The Iron Dragon's Daughter

— 8 —

OVER THE SUMMER THE SMALL CIVILIZATION OUT BACK OF the dragon grew and flourished. A behemoth laden down with coal got lost after taking an unscheduled detour, unwisely tried to make up time by cutting across the landfill, and ended up overturning. Only half its load was recovered. The other half enabled the meryons to industrialize. They had factories now, and the gaslights lining their streets like constellations of fireflies brought down to earth had been replaced by electrical lighting. At night their streets and boulevards were bright lines in a pattern as complex with hidden logic as an occult circuit diagram. By day a permanent gray haze clung to their territories. Their warriors carried rifles.

Summer classes were sparsely attended; students with full-time day jobs were excused for the season. Those who stayed knew that nothing they might learn mattered, since it would all be taught over again in the fall when their classmates returned. The days were drowsy and slow.

Jane welcomed the opportunity to catch up once and for all. She would have liked to get some more hands-on experience in the alchemy lab, but when she applied for extra time, the school secretary turned her down flat. So she worked on her math skills instead.

One afternoon Ratsnickle stopped her by the front door as she was leaving for the day. A granite wheel, higher than the tallest student, was set against the wall there to remind them of their duties, of the need to obey, of futility, and of their future. Leaning against it, he said, "I hear you're stealing things for Gwen these days."

"Yeah, so?" Jane had grown cautious of Ratsnickle. He'd been acting strange of late, wild and kind of crazy-aggressive.

"So what's the story? You going lezzie on us, or what?"

She hit him then, right in the chest, as hard as she could. "You bastard!" she cried. "You evil-minded, foul-mouthed, repulsive… creature!"

Ratsnickle only laughed. "Touched a nerve, eh, Maggie?"

"Oh, shut up!"

"Listen, if you two ever decide you want to include a male in your little trysts—"

Blindly Jane stormed away and walked full tilt into Peter, who was coming up the steps.

"Whoa, careful there!" He steadied her, holding her at arm's length by the shoulders. "Hey, you look upset. What's wrong?"

"It's just—" She looked over her shoulder. Ratsnickle, typically enough, had disappeared. "I just—" She gathered herself together. "Where are you off to?"

"Shop. There's a destrier there I work on for extra credit sometimes."

Jane had homework to do, things to steal, a thousand housekeeping chores waiting for her. The school operated off of a central air-conditioning system, which meant that outlying areas like the shop never got much ventilation. This time of day, it must be like an oven in there. "Can I join you?"

"I guess."

Wordlessly they traced a crooked path through the empty halls. Peter didn't want to talk about Gwen when she wasn't around. Jane could respect that. So usually they talked about machines instead. "Who are you working on?" she asked at last.

"Ragwort. You know him?"

Jane shook her head. "What's he like?"

"Foul-mouthed, loud, kinda stupid." Peter shrugged. "Nice guy, though."

The school shop was organized more eclectically than those Jane had grown up among. The absolute numbers of tools might be no more than those of a working shop, but the school had a far greater variety. Lathes, planes, and bench saws coexisted with soldering irons, electric grinders, sheet-metal equipment, even a welding bay. Everything had been fitted together with patchwork economy. Yellow lines on a scrupulously clean concrete floor separated the work areas from each other.

There were two work bays. One was empty. In the other, suspended from ratcheted hooks-and-chains was a pitted tin steed. Camouflaged chest panels had been removed to expose its innards. Two black spark plug cables dangled limply down the side. "Yo, old paint!" Peter said. "How's it hanging?"

Ragwort ponderously swung up his head and favored him with an enormous toothy smile. "Hung like a horse," he said happily. Peter had a wonderful way with machines. They responded to him with trust and sometimes even love. Ragwort had clearly been won over long ago.

"Glad to hear it." Peter stuck his head into the open barrel. "Jane, could you hand me a flashlight? And that ampmeter there on the workbench." She gave them to him, and he poked about, muttering. "Anybody locate that short in your electrical system yet?"

"Fuck no. You know what jerk-offs these shithead shop majors are."

"Hey, there's a lady in the room!"

"Aw, she ain't no prude." Ragwort tried to move his head to the side but, held in traction as he was, could not. One eye swiveled toward her on its gimbals. The other stared ahead sightlessly. "Are you, girlie?"

