was a murder victim with such powerful potential enemies doing in our sleepy little town. And why would one of them want to kill him here?”

“I’m working on a theory.” Don glanced down at his notes. “Murder or suicide. Suicide? I need to talk to Motchk.”

“Telephone again?”

“I think that’ll do.”

“In that case, I support you one hundred percent.”

“You know I always have an eye on the budget, Auggie. I’ll need additional assistance, though. My sources are too close to each other. I need to see things from another angle. These people are a tight clique, but they still live in our universe. At least most of them do. They have pasts, even if they keep them hidden. Can we put the Research Office on their backgrounds? The scope must be international.”

“Mexico?”

“Scotland, too. Our murder victim starts out there. Everybody I’ve talked to, plus this Ruby woman. Any fact might give me a handle. Can I get that?”

“If word got back to Research I’d denied them the opportunity for work beyond the county courthouse, they’d never speak to me again.”

“Thanks, Auggie.”

After Auggie left, Don dialed Motchk’s number. He heard the phone being picked up and then a silence before a doubtful “¿Bueno?”

“Señor Motchk? This is Detective Donald Broome again.”

“How do you do that, Detective? How do you call just as I reach for the telephone? It did not even ring.”

“Pure coincidence.”

“Exactly what I was afraid of.”

“Your suggestion that I visit Grover Hughlings was quite helpful. It got me thinking. When Ian Urquhart came here, he was looking for one of Hughlings’ teleportation controllers.”

“What would Urquhart do with such a thing?”

“He said he wanted to make sure Cory wasn’t blamed for losing it.”

“Thoughtful.”

“When I spoke to you about Cory’s death, you never asked me about the controller.”

“It did not cross my mind.”

“Even as you were recommending I visit Grover Hughlings?”

“You are correct. I really should have thought of it. Is the controller in your possession?”

“No. We never found it. And when you told me only three wizards could have killed Cory, I asked if you ruled out suicide. You didn’t. How would Cory have committed suicide by teleportation if he needed a controller to teleport? Toby Bis told me the controllers must be programmed.”

“Excellent question, Detective. I think you need to talk to the programmer, Orrin Viderlick.”

“By way of Jinasu?”

“Naturally. I am eager to hear what you learn. Detective, did you say Urquhart was in your town? Is he still there?”

“Yes. He’s interested in what happened to his apprentice.”

“I am sure he is. Apprentices are important to Ian. Did you have any other questions?”

“Not at the moment. I’ll be getting back to you.”

“I suspect you will have no trouble reaching me.”

Don hung up the phone and dialed again.

“Jinasu, this is Donald Broome. Can you put me in touch with Orrin Viderlick?”

“Is he involved in this?”

“No more than Grover Hughlings. I need him for background information.”

“Well, if you must, I can connect you.”

“Is there some reason I shouldn’t want to talk to him?”

“You being a man, I suppose not. I will arrange it.”

“Will I have to fly again? My boss prefers less expensive means of communication.”

“There may be flying, but no airline ticket is involved.”

“I’m Detective Donald Broome.”

“Were you hoping to take a course? Or teach one?”

“I have an appointment with the head of your Technology Education program.”

“A course in detective work would be popular with college students. I’d take it.”

For a moment, Don allowed himself to imagine the attractive receptionist taking his course based solely on the instructor’s animal magnetism, but he found the fantasy difficult to sustain. “Technology Education?”

“Tech Ed is in the Davis building. Down this hallway, out the door at the end and straight across the courtyard.”

“Thank you.”

“Mind the robots.”

The courtyard was full of robots, each accompanied by a group of students urging it to action. A machine with a head resembling a fire hydrant succeeded in hoisting an old tire over a tall post, bringing cheers from its designers and a scattering of applause or boos from members of other teams. When the robot tried to lift the tire off again, it lost its grip and stumbled backwards to a chorus of hoots.

In the Davis building, signage that looked like student projects led Don to the office. The person inside, who was neatly dressed, looked up but waited for Don to speak.

“You teach people to build robots here? I had no idea.”

“We do much more. Are you Detective Broome?”

“I am.”

“May I see your badge?”

