"I doubt you will. They have a whole herd of children to care about. He doesn't seem the type to inspire a rebellion. Besides, this is still civilization. We don't burn people at the stake for having new ideas."

"Really? Seems like that's exactly where people do that," he said. "But it doesn't matter. The one you're holding..." he said, indicating the mask in my hands. "I'm calling him Socrates. He's not finished yet. I'm waiting for the plants to finish growing."

I looked over at the window box. "The plants?" I asked, setting Socrates down and walking to the window. The green stalks swayed gently.

"Please don't – they're poisonous," he said, as I reached out to touch one. "It's hemlock. Most people mistake it for parsley."

"Ah," I said, looking back at Socrates. The real Socrates had been executed by the state, ordered to drink a cup of brewed hemlock. "Yes, I see."

"I thought I'd decorate him with it. It's interesting to try growing it, anyway."

I opened my mouth to ask him if these masks were why he wanted the book, and then I caught sight of the ceiling.

"How the hell did you do that?" I asked, looking up at a charred spot in the plaster about three feet wide, spreading across one of the beams as well.

"I..." he glanced up. "Little accident. I thought when I was feeling better I'd replaster it. Plaster, I'm good with," he said, gesturing at the worktables. "You said you brought my book?" he added, stuttering a little over the words.

"Here," I said, setting my backpack down in a clear space on one table and digging out the package. "A friend of mine in the city found it."

"Wrapped and everything," he said with a smile, picking at the twine. "You didn't have to come all the way out here."

"The boy said your telephone was dead, and you're not used to living in these conditions – it's just as well I did," I answered, rubbing the back of my head and looking up at the dark spot on the ceiling. "At least now you'll know how to fix a flipped circuit."

He looked embarrassed and my own scorn made me uncomfortable. I picked up another mask, toying with the beaded decoration around the edge as Lucas eagerly opened his book. He took out one of the bay leaves Marjorie had stuffed it with, brow furrowing.

"Amazing she's stayed in business, smoking around the books like that," I said casually.

"Yeah, I think she bleaches her teeth too – " he stopped mid-speech and looked up at me.

"I assume that her reluctance to sell to an artist is your fault," I continued. "I told her I was a roofer. What a roofer would want with a book on classical history I couldn't say, but she swallowed it all right."

He was quiet for a while. I wasn't sure what I even wanted. Not a confession or an apology, certainly. Acknowledgment, maybe. I don't know.

"She wouldn't sell to me. She thinks it's a dangerous book," he said finally. "I wish I'd just stolen the copy from the library."

"Why didn't you?"

"Didn't want to go back into the city, and stealing from libraries is pathetic." He snuffled and turned his head to cough, away from the book.

"You knew I'd find her copy."

"I thought so. I offered her twice what it's worth, she still wouldn't sell." He put the bay leaf back and closed the book, pressing his hand flat over the cover.

"It's not exactly top-secret," I said. "I don't see how it could be dangerous."

"No, of course not. Maybe she just didn't like the look of my face. I'm sorry I lied," he said. "What do I owe you? I – I won't bother trying to buy your respect, but you should have something above the price and postage. You dragged up here through the mud and fixed my home."

"We don't charge extra for delivery," I said with a small grin. "It's all right, really, Lucas. You wanted the book, she wouldn't sell it to you. I know how it is when you want a book you can't get."

"Well, I'm still sorry."

"Lucas, really," I said, and he looked up at me again. There was a little color coming into his cheeks from the heat of the fire. "It's fine."

He seemed to consider, then nodded. Probably didn't want to press his luck, now that he had his book.

"Do you want lunch, at least?" he asked. "The kitchen'll be warm enough to cook in, pretty soon."

"What've you been doing in the meantime, roasting things over the fire?"

"Haven't been very hungry, but that's a pretty good idea. I've never had a fireplace before."

"Really?" I asked. "Never?"

He shrugged, tucking his knees up against his chest so he could wrap the corners of the blanket around his feet. "Always lived in apartments. Central heating. Super took care of...the big light switches and stuff."

"Circuit breakers."

"Those."

"You got the fire going, though."

"The boy sold me some starter-logs when I bought the wood."