William Martin Freese

All characters are fictitious with no attempt to portray or parody anyone in our reality. Do the author the courtesy of assuming he has the imagination to make people up.

Author's Forward (Go ahead. It's really short.)

“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.

Part One: The Girl who Died

1 — Waiting for the Goddess

“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.”

2 — Snail

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.”

3 — Party Dress

“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.

4 — QiLina's Library

“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.”

5 — Na Pa Pa

“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.”

6 — Out of Sync

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.

7 — Jack and Jill

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.

8 — Breakfast with Orrin

“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 . . .”

9 — The One

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.”

10 — Family

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!

11 — QiLina's House

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.”

Part Two: The Miraculous Assumption

12 — Author's Midword

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.

13 — Donald Broome

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.”

14 — Ian Urquhart

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?”

15 — Peregrine Arnold

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.”

16 — Grover Hughlings

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.”

17 — Toby Bis

“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.”

18 — Orrin Viderlick

“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.”

“Good. How hard would it be for someone to reprogram one of your controllers?”

“No chance. Dual security: in the chip and in the spell. Of the entire human race, only one guy is qualified to crack it, and you are talking to him.”

“Who programs the chips at ACT?”

“Same guy.”

“You mean nobody can teleport without your work?”

“I mean exactly that.”

“What happens when you take a vacation?”

“I program the units ahead of time.”

“If you get sick?”

“Nobody goes anywhere.”

“Somebody must back you up.”

“The boss. More and less than backup. I cannot do it without her or she without me. But if I go down permanently, Ruby finds another me and rebuilds the system from scratch.”

“How long would that take?”

“Years. You need to understand the goal was not a system of transportation. The goal was human habitation on worlds around other stars. ACT has achieved its objective. We were not concerned with backing up our business software so much as backing up the human race, which we did. If the colonies lose touch for a decade, no big deal.”

“Some might disagree.”

“People who do not understand the danger inherent in teleportation. Weaker colonies cut off would probably result in a lot of deaths, but control is more important than anything. Secrecy means safety, and a true secret is a thing known to no more than a single person.”

“So you can guarantee me Cory Lariston . . .” Don stopped and pointed. “Who’s that?”

The minotaur turned. He shuffled a hoof in an embarrassed manner. “Sorry. I forgot I left them here.”

“Left who?”

“The girls.” As they approached from out of nowhere, Don saw two naked women, identical twins of a somewhat Asiatic cast.

“You said we were alone.”

“We are. You’re seeing virtual robots. I created them from a memory.”

Don whistled. “Some memory.”

“I once loved one of them.”

“Which one?”

“Hard to say.”

This made sense. As far as Don could tell, the only difference between them was that one wore a charm bracelet. The twins spoke in unison. “Orrin darling, we’ve missed you.”

The minotaur waved an arm. The girls vanished.

Don smiled and then wondered if his avatar were smiling. “Orrin, I’ve used ping-pong paddles to fly, jumped through hyperspace between two virtual worlds and just watched a minotaur standing in nothingness send two naked women back to nowhere. Why am I not going crazy?”

“Don, I am impressed. You asked the right question.”

“And the answer?”

“Your mind was ready for it. Modern physics tells us the world is not as we imagine it, but this comes as no surprise to those who understand. We never see the world, Don. We perceive a model of the world built inside our heads. Your brain is used to taking in stimuli and modeling a reality. This is what brains do. My gadget does more than guide a spell; it modifies a worldview. The only way Cory Lariston—or anyone—could teleport without my cooperation is if one of the three original teleporting magic users taught him how.”

“Do you think one of them might do that?”

“Not a sane one.”

“Is one of them insane?”

“I sure hope not.”

Nomik Motchk had shut down his computer and was getting up from the desk in his study when his telephone rang. “¿Bueno?”

“This is Detective Donald Broome.”

“Of course it is. I should have guessed.”

“You didn’t ask for Cory Lariston’s teleportation controller because you knew he didn’t need one.”

“What would make you think that?”

“After you told me only three people could have killed Cory, I asked if you ruled out suicide. You said no. Hughlings, Bis, and Viderlick have convinced me the spell that killed Cory couldn’t have been cast using a teleportation controller.”

“Unless Orrin programmed one to cast it.”

“You were thinking assisted suicide? Orrin Viderlick programmed a controller so Cory could use it to kill himself?”

“That does seem unlikely. There were too many easier ways to achieve the same purpose. Anyway, Orrin would never do it. We would not have granted him such power if he were the kind to misuse it.” Nomik Motchk opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a box with an elastic band attached. A pair of tubes extended from its concave face.

“I had the impression Orrin Viderlick might be capable of questionable behavior.”

“I am sure, but he has a streak of reliability you should not underestimate. If he had had the ability to teleport, I might have made greater use of him.”

“Do you know where Cory Lariston’s controller is?”

“In my hand.”

“Did you teach him to teleport without it?”

“I did.”

“I’ve been told only a madman would do that.”

“You have been talking to the best experts in the field. They must be right.”

“Are you telling me that you are crazy?”

“Have you spoken to Ruby yet?”

“I’ve been having trouble making contact.”

“Perhaps she is not impressed by MICA’s entreaty to cooperate. I will let her know she ought to see you. When you do, ask if she believes I am insane. Her response should be enlightening.”

“Where’s Ian?”

“His place.” Mrs. Broome was preparing the evening meal, a chicken casserole.

“He went back to Scotland without telling me goodbye?”

“Not Scotland. He found an apartment in town. The kids and I went over there today. Close to the school.”

“The high school?” Don poured himself a beer.

“No, the elementary school. Easy walking distance from here. Denny is going to visit Uncle Ian every day. Ian will bring him home, which sounds like a fine idea to me.”

“Ian is moving here? Does he need a green card?”

“Apparently immigration restrictions have exceptions for people with special skills.”

“Wizardry counts?”

“I guess so. Ian tells me it’s no problem.”

“This is crazy. Why would a wizard pick this town?”

Mrs. Broome opened a can of chicken soup. “I thought you loved this town.”

“I do. It’s a perfect place to raise a family.”

“Lots of people move here, and not necessarily because they have children. My cousin Laura lives here.”

“Your cousin Laura was born here.”

“But she has no children, and she still loves this town.”

“I was only saying it seems odd someone who could live anywhere he likes would move from Scotland to here.”

“You think people from Scotland are too good for my hometown? Mr. Ruskin moved here from Scotland, and he has no family at all.”

“I hadn’t thought of Mr. Ruskin. It makes perfect sense for Ian to move here.”

“Do you even know who Mr. Ruskin is?”

“No idea, but it was a mistake for me to have implied Ian, or anyone for that matter, wouldn’t want to live here. Madness on my part to have suggested it. I really do love this town, and I love you very, very much.”

“Well, all right, I suppose. I don’t know why you have to run down our town like that.”

“I probably had a bad day at work. Made me grumpy.”

“Did you have a bad day?”

“I was thrown into the air by a minotaur. Not a real minotaur, but it felt convincing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I interviewed a wizard in a virtual world. His avatar was a minotaur.”

“What did the minotaur tell you?”

“He told me we don’t perceive the world directly, neither the virtual world nor the real one.”

“Constructivism.”

“What?”

Mrs. Broome sprinkled buttery breadcrumbs over a thin layer of cheese. “Denny’s teacher told us about it. You should pay more attention on parent-teacher nights. Children build up a model of the world from their experiences.”

“Why do I waste my time talking to minotaurs when I have such a knowledgeable wife?”

“Did you meet anybody else in this virtual world?”

“The president of MICA, the magic user’s professional organization, but I’ve met her before.”

“You never told me.”

“I didn’t know she was president at the time. The necromancer. I told you about her.”

“Oh, yeah. This case has you rubbing shoulders with important people.”

“I’ve spoken three times with a founder of ACT, the interstellar travel company. I’ll have to talk to him again. And I’m trying to get in contact with another of the founders, Ruby, the woman running the business now.”

“I’m impressed. Anybody else?”

“A pair of beautiful twins dropped in while I was interviewing the minotaur. They were naked, but the minotaur put them in his pocket before I could have a word with them.”

Don’s wife hit him fairly firmly on the shoulder. “Who else was naked?”

“Now that I think about it, nobody. Not even the skeleton. I guess clothing is as important in the virtual world as in reality.”

“But not for the twins?”

“They were robots, not avatars. Not real people.”

“You met virtual robots?”

“And real ones. Did you know they build robots at our community college?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Broome put the casserole into the oven and set a timer.

“Of course you did.” Don sipped his beer, a sweet red ale. “Have you ever considered a career in detection?”

“Is it easy?”

“Aside from being tossed around by minotaurs.”

“Lots of naked women?”

Don enjoyed the beer and the novelty of hearing his wife talk about naked women. “Only imaginary ones, so far.”

“Keep it that way.”

“Detective work is an opportunity to learn new things.”

“I get plenty of that working at the library.”

“I suppose you do.”

“Did you and the minotaur discuss anything else?”

“Crazy people.”

Mrs. Broome poured herself a small splash of wine. “What do these people do that makes them crazy?”

“They run the world.”

Emily Putnam stood in the entryway. Beyond it was an identical entryway and beyond that the great hall with its staircases. She was aware that this was her first visit but also that she had been here often before. Passing through the second entryway both a first and a repeated time created a doubled sense of déjà vu.

The great hall had a grand staircase that divided at a landing. On the right, the stairs continued to the upper floors. On the left, they ended against the ceiling. Emily went left. She always went left. The first time she had gone left because she wanted to know why a set of steps went nowhere. Every other time, she went left because she had gone left the first time.

Near the top, she thumped the wall with a heavy book, trying to locate a hidden door, some reason for this grand approach to nothing. At the last step, walls, ceiling and stair enclosed a coffin-sized space open at the front and on the end toward the other stairway. One could lie in this space, as Emily did while she investigated, but it went nowhere and served no purpose.

Emily went back down and up the other stair. Here were doors suggesting a more rational architecture, but the promise went unfulfilled. Doorways opened onto stairs that led to doors that led to stairways. Rooms happened for no reason. Kitchens and dining rooms occurred in places with no rational relation. Windows looked into other rooms, or into walls, or into each other. Some floors simply ended in a drop to the room below. Others sloped until they became walls and then ceilings. A handsome railing would begin to curve in a manner suggesting elegance but concluding in madness.

Emily was lost. She tried to identify landmarks, notable elements she might return to, but everything made so little sense there was no chance for progress with any hope of finding her way back. Yet overlaid on all of this was the knowledge she had been here before. Each turning held a new surprise, but nothing was surprising. At last she came to the long yellow corridor ending in the black door.

She held her hand a moment on the knob. She knew what was coming and knew it would astonish her. She braced herself and opened the door. The room was huge, densely decorated, complex in its niches, naves, apses and arcades. She saw all of it at once, but that was impossible. Nothing moved, yet the scene grew endlessly as she took it in—a balloon inflated by perception. What grew was not the space but her capacity to know it.

Ruby woke up. “I always wake up in the same damned place.” She turned on her side to face the person lying next to her. “I know I got past that room before. I have to get past it again. How did I get past it?”

QiLina did not reply.

19 — Auggie Kalonimos

In a state of deep satisfaction, Auggie went over reports. It was a pleasure to provide Donald Broome with the tools to do his job. Not that these pages would solve the case, but Research was to be commended. The new software, in particular, had been well worth the investment.

Don was not in his office. Auggie asked around. Detective Broome had helped a coworker by swapping scheduled times at the practice range. The boss found him and watched as Don expertly perforated a target.

“Wasteful, Don. I reuse my targets. Yours is ruined.”

Don smiled. “Maybe if I flip it over?”

Auggie examined the tight grouping of bullet holes. “Lay it flat. You could probably hit it on edge.”

“I thought you still had to qualify, Auggie.”

“They let me get away with a combined score based on my shooting and my bookkeeping. It averages out.”

“Remind me never to take the boss along as backup.”

“The boss wants to discuss a stack of papers he left on your desk. What say we take a walk?”

“Or run?”

“If we run, we miss the part where I speak.”

“Walk it is.” After two quick doorways, they were outside in sunshine. “What’s the topic?”

“Research has their first reports for you. They started with your three suspects.”

“And the victim?”

“Some tech in Scotland is being difficult. They anticipate news soon.”

“What of my living witch and wizards, then?”

“Will Hilsat is clean as a whistle. Most suspicious thing he ever did was associate with the other two.”

“That agrees with everything I’ve heard.”

“Maybe he’s not really a suspect?”

“He still has means, in the sense that only four people in the world could have done it, and motive, if my current thinking on motivation is correct.”

“Four?”

“Suicide is still an option. Motchk taught Lariston uncontrolled teleportation, so he could have killed himself.”

“Why not teleport into outer space? Who kills himself with brain surgery?”

“It’s often done with pistols. This was cleaner.”

“I suppose so. What motive are you looking at.”

“Motchk taught Lariston uncontrolled teleportation.”

“You said that already.”

“In doing so, he made Lariston the fourth member in the world’s most exclusive club. Maybe someone blackballed him. What do you have on Ruby?”

“Let me tell you about Motchk next.”

“Saving the best for last?”

“Slow down. I said a walk.”

“Auggie, this could do you good.”

“You run ahead, then. I can talk to myself.”

“No, no. I want to hear.” Don dropped the pace enough to let Auggie speak without gasping.

“Nomik Motchk wants to be an enigma, but he’s an open book.”

“How’s that?”

“Because so many people have read him. When he revealed the existence of real magic, he became the focus of a great deal of attention. His business interests at that time were global, and as people came to understand that he'd spoken the truth, they wanted to know what a wizard might do with powers both magical and monetary. Every agency with an investigative branch assigned a twig to Motchk.”