“If you like. I’m here to connect with Orrin Viderlick.”

The Tech Ed instructor waited until the badge was displayed before rising to examine it closely. “This way, please.” The lab space they entered was crowded with mechanisms in various stages of completion. Don was led to a pair of steel cages. “Follow my lead, Detective.”

Imitating his guide, Don entered a cage and put a harness around his waist, thighs and shoulders. Next he put on goggles with earbuds. A curved arm held a tiny microphone near Don’s mouth.

“Nothing up my nose?”

“No, a chem lab in a box gets expensive. Magic users can do it cheaply, but none of our students are magic.”

“Your students built this system?”

“Sure did.”

“The same ones with the robots?”

“No. Those are freshman. These were built by sophomores.”

Don tugged at the straps. They felt loose. He had no idea if they should be.

“Look up.”

Don looked. He felt vibration and heard a rumbling noise as the ceiling above them parted to reveal darkness filled with stars. Don pulled off the goggles. Above him was the cage and beyond that a ceiling with no opening. He put the goggles on, and the starry sky came back. “Impressive.”

“See the paddles on the sides? Take one in each hand. Now flap.”

“Flap?”

“Like a bird.”

Don did as he was told. The paddles looked to have been made originally for ping-pong. When he flapped, his feet came off the ground. He shot up through the ceiling into the night sky. “How do I get down?”

“Stop flapping.”

“What if I fall?”

“You’re eight inches off the ground, enough to keep your toes from touching. Even if you drop the paddles, your harness will let you down slowly.”

Don looked down. He saw a terribly convincing representation of the Davis building with huge doors open in its roof. The cages were far below. Don knew that in reality he was inside one of them. The students were gone from the courtyard. Robots stood alone in darkness, forms picked out by light from classroom windows. “Why is it nighttime?”

“I set our virtual world to run faster than reality.”

“Why?”

“More pretty sunsets that way. And sunrises. Six per day. Longer days than nights, like an arctic summer. Lean in the direction you want to go. Try to land in the courtyard. Gentle flaps.”

Don overshot his target twice before he hit it. As he felt his feet touch the ground, the breeze around him stopped. “That’s a convincing effect. I felt the wind while I was flying.”

His guide glided down beside him, the avatar looking much like the actual instructor. “We pulled a bunch of old computer fans. They mostly target your hands and head. The kids did a great job.”

Don kicked his foot out in front of him, as did his avatar. His cartoon representation was wearing cowboy boots. “And this is MICA’s virtual world?”

“No, this belongs to the community college.”

“What do you use it for?”

“Chem students climb through molecules. Math lectures are held inside graphed equations. Geography classes stride across continents. Language learners spend a morning in a foreign capital and are back in the cafeteria for lunch. Those freshmen built their first robots here. They went through a million dollars worth of materials on disastrous prototypes, and all it cost us was a few bucks in electricity.”

“How many of these cages do you have?”

“Just two. The simulation is accessible through portable headsets or even laptops, but a cage gives you the grand experience and has the full security system. Our friend Viderlick insisted on that part.”

“How do I get from here to MICA?”

“We and MICA are on the Open Grid. You hyperjump through the glowing gateway. Orrin gave me coordinates.”

“How do I get back?”

“Take off the goggles.”

“Oh. Right.” Don released his grip on the paddles and pulled the goggles away for a momentary check. He put them back on again. “Surprising how easy it is to forget this isn’t real. What do I look like here?”

“A generic cowboy. If you decide you like this kind of thing, you’ll build a representation of your own. For today’s secure connection, we created a temporary account. Orrin is waiting.”

“Right. Thanks.” Don walked to the gateway, a vertical circle of stone at the edge of the courtyard. Beyond it, he saw a bustling sunlit plaza. As he stepped from night to day, his body was tugged in different directions. Realizing this effect was executed by the harness in the cage, he had to laugh.

“Donald Broome?” The speaker was a minotaur—half man, half bull—fully nine feet tall.

“I’m looking for Orrin Viderlick.”

A sphere shot across the courtyard and circled Don’s head. “Welcome to MICA. Please accept our terms of service or be returned to your coordinates of origin.” The letters OK pulsed over dim text on the surface of the sphere.