Jane had leaned back against the workbench and was fanning herself with her hat. Startled, she said, "No, fine! Really, it's okay."

"Yeah, well, I don't like it," Peter said. "Horns of Cernunos! Lookit what they did to your carburetor. Old paint, it's a flat-out miracle that you're still alive, you know that?"

"It's my engine block," Ragwort agreed melancholily. "The fucker's fucked. What the fuck—fuck it, that's what I say. Just fuck it."

Jane giggled.

"What did I say about that kind of language?" Peter emerged from the interior shaking his head. "Well, I give up. I've spent three days going over your wiring and I can't find that short anywhere. The only thing I can think to do is rip it all out and start over again."

"It won't hurt him, will it?" Jane asked anxiously.

"See, I told you girlie here was okay," Ragwort said. "Not like that prissy-ass little bitch you—"

Peter slammed a wrench against Ragwort's hood. "You talk like that and it will hurt. I'll make sure of it."

"I'll be good, boss." Ragwort winked at Jane. "Don't get a burr up your ass."

Peter got out a reel of wire, an adjustable wrench, and a pair of wire cutters. He winched Ragwort two handspans higher into the air. Several of the bolts holding on the belly panels had rusted. He gave them each a shot of graphite and hammered on their sides to loosen them up. Jane helped hold the panels while he worked out the last bolts; otherwise they would have warped.

"Who designed this mess?" Peter grumbled. "This wire loops right behind your exhaust system. I'm going to have to yank the muffler just to get at it." He was silent for a time, then said, "Ragwort, your exhaust system is in horrible shape."

"When I fart, birds fall from the sky."

"Terrific." Peter concentrated on his work for a while. When he spoke next, it was to Jane: "Hey, tell me something. How come all of a sudden everybody's calling you Maggie?"

"Ratsn—the guys gave me that nickname. It's short for Magpie."

A corroded length of pipe clattered to the floor. "I thought you were a wood-may."

"It's just a nickname. Because—you know—magpies are such good thieves."

"Oh yeah." Peter didn't approve of her stealing things. He thought that sooner or later she was sure to be caught. But having said so once, he wouldn't mention it again. Peter was good that way. "Well, I'll just stick with Jane, if that's okay with you."

Five minutes later, the muffler came down. Peter whistled, and motioned to Jane. "Come take a look." He poked at a bit of black wire. "See how gummy the insulation feels here?"

"Yeah?"

"We've got our culprit. Some idiot was replacing this section of wire and didn't want to bother welding another hanger to the underbody, see? So he just threaded the wire between the exhaust pipe and the bottom of the cabin and chocked it in with this." He tossed a scrap of wood in his hand. "So next time the engine's running hot, the pipe melts the insulation and the whole system shorts out. That's the straightforward part. But then, when the engine cools down again the insulation flows back over the wire and resolidifies, so the short doesn't exist anymore. That's why I couldn't locate it with the ampmeter. Pretty sneaky, huh?"

"Wow." Jane was seriously impressed. For all the time she'd spent around and inside machines, this was the first time it had ever occurred to her that working on them might be fun. That rebuilding a motor could be as intellectually engaging as the challenge of setting up and running an experiment in alchemy. "Peter, this is really something. It's flat-out wonderful."

"It only took him three days to locate too," Ragwort said. "What a fucking genius."

"Niceums horsey," Peter said. "How'd you like a sugar cube in your gas tank?"

"Aw, go piss up a rope."

It was a scorcher outside, but the mall was kept so cool that Jane was sorry she hadn't brought a sweater. The place was jammed with fugitives from the heat. They were recreational rather than serious shoppers, most of them. Their hands were empty and their eyes were clear.

Hebog, Salome, and Jane sat on a bench by the holy well watching the world flow by. "I saw Gwen the other day, at that supermarket opening," Salome remarked.

They were waiting for a hudkin who was in the market for a pair of white kid gloves. Jane had wrapped them in a plastic Tir na-n'Og Video bag and stashed it in a nearby trash receptacle. If the deal went through, they'd have enough for burgers and fries all around. If not, at least they wouldn't be stuck with the gloves.

"Yeah, she told me she had to do some ribbon-cutting," Jane said. "So?"

"So you should've seen this elf she was with. Tall, dark glasses, silk suit, manicured nails—the whole nine yards." Salome shook her hand, as if to cool off her fingertips. "Hot stuff. In strictest confidence, mes cheris, I would not mind having a piece of him myself."