“Finding what?”

“Rumors. Legends. No convictions, arrests, or even probable cause. Motchk may be the most dangerous man who never hurt a fly. It makes fascinating, if pointless, reading. You have a stack of it to fill your empty hours. My sense is the summary page on top will suffice.”

“Again, agrees with my sources. Motchk can’t commit a murder because the Eighth Doll won’t let him.”

“The what?”

“The enforcer of his religion. Remember? She’s a witch he set up to keep himself safe. She protects him even from his own worst impulses.”

“I recall no dolls on your list for Research.”

“My sources tell me she existed in our universe for less than a single second.”

“No time to run up a rap sheet, then.”

“Exactly. Now how about Ruby?”

“Research did a great job. Prepare to be impressed.”

“OK.”

“At first, Ruby looked like a third strike.”

“With a brothel in her past?”

“A legal brothel in Nevada.”

“Prostitution is never completely clean.”

“So Research figured. Drawing a blank on Ruby, they went after her partner Sapphire. They found a few aliases in both cases but nothing substantial.”

“Prostitution is bound to involve aliases. So is magic, for that matter.”

“Here the new software comes in. We’re connected to a Federal system that looks at everything the Feds feel it legally can, which turns out to be pretty close to everything. This thing looks for connections.”

“What kind of connections?”

“Any kind. It examines interlocking databases. If Ruby subscribes to a magazine, and you subscribe to a magazine from the same publisher, this thing notices. If you both use coupons to buy pretzels, it has a second hit.”

“Sounds complete enough to be useless.”

“Separating wheat from chaff is its greatest skill. First it came up with more aliases. Pages of them. The system does a lot of guessing. It can’t tell in some cases if an alias is Ruby or Sapphire. Research thinks a third woman may have been involved because the aliases come in groups of three. Other than that fact, they have no proof the third party exists.”

“A genuine woman of mystery.”

“It gets better. While the system accumulates names, it looks for other connections: where, when and what goes on around them. The system found three associations these names have in common. Prostitution, legal and illegal . . .”

“No surprise.”

“Missing persons . . .”

“Prostitution and missing persons go together like ham and eggs.”

“And library fundraisers.”

Don stopped walking. “That has to be coincidence.”

“Everything this system looks at is coincidence. The ones it reports are highly probably related.”

“Auggie, you’re blowing my mind, and my mind has had a lot of blowing lately.”

“It gets even better.”

“Better than prostitution and library fundraisers?”

The pause in their forward movement allowed Auggie oxygen for enthusiasm. “The disappearances are the best part. Let me start you with one name: Margo Jaeger.”

“The actress? The woman spirited away by ghosts? Some guy burned down her mansion. That Margo Jaeger? That was what, twenty or thirty years ago? Maybe forty?”

Auggie nodded. “Here comes my favorite part. Remember, we think three women were involved. All three are on the list of the disappeared.”

“What does that even mean?”

“When Margo Jaeger vanished, another actress went with her, a minor starlet by the name of Rose Park. The computer looks not just at text but pictures. It estimates how people will look as they age. The report includes a string of photos. The first are Rose Park’s publicity stills. The last is a Nevada driver’s license. The ones between are fuzzy images with fuzzy associations, but when you put them together it makes a case—nothing you can prove in court you understand—but a case that Rose Park could be Sapphire.”

“And what, Ruby is Margo Jaeger?”

“Not pretty enough. Margo Jaeger’s disappearance remains a mystery, and so do a dozen others more loosely associated with our trio.”

“A dozen! Not just a new way to commit murder, now a major crime wave?”

“Not done yet. The computer thinks Ruby, the head of ACT, is actually a woman by the name of Emily Putnam, but Emily Putnam’s family think Emily died in childhood.”

“Steal an identity from a child’s death certificate. It’s been done before.”

“Only there is no death certificate. The family are convinced the child is dead, cite her death in family documents, mention her loss with friends online, but at the actual time of death, nothing. No hospital records. No coroner’s report. No obituary. No burial.”

“A missing child nobody knows is missing?”

Auggie nodded.

“Well of course. Ruby is a witch. That’s how they used to do it. Ian Urquhart told me. He did something similar to Cory Lariston’s family.”

“If we turned this system loose on every witch and wizard, results could be interesting.”

“No kidding.” Don began to walk again. “Did you say this thing watches what people say online?”

“Everybody watches what people say online. This thing thinks about it more.”

“Yeah. Kind of what Orrin Viderlick told me. Did I put Orrin on the list?”

“You did. He plays a lot of online games. They think there may be more, but it’s proving difficult to ferret out.”

“Viderlick could be interesting, although he may have the skills to cover his tracks, but Cory Lariston is the one I want next.”

“Research knows to contact us with anything when Scotland comes through.”

“You said the third woman was also a disappearance.”

“If she ever existed in the first place. We only know of her because the aliases come in groups of three, but when the names Sapphire and Ruby finally emerge, they’re a pair. The computer finds no third name from that moment forward. And one more thing, when the third chain of aliases stops, so do the library fundraisers.”

“And we thought this was a simple case of a man getting his brains teleported out of his head.”

“Detective, are we in over our heads?”

“We were over our heads the first day. We’re freediving the ocean’s deepest trenches.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Not necessarily. We have vague circumstantial links to a lot of disappearances. We have a murder that could still turn out to be a suicide. For all we know, none of these people have killed anybody.”

“But if they have, how dangerous are they? Is this police work, or do we need an army?”

“Auggie, an army wouldn’t help. That’s why I’m not worried. We pose no threat. If I’m right about why Cory Lariston was killed, it was because he was genuinely dangerous. Nobody will bother to teleport my brains out of my skull. It’d be a waste of magical energy.”

“OK. Maybe I can see that. What’s our next move?”

“At Motchk’s urging, Ruby has agreed to see me.”

“Telephone?”

“Face to face. ACT headquarters. Elko, Nevada.”

“Naturally.”

“Can the budget spare another ticket?”

“I’m going to apply for a Federal grant. Feds like seeing their toys put to good use. Maybe our results from Research will get them interested.”

“You do that. In the meantime, I’ll pay a visit to the center of the human race.”

J. C. Harris International Airport in Elko was one of the busiest in the world. While cargo might be teleported directly between a planet and one of a handful of earth’s major cities, colonists came exclusively through Harris on their way to Beowawe and the teleportation gates. Donald Broome joined a group on a shuttle from the airport to the ACT processing center. Here adventurous families met final approval before leaving their homeworld to seek a life among the stars. Don went a few doors farther.

The receptionist, an older woman, struck him as overly made up. While he waited for his scheduled time, he reviewed his questions.

He would ask for details on teleportation. He already knew most of the answers but wanted to gage Ruby’s reactions, learn not just what she knew but how she felt. Did she know Cory Lariston? Did she trust him? If not, did she see him as a threat? Of what actions was he capable? Of what actions was she capable? For this interview, he would concentrate on matters related to the case. He would not ask directly about disappearances or library fundraisers but might, if time allowed, try for a sense of that story.

At last, Ruby was free to see him. Don went in. Three hours later he came out with Ruby, who asked if there was anything he needed for the evening. He assured her he was fine and thanked her for her cooperation. The hotel attached to the teleportation center was pleasant. Its restaurant was surprisingly good, considering the mobs it served.

At the hotel bar, an international crowd kept the place lively singing the local songs of distant locales. Don had a nightcap and a pleasant conversation with one of the older bartenders. He slept well. Next morning, he took the shuttle to J. C. Harris, flying home in time for an afternoon at work.

Auggie stopped by Don’s office. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Ruby? What did you get from ACT’s chief exec?”

“She left no questions unanswered and gave no answers I found unsatisfactory.”

“And?”

“She was never uncooperative.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing of any interest. Motchk and Hilsat are the guys I need to investigate. Ruby is a dead end.”

“I find that difficult to believe, but I suppose your report will convince me.”

“I won’t be writing up this interview.”

“Excuse me? Don, this department paid for your ticket. We anticipate your report.”

“No.”

Auggie considered this response. “How long was your interview with Ruby?”

“I was surprised she gave me so much time. She’s a busy woman, what with running an interstellar transport company, but she never hinted I should leave.”

“What about Sapphire? Did you talk to her?”

“After the conversation with Ruby, it was clear that would have been a waste of time.”

“Because what? You had other things to do in Elko?”

“A waste of Sapphire’s time. These are important people, Auggie, doing important work.”

“Right.” Auggie looked curiously at his detective, who had returned attention to papers on the desk. “Your work is important too, Don, so I’ll let you get back to it.”

It took Auggie nearly an hour to track down Ian Urquhart. They returned to find Don still in his office, reviewing the report on Will Hilsat. Their arrival startled him. “Ian, what brings you here?”

“Captain Kalonimos tells me you had a chat with that woman who runs ACT. I know Nomik Motchk quite well, but I have never met Ruby. What is she like?”

“She said nothing suggesting involvement in Cory’s death, if that’s what you want to know.”

Auggie and Ian exchanged a glance. Ian nodded. “Donald, you trust me, right?”

“I’d better. You spend as much time with my kids as I do these days.”

“Auggie and I think you may be suffering from a difficulty, a residue, the result of too much association with people of a certain sort.”

“What sort?”

“Magic users.”

“Ruby? Because if you think Ruby caused me any harm, you’re completely incorrect.”

“I was thinking more of myself. We wizards may, with no intention of malice, have an effect on leefers—that is our fellow human beings—requiring an intervention.”

“Is that what this is? An intervention?”

“A simple ritual.”

“Mumbo jumbo in my office. No way.”

Auggie gestured for Ian to step back. “This wasn’t Ian’s idea. I’m the one who noticed the problem and asked him to help out. Don, you’re one of my best men, working on our most challenging case. I need you in top form. I’m asking you to allow Ian to do a simple check for this magical residue, erring perhaps on the side of safety.”

“Can I keep working while he does it?”

Auggie looked to Ian. “Absolutely, Donald. Only takes a moment. You go on with your reading while I prepare.”

“All right, but nothing ridiculous. People can see in here, you know.”

“I will keep that in mind. Captain, you may sit.”

Auggie sat. So did Ian, who reached into a pocket, took out an opaque jar and placed it on the corner of the desk. Don glanced at it dismissively and returned to his research. Auggie held his hands below the level of the desktop so their motions would not be distracting. His mumbles were nearly inaudible but were still too much for Don.

“Do you have to do that?”

“Sorry, Donald. Almost done.” Ian unscrewed the lid off the jar. A scraping sound came from inside it.

“Is there an animal in that thing?”

“Nothing dangerous.” As Ian said this, a head poked over the jar’s rim. “Just a common lizard. This one is a pet”

“What’s its name?”

“Lizards do not use names. I love this one because her eyes are two different colors.”

Don looked at the lizard’s eyes. “They look the same to me. Both sort of golden. With tiny sparkles.”

Auggie started to stand for a better look, but Ian waved him back. “Don, I do not want you to tell me anything about your visit to ACT.”

Don continued to stare into the lizard’s eyes. “I thought you did.”

“No, and neither does your captain. Nobody wants to know what happened. Nobody but you.”

“Me?” Don stood, leaning over his desk to get a better look at the lizard’s eyes. The sparkles seemed to swirl.

“You want to know.”

Don placed both hands on the desk, palms down.

“You need to know.”

Don leaned, bringing his face close to the jar.

“You must know.”

Don was nose to nose with the nameless lizard.

“You will know.”

The lizard’s tongue flicked against Don’s nose. He jerked as if hit by lightning and stood bolt upright. “I know!”

Ian lowered the perforated lid as the lizard obligingly withdrew. “You do not need to tell us.”

“I will! Nothing important happened.”

“We will not listen.”

Ian looked to Auggie, who picked up the cue. “Time for a nap. I sleep very soundly and won’t hear a thing.”

Ian gave Auggie an incredulous look, but Don accepted their comments at face value. “You’ll miss nothing because there’s nothing to hear.” Don began to pace the room. “Ruby welcomed me into her office. She asked me to sit. I did. She sat at her desk, turned away from me so she could work on documents. I watched her work. Twice she left the room, once for quite some time. She was back, working at her desk, when she turned to me and asked if I had any further questions.”

The listeners waited silently, although for Auggie this was a struggle.

Don continued to pace. “I said no. She asked when my plane left. I told her, and she asked if I needed anything before then. I said no, thanked her for her cooperation, and we said goodbye.”

Auggie started to speak, but Ian waved him back.

“As pleasant an interview as I’ve had on this case. Quite refreshing. The room was full of flowers. Nice smell. Nothing like Grover Hughlings house. I was going to ask what kind of flowers they were.” Don stopped in the center of his office. He massaged his temples with both hands, closing his eyes as he did. “I didn’t ask.” After some time, he looked at Auggie. “I didn’t ask her anything.” Don began to pace again but said nothing further.

Auggie looked to Ian, who nodded. Auggie asked, “How long were you with her?”

Don looked around the room, seeking the answer somewhere. He checked his watch as if that would help. Somehow, it did. “Three hours, give or take.”

Auggie looked to Ian again, but Ian shook his head. They waited while Don paced. He spoke at last, as if to himself. “Three hours. She came and went. No questions. Lovely flowers. The wallpaper was interesting. No questions? Subtle pattern. Three hours.” Don stopped in front of Auggie. “I sat in the room for three hours, staring at the pattern on the wallpaper, and never asked a question. What the hell is wrong with me?”

Ian stood. “Nothing, now. The witch used magic to direct your mind. My lizard has dispelled her hex.”

“Auggie, I stared at the wall for three hours, not saying a word, and it never occurred to me anything was wrong.”

“Not your fault, Don. You heard what Ian said. You were bewitched. Ruby moves to the top of our suspect list.”

