"Charles is going to buy me something at the cafe for helping him out," Carmen replied. "But I wanted to see you first. Did you hear about Jacob?"

"No, what about him?" I asked, dropping the worst of the wet mail into the trash.

"Skidded out on the road trying to get into town," Charles said.

"What?" I blinked at them. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine, Kirchner patched him up. Startled more than anything, I think," Charles said. "Nothing broken, but his truck's in the shop. Might be there for a while, cars aren't cheap to fix."

"Passing the plate on Sunday for him?" I asked, opening the cash register. Charles nodded, and I handed him what I could spare.

"He'll be all right," Carmen said. "Moneywise, I mean, in a few months. His oldest is sending some back from the city. But," she added, grinning at me, "he had to borrow Michael's pickup until his is fixed up."

"Don't tell me he found nudie photos of Sandra," I rolled my eyes.

"Carmen," Charles said disapprovingly.

"Come on! Know what he found?" she asked me, ignoring his disapproving look. "He found a coat he swears belongs to Nolan's sister."

"It's not our business," Charles scolded.

"Hang on, how does he know it belongs to Nolan's sister?" I asked. Carmen gave me a dry, cynical look. "Oh my. I'll have to get out that diagram I was working on."

"Carmen, I think it's time we went and got that drink," Charles said.

"Fine, fine. You can catch me up later," she said, following Charles to the door.

"Have a good day. I'll let you know if I hear anything about it," I called after them.

When they were gone, I turned to the box they'd brought, slitting the packing tape and pulling the flaps up. Inside, between layers of tissue paper and packing peanuts, I found a whole host of treasures.

In addition to receipts for purchase and postage, Marjorie had included a couple of handbills for interesting Chicago events, a letter full of literary talk, a bar of toffee chocolate from Vosges, and a bag of biscotti from a little bakery we used to visit when I was her customer instead of her protégé. I thought of calling her and joking that the biscotti had gone stale, but instead I unpacked her gifts and sorted through the handful of books she'd sent. She'd thoughtfully wrapped Lucas's book in plastic to keep the smell off the other books, and stuffed sage and bay leaves between the pages to try and de-smoke it a little. It helped, in a way – now the book smelled like herbs and cigarette smoke.

The other two books had post-it notes on them: one said Thought you'd like this and the other Want your opinion. I set them aside, however, and picked up the book Lucas had requested, Ancient Games. It could use a good airing, and there's a certain guilty pleasure in reading books that someone else bought.

It didn't seem like anything special. Another book about myths and superstitions, probably inaccurate considering the date on the imprint was 1944. The art inside was good, though, only slightly faded color plates of Egyptian tomb frescoes of hunters, black-and-white photographs of old mosaics (opus vermiculatum, very delicate work) depicting mock battles, and Roman paintings of women playing some kind of ball game. I could see why an artist would be attracted to them – even if he'd said he wasn't an artist, hands don't lie.

The chapters were divided with scholarly neatness: games for play and games in earnest, one on witchcraft and one on "charms". I turned to "games in earnest", but it still seemed vaguely silly to me, the idea of reading serious mythological consequence into dead games. Of course you learn a lot from the games a culture plays, but only about the culture itself. If there is a hidden world beyond ours, old myths and games and playacting are not the likely key to it.

At least, that was what I thought before the winter came.

Chapter FOUR

Most of the roads were still flooded when our mail made it through, and the walk out to The Pines that day would have been truly dangerous – there was slippery mud and the possibility of sinkholes, and even a little quicksand wasn't unknown in the wilder flatlands around Low Ferry. I wanted to walk out and deliver Lucas's book personally, but I decided to give it a day first. If the sun stayed out, the road would probably be safe, if not enjoyable, by the following day.

The boy came by that afternoon and confirmed my suspicions. He'd tried to make it out to The Pines for his tutoring, and turned back when the water got over the axles of his bicycle wheels.

"Why're you going there, anyway?" the boy asked, popping gum and leaning on my counter. I held out a tissue and he rolled his eyes and spat into it.

"Lucas ordered a book, and it arrived with the mail. I hadn't seen him in a while," I said, tossing the gum out.

"Yeah, he's been stuck up there. Phone must have gone out too."

"Oh?" I asked.

"Well, I called to see what he wanted me to study because I missed tutoring, and it just kept ringing," he said. "What's the book?"

"You'll have to ask him that, it's his business."

"Maybe he'll show me if I show him all the stuff I've done," he continued. "Got an A on my history paper."

"Oh yeah? Good for you. I'm sure he'll be pleased," I said, and the boy beamed. "You buying, or just kibitzing?"