"What are you saying? Gwen wouldn't be going out with some elf. She's Peter's girl."

"Bullshit," Hebog said. "I saw them after the ceremony when they didn't think anybody was looking, and he put his hand on her ass. She liked it too."

"They left together," Salome added.

"I'm sure you're—"

"Boogie at four o'clock," Hebog growled quietly. "And closing fast."

Jane twisted in her seat and saw Grunt, smiling broadly, bearing down on them. "Shit!" she hissed between her teeth.

"It's my darling, darling students! What an unexpected—nay, a delightful—surprise. Do you mind if I join you?"

They scooched apart and, turning, Grunt placed his fat bottom between Salome and Jane. He spread his arms to either side and hugged their shoulders, pulling them against him. Hebog sat at the end of the bench, scowling darkly.

"Now this is indeed a fortuitous encounter," Grunt said. "Yes, fortuitous indeed. You know, some children think of their teachers as purely locational phenomena. Educational apparati that disappear when the school day is done. Perhaps you believe that we retire to a line of freezers in the basement, eh? To awaken fresh and unspoiled in the morning." He laughed lightly. "Would that it were so easy. As your demiurge—and I assure you that insofar as you are concerned, I am nothing less—I am responsible not only for your mental growth but your spiritual and moral development as well. Your place and position in the larger world. My job does not end when you step out the door. Oh, no, no, no."

Jane tried to focus on what he was saying. But his armpits stank and his dust-frosted wire rims gleamed in rather a sinister manner whenever he turned her way. He was hard to follow.

"My every waking moment is spent focused on my students—yes, it is. I am constantly worrying about you. Let me give an example. Suppose that one of my children is not what she appears to be. Let us say that she is putting on a false front. Perhaps all her life is a sham and a deception. She is a fugitive from her rightful state, a horrid, nasty creature who does not belong in my nice class, where her mere presence threatens to corrupt her innocent, unsuspecting classmates."

He was staring straight at Jane. Something moved behind the milky disks of glass and in a flash of horror she realized that whatever it was that crawled about there, it was not his eyes. "When such a thing happens, it is my job to rip off the mask of lies. To strip away the robes, bras, and girdles of deceit. To leave truth standing naked! trembling! exposed! and helpless in the sight of all."

A thin, sour beeping arose from his wrist. Grunt looked down at his watch and touched a pip on its side. "Well. This has been pleasant, but I fear it's time I were on my way. Have fun, and remember: I have my eye on you." Through all his speech, his benevolent smile had never wavered.

For a long moment nobody spoke. Then Salome broke into tears. "He doesn't know a thing," she said frantically. "He doesn't know a thing. Even if he does, what the hell business is it of his, I'd like to know?"

"He's bluffing," Jane agreed. "I'm sure he's bluffing."

"Well," Hebog said, "looks like the hudkin's not gonna show." He sighed and dug into his pocket. "I've still got a little left from the white crosses I moved last week. My treat?"

"You're on," Jane said.

She had no idea what Salome and Hebog thought was going on, and unless she wanted them to know all about her past and origins, she was in no position to ask. But coming so soon upon the child catcher's visit, Grunt's speech could have only one possible meaning. She wondered could the dragon protect her from two searches? Six? Surely not a dozen. Half his batteries were shot—Jane had yanked the worst of them and tossed them out back for the meryons to scavenge—and his alternator was ready to go. There were limits to his power.

She couldn't focus on her own problems, though. Her mind jumped restlessly about, jerking wildly away from but always returning to the intolerable fact that Gwen was cheating on Peter.

Not everybody was invited to Gwen's midsummer barbecue at the Little Tavern on the Green. It only seemed that way. Students mingled with townies, teachers with local celebrities, technical staff and overdressed administrators from the television station with elves in casual togs that cost as much as a gwarchell might earn in a month. They mingled and separated, like so many beads of oil of different viscosities, always regrouping down the lawn with their own kinds. Jane felt like a mouse in a maze. Timidly she moved between shifting groups of strangers, in search of someone she knew.

Trotter and Stinch came staggering in a four-legged walk across the greensward, arms about each other, shoulder pushing against shoulder. "Ratsnickle's looking for you," Stinch leered. Trotter smiled blissfully and said nothing.