“Not necessarily,” said Ian. “A spell like this to brush off a leefer nuisance was not all that uncommon in the old days. Ruby may be old fashioned. Unreformed.”

“You think Motchk the more likely suspect?”

“Do I care? Cory’s life is ended, and I must accept that fact. Vengeance holds no interest for a Christian man.”

“Police work isn’t actually about revenge.”

“If you say so, Captain Kalonimos. As for me, I am ready to get on with my life.”

“Good to hear, and please call me Auggie. So, will you be going back to Scotland soon?”

“Not immediately. I find I like this town and am drawn to people in it. Speaking of which.” Ian got up, opened the office door and shouted. “Denny, get in here, lad.”

“You brought Denny with you?” asked Don.

“He was with me when Auggie found us. Quicker to bring him along. He was excited to see where Daddy works.”

Denny charged into the room and threw his arms around his father’s legs. “Hello, Daddy!” In an instant, Denny was making his way around the office, fascinated by everything. He stopped at the jar on the corner of the desk. “Uncle Ian, did you bring your lizard?”

“I wanted your Daddy to meet her.”

“She is a wonderful lizard, Daddy.”

“So I gather. Uncle Ian told me the lizard has no name. I find it hard to believe you haven’t named her.”

Denny looked seriously at his father. “Lizards do not use names.”

20 — Will Hilsat

The barman setting up for the evening’s business caught a movement in peripheral vision. He reached across the bar and nudged Sapphire. “Look who’s back.”

Without looking, she smiled. “Is it who I think it is?”

“If it is, you must have expected him. We haven’t seen him in this place in years.”

Sapphire turned. “How shabbily he dresses now. He must have finally made his billion.” She stood as Will Hilsat crossed the bar. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“For you, Sapphire, I’ll even fly.”

“Airplanes still bother you, then?”

“Not as much since I took off the ring. My bad flying memories are now memories of memories.”

“Memories of someone else’s memories.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Wearing Free Hilsat’s ring for all those years made him a part of me.”

“But no longer an obsession?”

“Will Hilsat is free because he is no longer Free.”

“On that silly note, what will Will have?”

Will checked the time. “Not too early for a beer, I guess. Do you have that good Cuban stuff in stock?”

The barman pulled a bottle from the back of the cooler. “You ask for this to honor me.” He poured and put the glass on the bar. “To honor you, one from my private collection.”

“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

Sapphire tapped the rim of her club soda against Will’s beer. “To old friends.”

The barman raised an imaginary glass. “To the best problem-solving team that ever saved the human race.”

Will drank and nodded his approval. “Or saved an old man who wasn’t the Old Man. What’s today’s difficulty?”

The barman waved his glass out of existence. “The crazy witch we work for is getting even crazier.”

Sapphire hissed. “You have no idea what it is to work for a truly crazy witch.”

Will put down his beer. “Which witch?”

“QiLina, although at the time I didn’t know she was a witch. Or that Ruby was, for that matter.”

“QiLina was crazy?”

“I shouldn’t have brought her up. I last saw her a lifetime ago. Our concern today is Ruby.”

“And here she is now,” said the barman.

They turned and saw Ruby crossing the room. She did not look happy. “Will Hilsat, which disaster brings you back to me?”

Will stood and embraced her. Ruby did not hug him back at first but then gave in, even resting her head on his shoulder, holding on until he let go. He helped her to a barstool. “What disasters do I have to choose from?”

“We may have lost an exploratory party, far overdue in their return. This is our longest delay since the crash at Bacab.”

“What happened at Bacab?”

“The ship almost landed in one of the planet’s radioactive hot spots. They caught their error in the nick of time, but the last-minute diversion resulted in a messy wreck. The wizard on board was injured. It was months before he felt well enough to hazard the crew on a teleport back to earth.”

“And you’d have had no communication?”

“If they could’ve sent a message, it would’ve taken a century to reach us. All we knew was that they were gone.”

“I know we have Bacab, so it turned out for the best?”

“Their crash zone was in the Bacab green belt, now famous for its healthful fruits and vegetables, peaceful brainless edible creatures, moderate climate, and spectacular scenery. We attended the crew’s memorials while they enjoyed months recovering in paradise.”

“Could this current delay be a similar story?”

“Or one of those missions we never hear from again.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“There aren’t enough witches and wizards who can teleport for us to waste one on a rescue mission into a region of unknown dangers. We only want so many villagers drowning in the same well. We move on to the next candidate world. So no, absolutely nothing we can do.”

“I prefer disasters with possible solutions. What’s my next choice?”

“I’m a suspect in a murder, but so are you.”

“They don’t actually think you did it, do they?”

“A police detective came to talk to me.”

“Donald Broome?”

“I think that was his name.” Ruby signaled the barman to pour her usual: her usual for after work on Thursdays at this time of year. “He’ll probably decide I did it.”

“Why?”

“The other people who could have done it are a man who can’t murder even if he wants to, and a Boy Scout.”

“How’d you know I was a Boy Scout?”

Ruby sighed. “I may as well call Broome and confess.”

“I think you’re right about Nomik. Unless the Eighth Doll had some reason to want Lariston dead, it has to have been a suicide.”

“Thank you for that vote of confidence.”

“How do we convince the police?” asked Sapphire.

“I don’t think we need to.” Ruby smiled just a little. “You’ll never see me being led away in handcuffs.”

Will asked, “Does Nomik have any interest in getting back into the travel business?”

“I doubt it. You want in?”

“No way! That gives you a monopoly on interstellar transport. It could be a factor at your trial.”

The barman was wiping glassware. “I bet she can sway a jury.”

Ruby sipped her drink. “You could not imagine.”

“Good then,” said Will. “Any more disasters?”

“Just the one Sapphire called you in for.”

“Ruby!” said Sapphire. “You’re not supposed to read my mind.”

“No magic involved. I knew what you were up to the moment I saw Will.”

Will raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “Sapphire hoped I might be of service. You’ve helped me so often in the past.”

Ruby looked down at the drink in front of her. “I can deal with this on my own.”

“I don’t doubt that, but as long as you have friends, why not make use of willing help?”

“This is nothing friends can help with.”

“That’s something for friends to decide. Informed friends. What’s the problem?” Will had been a teacher and knew to provide adequate wait time after asking a difficult question. Eventually though, it became apparent Ruby would not respond. “Sapphire?”

“She has a recurring nightmare.”

Ruby shook her head, indicating disagreement, but chose not to speak.

“She’s walking through a house, a crazy place. She opens the door into an even crazier room. Then she wakes up. She has the same dream every time she falls asleep. It’s been going on for weeks.”

Will sipped thoughtfully from his Cuban beer. “Ruby, is there anything in this dream you recognize from real life?”

“Yes. Everything. Good night.” And with that, Ruby vanished, taking much of the barstool with her.

“¡Dios mio!” The barman dropped a glass that shattered on the floor.

“What he said,” said Sapphire.

“I trust she doesn’t do that often?” asked Will.

“That was a teleport, wasn’t it?”

Will nodded.

“I haven’t seen her do that since the day she went after you and Peregrine in the Gulf of Mexico, back when we were fighting Nomik. At that time, she used a guide Toby Bis set up for her.”

“When you first start teleporting, the guide is helpful, but the spell can be done without it.”

“I knew you and Nomik had both done that. But not like this. She didn’t do anything. Just vanished.”

“Peregrine taught us to cast spells without word or gesture. It’s damned difficult. She could always do it easier than I.” Will sipped his beer. “Never tried it with a teleportation spell. I don’t like what this implies.”

“What?” asked the barman.

“She’s been getting a lot of practice with that spell.”

“Is this bad?”

“Teleportation has its dangers. When we set up ACT, Ruby, Nomik and I promised each other we’d never again teleport from point to point on earth.”

“And you never have?”

“Of course not. It was a promise.”

“My God,” said Sapphire. “You really were a Boy Scout.”

“¿Hay alguien ahí?”

“Donald Broome calling for Señor Motchk.”

“And I picked up the telephone before it rang. This is becoming disturbing, Detective.”

“Maybe someone thinks you should talk to me.”

“Someone does. It must be obvious to you by now that I have been putting you off.”

“I had gotten that sense.”

“Did you get to talk to Ruby?”

“I spent three hours with her.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Did you remember to ask her opinion of my sanity?”

“I didn’t ask her anything at all.”

Motchk chuckled. “Ruby has her skills.”

“So I learned. I can’t say I was taken with her.”

“Do not let the first impression put you off. Ruby once helped a group of people to save the human race.”

“From what?”

“From me. All right, Detective, ask your questions.”

“Why did you teach Cory Lariston to teleport without a controller? What was he supposed to do for you?”

“Liberate me.”

“From what?”

“My daughter Beta.”

“The Eighth Doll? I heard she was your protector.”

“Therein lies the problem.”

“How so?”

“I made a mistake, Detective. It is a long story.”

“Listening to stories is the best part of my job.”

“Fine then.” Motchk indicated with a gesture to a servant he would take his tea now. “It began many years before you were born, when Will Hilsat almost killed me.”

“I’ve seen his birth certificate. Hilsat isn’t much older than I am.”

“This was also before Hilsat was born.”

“One of those time wizard things?”

“Exactly. The point is, I spent years in recovery and could find no escape from fear of another assault.”

“Hilsat doesn’t strike me as a violent man.”

“I have since learned his attack had been an accident. He was unaware of the consequences of his actions, but this knowledge came too late. By then, I had made my mistake.”

“Which was?”

“The Eighth Doll. I found an ancient spell and improved upon it. I put Beta where she could watch over me and allow us to watch over my future. I gave her the mission of keeping me safe and healthy.”

“And she’s been successful.”

“Beyond my wildest dreams, especially in these last few years. My old wounds have healed. My body is as strong and flexible as a teenage gymnast. Detective, I am the oldest man you will ever know, but I could beat you in a foot race.”

“You’ve found the Fountain of Youth.”

“And cannot escape its flood.”

“Will you become a child again?”

“No. Lately, I go back and forth. Eventually, I will settle into a perfect age from which I will not budge. Beta will keep me that way forever.”

“Why would you seek liberation?”

“I said the word forever, yet you did not gasp in horror. This is because you are not a time wizard. We know what forever is, how a century can become as meaningless as a speck of dust within the whirlwind of eternity.”

“Eternal life is what religions promise.”

“The surest proof of their falsity.”

“Are you saying you wish to die?”

“Not immediately, but my friend Peregrine Arnold loves to point out the vast difference between a million and a billion years. If the Eighth Doll has her way, that difference will mean nothing to me. The billions will be dust as well.”

“I’m still not sure I see your problem, but what’d you want Lariston to do about it?”

“I wanted him to destroy her.”

“Señor Motchk, you understand I’m a homicide detective?”

“You have enough jurisdictional difficulty dealing with Mexico and MICA. Imagine trying to prosecute a murder where the crime took place in another universe with a victim whose very existence can only be confirmed upon the murderer’s testimony.”

“I enjoy a challenge, but you have a point. How was Lariston supposed to do it?”

“Cory was a special boy. It took me years to find him.”

“I thought Jinasu found him for you?”

“The tricky part was getting her to believe my taking Cory as an apprentice was her idea. Ian Urquhart could not have been convinced by me, but everyone trusts Jinasu.”

“What was so special about Cory Lariston?”

“He was a magic user and a genius. Teaching him to teleport was only the beginning. Together we studied the physics of quantum spacetime: Einstein, Heisenberg, and Hilsat. Will’s work was invaluable, but please do not tell him I said so.”

“OK.”

“Cory went beyond them. At first I led but then struggled to keep up. Eventually, I would tell him what I needed, and by opening doors I never knew existed, he would find the way.”

“The way to neutralize the Eighth Doll?”

“Do not be squeamish, Detective. His mission was to dismember her. Working from my original spells, with his new knowledge, he would teleport from our universe into hers and use teleportation again to scramble her reality.”

“What would happen to him?”

“He would hold a pocket of her pocket universe intact, enough to protect him until he could return.”

“Señor Motchk, is the Eighth Doll still alive?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“Did Cory make the attempt to kill her?”

“Her universe exists for a single purpose, to provide a vantage point onto ours. When I make contact with her, I see through her mind a modified subset of our reality. Beta sees it all. She once forced a portion of her vision onto Ruby, whose recovery took days. When Cory arrived, he was unable to avoid seeing what she saw, not filtered through her perception but directly with his own. Beta’s mind was designed for that purpose. Cory’s could not cope.”

“What happened to him?”

“I believe he went insane. When he returned, he did not come to me as we had planned but took himself to who knows where.”

“How’d you know he came back at all.”

“He called me on the telephone.”

“What’d he say.”

“He gibbered and cackled. Nothing that made sense.”

“A madman with unlimited power of teleportation?”

“That and more, Detective Broome. Cory’s mission was to destroy a universe, a job for which he was perfectly prepared. I did not kill Cory, but only because I did not know where he was. If Ruby or Will killed him, I must approve.”

“Did they know what had happened?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Even if they had known, how could either of them have found him?”

“Fascinating question. You should ask them.”

Will knocked once. He had a long wait, but eventually Ruby opened the door. For a moment, he did not think of her as Ruby, or as Emily Putnam, but as Crystal, the witch who shared apprenticeship with Free Hilsat. The moment passed.

“Something you wanted?”

Will looked beyond Emily into her parlor. “That broken barstool looks out of place down here, not to mention the gap you left at the bar.”

“Not all the worlds we colonize are as gentle as Bacab. For some, we require a rough crowd who can face hardships. Their last night on Earth, they tend to be rambunctious. We keep spare stools in stock.”

“I’m surprised you still sleep down here. The complex has grown so much, I hardly recognized old Dreamland Ranch. Now that you have towers, why not take a penthouse?”

