"No -- not for a long time, actually. That's why they want to take a look. It'll depend on when I can get into the hospital to get seen, but I'll swing by when I'm in town. How does that sound?"

She hesitated then, which I didn't think much of at the time. I assumed she was checking her calendar, or ringing up a patron.

"Come when you can," she said finally. "But I'd like to see you soon."

"You too, Marj. Look after yourself."

"Same back. Bye, Christopher."

"Bye," I said, and hung up. Then I went to look for the phone number of the hospital, to set up an appointment so that they could sample and study my healthy heart for as long as they wanted.

***

There's really no good way to get to the El from Union Station, the central train terminal in Chicago. Somewhere between laying out the El and situating the ordinary train tracks, they forgot about the Chicago river. The nearest El station is over the river and three or four blocks northeast, further if you're trying to get to the Red Line. Still, when it's not freezing or snowing it's a nice walk. The river's pretty when it thaws.

I took the El south when I reached it, down to the hospital where they received me with a mixture of skepticism and interest. Heart troubles are tricky; there are lots of ways for them to hide, and from the thoroughness of the tests they were determine to look in every dark corner of my cardiovascular system. I spent the night there, aching from all the various invasions, and was finally kicked out the next afternoon with the assurance that Kirchner would get my results in a couple of days. They asked if I wanted to go over them with someone, but I didn't see the point. The looks on their faces told me all I needed to know. Science, I've learned, is not perplexed by the unknown, but magic tends to throw it for a loop.

I was tired by the time they released me and desperately in need of dinner and intelligent conversation, so I made for Eighth Rare Books with speed. Eighth Street wasn't far by El, and as I came down to street level from the train I joined the loose crowds of students emerging from the last classes of the day at the nearby colleges. I stood back and let them go ahead, well-aware that this was Marjorie's busy spell and she'd have more time for me once she'd settled her patrons a little.

There was a coffee-shop across the street from Eighth Rare Books, one of the few holdouts against the chain-store invasions, and I bought a cup of tea to kill a little time. I was about to grab a newspaper and settle in somewhere when I glanced up at the wide plate-glass window next to the entrance to Eighth Rare Books -- and froze.

Lucas was standing in the window. The same shaggy light-brown hair, the same sharp and ordinary profile. It was a shock to see him, and then when I'd recovered from that came the second surprise.

He was speaking to a young woman, hands moving quickly, sketching out shapes in the air. His face was lit up as he explained something to her and she was listening, smiling, responding occasionally. Even as I stared, she brushed her hair out of her eyes in a sort of coy flip that made it very clear her question, while perhaps important, was designed to get something more than just information out of him. She was flirting with him, and from all appearances he was flirting back.

I watched him pick up a book, hand it to her, scribble something on the notepad she was carrying, and send her off with a broad, charming smile. Then he busied himself at a display next to the window, frowning in concentration as he rearranged the books to his satisfaction.

I must have stood there in the coffee shop for a good five minutes, staring at him, getting in the way of the other patrons and going totally unnoticed by Lucas across the street. The last time I'd stood on Eighth Street I'd been in muddy clothing, my hand bandaged up in a large white paw, Lucas next to me carrying our dinner in a plastic bag.

Eventually the heat from my tea started to bleed through the doubled paper cup and make my hand uncomfortably warm. I glanced down at it, threw it still-full into a trash can, crossed the street, and pushed through the door into the warm dust-and-paper smell of Eighth Rare Books. Marj was ringing someone up and missed me amid the crowd near the entrance. I stopped and looked around.

The shelves were the same, but hanging on the end of each row were two or three easily recognizable masks. Lucas's masks – animals, grotesques, dazzling paste-jeweled Mardi Gras faces, and even a couple of Dottores. I crept around one shelf and read the little placard pinned underneath – For Sale by Artist, Inquire At Front Desk.

I circled, crossed at the back of the shop, and came around behind Lucas where he was fussing with another book display.

"Excuse me, do you work here?" I asked.

"I do, can I hel..." he trailed off as he turned, and the ready help-the-customer smile on his face dropped into surprise. "Christopher!"

"See, I'm looking for a book," I said casually. "But this store is kind of small and it doesn't even have a coffee stand in it – "

"Oh, the hell with you," he laughed, and wrapped me in a warm, tight hug. He still smelled like plaster. "My god. It's good to see you, Christopher."

"You too," I replied numbly, stepping back. "You look good, Lucas."

"You look exhausted. Did you come up on the train?"

"Yesterday. I was at the hospital," I added, and he got a grim look in his eye.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine. No, honest truth," I added, when he opened his mouth. "Well -- not fine. But physically I'm okay."

"Not fine?" he asked. I looked at him.

"It's good to see you," I said, by way of answer. He cut his eyes away and nodded.