"Oh, please!" Jane made a face. "Tell him you didn't see me. Tell him I'm not here. I'm not up to coping with him just now."

"I thought you two were friends. He told us you were close as close. Pals. Chumsy-wumsies." Trotter reached up to grab at the nub of Stinch's left horn and Stinch slapped the hand away. Their faces were gummy where they touched, as if they were melting together. "Said he made you—taught you everything you know, gave you a new name, molded you out of raw clay."

Trotter reached around Stinch's neck and into a bulging shirt pocket. "Wanna see something really neat?"

Coolly, Jane said, "I've seen that trick already. Stuffing a live frog in your mouth does not impress me."

"Speaking of Ratsnickle—" Stinch began.

"—here he comes now," Trotter finished for him.

Without looking, because if they weren't lying and she met Ratsnickle's eyes she would be caught, Jane scuttled around a nearby clump of partiers. Using them for cover, she fled.

Seconds later she ran across Hebog. He was one of a knot of uncomfortably overdressed dwarves that looked up angrily and dissolved on her approach. His face was flushed, his expression distraught. "Hello?" she said. "What's wrong?"

Hebog ignored the question. "You seen Salome?" he asked and not waiting for an answer: "Doesn't matter. She's not going to want to talk with me anyway. Not after what I did to her."

"What did you do?"

He clenched his fist. "Doesn't matter."

"Okay."

"I said it doesn't matter!"

"Okay, okay! I said okay, all right?"

"Yeah, well. If you see her tell her I was looking for her." He turned and stumped away.

Jane was still staring after him when a hand touched her elbow. She whirled. It was the pale man. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. He held an outsized cup of beer in one hand.

The pale man looked alarmingly out of place in short pants. His knees were knobby and fish belly white; the sunlight seemed loath to touch them. "I put in your application for scholarship aid through the school secretary," he said. "It won't do any good."

"What?" she said blankly.

He took her arm and strolled her toward the shaded side of the tavern. White-dressed waiters shot through its doors, trays in hand, trailing steam. "How much Grammar do you have?" he asked.

Jane shook her head. She had no idea what he was talking about.

"It's the queen of sciences," he said testily, speaking around his cigarette. "You really ought to—well, never mind. Let me put it this way: There is a logic to the shapes of lives and relationships, and that logic is embedded in the stuff of existence. The lover does not awake one morning convinced he would rather be an engineer. The musician does not abandon her keyboard without regrets. The CEO does not surrender wealth. Or if he does, he will find it easier to give up everything, find a cave in the mountains and become a philosopher than to simply downscale his life-style. You see? We are all of us living stories that on some deep level give us satisfaction. If we are unhappy with our stories, that is not enough to free us from them. We must find other stories that flow naturally from those we have been living."

"So you're saying… that I'm living a story in which I don't get financial aid? Is that it?"

He shook his head. "It's not you. The secretary is living a story in which she doesn't give you financial aid. It's a subtle distinction, but a crucial one. It gives you an out."

"What do I have to do?"

"You have to look at yourself through her eyes. She sees a troublemaker, a dilatory student, someone with 'potential'—whatever that might be—who is lazy, who will never apply herself, who neglects her studies, and on whom a scholarship would be wasted."

"But I'm not like that!"

"What does that matter? In her story that's who you are, and in her story your sort rarely changes. Occasionally, though, it happens. Your low qualities are channeled for low purposes. Strawwe used to be just like you before he snitched on his friends."

"What? I wouldn't!"

The pale man had smoked his cigarette down to the filter. He lit a new one from the coal, and ate the butt. "You'll have to weigh the alternatives. On the one hand it's an unpleasant story to live. Your former friends will despise you and they may even beat you. You won't respect yourself. On the other hand, people you like don't get scholarships. You can keep your own story or you can get a doctorate in alchemy. But you can't do both.

"Think about it."

His speech done, the pale man looked away. Somebody drifted between Jane and him. She took a step back. The masses of partiers shifted, and without having moved he was gone. Jane started after him, was shunted to one side by a waiter, and ducked between two trolls. She found herself by the tavern's front door. Not far away Grunt and Strawwe the proctor were deep in conversation. Strawwe looked up and nudged Grunt. They both stared directly at her.

For an instant she stood frozen in their gaze. Then a strolling pair of Tylwyth Teg broke the circuit of vision, and she retreated into the tavern.