“No reason for an old friend to stand in the corridor. Come in, Will.”

He entered, almost sat in the wingback chair but remembered it was hers and took the couch. She joined him there. He considered putting an arm around her but did not. He looked to her closed bedroom door. “One of the pleasures of being your lover was sleeping together in Dreamland’s various stimulating settings. We never did the same room twice, but I don’t recall getting into your actual bedroom.”

“You won’t be getting in there tonight, either.”

“Sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

“When one keeps a place with so many public rooms, it’s nice to have a private location to be messy.”

Will thought about his own untidy bedroom. “I suppose so. How have you been? How are you?”

“Plagued by nightmares, to hear Sapphire tell it.”

“She cares about you. We all do.”

“I know.” Emily slid a little closer. “Have I ever told you how I was taught to think of minds when I look into them: the analogy?”

“No.” Will did not move.

“The spell I use reveals the subject’s way of thinking as though it was a building. Memories can appear as books, or pictures, or models, or television programs. Personality comes through in furniture and architecture.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“It is. Every mind is unique and almost always holds some surprise.”

“You looked into my mind once. What kind of building was I?”

“A duplex.”

Will laughed. “With Free Hilsat in me at the time, that makes perfect sense.”

“I saw another mind recently. The structure was chaotic. I’ve been in crazy minds before but not as bad as this one.”

“One of your rambunctious colonists?”

“No. They tend to be log cabins. This was a mansion, but its architecture made no sense.”

“And now it haunts your dreams?”

Ruby nodded. “I keep going back there, only I can’t get through it. I always stop at the same place: a door into a gigantic room too complex to contemplate.”

“Is that as far as you got in reality?”

“No, but for some reason, I can’t remember how I got away from it.”

“Do you remember where you ended up once you did?”

“Yes. I came to a window that looked outside.”

“What did you see?”

“Lawns and gardens, and beyond them another building. I had to teleport to get there because I knew I’d never find my way out of the crazy mansion.”

“Teleport like you did this evening?”

“I know what you’re thinking, but it’s so damned handy. You have no idea how complex this business is, how busy it gets. There are times when I simply must be in two places almost simultaneously, and since I can . . .”

“You know how dangerous that is.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Not just for you.”

“Nobody ever sees me do it. The secret is safe.”

“We saw you tonight.”

“The three of you have seen me teleport before. You know not to let the word get out.”

Will looked sternly at Ruby but realized he was not having an effect. “So, what did you see in the other building?”

“It turned out to be a guest house.”

“Was there a guest?”

“One wouldn’t expect to see people. The person is the brain’s emergent property of mind, which I perceive as the structure and its contents. QiLina taught me that.”

“Was your mentor crazy?”

“QiLina was the sanest person I ever met.”

“Sapphire suggested otherwise.”

“I’m sure she seemed that way to Sapphire.”

“I remember you once told Peregrine Arnold you’d killed QiLina.”

“A lie with good intent. Or were you thinking this was evidence of my murderous nature? I remember we both once tried to kill the Eighth Doll.”

“Again, with good intentions.”

“Pavement. Forgive me, Will. I’m very tired.”

“Sapphire has provided me with a room, but I don’t want to stay in Beowawe if it’s going to bother you.”

“Not at all, Will. My behavior tonight was influenced by worries and exhaustion. Nothing to do with you. It’s good to see you, and I’d be happy to have you stay as long as you like. I assume we have your credit card on file?”

Will chuckled. “Of course. Left over from the old days.”

Ruby led Will to the door and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Good night.”

After Will left, Ruby opened the door to her bedroom. “Get up, old woman. Time for evening exercises.”

Ruby watched as QiLina paced the treadmill. Once QiLina had been started, she would continue until stopped again, but a woman her age could trip and fall with disastrous consequences. Ruby understood Will’s concern with the dangers of teleportation, but let him try being the leader of the world’s most important business while simultaneously the sole caregiver for a loved one.

21 — Neils Bohr

“Keeping late hours? I thought that was my job.”

Don acknowledged Auggie with a weak smile.

“How goes Lariston?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Are you under another hex?”

“Ian says I’m inoculated. This is just a mood.”

Auggie entered the office and dropped into the comfortable corner chair. “Don, you’ve worked cases that would’ve driven weaker men around the bend. Why is dealing with magic so different?”

“Irresponsibility and power. Disregard for human life.”

“We’ve seen those before.”

“This time on a grander scale.”

“I see. What did Motchk tell you?”

“He sent Cory Lariston to murder the Eighth Doll.”

“Murder his goddess?”

“His daughter. He never actually worshipped her, and when she granted him eternal life, he rejected it.”

“Motchk could have had eternal life?”

“Has it. Doesn’t want it.”

“Why not?”

“I gather because he understands the concept too well.”

“Is this what disturbs you?”

“No. My church promises eternal life, but that’s not why I joined.”

“Why did you, if I may ask?”

“To please my in-laws.”

“Sounds familiar. Did Lariston succeed?”

“No.”

“I’m going to assume attempted murder of a goddess comes under the jurisdiction of ecclesiastical court. Not our problem. So Lariston was no angel.”

“And neither is Hilsat.”

Auggie sat up straighter. “Our squeaky clean suspect?”

“Motchk created the Eighth Doll for protection in case Will Hilsat attacked him again.”

“Hilsat attacked Motchk? When? How?”

“By accident, Motchk claimed. Before Hilsat was born.”

“Before? I’ve seen twists and turns in a case, but these magicians . . .”

“No kidding. To protect himself from Hilsat, Motchk marooned his daughter in another universe with powers to keep him alive, but she’s doing it too well, so he’ll exist forever, which he doesn’t want, so he taught Cory Lariston to teleport into her universe to kill her, but she or her universe drove Cory crazy, so Cory came back to our world insane and with insanely dangerous powers.”

“So Motchk killed him?”

“He says no, but the reason Motchk wasn’t our prime suspect was because the Eighth Doll wouldn’t let him commit murder. If the victim was a guy who came to her universe to kill her, she might make an exception. Or maybe Hilsat did it, or Ruby. Whoever killed Cory Lariston deserves a medal because Cory might have killed everybody.”

“Killed Motchk and Hilsat and Ruby?”

“Everybody. You and me, and China and Chile, and Mars and Bacab. The Eighth Doll, in her pocket universe, could have been the only survivor of the human race.”

“So in this case, the murderer deserves the headlines.”

“I want to know who did it so I can thank them personally. Then I want a way to make these magical people less magical.”

“Even Ian Urquhart?”

Don sighed. “No, not Ian. Maybe just the ones who mess with time and space.”

“Detective, these aren’t your problems. People at levels far above our pay grades, in MICA and world governments, have that assignment. Your job is to find out who killed Cory Lariston. When you do, I say we call it good.”

“No trial or conviction?”

“Leave that to the District Attorney or maybe the Attorney General. Start with the possible.”

“I try to listen to my boss.”

“Very wise. What’s your next move?”

“Talk to Hilsat again, knowing what I know now. And talk to Ruby, using words this time, I hope.”

“Maybe Ian would go with you.”

“Two tickets?”

“This case is getting attention at those higher levels. We’re establishing procedural precedent in dealing with magical murder. Support may be available. Do you know if Ian would be interested in employment as a consultant, perhaps on a semi-permanent basis?”

Don nodded. “I think he might. I don’t know why else he’s hanging around town.”

“Dr. Hilsat, this is Detective Donald Broome again. I got your mobile number from your office. Despite the hour, I wonder if you might have a moment for a few questions.”

Will glanced around his hotel room, as if looking for reasons he was not free, but found nothing. “Yes, Don. I’m available. Your formal tone worries me, though. Am I a suspect now?”

“We have to consider all possibilities, Will. Your name has been mentioned as one of the three people who might have means and motive.”

“Motive? Until you told me the details of your case, I’d never heard of Cory Lariston.”

“Were you aware of the research Nomik Motchk was doing in teleportation?”

“In relation to space travel?”

“In relation to sending someone into the pocket universe occupied by the Eighth Doll.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Motchk told me he did it.”

“How?”

“Motchk taught Cory Lariston to teleport without a controller.”

“Don, please, not over the phone.”

“Then together they developed a new spell, making use of, among other things, your published research.”

“The fool! I swear, I had no idea. How would Cory even survive? That pocket universe was designed to support a single being, one modified to suit it.”

“Cory made a pocket in the pocket to keep himself alive. It protected his life but not his sanity.”

“You’re saying Cory Lariston came back to our universe insane and with unrestricted power of teleportation?”

“Exactly.”

“Then I guess you were right. If I’d known, I’d have had a motive for his murder.”

“You admit, if you’d understood the situation, you might have killed him?”

“I should have but probably wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not that kind of person.”

“Peregrine Arnold told me you once tried to kill the Eighth Doll. At first, I found the idea hard to credit, but Motchk tells me you used magic to attack him as well.”

“When?”

“Before you were born.”

“Oh, that. The attack against Nomik was an accident, the unintended consequence of an attempt to save another person’s life. Technically, it wasn’t even me who did it, and in a very real sense, it never happened.”

“And the attack on the Eighth Doll?”

“Proves my point. A total failure. The moment I made contact with her, I realized I couldn’t do it despite the fact that we were trying to protect the human race from threatened non-existence. I walked away from saving humanity because I couldn’t bring myself to kill one person.”

“So you’d have let Cory Lariston madly fling the earth into the sun rather than murder him?”

“I can’t say for sure, but experience suggests exactly that. I’m not a good man to count on in a fight. Peregrine will confirm that for you.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Will. Honestly, I’m not comfortable with having you on my suspect list.”

“Thank you, Don.”

“Let me bring you in again as a consultant. If a wizard who could teleport went into hiding, how would you, or any witch or wizard, find him?”

“Interesting question.” Will opened a bag of chips from the hotel minibar. His comments were now interspersed with crunching. “Magic radiates in higher dimensions than other energies, falling off with the fifth power rather than the square of the distance, so magic meters, which are essentially magic detectors, operate over a limited range.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning a radar to locate magicians is impractical.”

“Is there a spell to do it?”

“Magic has a long history of existing in secret. Spells deal more with hiding than finding. Not that I know every spell. Nobody does. I do know a spell to find lost objects but nothing to locate a specific person.”

“What if the person was carrying the object?”

“There’s a possibility.” Crunch. Crunch. “The spell requires the object to be uniquely identifiable. The person you’re seeking would have to carry a specific object you knew well. The object-finding spell has a limited range, though less limited than simple magical emanation because spells focus energy onto lower-dimensional spaces.”

“Meaning?”

“A witch could use the spell to locate a lost child in a shopping mall by looking for the doll she carried but not to find a wizard with an unknown inventory. Or even the child if she was too far away.”

“How far is too far?”

“Oh, say, ten city blocks, more or less.”

“No good. We don’t know what the wizard was carrying, and he could teleport anywhere.”

“Not really, Don.” Crunch. “To teleport, he has to know where he’s going. He’ll be limited to locations he can picture in his mind. My first teleport was in desperation. I had to reject various desirable targets because I didn’t know them well enough. I settled on a spot two thousand miles away with which I was more familiar.” Crunch.

“What if this wizard had the entire universe somehow impressed upon his mind?”

“Well, yeah, that could make him harder to find.”

“What did Cory Lariston see? Motchk said it was the unfiltered universe, but what is that? A bunch of stars?”

“Don, the reason you and I are sane is because we can’t answer that question.”

“Why not?”

“We never perceive reality directly.”

“The model in the brain. A minotaur told me that one.”

“Good. Now let me tell you an anecdote from physics. Albert Einstein doubted quantum mechanics. He asked one of the theory’s great defenders, Niels Bohr, if he really believed the moon wasn’t there when nobody was looking.”

“I’m going to side with Einstein on this one.”

“Most people would.”

“And you’re going to tell me we’re wrong?”

“Absolutely, but not because the moon goes away. The moon was never there. Not the way you think it is.”

“I’m regretting asking this question.”

“What’s the moon made of, Don?”

“Rocks. Dirt. Dust.”

“Dust made of atoms and their subatomic constituents.”

“Yes.”

“And what are those constituents made of?”

“I don’t know. Smaller constituents?”

“Fields of probability. Every particle has a percentage chance of being what we think it is, and where, and when, but those probabilities are never a hundred per cent. The moon isn’t the way we think it is even when we look.”

“I may never look at the moon again.”

“The earth is no different. Neither are we. There are physicists who’ve quit the profession because they were starting to understand too well and couldn’t live with that knowledge. We can only guess what Cory saw, and our guess will be wrong in ways we can barely imagine.”

“Physicists? I thought you were a mathematician.”

“They say mathematics is the language of the universe, but it isn’t. Math is the intermediary between what we can think and what the universe is. I was a mathematician until Free Hilsat’s memories gave me the power to apply my knowledge.”

“And what are you now?”

“What every good scientist always is: confused.”

“Thank you for sharing your confusion, Professor. If I need any more, I’ll get back to you.”

“Any time, Don. Always a pleasure.”

In the exact moment Don pressed the button to end the call, Will heard a knock. It couldn’t be housekeeping at this late hour. Bag of chips in hand, he went to the door and peered through the peephole at a fidgety Ruby. He opened the door. “Come in.”

Ruby did. “Remember how mad I used to get at you because you wouldn’t let us help you.”

“I do.”

“So do I.”

“Are you saying you’re ready to discuss your nightmares?”

“Only if you stop calling them nightmares.”

“Your recurring dream of the crazy mansion.”

“Thank you.”

Will pulled a chip from his bag. “Is the barman still on duty? Shall we call Sapphire?”

“I don’t think we need the team. You’ll do for now.”

