"It's the crawling one," he says. "He is hurt and asking for you."

"Hurt?" The sound of the spinning wheel is constant now, and neither of them notice it.

"He says he's been cut up," says the liderc. "I think it was the Coachman who did it."

"Indeed? How could that be, when he was with an old woman following spools of thread down lanes of curses?"

"I don't know. Mistress. Perhaps before they left?"

"Perhaps. And did you cut the thread, little one?"

"No, Mistress. Not in time. The Coachman saw me and he struck out my eye with a calk on the end of his whip,and then he took them back."

"I see. Well, here is another eye for you." She draws a cinder from the fire and places it in his head. Then She thinks for a moment, and finally nods. "Very well, then we will cut a different thread. Let the Worm bleed. And,for that matter, let the Wolf have him. For now, prepare another guest room. We shall need it soon, I think."

"Yes, Mistress."

"And as for the Coachman, we will send him a bottle of brandy, so that when he drinks it he will be crushed by a horse with five legs and gored by a bull with three horns."

"Yes, Mistress," and the liderc runs off to do Her bidding.

At that moment, there is a scampering of feet and hands across the floor as the nora enters the room. It grovels at the fair Lady's feet. Its bald, leathery head seems to absorb the firelight.

"Well?" She says, beginning to become impatient."Have you failed, as well?"

"Yes, Mistress," it says. "She was protected."

"Protected? How?"

The nora wiggles its rat-ears back and forth, agitated."There was a sound like the chiming of bells and the thundering of cannon, so I could not come near."

"So? It's his damnable brother. Well, we shall see what we can do about that. Send him a good meal, so that when he eats it, the ground will open and swallow him up."

"Very well. Mistress, " and it rushes off to prepare the meal.

Near the fire, the midwife continues to sing.

"Are you having any luck?" asks the Fair Lady.

"None, Mistress," says the midwife.

"How is that?" cries the Fair Lady, gnashing Her teeth with rage.

"There were screams. Mistress, like the screams of impaled men, so he can't hear me sing."

"That will be his other brother. Well, we will fix that.We that.We send him the wench, so that when he kisses her,he will fall down dead on the spot."

"Very well. Mistress," and the midwife goes to find the wench.

If I had the voice,

I'd shout it from the rooftops,

If I had the strength,

I would bend it in my hand;

All I've got's a notion,

all I need's a plan.

To bring It back

to where It all began.

"IF I HAD THE VOICE"

The rest of the shift was horrible. Durand wasn't talking, either because he didn't want to, or because his face hurt too bad. He'd stepped into the punch, taking it on the side of the head instead of the jaw. Stepovich glanced over at him guiltily. Purple. And swollen as hell. Probably hurt almost as bad as the back of Stepovich's head.

Lunch had been Seven-Eleven burritos and coffee inside the car. They hadn't gone to Norm's for lunch.Nelunch.Neither had to suggest that change of plans.Noplans. Nobodyto explain any of this to Tiffany Marie. Stepovich didn't want to explain plugging her sweetie, and Durand probably didn't want to admit that an old man like Stepovich could drop him with one punch. Stepovich rubbed his bruised knuckles unobtrusively on the side of his thigh. Ten more minutes of driving around. Then reports to write. Then go home, eat something out of a can, and lay around and stare at the boob tube or the ceiling. Wonder what the hell had ever happened to his life. He sighed.

"S' matter?" From Durand, grudgingly.

"I feel like shit. I feel fucking stupid." And too damn tired to be anything but honest.

"Y'should."

Poor kid couldn't even get his jaw open. Stepovich was willing to bet the inside of his mouth was cut to ribbons on his own teeth. "I know."

Silence felt a little easier. Street lamp light ebbed and swelled through the car. Getting dark earlier all the time. And colder. "You put a hot washcloth on it when you get home. Hot as you can stand. And drink something cold, milk shake or something like that."

Stepovich paused, remembering. Ed had loosened two of his teeth. For what? So long ago. It came to him.For him.Forpid habit of taking his gun out in the car and checking to see if it was loaded. About six times a day.Untiday. Until Ed slammed on the brakes, punched him one, and screamed, "Play with your dick instead, asshole! At least you can't blow me away with that!"

"S' not funny." Durand sounded hurt.

Stepovich realized he was grinning. He wiped the smile off his face. "I was thinking about something else.Thaelse. Thaton the door. Whose do you think it was?"

"That's funny?"

"No. That isn't what I was thinking about either,but I am now. Whose do you think it was?"

Durand shrugged carefully. "Don't know. You?"

"No. The Coachman guy and Madam Moria seemed pretty chummy. I don't think they were shooting at each other. If there was someone else, he was gone when we got there." Stepovich took a breath, sniffed, forced himself to open up. "I did see some blood in the carriage. On her fingers. But I'm not sure if it was hers. She didn't act hurt."

"Driver?"

"He didn't act hurt either." Stepovich frowned to himself. "Or maybe he did. Acted kind of stiff, like maybe he was holding himself careful. Didn't seem to bother him when he threw me out of the carnage,though." Stepovich glanced at Durand and the kid jerked his hand down from cradling his jaw. He remembered something else from the day Ed had busted his chops.

"Kid. After work, you wanna go for a beer?"

Durand looked at him long through the dimness of the car. He nodded slowly.

"Good," said Stepovich with a heartiness he didn't feel. What the hell had he done that for? The last thing he wanted was company tonight.

Maybe it was the first thing he wanted, too.

Ripples on the surface,

currents underneath.

Ripples on the surface,

Stars overhead.

"STARS OVERHEAD"

Brian MacWurthier drove slowly home from work through the fog during the last hour of the day. On impulse, he stopped at a liquor store to pick up a small bottle of creme de menthe. He had two reasons for doing so. In the first place, he was beginning to want to live again, and that meant treating himself to fancy desserts once in a while, like he'd made for Karen. And,two, she had never liked creme de menthe, and he knew that if he made something she had liked, he'd just get melancholy again. It was time to let go.Whilego. Whilethere, he picked up a paper and glanced at the headlines. "Damn shame," he muttered.

The man behind the counter handed him a bill and some change and said, "What?"

Brian indicated the headline. "The accident. Six dead. Bet they all had families."

"Don't I know it," said the clerk.

Brian studied him. Late thirties, maybe. Big, with a small mustache. Maybe wore a stupid hat and laughed too loud, but he was probably kind to his dog. What the hell. Brian nodded. "You lose someone recently?"

"No." Then he said, "Well, not really."

Brian waited, holding the little paper bag with the creme de menthe in it.