The foyer was high-roofed with wooden beams. Two folding tables had been covered with white paper and set up with shallow plastic glasses and bottles of wine set in tubs of ice. The steward was absent from his post. Nobody was looking. Jane poured herself a glass of red.

Then she noticed that somebody had left the door to the cloakroom open. She put down the glass and slipped inside. It was too hot for jackets, but a short line of purses sat dowdily on a shelf above the empty coatrack. She went through them almost reflexively—some coins, purple eye shadow, a Descartier watch—and stepped back into the foyer before the wine steward could return.

She picked up the glass and raised it toward her lips.

"No, dear." Gwen appeared at her side and firmly took the wineglass from her hand. Jane, flustered, began to apologize. But before she could manage a coherent word, Gwen said, "It's white wine with fish." She put the glass aside and poured a new one. Dipping the tip of her little finger, she flicked a drop onto the floor for the Goddess. "This is a white Caecuban. I think you'll like it. It's a little on the sweet side, and very crisp. Take a sip."

Jane took a miserly mouthful. She'd never had wine before. It tasted awful. She nodded. "Very nice."

"Isn't it? Come on, help me with the salmon. I'll show you how."

The grills stood at the center of the green. The tavern's barbecue chef stood aside for Gwen, and she accepted a pair of tongs from him.

After a quick look at the fish, Gwen laid down the tongs on the worktable and rolled up her sleeves. She cut a lime in half and squeezed its juice into a tub of softened butter. "Take this," she handed another to Jane, "and use the fine mesh of that grater to get the zest into the butter."

Clumsily Jane complied. Tiny flecks of green flew scattering into the tub. "Perfect!" Gwen took up a spoon and vigorously stirred them in. "These two on the end are almost finished." She took plates from a nearby stack, slid the salmon smoothly on, handed them to Jane. "Take a good gob of butter and dab it right on the center of each fish. Doesn't that look lovely?"

"Yes."

Gwen seized a brush and began basting the line of salmon with the lime butter they'd just made. Her enjoyment of this simple act was manifest. It was so like her to do this, as everything, with enthusiasm and pleasure. Jane felt dull and lumpish beside her.

"Gwen, dear." An expensive-looking elf with the pink-fleshed face of a purebred going to age, came up behind her and bent to kiss the side of her neck. Gwen raised her chin with pleasure. Jane felt her face freeze. "What a lovely dress."

"Do you like it?" The dress was long and white and flowing, with a green sash about the waist that set off her hair perfectly. Gwen lifted her skirt slightly to either side and twirled about to show it off. "My little sister gave me it. Have you met Jane?"

The elf took her hand, bowed low over it, and brushed her knuckles with his lips. It was such a courtly gesture that Jane had no idea what he was doing until it was done. "Enchanted."

"Yeah," Jane said. "Me too."

"Falcone is a theater designer," Gwen explained. "He did the bonfire at the edge of the green."

"The thing that looks like a wooden wedding cake, you mean?"

Falcone smiled in a way that indicated the bonfire was a trifle. "You have exquisite taste in dresses," he said. "Did you make it yourself?"

"Naw. I stole it from Eulenspiegel's down to the mall."

"You'll excuse us," Gwen said. She seized Jane's hand and hustled her away so fast Jane almost dislocated her arm. The barbecue chef, who had been waiting politely nearby, stood back to the grill.

Gwen took Jane aside to a bench in the shadow of the tavern and sat her down. Her eyes flashed. "All right. What is it?" She waited and then in a gentler voice said, "You can tell me. Whatever it is." Jane shook her head and Gwen took both her hands in her own. "Nothing's that bad. Give."

"It's you and… Peter."

"Ah."

"I don't understand how you can—" She was beginning to cry now. "—with other guys. I thought that you and Peter—" The tears overcame her then, and it was a while before she could manage, "I looked up to you guys! I thought you were perfect."

For a long time Gwen did not speak. When she finally did, her expression was somber. She was as serious as Jane had ever seen her. "Jane, you don't have the right to ask for an explanation. Do you see that? You haven't earned it. But because you're so dear to me, and because I love you, I'll give you one anyway. But I'm only going to tell you the once. Understand?"

Sniffling, she nodded.

"I cut a deal. I'm going to die on Samhain. In exchange for that I get to live as full and complete a life as anyone in the year before. I'm living that life right now. A big part of it is my relationship with you, my friends, my classmates, everyone who's gathered here. But love, physical love, is a major part of life too.