“All right. Make yourself at home, which in a way you are since I suppose you own the place.”

“I own a significant portion of the corporation that owns the hotel.” Ruby lay down on Will’s bed as if she owned it.

Will sat in a chair by the window, resting his bag of chips on the table, angled for easy access. “Tell me how your dream starts?”

Ruby stretched and made herself comfortable. “I’m in the entryway of the crazy mansion. Beyond it is the second entryway.”

“So, sort of a cloakroom and then a formal entry?”

“No. They’re identical.”

“Why two identical entryways?”

“Crazy mansion. Remember?”

“Right. What does this entryway look like?”

“A stained glass box. Lots of sunshine. One of those chairs you sit on to take off your boots.”

“Anything else?”

“Only the door into the next entryway.”

“Which is identical?”

“Except the next door opens into the grand hallway.”

“And what’s in the grand hallway?”

“A staircase. It splits in half, going left and right. The right side goes up to higher floors, but the left runs into the ceiling without going anywhere.”

“So you go right.”

“Of course not. I have to find out what the left staircase is for.”

Will took a chip from the bag. “What is it for?”

“No idea. I pound on the walls, and the steps, and eventually on the ceiling. I end up lying on the top step, thumping all surfaces, but nothing happens. No secret panels. No hidden latch.”

“Sounds frustrating.” Crunch.

“It is.”

“So, there you are, beating your fists against the walls, getting nowhere. Now what?”

“Not my fists.”

“Your head?”

“I thump the walls with a book.”

“What book?”

“Just a book. I have it with me?”

“Where did you get it?”

“In an entryway, I guess.”

“You mentioned no bookshelves in the entryways. Was it on a chair?”

“No. It wasn’t. Good point. Where did I get the book?”

“Dreams are like that. Things appear and disappear without reason.”

“This isn’t a dream. This is a memory. Where did I get the book?”

“What’s the book’s subject? Does it have a title or a picture on the cover?”

“I never look at it. I use it to hit the walls.”

“It may not be important. What happens next?”

“It is important. ‘Take the book,’ was the last thing I heard on the television before the roof caved in.”

“What television? When did the roof cave in?”

“That all happened later, when I was in the guesthouse. The woman on the TV—she wasn’t Abigail Arnold, but she reminded me of Abigail.”

“Dreams are like that.”

“Not a dream. This is a real memory from a real visit to a real person’s mind. The woman on the TV kept repeating, ‘Take the book, Emily. Take the book.’ So I took it. But since that’ll happen later, how do I have the book before I get to the guest house?”

“Emily? Your real name?”

“That’s right! This happened in his mind, so how did she know my given name?”

“How did who know your name? Where did this memory come from? Whose mind were you in?”

“Cory Lariston.”

Will choked on his potato chip. Ruby was amused at first but then got up and fetched a glass of water. As soon as he was able, Will began to question her. “When were you with Lariston? Was this before he went to the Eighth Doll’s universe, or after? And why?”

“At his invitation. Are you working for the police?”

“Of course not. Well, I have consulted with them, but I’m not part of the investigation. In fact, as you pointed out earlier, I’m a suspect.”

“You should be happy. This news takes the heat off you.”

“Don’t say things like that.” Will reached for the bag of chips but thought better of it. “Wait. You were in the crazy mansion, and the mansion was his mind. If he was crazy, this was after Cory came back from the Eighth Doll’s universe.”

“Brilliant deduction. Donald Broome should hire you. Although I suspect Cory Lariston had a lot wrong with his mind before he saw the universe. In fact, I think that’s why Motchk sought him out in the first place.”

“Motchk wanted a lunatic apprentice?”

“Who besides a madman would take on the job of challenging a goddess in her own heaven?”

“Is that what he did?”

Ruby nodded. “I think so.”

Will shook his head, recalling their own failed attempts at that same task. “How did you locate Cory?”

“He called me and told me where he was.”

“He invited you to visit him?”

“No. He mentioned his location, said he’d seen things that I had seen, and hung up.”

“So you went to him?”

“I was curious which things he had in mind.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“In his apartment.”

“The one where he was murdered?”

Ruby nodded.

“This is sounding bad. How did you get there?”

“I teleported.”

“You were already familiar with the place?”

“No, but a community college nearby has a virtual world with an accurate representation of their campus. Coupled with online maps and aerial photos, I had what I needed to get within taxi distance.”

“Have you done that before: teleported into a location you’ve never really seen?”

“It’s what we do at ACT.”

“But it’s dangerous.”

“Tell me about it. If you’ll recall, we just lost a crew.”

“Right. Sorry. Did you know Cory already?”

“Nomik had mentioned him, but we’d never spoken.”

“If you didn’t know him, why take such a risk?”

“I’ve seen a lot of things, Will. If Cory had seen the wrong ones, I needed to know. Anyway, with practice, such teleportations aren’t as risky as you might think. Being somewhere virtually is an awful lot like being there.”

“Still, what could he have seen that was so important?”

“Before I met you, I had an interesting life.”

Ruby’s tone suggested to Will it would be best not to inquire into the details of that life. “So, you took a cab from the community college to Lariston’s apartment.”

“Rather than waiting for a taxi, I decided to walk. With the aid of a spell, foot travel was faster.”

“What happened next?”

“Will, I thought we were investigating my dream.”

“You said the dream was a memory. If we work the memory back a bit, we may find clues to the dream.”

“OK. When I got to the apartment, the door was locked. I looked through the peephole and saw Cory standing in the middle of the room, staring at the window.”

“Peepholes work the other way.”

“I used a seeing spell.”

“Oh.” The seeing spell was the first Will Hilsat had ever cast. In all his years of using it, he had never thought to apply it to a peephole.

“I had a good look at where I was going, so I teleported into the room.”

“Why not use an unlocking spell on the door? You must know that one.”

“I do, but doors make noise. Teleportation between two locations at the same air pressure is silent.”

“How often do you teleport?”

“Every day, Will. I told you, my life requires it.”

Will shook his head and sighed. “What did Cory do?”

“Nothing. He was unaware of my presence.”

“So, what did you do?”

“I probed his mind, expecting to be locked out. Any magic user should have been protected, but he wasn’t. Not entirely, anyway, as if someone had intentionally left a door unlocked inside his head.”

“And you found yourself in the first entryway.”

Ruby nodded.

“And everything was as in your dream?”

Ruby looked puzzled. She reached her hands over her head and ran her fingertips along the surface of the headboard. “I touched the stained glass windows. I wanted to feel if they were warm or cold. I used both hands.”

“Were they warm or cold?”

“I used both hands. I didn’t have the book. In the dream, I don’t touch the windows because I’m already holding the book in both hands. Do you realize what that means?”

“What?”

“The dream isn’t a memory. Not quite. What is it?”

“What do you think it is?”

Ruby yawned. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Yeah. I’m tired, too. I think we’ve made progress.”

Ruby did not answer. Her eyes were closed.

“Ruby?” Will touched her arm. She did not respond.

The room had two beds. Will resisted an old temptation. He was not certain where he stood with his former lover, and many years had passed. He took advantage of the other bed to get much-needed rest. He slept in late. Ruby was still sleeping soundly when he woke. It was impossible to awaken her, yet he was not worried. She needed sleep, and somehow the manner of her slumber told him this was all right. Will went alone to breakfast.

When he returned an hour later, Ruby was in the shower. Her own apartment was in the complex. Why shower here?

He sat at the table, waiting for her to come out. When Ruby emerged, she was naked except for a bracelet, sparkling wet and beautiful beyond belief, making full use of the magic of her old profession. It had been so long since they were lovers that Will had almost forgotten she could do this. And that she could affect him so deeply. “Why?”

Ruby stepped close and placed a silencing finger on his lips. She would not answer, and it would be hours, or years, before he understood.

“I can’t do this!”

“You can. You will.”

Sapphire paced in Ruby’s parlor. “What makes you so certain?”

“I’ve read the future. You doing your part isn’t what worries me.”

“If you can read the future, why would anything worry you? You already know how it comes out.”

“The future doesn’t work that way.”

“That’s ridiculous. If you could see the future, it’d be no different than the past. It’d be fixed.”

“It is no different than the past. Or the present, for that matter. Nothing but fields of probability. The chance is very good that you’ll do as I’ve asked.”

“So Will Hilsat was wrong all those years ago? Our future is fixed and inescapable?”

“As Will said, your future is what it is because you’re in that future making it. Your decision in the future is your decision. But pasts and futures have tricky spots. Probabilities. The real question is what will Donald Broome decide? Everything depends on him. Literally.”

22 — Denny Broome

Don was sitting in his office, feeling that he needed more information. The office phone rang.

“Detective Broome here.”

“Don, this is Will Hilsat. I have new information.”

“I’m listening.”

Long pause.

“Will?”

“Sorry, Don. I’m not sure what I can tell you.”

“Then why did you call?”

Another pause. “I’ve spent the day getting up the nerve. I guess I wanted to warn you.”

“About what?”

“Ruby. Be careful around Ruby.”

“I always try to be careful around murder suspects. Even you, Will.”

“This is serious, Don. Ruby is keeping secrets. Dark things from her past.”

“The fact that a former brothel owner has secrets in her past comes as no surprise to a policeman. Could you be more specific?”

“She wasn’t specific with me, but I know she’d go to great lengths to protect herself. We had a conversation last night. She’s more powerful than I’d realized. I don’t want to see you or your family hurt.”

“Thank you for your concern, Will, but what motivates it? Did Ruby give you reason to believe she’d killed Cory Lariston?”

“I can’t say for sure. She had the opportunity. The method of his death does suggest it.”

“The method suggests Ruby, or Motchk, or you.”

“She admitted she was in his mind. Inside his brain. The easiest teleport encloses the location of the magic user. Otherwise, things get sloppy.”

“How was she inside his brain? I’ve seen his brain, and I’ve had a good look at her. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t fit.”

“You have to stop confusing a person’s body with the location of their awareness. If one’s attention is elsewhere, one can, in a very real sense, be in two places at once.”

“You mean like in the virtual world? I have had that experience.”

“Exactly, Don.”

“While her awareness was in his brain, where would her body have been?”

“Standing behind him.”

“In his apartment?”

“Yes.”

“How did she locate him?”

“He invited her.”

“He let her in, and she locked the door on the way out.”

“The door was always locked. She teleported in and out.”

“A locked-room mystery that we didn’t know really was a locked-room mystery? My boss will love that. You told me teleportation was against the rules.”

“Ruby isn’t playing by the rules.”

“So, she was in his apartment, seeing both his brain inside his skull and the room outside it, making the teleport that killed him an easy one?”

“Making it the most likely one. If she hadn’t been inside his mind when she realized he was dangerously insane, the obvious thing would have been to teleport his whole body to some deadly location.”

“Into space.”

“Or below the ground. Teleportation swaps locations. Importing a large block of hard vacuum from space into an apartment could result in an implosion. Swapping a person with a deep chunk of soil might be safer.”

“Bury Cory alive?”

“Don, I don’t know if Ruby killed him or what alternatives she considered. If she did teleport Cory’s brain, she may have had excellent reason. Cory was Nomik’s pupil. He would have had the speed of a time wizard.”

“How could she beat him, then? Time wizards are supposed to be dangerous in a duel.”

“Before we went up against Nomik Motchk, Ruby and I studied under Peregrine Arnold. She knows time magic and is as good as any of us, for which we might be grateful. By acting quickly, Ruby may have saved our lives.”

“I understand that, Will.”

“But she may not understand that you understand. Please be careful.”

It was after the call had ended, while Don was recording the conversation in his notes, that he became fully aware of the reference to the safety of his family.

“Captain Kalonimos, you’re just in time. We have information from Scotland.”

“That took long enough.”

“Did everything we could, sir. Tie-up was at their end. New computer system. We only got this a moment ago.”

“What did you get?”

The researcher handed pages to Auggie. “One of your magic users is wanted for murder. Three counts. Cold case from many years ago. Knife fight behind a bar. Eyewitnesses positively identified him. Police never found him.”

“No surprise. Lariston was a dangerous man.”

“Not the victim, sir. The one they caught breaking into the morgue.”

“Ian Urquhart?”

The researcher nodded and then jumped out of the way just in time. Auggie sprinted through the station, including flights of stairs, fast enough to leave himself gasping as he threw open the door to Detective Broome’s office. “Don!”

“Auggie, I just had a call from Will Hilsat. He refused to say Ruby was the murderer but described exactly how she could have done it and warned me she’s dangerous. He said Ruby’s not playing by the rules.”

Auggie held up a hand, indicating his need to get a word in, but only gasped for breath.

“Ruby is now officially at the top of my suspect list.”

“Not be . . . so sure.”

“You think Hilsat is lying?”

“Wanted . . . Scotland research . . . Ian Urquhart . . . eyewitnesses . . .triple homicide.”

“What?”

At that moment, Don’s telephone rang. He glanced at the indicator. The call was identified as coming from ACT. He raised a hand to silence Auggie. This was effective, in part because the captain was still short of oxygen. Auggie dropped into the corner chair while Don took the call.

“Detective Broome?”

“Yes.”

“We haven’t met, although I expected we might have by this time. My name is Sapphire.”

“You work with Ruby at ACT?”

“I have important information for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Ruby is my oldest and dearest friend. I don’t believe for a moment she would . . .”

A pause.

“Sapphire?”

A longer pause.

“Sapphire, are you still there?”

“I’ve had disturbing news. I’m only telling you this because I don’t want anyone else to be hurt.”

“I don’t want anyone hurt either, Sapphire. What is it you need to tell me?”

“You have to protect Cory Lariston’s mentor.”

“Ian Urquhart.”

