"It's different now," she said, not explaining, but dismissing. "I did not see the Wolf before. I thought it was only this old grey Badger, trying to dig me out.Go on, go on, girl, you can do nothing here. You. Young man." She waved a cane at Ed. "Clear a chair for me. No, not that one, stupid. Any fool could see it has a wobbly leg. That one. Hurry up."

Stepovich was torn between watching the vanquished Ms. Peabody gather her briefcase and leave,and watching Ed meekly obeying the old crone.

"… she obviously doesn't understand what you're doing. Which means she hasn't been properly Mirandized, and nothing she says can be legally used. And when the time comes, I'll be a witness to that.So if you think-"

"Yes, yes, yes," Madam Moria intoned testily. She pointed the twisted black cane at Stepovich. "You. Shut the door."

And he did, giving Ms. Peabody just time enough to get through it. He turned back to find Madam Moria settling in the chair with various small hisses and groans. She thumped a cane on the floor until Ed got the message and placed one cushion where her slippered feet could reach it. Then she breathed noisily through her nose for several more moments while she settled the folds of her gown around her. Dressing gown was too poor a description for that brocaded and embroidered marvel. Her slippers matched it, for god's sake. When it was arranged to her satisfaction, the old woman lifted her head and fixed her gaze on Stepovich. "So, Wolf. What have you come to ask?"

Maybe next year's power suits would be lavish brocade bathrobes. Stepovich started to pull up a chair,but she pointed imperiously to a cushion near her blue-veined feet. He sat. Better to go with it than to lose it.

He looked up into her eyes. They were dark and old, the browns sort of leaking into the whites and staining them. And if she wasn't at least half blind,he'd eat his badge. Blind. But seeing him, too, in away that put the creeps up his back. He cleared his throat and heard himself say, "I want to know who killed Cynthia Kacmarcik."

He heard Ed shift his weight in a chair at this novel mode of interrogation. So did Madam Moria, for she lifted her aluminum cane and pointed it at Ed commandingly, "You. Go to the kitchen. Make tea. You keep an old woman up late, you have to care for her throat. Go."

Ed stood reluctantly. "How do I know where the tea is?" he demanded.

"Dig for it. Badger. Dig. Hurry up. And mind you steal nothing, or I shall know!" she called after him as he blundered off through the tapestry she'd emerged from. Ed dismissed, she leaned closer to Stepovich. Her blind eyes swam over his face. She reached out a bony hand, and startled him by gripping his hair. It was all he could do to keep from jerking free.

"Someone has her," she whispered. "Just like this. She'd like to be dead, poor Cynthia would, but someone won't let her go. Am I right, hmm?"

Stepovich's throat went dry. Her pale old tongue emerged, wet her withered lips, and the fingertips of her free hand. She rubbed the spittle together on her fingers as if listening to it. "A little boy is in it. A nasty little boy, who hides behind Her skirts after he's done his dirtiness. But it would be a mistake to go after just him. He's only a puppet, you know. But he's a puppet with a knife, so don't turn your back until you've cut his strings. Hmm?"

He could hear Ed clattering cups, heard water run into a kettle, but the sounds seemed distant: Not muffled by the hangings and the apartment walls, but distant, miles away, like dogs barking outside a village or the creak of cart wheels over a bridge. She wasn't seeing him with those rheumy eyes, but she was seeing something and he couldn't break away from her gaze.

She flicked a handkerchief in his face, and he never even flinched. "Here's a scent for you. Wolf," she told him, and there was a scent to it, like cheap macho cologne, all musk and sharp with no sweetness. He breathed it in and it seemed to vanish from the air around him even as a part of him vowed not to forget it. The handkerchief, too, vanished, as if it had never been.

"You could hunt with the Raven on your shoulder. But this Wolf always wants to hunt alone, doesn't he?The Owl could give you eyes in the night, but you think you've eyes enough, don't you? And the little one, the Dove who could coo secrets to you? Him you'd close your jaws on with one great snap. Stupids. Four great stupids, the lot of you. The world cries out for heroes, and what are we given? Three scatterbrained birds and a mangy dog."

She released his hair with a final shake and leaned back in her chair, breathing heavily. She half-lidded her eyes. Stepovich felt as if a great pressure had lifted from him. Someone made a peculiar scratching sound right outside the door, but before he could react to it,Madam Moria lifted her head. "I don't care!" she cried out defiantly, and he wasn't sure if she addressed him or not. "I'm too old to fear you, you patchwork demon! Run and carry tales! You're not the only one who can tattle little secrets!" Her voice seemed to catch on the final words, and she leaned back suddenly in her chair with a wheezing sigh. Her shriveled lips sank in on themselves, her eyes faded deeper into blindness.

"Madam Moria?" he ventured.

She took in a deeper breath, blinked several times. She reached for her black cane, thumped it weakly on the layered rugs. "Where is that tea?" she demanded, but her demanding now seemed more piteous than imperious.

"I'll check on it," Stepovich told her, and started to stand up, but Ed was pushing the tapestry aside with his back and ushering in a small tray. It was silver, the etched pattern old and lovely under the patina of years. A fat ceramic pot sat on it, and beside it an elegant cup of fluted bone china. None of the items matched, yet they obviously belonged together just as old friends do.

"Pull up… that table. Any table." She seemed suddenly a very old woman in a way she had not before. Stepovich didn't even smile as Ed carefully poured her tea and offered her the cup. She took it,and though her hand trembled, not a drop escaped as she raised it to her mouth and noisily sucked at it.

"She tell you anything?" Ed asked in an undertone.

Stepovich shrugged. "Not really," he answered, and wondered why it felt like a lie.

Ed went into a heavy crouch beside her chair."How about it. Madam Moria? Can you tell us anything about Cynthia Kacmarcik?"

"I can tell you she made better tea than this! Who taught you to put water only warm on the leaves?Better the steam stands out a foot above the kettle before you pour it! Tea like this, Cynthia would pour on the floor!"

"But can you tell us…"

"Young man, I am tired. You think an old womanlike me, she can stay up all night and talk and not be tired? Stupid. You want to know more, you come back another time."

"Maybe you could just-" Ed began, but Stepovich shook his head at him silently. Ed got the message and rose.

As they turned to the door. Madam Moria thumped a cane on the floor. "Fifty dollars!" she said, when Stepovich turned back. "You think I do a seeing for free? No! Fifty dollars. Wolf."

Ignoring Ed's incredulous look, Stepovich gave her the twenty-three he had in his wallet. She took it disdainfully. "Next time you come, you bring the rest.Or I will tell you nothing at all. Nothing at all."

They were in the Cadillac and headed back to Stepovich's before Ed spoke, "Not healthy," he observed, shaking his head.

"Well, she's pretty old," he conceded.

"Not her." Ed snorted in disgust. "She's a healthy as a horse, behind the phony wheeze of hers. Hell, that cast-iron teakettle of hers must weigh twenty pounds. If she's hefting that every day, it's probably as good as a Jane Fonda workout. Her hair hasn't even gone grey.No, I wasn't talking about her. I mean you."