"Jane, I know you'll find this hard to accept, but you'll almost certainly have more than one lover in your life. Most women do. And each one of your lovers will provide you with different emotional and physical satisfactions. Each will give you something, however small, that the others can't. Should my share be less than yours? I enjoy my lovers—I won't pretend otherwise—but even if I didn't, they're still part of the deal. If I don't bring a full life to the wicker cage, the sacrifice can't go through, and I won't be accepted. I don't want that. I keep my promises."

"But Peter—"

"Peter knows everything. He might not be completely happy with some of my choices, but he understands. Peter is the bedrock of my existence. There's nobody else who could take his place, and he knows that too." She stroked Jane's hair. "Do you understand now?"

"No," Jane said. "But I'll take your word for it."

Spontaneously, Gwen hugged her. "I feel so much closer to you after this little talk. Isn't that funny? I feel as though you really were my baby sister." Then she began to giggle.

"What's so funny?"

"You. You were so jealous of Falcone."

"I don't see anything terribly funny about that."

"Falcone doesn't like girls, silly."

Gwen's laughter was high and silvery, and after a second, Jane's joined hers.

She found Peter perched on a log at the bottom of the bonfire. Beside him was the straw Gwen which he was to fling atop the heap later in the evening, after she herself had hurled the torch that would set the entire structure ablaze. A minor lord of television stood nearby, blocking shots for the camera troll.

"Hey, Jane. I'd've thought you'd be with Gwen."

"She's autographing publicity photos now. Then she's going to lead the morris dancing."

Atop a distant stage a group of duppies were playing ska. They leaped and pranced in time to the music, skinny black creatures with dreadlocks and red eyes. "Well, that's Gwen. Did she show you her feet? We went out to the Pavilion last night and she danced so hard they blistered. She wouldn't stop, I begged her, she just laughed. I couldn't keep up. My knees were buckling, I was dying. It was as if somebody had shot fifty thousand volts right up her spine. She kept on dancing until her slippers fell apart. That's all she lives for."

"Excuse me." The television lord approached Jane. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Avistaro. And you are—?"

"Who, me? I'm nobody. I'm just a friend of Peter's." Avistaro waited politely. "Jane," she said at last. "Jane Alderberry."

"Ah." He consulted his clipboard. "You don't belong in this shot, you know, Jane. No, no, I'm not asking you to leave, not just yet. But you should be aware that this conversation may have to be cut short." He smiled insincerely.

"I was talking with Gwen," Jane said quietly when Avistaro had turned away. "She told me you knew all about her and those other guys."

"I guess I do."

"Oh, Peter. How awful for you."

"It's worse for Gwen. She's going to die and I only have to lose—well. I don't see where I'm in any position to criticize her, you know?"

"You're so understanding of her."

"She's everything to me," Peter said simply. A yearning, faraway ache entered his voice. "The way I look at it, she's like the sun and I'm like the moon. She's so full of life it blinds you to look at her. I'm nothing without her. Whatever I am, it's but a pale reflection of her glory."

"Oh, that's super!" the television lord said. "Do you mind if we use it?" He turned to Jane. "Now I will have to ask you to leave, I'm afraid. No hard feelings, I hope?" He turned away without waiting for a response.

Peter smiled sadly and shrugged.

Jane would've like to find her way back to the tavern. She'd finished her wine and wanted another glass. She still didn't think much of the flavor, but it was something she believed she could acquire a taste for. But the shifting currents of the festivities kept shunting her from her goal. In a burst of gracious laughter, a group of elves broke up before her, a curtain parting to reveal the school secretary.

The secretary had rhinestone-studded harlequin glasses, a body like a stick, and a white head of hair that made her look like a dandelion gone to seed. Near her shoulder blades sprouted two chitinous brown stumps, the sad remnants of what in her youth must have been wings. Strawwe stood behind her, whispering in her ear.

Jane edged away from the pair but could not stop looking at them. They met her gaze unblinkingly. Eyes locked, she and they drifted apart until the crowds drew in to hide them from each other.

A sudden terror seized Jane. She was surrounded by enemies, caught in a closing web of plots and forces whose nature and source were obscure to her. She was mad to remain. Trembling, she was about to break and run for it when the crowds shifted again and she was steadied by the abrupt and unexpected appearance of a friend.