“Ian Urquhart?” Pause. “Yes. Ruby intends to kill Ian Urquhart. She believes Cory may have taught his mentor the same things that made Cory so dangerous. I felt her argument was weak, but she intends to kill him anyway.”

“Sapphire, did Ruby tell you she killed Cory Lariston?”

No reply. The telephone connection was dead.

“Don!” said Auggie.

“That was Sapphire. Nobody is willing to say Ruby killed Lariston, but now Sapphire says Ruby intends to kill Ian Urquhart because Ruby thinks Ian has Cory’s insane powers.”

“Scottish authorities think Ian is a murderer. What if he has those powers? Don, where’s your son?”

Don checked his watch and confirmed the result against the office clock. “School’s out.” He called his wife. “Where’s Denny?”

“Where he always is this time of day: with Uncle Ian.”

“At the apartment?”

“I suppose so. Sometimes they go for ice cream at the mall. I’ve asked Ian not to, but when they’re together, they can both be children.”

“If you see or hear from either of them, call me right away.” Don hung up the phone before his wife could ask what was going on. “Auggie, you’re with me.”

Auggie followed Don as quickly as he could. “Who runs this shop?”

“Auggie!” The answer was correct, but the tone was a command. Auggie ran.

Auggie drove. He had been to Ian’s apartment before, and Don had not. They radioed for backup but did not wait when they reached the apartment house. The latch was weakly constructed, and Don and Auggie were inside. Alone.

Don did a quick check of every room and closet. “He has no furniture. Not even a bed.”

“I noticed,” said Auggie. “Lots of jars, though. Big ones.”

Don and Auggie were on the road, Don driving this time. Auggie turned on the siren, but Don switched it off again. “We don’t want anyone to panic.”

“Ourselves included?”

“Right.” Don eased off the gas but only a tiny bit.

“We’ll find them, and they’ll be fine.”

“Having ice cream, and laughing. Naughty boys disobeying mother.” Don said it and then silently prayed for it to be true. The car was at the mall a moment later. Don had not realized, when one came this way, how close the mall was to his son’s school.

Anyone who grew up in this town would know the layout of the shopping mall, but Don had moved here as an adult when he married. During his time in homicide, the mall had been free of murders, and Don, though a loving husband and father, was not a willing shopper. He had been in the mall but not often. He took his best guess at which door was near the food court. He missed. Inside, Don ran to a corner and paused by a shoe store.

Auggie shouted. “To your left.”

Don turned left and ran again, aware how far behind him Auggie already was. As he approached an open court where mall branches intersected, a face in the crowd of shoppers caught his attention. He recognized it from a set of fuzzy photos and a Nevada driver’s license. Sapphire had just called from ACT, so how could she be here?

As if reading his mind, Sapphire answered. “Ruby teleported us. She didn’t trust us home alone.”

An older woman stood beside Sapphire, her expression blank, her gaze unfocused. It was not Ruby.

“Where is she?”

Sapphire hesitated. Don could see the struggle in her face. At last, she pointed straight up. He looked upward, half expecting to see Ruby clinging to the ceiling like a spider, but overhead was only the underside of a second-story walkway.

He would have to come out from under that walkway to see her. He looked around to pick his route and realized this was the food court. He spotted the ice cream shop at a corner. In front of it, seated behind a small table, was Ian Urquhart with Denny leaning on his knee. Each held an ice cream cone. Ian was speaking. Denny was giggling.

Don moved away from them, out into the court. Looking up, he saw Ruby standing on the walkway with only her head and hands visible above a safety wall and railing. No one else was near her or looking in her direction. She was watching Ian. Her lips and hands were moving.

If Detective Broome had been a time wizard, a man used to perceiving at astounding speed, he would have examined his thoughts carefully and weighed each option to select the best. As it was, he acted and only recalled the thoughts afterward. They must have happened, for the memory of his having had them plagued him for years to come.

Don had seen hands moving as Ruby now moved hers. She was casting a spell. Don knew what it would be. She would teleport Ian Urquhart. Perhaps Ian would find himself in the cold vacuum of space or buried far below the ground. In either case, he would soon die. Ruby was not close to Ian. The teleport would not encompass her. It would be sloppy. Ian would not die alone. He would have Denny with him.

As Don drew his gun, he knew the choice was not whether to shoot but whom. A shot to wound would not suffice. How dangerous could a wounded magic user be? Anyway, in both cases, only a headshot was available. Ruby was masked by a safety wall and Ian by Denny Broome. If Ian died, Ruby would have no reason to complete her spell. Or Don could end that spell by ending Ruby’s life.

Ruby had used her magic to dodge his investigation. Her friends had all but said she was Cory Lariston’s murderer. Her past was a string of foul acts shaded by disappearances. She had the nightmare power of uncontrolled teleportation and had broken promises not to use it.

Ian was the only person who had wept for Cory Lariston yet was so Christian that he did not seek revenge. Ian had used magic to rescue Don from Ruby’s hex. Ian had sweetly sung the Broome children to sleep and now clearly cared for Denny. It still pained Ian that his apprentice had once used magic to kill innocent frogs.

But Ian was wanted in a triple homicide with eyewitnesses. This news had arrived so recently, in the midst of so much activity, it had barely made an impression on Don. Still, it could not be discounted. Was Ian not what he seemed?

What if Ruby was right? Perhaps Cory had taught his mentor how to teleport, and Ian, with the power to destroy the human race, had wished to keep this new skill secret and so had murdered his apprentice. Was the tear shed in the morgue a ruse? Don had seen that kind of thing before. The least Christian men were often those who professed their Christianity.

Maybe Ruby had saved the world by killing Cory Lariston. Nomik had mentioned Ruby having saved the human race once before. Would she save it a third time by killing Ian Urquhart? With a shot to Ian’s head, Don could save it first and save his son as well.

These were the thoughts Don remembered later. At the time, he looked at Ian and at Ruby. Whatever Ian was saying was making Denny laugh. Ruby was an ugly woman. Why had Don not noticed that before? Had her hex included an element of vanity?

Both shots were short and clear to take. Don made his choice and pulled the trigger. Years of target practice on the range served its purpose. For the second time in the Cory Lariston case, brain left a skull and made its way to the floor. This time, it was messier.

Auggie arrived and managed—between gasps—to make an announcement to the crowd. The announcement was superfluous. They were already down. Anyway, the only bullet flying had hit its mark.

Don looked for his son. Ian and Denny’s table was empty. As Don ran toward it, for a horrid moment he imagined he had been too late. In his mind, he saw Denny simultaneously struggling for air in the vacuum of space and trapped in darkness deep below the ground. Then Don recognized, among the shoppers lying on the floor, the back of Ian Urquhart.

Ian raised his head. “What happened? Is it over?” Beneath him, Ian was shielding Denny.

Don holstered his gun. “Is my son all right?”

Ian checked before he answered. “Looks fine to me, although his mother will not like the ice cream on his shirt. Both cones. Had I known, we would have had vanilla.” Denny found this funny, particularly since Uncle Ian’s shirt was stained as well. Denny laughed with delight that made up for lost blueberry ice cream.

It was some time before backup arrived, and later still, more officers for crowd control. Don had taken his son from Ian and let Auggie make the arrest. Both policemen waited to see if the wizard would vanish, but if Ian could teleport, he made no use of the skill, accepting that past crimes were now revealed. “My fault, Donald. Should have mentioned it before." He allowed himself to be handcuffed and led away.

A woman’s voice was heard. “You did what you had to do, Detective Broome. For that fact, we must all be grateful.”

Don turned toward the voice. He saw Sapphire and the older woman. The voice had not been Sapphire’s.

“My name is QiLina. I was Ruby’s mentor. May the world forgive me. I have spent years a prisoner in my apprentice’s basement bedroom, the victim of a spell that rendered me a helpless slave. Sapphire and I are forever in your debt.”

Don recalled a computer-generated report. “QiLina? That name is in the third string of aliases. You’re the mystery woman, the one who disappeared.”

“It must have seemed so to the world, Detective. When this conversation ends, I shall go outside to see a sky I’ve long forgotten, but first, I must insist you understand the innocence of Sapphire. This day and in the years before it, she’s had no knowledge of or hand in Ruby’s crimes. Sapphire isn’t even magical and could have had no part.”

“Investigations will take place, I’m sure, but Sapphire’s assistance today won’t be forgotten.”

Sapphire nodded but in a distracted manner. She turned her head upward to the side as if intending to look to where Ruby had died but instead looked away again, her attention finally fixing on QiLina.

“What of you, QiLina? While Sapphire was so innocent, where were you?”

“I fear, Detective, I paid too much attention to projects of my own, ignoring the growing power and villainy of my apprentice.”

“What were your projects?”

“Philanthropy. Cures for various diseases. Promotion of education and public safety.”

“Library fundraisers?”

“Why yes, Detective. However did you know?”

23 — Buluc Chabtan

“A kneeling Ian Urquhart sheds a tear over the body of his deceased apprentice, Cory Lariston. Detective Donald Broome stands behind him. At the Detective’s feet, a pair of glowing orbs, one ruby red, the other gilded in gold leaf, represent Lariston’s brain.

“Ian Urquhart sings the Broome children to sleep. Stars, each depicted here by a gemstone from one of the inhabited worlds, swirl over the bed of the magical Denny Broome, a name beloved by every Doller child. Detective Donald Broome and his wife, her name lost to history, stand behind the Scottish wizard, hands clasped, faces in rapt attention.

“Detective Donald Broome, in a trio of panels, consults three great wizards: the young Nomik Motchk, middle-aged Will Hilsat, and ancient Peregrine Arnold whose white beard hangs down below his knees.

“Detective Donald Broome sits across a luncheon table from the dog-man, gRover Hughlings. The friendly canine wizard with long floppy ears is a favorite of Doller youngsters. When gRover’s story is told, they always laugh.

“Toby Bis reveals to Detective Donald Broome a vision of the Earth flung into its furious star. The Detective’s face contorts in melodramatic horror, expressing the emotion that will motivate his saving of the universe.

“Detective Donald Broome, clutching wooden wings, flies to meet the minotaur Orrin Viderlick who waits flanked by two women, each bearing the lovely face of Sapphire. The one adorned with the sparkling Bracelet of Death represents Ruby, although neither woman is actually present in this virtual scene.

“Detective Donald Broome receives dark documents from his servant, Augustus Kalonimos. In a second panel, the Detective is in Beowawe, in Ruby’s Office, where he worships her in silence. In a third, Ian Urquhart’s Lizard of Truth whispers in the Detective’s ear, dispelling this worshipful attitude, freeing his mind for the terrible task ahead.

“Will Hilsat also makes the pilgrimage to Beowawe. Ruby, assisted by her one-time lover, discovers the Guiding Text hidden in the brain of Cory Lariston. In a second panel, lovers reunite in a final celebration of worldly pleasures, anticipating Ruby’s departure from this mortal realm. In a third panel, Ruby reads the Guiding Text to Sapphire, who wails in dread of her role in the necessary sacrifice.

“Detective Donald Broome and Augustus Kalonimos meet for the Informing, each man raising a hand in benediction. Augustus will accuse Ian Urquhart of murder and reveal the Magical Child’s apparent danger. The policemen are in Urquhart’s home, surrounded by jars from which protrude the heads of fantastic animals.”

At this point in the tour of Bacab’s great Temple, a middle-aged man in flowing robes arrived, introduced by their guide, in a tone of deep respect, as “His Holiness, the Seventh of the Eighth Doll.”

“You’re the highest of the high priests?” asked Sapphire. “The one there’s only one of?”

“That’s correct. I am the Seventh, Dean of the Hundred Twenty-Seven Servants of the Eighth Doll.”

“Lacey here explained it to me earlier.” Sapphire patted a Doller child on the head. “Two Sixths, four Fifths, eight Fourths and so on.”

Lacey smiled and nodded.

“If Will Hilsat were still alive,” said the Avatar, “he’d total those fractions up for us.—You make me glad I never met the man. He must have been irritating company.—Nine thousand three hundred four-one hundred fifths.”

“What?” asked the Seventh.

“The total of the fractions.—One-seventh, plus two-sixths, plus four-fifths, and so forth.”

“You did that in your head?”

“Not my head.—The Eighth Doll did it.”

“In her head?”

“No. She searched all the worlds in spacetime until she found someone who’d worked it out already.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to do the arithmetic?”

“Not for her.—She doesn’t share our time dimension. Every moment and location in our universe is available in each instant of hers.”

“She truly is omniscient, then?” asked the Seventh.

“She knows what you did last night.”

“Please.” The Seventh gestured firmly forward. “Don’t let me interrupt your tour.”

At the Seventh’s indication, the guide stepped to the next painting and continued. “Here is the Mall where Detective Donald Broome makes the Decision whether to shoot and kill Ian Urquhart, who holds the Magical Child, or to shoot Ruby, in her final mortal form as the Evil Witch, still identifiable by her Bracelet of Death.”

“Holy crap! I’m hideous.—You were, you know. You did that to yourself.—I was far more subtle. If I’d looked that awful, Broome would have fled in terror.—The artist is imaginatively expressive.” The Avatar often spoke this way, taking two roles in a conversation. The Dollers understood the reason but sometimes found it hard to follow.

“The artist was a local talent who lived among our community three centuries ago,” said the Seventh. “We consider ourselves to have been blessed.”

“So you are.”

Sapphire had gone ahead. “Just wait until you see the next one.”

Before the party moved on, Lacey, the Doller child who had been with them since the meeting at the teleportation gate, left Sapphire’s side to ask the Avatar a question. “Did he kill you because you were so ugly?”

“That helped, but it wasn’t the final reason.—I think we make up for it these days.”

“You do,” said the Seventh. “Your beauty is a marvel.”

