It was nearly noon on Saturday when Jeremy Kane fell off his couch. He struggled up, using the cluttered coffee table to lever himself back onto the cushions, and sat there for several minutes with his head in his hands. It was a familiar pose, his dizziness a familiar sensation, and he waited grimly for his head to stop spinning.

When it eventually did, he got up slowly and made his way into the narrow alley kitchen of his apartment. Mixing tomato juice and a few other ingredients, he made his usual pick-me-up and drank it down, then fixed another and carried the glass back into his cramped and messy living room.

He sat down on the couch again and pulled his loosened tie off, fumbled for the remote, and turned the television on. He switched to CNN out of habit, just in case anything interesting had happened in the world while he had been passed out. It took him three tries to wrestle his jacket off, and the sound of paper caught his attention even as he wondered at the unusual brevity of his hangover.

The dizziness had faded almost instantly, the nausea he usually felt was totally absent, and his mouth didn't feel or taste like the bottom of a bird cage. Even though his pick-me-up was good, it wasn't that good.

"What the hell?" he muttered, bothered, as always, by anything out of the ordinary. Even his voice sounded better than it had any right to, only a little raspy. Then he pulled the neatly folded paper from the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket, unfolded it, and stared at it.

It was his rough draft of the announcement awarding the newspaper's grant. When he had gone to the party last night, he had left the draft in his old manual typewriter, he was sure. Looking across the room to his small desk, he could dearly see the top of the typewriter even over the usual clutter of newspapers, magazines, an empty pizza box, two cracked mugs half filled with cold coffee and cigarette butts, and the remains of a two-day-old microwavable dinner.

There was no paper in the machine.

Kane might have been a drunk, and he might have lost or squandered most of the raw talent that had made him a nationally recognized name at the tender age of twenty-five nearly two decades before, but he was not a stupid man, and he did not doubt either the evidence of his eyes or his memory-neither of which had ever failed him. And he had never drawn a blank after a night of drinking, even on those frequent occasions when any merciful God would have spared him the memories.

So he remembered the previous evening, and the only unusual thing he could call to mind was that Serena Smyth had asked him to dance. She had never done that before, even though they had been introduced years ago, and though he saw her at many of the high-ticket social and charity events in Seattle.

She had asked him to dance. And while they danced, she had sweetly encouraged him to talk about himself and what he'd been doing lately-a sneaky tactic if he'd ever seen one. She had even casually asked the address of his apartment, he recalled, which had made him grow an inch or two and had filled his head with something besides brains.

And then… And then he had a vague memory of leaning heavily on her as he staggered back to his chair, and falling into the sweet blackness of unconsciousness.

Had Serena brought him home? Why on earth would she? Just to get her hands on this announcement? There didn't seem to be any other reason. She certainly hadn't stripped him, had her way with him, and then put his clothes back on before leaving. He would have remembered that even if he'd been nearly dead.

No; it had to be the announcement. But why? She was friendly with Seth Westcott and his girlfriend, Kane knew that well enough, but it didn't seem likely she'd go to so much trouble just to find out what would be announced in a few days. And if she had brought him home to get an early peek at the announcement, then what would possess her to remove the draft from his typewriter and leave it in his jacket pocket-where he could hardly fail to find it?

Jeremy Kane didn't like puzzles, and though his instincts might have dulled over the years, he could still recognize something that didn't make sense. He also had so little going on in his life that even a minor mystery was a welcome thing-though that was something he didn't like to think about. So he decided it wouldn't hurt to find out more than he already knew about Miss Serena Smyth.

He placed a call to a private investigator in Seattle who owed him a few favors, and was lucky enough to catch the man in his office on a Saturday afternoon.

"Taylor, I need a favor," he announced without preamble.

Brad Taylor groaned. "I'm not gonna dig up any more dirt on politicians for you, Kane," he said quickly. "I'm sick of wading through the muck."

"This is no politician, believe me. She's sort of a society deb, near as I can figure. If you find even a few little bones in her closet, I'd be surprised. And don't forget how much you owe me, Taylor."

"Okay, okay. What do you need?"

"Everything you can find out about this woman. Her name is Serena Smyth." He spelled it briskly, then added, on impulse. "And whatever you can find out about this guy she lives with, supposedly her uncle…"

Following an afternoon's work, Serena took advantage of Merlin's absence on Saturday evening to relax her guard somewhat, which was a relief. Since she never minded being alone, the quiet of the big house didn't bother her, and she was perfectly happy fixing herself a light dinner, taking a long bath, and then curling up on her bed with the television turned low and a big, very old leather-bound volume of incantations open before her.

She was tempted to practice a few of the more interesting spells, but contented herself with memorizing those she especially wanted to remember. After all, you never knew when you had to tame the wildest animal or turn an enemy into a toad.

The book was so fascinating that Serena passed a pleasant evening, and since she was tired by the long day of honing her abilities, she went to bed before midnight-and long before Merlin came home.

The next day was virtually a repeat of Saturday, with lessons in the attic workroom in the morning, a break for lunch, and then more lessons in the afternoon. Nothing out of the ordinary happened until they were eating supper early that evening, at the kitchen table rather than in the more formal dining room, since it was just the two of them.

Serena brought up the subject, having come across at least three incantations regarding the control of weaker minds in her studies the previous night.

"I thought you told me that mind control was beyond our capabilities, that we could only do fairly simple things-boost willpower or self-confidence or induce sleep, but never truly control the mind of someone else."

"Gray's Spells and Incantations!" Merlin said, naming the book she had studied.

"Uh-huh. According to him, it's fairly easy to control another mind, especially a weaker one. But he seems to have his doubts about making people do something that's completely against their core morality. Sort of like the limitations people believe about hypnosis, I guess."

Merlin nodded and said, "I did tell you we could never completely control another mind, which is quite true. Momentary control is possible, at best, but it's almost always imperfect. The human mind is too complex to be fully controlled. And it's a dangerous device to use without great care."

"Is that why you haven't taught me?"

A bit dryly Merlin said, "Alphabetically, mind control comes after invisibility, which is what we were working on yesterday and today."

Unwilling to let him get away with that, Serena said, "You called it vanishing, and so did my manual, which puts me near the end of the alphabet-and well past M or C."