Salome was alone in the middle of an open stretch of lawn, whirling around and around. She danced lightly, casually; it was possible she wasn't even aware that she was doing it. Jane went up and touched her on the shoulder.

"Hebog's looking for you."

"Is he?" Salome said. "Really? Is he really?" She looked so happy that Jane half expected her to rise from the ground and float away.

"Are you on something?"

"What? Oh, don't be ridiculous."

"Then what's with you?"

"I am simply in a good mood. I hope there's nothing wrong with being in a good mood."

"It's just so unlike you."

"My dear young innocent," Salome said grandly. "You know how dearly I'd love to hang around and chew the fat, but I have things to do, places to be. Noblesse oblige, you know. Where did you say Hebog was when you saw him?"

She pointed and Salome was madly off. Jane was lowering her arm when the wake created by the young fey widened to disclose three figures, heads together: Feather, who taught applied astrology, Grunt, and the child catcher.

As had the others, they stopped talking when they saw her, and raised their eyes to catch hers. The child catcher nodded urbanely and crooked a beckoning finger.

She ran.

The wheel turned. Gates opened and shut. A clear pathway appeared before her, and at its end stood Ratsnickle.

Caught, she walked to his side. He took her arm and together they went out of the green altogether and into the shady copse waiting quietly at its edge. A dirt path led them in and down. Leafy branches brushed against them.

When they were hidden within the green shadows, Ratsnickle released her arm. They faced each other. He stuck his thumbs into his belt. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"You're with Peter, aren't you?"

"What, you mean at the bonfire? I guess so."

Ratsnickle's face twisted. "That bastard! He used to be my friend. Some friend. I trusted him, and then he goes and steals away my girl from me."

Jane was shocked. "What are you talking about? I was never your girl."

"So," Ratsnickle said. "That's the way it is, huh?" He edged closer to Jane, and she backed away. He came closer and she backed away some more. For a wild instant she thought this would go on and on until they had walked backwards entirely through the woods. Then the bole of a tree slammed up against her back. Ratsnickle chuckled humorlessly. "Okay. Now we settle accounts."

"I'll go get help," somebody whispered in Jane's ear. But when she looked quickly over her shoulder, there was nobody there. The words had come out of nowhere, so soft that she doubted their existence the instant they were spoken. A hallucination.

"Don't twist your head away like that. Look at me when I'm talking to you." Ratsnickle grabbed a handful of Jane's blouse and pulled it toward him. It was linen and, afraid it would tear, Jane grabbed the cloth to either side of his fist, and moved with his motions. He swung her to and fro, like a terrier playing with a rat. It only seemed to enrage him the more.

"You bitch! You slut!" A tear raced down over one flushed cheek, was deflected by one corner of his grin. His eyes had almost disappeared in his distorted face.

Suddenly Jane realized she should be shouting for someone to rescue her. "Help!" she cried, too weakly. She felt immensely foolish, an actor shouting lines in a bad play. Her delivery didn't carry the weight of conviction. "Somebody help me!"

Ratsnickle let go of her blouse and punched her in the face.

It hurt. Her head bounced against the tree behind her and her hat went sliding away into the weeds. Twigs tugged at her hair. Legs tangling, she fell.

He's going to rape me, she thought flatly. Melanchthon will have to save me now. He made me promise no sex. I'm worthless to him if this happens.

But she felt no telltale trace of the dragon's presence. His attention was elsewhere. She tried to summon him, concentrating on his secret name, on his op codes, on what she could remember in her hysteria of his wiring diagrams. Hoping the distance was not too great, she silently screamed for him to come to her.

Nothing.

Ratsnickle was tugging at her belt. She seized it in both hands so he couldn't unbuckle it and he punched her again. In the stomach this time. That made one hand let go, but she managed to keep a furious grip with the other. He was trying to pry the fingers back. Wet, gloating sobs rose from the back of his throat. She clawed at his face. It was nothing but the indignity of event after event, as endless and inevitable as a nightmare.

"Stop that!"

Jane stared up, stunned, into the face of someone she'd never imagined she would ever be glad to see.

It was Grunt.

He reached down an enormous hand and hauled her to her feet. She tugged at her chinos, pulling them up, rebuckling the buckle. When she looked up again Ratsnickle had fled, crashing through the woods.