“What was the reason?” asked the girl. “Why did the Detective shoot you and not Uncle Ian?”

“I’ve always imagined,” said the Seventh, “he must have considered the danger of accidentally hitting his son.”

“Not a chance,” said the Avatar. “Donald Broome could shoot the antennae off a gnat one at a time.—I suppose that was the reason he was chosen.—He was chosen because nobody else was available in the town Cory Lariston picked at random.—A lucky pick then.—Lucky? Broome was balanced in perfect indecision. The result could have been utter disaster.—We were the lucky ones?—Lucky enough to get my head blown off.—Don’t be morbid. Answer the child’s question.”

“You needn’t take the trouble.” The Seventh was uncomfortable when the Avatar disputed with herself. “Lacey will have these lessons soon enough.”

“No trouble. I’ve a particular fondness for curious little girls.—As long as I’m here, she may as well have it from the horse’s mouth.—The marvelous beauty’s mouth.—He was worried what his son would see.”

“Denny?” asked the girl. “What would Denny see?”

“Uncle Ian getting his brains blown out.—That would have been traumatic.—The trauma was all the Detective’s. He was looking right at me when the bullet hit. High caliber and short range. It was an image he never quite got over.”

“Did it hurt?”

The Avatar laughed. “I was an accomplished time witch. I watched the shot approach and completed my spell before it struck. For an instant, I was in three places at once, a magically untenable situation from which the bullet freed me. The destruction of my brain released my mind into its two new homes before I could feel a thing.” The Avatar tapped her head. “And ever since, I’m stuck with her.”

“It’s all right here.” Sapphire waved them forward to the next image. “Remind me, is that exactly how we knelt before you?”

As the party approached the final picture, the guide resumed his duties. “Here we see QiLina assume her role . . .” He looked to the Avatar. “Your role as the Dancer who Makes the World, the Avatar of the Eighth Doll. The mortal remains of Ruby lie in the background. Her eternally living spirit bridges the Eighth Doll’s universe and our own.”

“Does Ruby really look like a rainbow?” asked the girl.

“As good a representation as any,” said the Avatar.

“Why does the Eighth Doll look so familiar,” asked Sapphire.

“The artist,” said the guide, “knowing the Eighth Doll to be the three-thirds sister of Abigail Arnold Blake, another daughter of Nomik Motchk, Peregrine and Mrs. Arnold, used ancient photographs of Abigail as her inspiration.”

“Sure enough. Been so long since I saw Abigail.”

“Does the Eighth Doll really look that way?” asked the Doller child.

The Avatar placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Not at all, but again, a fine choice by the artist.”

“What does she look like?”

“She doesn’t resemble anything we’d understand. Her universe is nothing like our own, and every way we picture her will be more wrong than right.”

“But you must see her. What do you see?”

“I see her from inside her brain. Being interested only in our universe, she has no mirrors.”

“Then you can’t see yourself?”

“No. Not at all.—When Ruby wants to look at herself, she can look at mirrors through my eyes. Being the marvel of beauty that I am, think how satisfying that is for her.”

The Seventh was uncomfortable with how the Avatar used his phrase, suspecting sarcasm. “I intended no offense.”

“None taken.” QiLina placed both hands on the Seventh’s shoulders. He had not expected this and found the experience both thrilling and unsettling. “Anybody who wants to call me a marvelous beauty is welcome to do so. Despite my divinity—Ha! Letting the pictures go to our head?—Despite my elevated position, if you prefer, I’m still a woman. Speaking of which, that barrel-chested giant over there, any chance he might join us for dinner?”

“Chabtan? He is a Third and heads the temple guard, famous for their loyalty to the . . . ah . . . to you. I’m sure he would be honored.”

“What must farms be like on Bacab?” The Avatar swept her arms wide over the bounty of the board. “This variety of fruits and vegetables, never have I seen such a feast. May my mission bring me often to your world.” Many natives of Bacab had gathered for this opportunity to dine with the Avatar of the Eighth Doll. They took pleasure in her praise of their planet’s famous agricultural diversity.

At mealtime, the Seventh was disappointed when the Avatar had chosen to rearrange the seating. He found himself not beside QiLina’s form but at the opposite end of the table, on the left hand of Sapphire. This was a high honor but not the one he had anticipated.

“She knows how to pander to a crowd.”

The Seventh was startled by the lack of respect in Sapphire’s remark but supposed one constantly in the presence of the Avatar must grow used to glory. “She appreciates good food.”

“That she does. Pay attention to what she eats.”

They watched as the Avatar took up and consumed the feathery greenery at the top of a purple tuber. The Seventh shook his head. “We usually eat the pauger, not its leaves.”

“Then why are the leaves on the table?”

“Decoration, I suppose. The visit of the Avatar must have inspired our cook.”

Sapphire nodded. “I’m sure it did. If the Avatar eats the leaves, the leaves are what she needed.”

“Is she a student of nutrition?”

“She does everything she must to sustain herself indefinitely, as do I.” Sapphire broke off a pauger leaf and nibbled at it.

The Seventh followed the example. He found the leaves bitter but, considering the obvious good health of Sapphire and the Avatar, forced himself to swallow. “You were, I believe, among the first to receive longevity treatments.”

“Every scientific development that could keep us alive and youthful arrives in time to save us and always will.”

“You truly are immortal, then?”

“No. In the end, Nomik Motchk and QiLina must inevitably escape their fate, or so I’ve been told. I might die sooner, but we’re still talking cosmological time scales.”

“Stars will come and go?”

“Galaxies.”

While the Seventh contemplated that, he took a helping of a buttery gourd he suspected was not as good for him. He watched the Avatar engage in conversation with the slender child on her left and massive Chabtan on her right. The Seventh shuddered in pleasure as the gourd drove leafy bitterness from his mouth. “When I was a novice,” he said, “I shared tight quarters with a dozen young men.”

“Too tight?” asked Sapphire.

“They were fine fellows, friends for life, but I still volunteered for duties allowing me time out of our cell just to be away from them.”

Sapphire nodded. “You’re wondering how they manage it: three minds in two brains.”

“For an approximate eternity? Yes.”

“Love.”

The Seventh bit the end from an oblong fruit and sucked at it pensively. The yellow skin collapsed as its delicious contents slid down his gullet. He paused from time to time to chew a seed. The nutty flavor so perfectly complemented the juice it was difficult to imagine this plant was a natural product. “Who loves whom, exactly?”

“QiLina and the Eighth Doll love each other and forever will. As a residual effect of the spell, Ruby loves them both. And she always had a fondness for me.”

“I’ve heard love spells don’t last.”

“They don’t, but Ruby and the Eighth Doll planned her casting of The One while anticipating how it would work across two universes. Each universe has its own independent time dimension. The Eighth Doll sees every moment of our universe as it actually is, eternally existing. QiLina is influenced by the Eighth Doll’s universe in the same way. The temporary power of The One radiates from a single moment in each universe but covers the other universe eternally, holding the Eighth Doll and her Avatar with permanence in the first instant of true love.”

“And in this crossing of the universes, where is Ruby?”

“One foot on the land and one foot on the sea. The Eighth Doll modified a portion of her brain to exactly duplicate Ruby’s. Together, they made similar modifications to part of QiLina’s brain. Initially, following the destruction of Ruby’s own brain, she was mostly in the Eighth Doll, but over time, I understand she’s now half and half.”

“Where’s her spirit?”

“Spirit is an emergent property of the brain, or in Ruby’s case, brains. She’s in those brains and, through her magic, in their minds. She has access to their thoughts as though they were her own. She’s an independent being, yet in a way, they’re all one. But if you seek her rainbow between the universes, there is no rainbow and no between.”

The Seventh was fascinated by this revelation but found himself unable to ignore that Sapphire was as beautiful as the Avatar. “And what of you? Over such an expanse of time, how do you deal with them? It must be difficult.”

“The Avatar was both my dearest friend and my worst enemy. Fortunately, my friend had the upper hand, and the Avatar has become a friend as well, but like you, at times I need to wander away from friends.”

“Is it possible . . .” The Seventh took a moment to gather courage, a fact Sapphire found charming. “Do you think they might spare you for an evening?”

The Avatar held her conversation with Lacey, the Doller child, but when she laughed, as she often did, she leaned back against the massive chest of Buluc Chabtan, head of the temple guard. She was laughing now, having enjoyed Lacey’s recitation of the story of Detective Donald Broome and gRover Hughlings.

“Avatar,” said Chabtan, “you must have heard that tale before. Did you know the dog-wizard?”

“I know the story well, but I enjoy the way Lacey tells it. As for Grover, I never met him.—I did. We can see him now. He’d love to be here. Bacab has so many new aromas.”

“What do you mean, you can see him?” asked Lacey.

“Ruby is always saying things like that. She and the Eighth Doll see every moment of our universe better than we see this one here.” As the Avatar said each of the last three words, she gently tapped the tip of Lacey’s nose. “Past and future, in all their probabilities. Ruby would drone endlessly on the subject if I let her.”

“Sometimes I know which of you is talking, and sometimes not. Have I heard the Eighth Doll yet?”

“You never will. The Eighth Doll exists in a universe containing only her, so she has no use for words and never learned to speak. Her communications, first with Nomik, now with Ruby, are always mind to mind. She did once speak to Ruby but borrowed words from Cory Lariston to do so.”

“Her universe must seem empty if she’s alone.”

“Her universe is full of her.”

“Closed in, then. What’s the word?”

“Claustrophobic.”

“Yes.”

“It helps that she sees all of us. Still, she was terribly distressed that she could do so little. She’s a powerful witch, but trapped in another universe, her greatest efforts made only the smallest differences here.”

“And that’s why she made you?”

“Exactly. With me to be her hands and feet in our world, she can do tremendous things.”

“How? What can you do?”

“The same as you. I can bring the rain or quell the thunder, and from those flow the changes in men’s courses.”

“I can’t do those things.”

“You can and do. Haven’t you heard the story of the butterfly who makes the hurricane?”

“No. Tell me.”

“The atmosphere is extremely sensitive to initial conditions. A thousandth of a degree of temperature, the tiniest breeze, a wisp of vapor in a volume no bigger than your thumb can make the difference between rain or shine a month from now. The people who figured that out said a butterfly could flap its wings on one side of a planet and cause a hurricane on the other side at a later date.”

“So, butterflies are dangerous?”

“Or beneficial. Could be that flap prevents the hurricane. This fact applies not just to insects. You are as powerful. Everybody is. Today, you made choices having effects that echo down the ages. The difference between you and me isn’t our strength; it’s that I know what I’m doing. The Eighth Doll foresees all consequences.—Tell her the story of the bicycle.—I just did the butterfly.—Tell her. She’ll like it, and it’ll help her understand.”

“Yes, tell me.”

QiLina reclined against Chabtan as though he were a couch. “As you command, Mistress Lacey. The Eighth Doll showed me on the day I became the Avatar.”

“At your Assumption? What did she show you?”

“The most important thing I ever did up to that moment. I believed I’d been great and terrible, consciously molding my world with my decisions. I’d broken men, women, and children. I’d supported noble causes. One of those was an effort to prevent a disease. I poured a fortune into it.”

“You were both good and evil?”

“Such judged states of being are illusion. In evidence of that claim, I offer my greatest crime. I stole the wrong bicycle. I should have stolen the other one.”

“Stealing is a crime, though stealing a bicycle isn’t a very great one.”

“Darcy and I were having a day in a park.”

“Who’s Darcy?”

“Another name for Ruby. She had a lot of names. You’ll uselessly learn them when you’re older, I suppose.”

“Probably,” said the child.

The Avatar smiled. “I picked a bike for Darcy and then for me. At first, I was going to take one with pink tassels on the handlebars. Then I thought, this is a grown-up’s bike, and what adult woman is silly enough to put pink tassels on her handlebars? I almost took another but at the last moment decided that if my first instinct had been to go for the tassels, I should indulge my inner child and take the one I truly wanted, appearances be damned.”

Chabtan said, “You were a free spirit.”

“Exactly the problem. I made a free will decision. Like all such decisions, it had consequences. The woman whose bike I stole had to walk home that evening. She made dinner late. Her family, rather than eating at the table, sat before their entertainment system because the delayed meal coincided with a favorite program. A conversation that would have taken place that night didn’t, and so three months later, a family holiday was spent in an alternative location. People they would have met went unmet, with others met instead.”

“A lot of things happened,” said Lacey, “because you took the pretty bicycle.”

“You can’t imagine. Every action triggers an avalanche of consequences. The bike I stole, and the one I didn’t steal, both caused changes. Within a year, it would take volumes to catalog the differences in the world because of my choice. In a decade, it would take libraries. The painful part came half a century on. That disease I paid so much to seek a cure for would have been wiped out, but because I took the wrong bicycle, a person who would have had a brilliant insight, leading to that vaccine and others, was never born.”

“So the disease was never cured?”

“It was, but lifetimes later. In the meantime, thousands of people died who might have lived. The consequences of their entire lives were eliminated.—Of course, a lot of other people were born who wouldn’t have been. In fact, you, Lacey, would never have been born if QiLina had taken the duller bicycle.—Is that right?” The Avatar paused to consider information to which only she was privileged. “So it is! Now tell me, was my decision good or evil?”

Lacey stared wide-eyed. That this tale of crime and consequence concluded in her own existence came as such a shock she could not find an answer.

“Exactly,” said the Avatar. “Every free will choice you make has huge results, tumbling on through time forever, of which you’ll never know.—Not really.—Who’s telling this story?—Some chains of consequence die out. Many are almost totally ineffectual.—Is that how you conclude a fable? And the moral, children, is this, with these disclaimers, and that caveat, some codicils, and perhaps a refutation.”

“People don’t have free will,” said Chabtan.