“Slap the sphere, Don.”

“What if I want to read the terms of service first?”

“Are you a lawyer with a specialization in cyberlaw?”

“No.”

“Slap the sphere.”

Don slapped hard. The sphere flew away over a domed building.

“Home run, Don!”

“That felt good. Are you Orrin Viderlick?”

“I am his avatar.”

“In the same sense that I’m Donald Broome’s avatar?”

“You got it.”

“So, I’m hearing Orrin Viderlick’s voice?”

“Do I sound like a middle-aged man?”

“You sound like a minotaur.”

“Excellent! But yes, somewhere in the so-called real world, Orrin Viderlick is talking into a microphone, and you are hearing the same words he is speaking.”

“I need to ask you some questions about the device you designed for . . .”

The minotaur brought down its head, caught the oversized belt buckle on Don’s avatar with a horn and flipped him into the air. Don gasped, disoriented by the way his real-world harness had simulated the tossing effect. He took a moment to steady himself on virtual ground. The minotaur loomed over him. “Not here, Don. Follow me.”

They crossed a plaza filled with an assortment of men, women, children, animals, robots, aliens, mythical creatures and the occasional sentient cloud. A skeleton in a brightly colored robe approached. “Detective Broome?”

“Yes.”

“Jinasu told me you were coming. I am Taffy Tabor’s avatar. If we can do anything for you, please let me know.”

“Taffy? Yes, the necromancer. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“The best thing about MICA online is that you never know who you will run into.”

“Thank you for the greeting.”

Sparks flew as the minotaur scraped a hoof along a paving stone.

“I see Orrin is impatient.” The skeleton started back into the crowd. “If you need anything, stop by the mayor’s office. My staff will take care of you.” A bony hand waved goodbye.

“You know the mayor,” said the minotaur. “Cool. Come on.” He pointed down a side street with his horns.

“We’ve met.” Don followed the minotaur. “I had no idea she was the mayor.”

“President of MICA in the real world is mayor here.”

“Taffy Tabor is president of MICA? I suppose I should’ve known that.”

“Don, do you belong to a professional organization?”

“IHIA.”

“Would it surprise you to know that I do not know the name of the president of your professional organization?”

“No, I guess not.”

The minotaur located an archway and bent low to enter. They passed through a long, dark, descending tunnel and emerged on a cavern ledge above a pit with a platform suspended in its center. “You can fly, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” The minotaur squatted low and then thrust upward into a leap across the chasm.

Don looked down. The pit was not bottomless, just extremely deep, lined with jagged rocks. He might have felt more confident if it had only vanished into darkness. He took off the goggles and found it comforting but also strangely disorienting to still be in the real-world cage. The other cage was empty now and the instructor nowhere in sight. Don was alone. He put the goggles back on, took up the paddles and fluttered across the gap to join the waiting minotaur. “Can we talk here?”

The minotaur shook his massive head. “Any time you are online, assume governments, criminals, and high school nerds are listening.” He raised his hands high and slowly separated them. Between his palms, a wedge of blackness shot up into the ceiling of the chamber. As his arms came down, the wedge spread. By the time his hands came together below his waist, he and Don were alone, brightly lit yet surrounded by absolute darkness. “Now we can talk.”

“Where are we?”

“The place to write down passwords. Nowhere.”

“You think this makes us secure? In the real world, I’m in a college lab, and with these goggles on, I couldn’t even see if someone was nearby.”

“Someone is. The woman who runs your college’s Tech Ed program is a friend.”

“We have a witch at our college?”

“In her way. She can explain cybernetics to kids fresh out of high school. A trusted friend of a trusted friend, she understands you need privacy and will see you get it.”

“How do you know people in my town?”

“I know people everywhere. Do you have a question related to your case?”

“Yes. Grover Hughlings mentioned you as the man who did the electronics on the teleportation spell controller.”

“You know Rover? I love that guy. What a dog! You must have seen him in person. How did that go?”

“Pretty well, although I threw up on his porch steps.”

“Perfect! Rover will never forget the aroma of your gastric juices. You have a loyal friend for life.”