"You filthy child!" Grunt's lips were white with emotion. His tiny eyebrows made a comic vee over the expressionless disks of his glasses. He swung Jane onto the path, and grabbed her by the nape of her blouse. The cloth pressed against her breasts, dug painfully into her armpits. "You dirty little monster."

"But I didn't do anything!" Her face was beginning to swell; she could feel it. It wasn't possible Grunt could think she was a willing participant in what had happened. Not when she hurt the way she did. "It was Ratsnickle who—"

"Shut up!"

He quick-marched her through the crowds and into the tavern. She had a quick glimpse of the wine steward snoring in a chair and then Grunt had flung open a door and thrust her into the cloakroom. He slammed the door behind him. "Is this the way you repay me all my pains? You evil creature! Seducing honest boys with your nasty ways." He was beside himself with indignation. "I thought we knew all about you. But this—this!"

Suddenly he stopped and bent nearer. His nostrils flared. "And your breath reeks of alcohol!"

The lecture lasted forever. It was hard to endure because not only could she not speak up in her own defense but also, much like Ratsnickle had, he lost his temper anew any time she looked away. She could not track what he was saying. She followed each word so closely it became as hard and real as an object—a hammer, a ceramic mug, a painted rock—and she could make no other sense out of it.

At last Grunt ran out of steam. "Go!" He flung open the cloakroom door, and called after her, "We're watching you, young lady. Don't think we're not. Oh, no. Don't think any such thing."

Jane stumbled away.

Outside, it was the blue hour between afternoon and evening. Paper lanterns had been strung up but not yet lit. Jane didn't cry. She had that much control, anyway.

Jane's mind was a knot of confusion, with Ratsnickle and the child catcher all tangled up with Grunt and the voice in the woods. Everyone was angry at her; it was as if the outrage she felt had been turned against her. Her face ached, and her thoughts were all jumpy, uneven, disconnected. She could not go home in such a state. Melanchthon would greet her anger with silence and a nasty amusement. He'd gotten what he wanted, after all, without having to stick up for her. She could taste his humor in the back of her mouth, making her feel as though she were the butt of a smutty joke.

Everybody she knew was still at the barbecue. She couldn't enjoy the mall with her face like this. That left only one safe haven.

"Holy shit, girlie! Looks like you been in some kind of fight."

"You should see the other guy," she muttered. But in too low a voice, too darkly. She didn't have the self-possession to pull it off. "I just wanted to putty in some of these dents." She faked a smile. "You must've been a handsome thing when you were new."

Ragwort's eye swiveled apprehensively. "Whoa, you don't just smear on that crap without no preparation. You gotta grind away the rust first."

"So all right," she snapped. "That's what I'll do." She donned goggles and dust mask, and plugged in the electric grinder.

"Tell ya what, Sis. Not that I don't trust you or nothing, but how about you set up a mirror over on the workbench so I can watch what you're doing? I can talk you through it."

Jane hesitated, then nodded. She set up the mirror.

"Okay, the first thing you wanna do is find a spot where the rust ain't so bad. Up near the front flank, say."

Half an hour later, the left front fender was looking pretty good. Not perfect, but a few coats of paint to smooth things out, and it'd be fine. Jane felt a little better, too. Work could do that. There was nothing like a little directed action to fill up the mind, steady the nerves, drive away thought.

"Yo, girlie," Ragwort said. "Now that you got all that free-floating anxiety out of your system, I don't suppose you'd mind telling me just what's bugging you?"

"Oh, Ragwort. It's all too complicated and you don't even know the people involved."

"Like who?"

"Oh, gosh, like Ratsnickle, Grunt, the—"

"Don't know Grunt! Him and me, we're asshole buddies. Why, last year he come in the shop when I was telling some a my old war stories and he tried to say I was never no combat model. The little prick said I'd never seen action. I showed him some action all right. Stepped on his foot and broke three bones. He ain't been back since."

Jane stifled a laugh. "Really?"

"All together now, class." Ragwort managed a rough but identifiable imitation of Grunt's voice. "The four fucks: Fucked-up, Fucked-over, Fucked-out, and just plain Fucked."

Jane laughed until she choked, and couldn't stop, even then. It poured out of her endlessly, as if all the pain and fear within had been converted to a river of laughter. "No, please!" she gasped.

"That's better," he said. "Dry them tears, girlie. Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."