“Piffle,” said the Avatar.

“I read it in a book.”

The Avatar turned to admire Chabtan. “You read, too?”

“Our decisions are made inside our brains before we’re even aware of them.”

“Of course they are. When I say I have free will, my brain is who I had in mind.”

“But the scientists can see the brain’s activity before the person doing the thinking knows of it.”

“What would the alternative be? First we make the decision, and then the brain takes the action that makes it? Or everything happens in a single instant? Nonsense! Of course the brain makes the decision, and then the decision enters our conscious awareness. Both are emergent properties. That’s what free will is.—Chabtan, you won’t win an argument with the Avatar on the topic of minds.”

Chabtan bowed his head. “Forgive me, Avatar.”

The Avatar placed a hand on Chabtan’s chest, over his heart, and spoke with great formality. “Buluc Chabtan, you are forgiven.” The guests around them laughed, initially taking the comment for light amusement, but this was a moment many would recall in days and years to come.

24 — Nomik Motchk

The Seventh had planned the next day’s outing to a well-appointed overlook with lovely views across the city. The Avatar asked for a more windswept hillside at an inconvenient distance with a less impressive vista and no particular facilities. The Seventh pointed out these drawbacks, but the Avatar insisted. One can hardly claim the title Dean of the Servants of the Eighth Doll while refusing her Avatar’s request.

The party filled multiple conveyances. The Avatar traveled with Buluc Chabtan, who had not left her side since dinner the night before. The Seventh had had reports of noises in quarters made available for the Avatar, indicating she and her new-found friend had stayed up late, greatly enjoying each other’s company. Chabtan’s parents had named him to honor an ancient god. The Seventh doubted they had fully understood their choice, but here their son was, cavorting with something like a deity.

The Seventh had spent the night with Sapphire. The Avatar’s assistant delivered all her beauty promised, a most satisfying experience and noisy enough, yet the Seventh could not help thinking that spending the night in the company of a woman just as beautiful and with the magical skills of three witches who shared every secret of the universe, Chabtan must have had the better situation.

The hill was rocky, with no road to the top. The party had to walk. The Seventh found the climb difficult but refused to show it. Lacey and her family had come. The child, once on the rocks, behaved as if half goat. Beside her, the Seventh would be humiliated to gasp.

Bounding from rock to rock, Lacey asked questions as easily as if standing still. “If Uncle Ian was arrested for murder, how’d he get to be Denny’s mentor?”

“You told me,” said the Avatar, “you possess books filled with tales of Denny Broome.”

“I do,” said Lacey, “but they never mention murder.”

The Avatar shuddered. “Ugh! Children’s books!—Uncle Ian never murdered anybody.”

“Why did the police think he had?”

“It happened when Cory Lariston was a boy not much older than you. One day Ian Urquhart took a nap. Cory cast a spell of reflection against him.”

“What did that do?”

“It deepened the nap and made the apprentice look like his mentor. Cory took that illusion into places he wasn’t supposed to go. In a pub, he had a beer that a man would have found merely refreshing, but the boy was overwhelmed by alcohol. His childish behavior was misunderstood. Some of the pub’s customers imagined he was coming on to them. At that time on Earth, both magic and homosexuality were hidden. The men decided to take Cory, whom everyone believed was Ian, out behind the pub to teach him a lesson.”

The Avatar stopped speaking. She waved a hand to direct the party toward the steeper side of the hill. The Seventh considered disagreement with this choice but instead shrugged his shoulders and followed.

Lacey raced around a boulder and rejoined the party on the other side. “What happened to Cory?”

“Someone brought a knife. Cory got his hands on it. The boy knew more magic than was good for him. In his power and panic, he killed three men.”

“I bet Cory was in trouble with Uncle Ian.”

“Unwilling to see Cory suffer for what Ian realized was his own failing, and anyway, unable to reveal the truth, Ian took the pair into hiding.—Animal-based magic would work well for that.—Bar fights are not unusual. The case was largely forgotten. But Cory never forgot.—That memory was a part of what was always wrong with him.—After Ian’s arrest, MICA worked with the police to get the charges dropped.”

The Avatar stopped. The Seventh waited and then, seeing the Avatar intended to go no farther, directed the picnic to begin. Ones and Twos, acolytes and temple prostitutes, laid out the feast on blankets. As always on Bacab, foods were diverse and delicious, although the Avatar and Sapphire spent much time chewing the nearly inedible rind of an otherwise tasty melon. The Seventh enjoyed its flesh. Noting storm clouds gathering, he insisted it was time to pack and return to the temple, but the Avatar declared that before they did so, she would entertain the gathering with a dance.

“I really don’t think . . .” began the Seventh.

“You don’t have to,” said the Avatar. “Chabtan, come.” She led her plaything to the crest of the hill.

The muscular Chabtan had been chosen to serve the temple because he made an imposing guardian. The Seventh, who had personally overseen that selection, never imagined for a moment the man could dance. But then, the Avatar’s movements since her arrival at the teleportation gate had exhibited more spasmodicity than grace. As the wind picked up, putting every loose object into motion, with Dollers and guests of all ranks running after those escaping objects, the Seventh feared this picnic was devolving into farce.

The Avatar ordered Chabtan to lie upon his back while she removed much of what she wore. Not naked, but close enough, she placed a bare foot on his chest. “Put one hand on my ankle, and one on my calf. Hang on as though you expect the wind to carry me away.”

Chabtan obeyed, smiling as he held her leg in a manner the Seventh found inappropriate and infuriating. Sapphire stepped beside the Seventh. “Jealous?”

“It seems an honor my service might have earned.”

“You may feel differently when we’re done here.”

The Avatar stood, one foot firmly planted on Chabtan’s pectorals, the other raised before her almost at waist height, knee and ankle bent just so. She thrust a hand forward, palm toward the ground, the other high above her head, fingers arched firmly backwards. Then she began to dance.

For Dollers, this was the sacred moment. To some the actions had a random character, but others saw how every gesture was an interaction with the rising wind. Lacey was particularly fascinated and came almost to the hill’s top where she dropped to her knees and followed every movement with her eyes. The Avatar’s arms flashed so quickly that Lacey felt she must have more than two.

Sheltered among the trees on a nearby prominence, a pair of men also watched. Both appeared to be young, but one was older by many lifetimes. “She looks like a demented windmill.”

“It’d be interesting to blow smoke across that hilltop. We could trace currents as she shapes the wind.”

“Now here is a trait which runs true in your family. Ever since my first personal secretary, your clan has been inspiring me.” Nomik Motchk began some hand waving of his own. “I will give QiLina smoke.”

The picnickers were fascinated by the Avatar’s gestures of hands and foot. “Do you understand what she’s doing?” asked Sapphire.

Lacey nodded enthusiastically. “She’s the butterfly. She’s changing next month’s weather.”

“Each change makes other changes. What she does today will affect centuries and eons.”

“She makes our world.”

Others in the crowd repeated Lacey’s words, “She makes our world.” It occurred to the Seventh he should have said them first. He felt shame at the jealous attention he had wasted on Chabtan. As he watched the Avatar stretch upward, the Seventh understood Chabtan’s selection; only a man that thick could let her reach that high.

Chabtan’s view of the Dance of the Avatar was unique. Everyone looked forward; only Chabtan looked straight up. Even before their night of passion, Chabtan had been her truest devotee. That he might participate in this sacred moment was the greatest joy of his life. And from his privileged point of view, he was the first to see what came shooting from the clouds.

The Avatar was both startled and not when her human platform yanked her to the ground and rolled himself on top of her. She would have said, “Get off me, lummox,” if she could have drawn a breath.

Chabtan would have said, “Avatar, I gladly give my life for you,” but he lacked the time. Oddly, if either had heard the other, neither would have changed a word.

Sapphire, anticipating what might happen, pulled Lacey back from danger. The Seventh looked up, thinking he heard lightning, but he was wrong. What came from the clouds was neither electricity nor flame. It was a fresh disaster jointly devised by magic and science, in a color nature never knew, a brilliant darkness that sank into Chabtan’s back.

The top of the hill was briefly shrouded in greasy smoke. When air currents whipped it away, the Avatar was standing. Her gestures now would be known to anyone familiar with magic, but she stopped herself before furious energy could pour from her to a neighboring hilltop. Its occupants were already gone.

“Nomik!” shouted the Avatar, although she knew it was too late; he was worlds away by now. “Is that the best you can do? I hope not, or you and I will never escape her.”

The Seventh, who understood, turned to Sapphire. “Does she truly wish to die?”

“Yes, but not just yet. Even those who live in terror of eternity don’t seek immediate release so long as health is good, minds are sharp, and situations pleasant. Although we’ve only been at this for centuries. Ask me again in a billion years. And you, Seventh, still jealous of Chabtan?”

The Seventh observed the smoldering husk of the former temple guardian. “I freely yield the honor.” He raised his voice. “Avatar, are you unharmed?”

“Only because of Buluc Chabtan. If my hero had been a second slower—or an inch thinner—I might not be here.—Curse the luck.—Not that luck was involved.”

“Congratulations, Nomik. You almost got her. I felt sorry for that fellow with her. He can’t have survived.”

“I am sure he is fine. I never get to kill such men. And I meant him no harm. As for QiLina, dozens of your ancestors have granted me similar congratulations. I always almost get her.”

“And what? You fear you always almost will?”

Nomik poured for himself and for his companion a delicious concoction of the juices of fruits grown in gardens around the hacienda. “If that was my only weapon, perhaps, but I have better schemes in the works.”

“My father and grandfather have told me stories of your efforts. Despite the failures, I found them inspiring. Let’s toast your inevitable victory.”

The men drank deeply, aware of the refreshing nature of the beverage but not of the astoundingly healthful properties that had evolved in those particular fruits, although Nomik might have guessed.

“The work is difficult but has its rewards. My research has been beneficial to more than me. That energy I employed today is already being used in projects my associates run jointly with the government. Even though QiLina managed to shield herself, the effort has been worthwhile. I did not anticipate success, but I never regret taking a crack at her.”

“Have you no real hope of victory?”

“I am attempting to reproduce an object I once owned, a ring to be used in a Spell of Unweaving. Manufacture is a long way off, but when this bears fruit, I may finish her by preventing her from starting.”

“Sounds fascinating. I look forward to seeing it.”

“It is a long term project I do not anticipate completing in your lifetime.”

“But you’re sure it’ll work?”

“Probably not, but I have a dozen others on the drawing board and plenty of time to come up with more.”

Lacey had responded to Chabtan’s death with pity, but her spirits rebounded at the speed of childhood. While the Avatar directed disposition of the remains of the man whose sacrifice had saved his goddess, Lacey gathered flowers she wove into circlets for the Avatar and Sapphire.

As the party packed for the return to the temple, Lacey was, as always, full of questions. The Avatar, with the gift of flowers on her head, patiently replied to one. “Not just the weather, although weather influences everything. Each action I’ve taken on Bacab, and every spoken word, will have a calculated outcome. The results, like all results, will bring additional results.”

“Like what?” asked Lacey.

“When I insisted Chabtan be buried where he died, that act, joined with many others, will produce a marker, then a chapel, and a succession of temples on that hilltop. Temples will influence the wind, and wind will influence the design of temples. Centuries hence, a particular F-shaped structure will produce a protected courtyard and a curl in the breeze that will have desired effects.”

“What effects?”

“Weather. Storms. Who is born, how they live and die, their actions and consequences, all are known to the Eighth Doll. What I’ve done on Bacab this day will strengthen certain fibers in the fabric of reality, increasing the lifespan of the human race and the existence of the universe.”

Lacy asked the favorite question of so many children. “Why?”

“My thought exactly,” said the Seventh. “What’s the purpose of it all? You knew Chabtan would die. Looking into his eyes, you let it happen.”

“And you think me cruel?”

“Of course not, Avatar, but a child might think it.”

“I was chosen for this task because I rise above such thoughts. I’m the one to take the actions that must be taken.”

“Sacrificing the individual for the Eighth Doll’s larger purpose of protection of the species?”

“The Eighth Doll’s purpose, larger and smaller, is to protect the life of Nomik Motchk.”

“Just that?”

The Avatar nodded.

“Yet for a moment it seemed you intended to project dangerous magic to the hilltop where he stood.”

“He was already gone.—Our magical energies are all bound in the connection to the Eighth Doll. Nothing we do can interfere with her purpose.”

“And what is Nomik’s purpose?”

“To stop her.”

“But ultimately, all this takes place to extend our species and our universe.”

“No. The extended universe is just a side effect.”

“And that’s how you’d have us explain to children about such cruelty?”

“You Servants of the Eighth Doll tell children that the Avatar is a goddess, but gods are invented beings and thus capable of imaginary perfection. I exist within reality and work with what I have. You may tell your children that.—Or the fairy stories if you prefer.”

“What I want to know,” asked Lacey, “is more about how weather works.”

“Good for you, dear.”

“Why do such tiny movements make so much difference in the weather? How does that really happen?”

The Avatar hugged the child close. “I love a little girl who asks hard questions. When we get back to town, I shall take you to a library.—With your parent’s permission, of course.—Really?—Absolutely.”

“What will we find in the library?”

“Everything, but today, I guess we restrict ourselves to chaos theory and computational meteorology.—We certainly do.—Nothing more?—Nothing!”

The Avatar sighed deeply, looking to the unoccupied knob from which the attack had been launched against her. “Nomik, you’re my only hope. If you should never succeed, what a dreadful, dreary, damnable eternity we face.”

Author's Afterword

Oh, dear! Much as I have enjoyed writing this book—and I hope you enjoyed reading it—I have failed to resolve the difficulty raised at the conclusion of Unweaver. Fortunately, the story is not over yet.

Google Sites

Report abuse