•

9:15 am
M.R. James Memorial Hospital

"Where’s Mark?" Stephanie demanded. Her eyes were red and swollen, and there were still creases in her face from the nap she’d taken on the couch in the ICU waiting room. "Why isn’t he back yet?"

"He’ll be back," Janis told her, and sneezed. Mark’s call had dragged her out of bed after only four hours of sleep, yet even in that short time, her scratchy throat had somehow found the wherewithal to blossom into a full-fledged streaming cold. Her nose was running freely, her head felt stuffed with cotton, and not only had Mark apparently failed to notice that she’d been gone for an entire week, now he had stuck her with the Stephie-sitting as well. She sniffled and scanned the room for a tissue.

"I certainly hope you aren’t going to go in to see Evelyn with that cold," Stephanie said, in a high aggrieved tone of voice that made Janis want very badly to smack her. "You know how susceptible people in the hospital are. To germs and things."

"I’m not going to make her sick, Stephanie." Why on earth would she want to go into Evelyn’s room, anyway? She hardly even knew the woman. She saw no tissues, snorked back a wad of phlegm, and bent over to rummage in her pack. It occurred to her that if there were anyplace in the world that ought to be stocked with tissues, surely it should be a hospital waiting room. Then, maybe Stephanie had used them all up before she’d got there.

No, she reproved herself sternly. Come on, now. Be nice. You have to remember that Stephanie feels the same way about Evelyn that you do about Jill.

She found some paper napkins scrunched down beneath her big Liddell & Scott, blew her nose, then hugged herself happily.

Jill’s alive, she thought. Alive.

"I probably picked up this cold when I was in Utah," she said pointedly, but Stephanie just stared vacantly towards the doorway, still awaiting Mark’s return. She hadn’t noticed that Janis had been gone either. It was kind of creepy, really.

"I wish Chris were here," said Stephanie.

I don’t, thought Janis.

"Stephanie," she said. "Have you ever noticed..." She sneezed again. "Have you ever noticed that Evelyn looks kind of like—"

"Well," Mark announced from the doorway, "I just talked to the doctor. He says that they’re feeling pretty good about her blood pressure now, so they’re going to wait a little while longer to make sure, but they’ve scheduled her surgery for eleven." He flashed Janis a perfunctory smile on his way across the room—thanks, the smile said—and she returned it—no problem, was what hers meant. "Which probably really means more like noon," he elaborated. "Because they’re swamped." He bent over to kiss Stephanie on the forehead. Janis shifted over to cede him the Stephie-sitting seat. "How you holding up?"

"Okay." Stephanie frowned. "What do you mean, they’re swamped? They’re a hospital."

"Yeah, but." Mark looks exhausted, Janis thought. She wondered if he’d had any sleep at all. "I kind of get the impression that a lot of people got hurt last night, and they only have so many people to go around. Also, a whole bunch of doctors just showed up from Washington. Specialists. To take a look at Jill, I think. So it’s kind of a madhouse out there."

"How come nobody gets to visit Jill?" Janis asked him. "I still don’t get that. Why—"

"Darling!" cried Brittany, swooping through the doorway. She was dressed, rather improbably, in white linen—isn’t she cold in that? Janis wondered. It’s freezing outside, and since when does Brittany wear white after Labor Day, anyway? Or, for that matter, ever?—and even more improbably, she was clutching a large bouquet of hothouse lilies to her chest.

Brittany, Janis thought, now Brittany will notice that I’ve been gone. Brittany notices everything. But Brittany’s gaze swept over her without the slightest trace of interest or surprise as they scanned the room. They fixed instead on Stephanie, who looked coldly up at her.

"It’s just too perfectly dreadful," Brittany announced. "I came just as soon as I—"

"I told you not to call her," Stephanie said.

There was dead silence. Brittany froze, mouth open, caught mid-swoop.

Oh Jesus, Janis thought. Here we go.

"Stephanie," Mark hissed, right through the greeting smile that was still fixed sickly on his face.

"No." Stephanie turned to him. "I told you that I didn’t want her here." She turned back to Brittany. "I don’t want you here," she said. "Go away."

Brittany blinked, still frozen. Her mouth closed, then opened again. Janis rose from her seat and started towards her.

"She’s tired..." she began, at the same time that Mark said, "Stephanie, for God’s sake…"

"No. She doesn’t even know Evelyn."

"I know her," Brittany murmured. She was very pale, and her hands were trembling. Janis, looking at her, thought: Jesus, what’s wrong with her? She really looks sick.

"Evelyn hates flowers," said Stephanie flatly.

Brittany took a deep breath, then seemed to thaw. She tilted her head to one side and regarded Stephanie speculatively.

"Well," she said. "Is she conscious?" and when Stephanie did not answer, looked to Janis, who shook her head.

"Then darling," Brittany sighed, rolling her eyes. "What difference could it possibly make?" She thrust the bouquet imperiously at Janis as she brushed past her. "Perhaps they will cheer the nurses. I understand that the nurses often need cheering."

Janis stared blankly down at the white lilies she now found herself holding. Well, what the hell am I supposed to do with them? she wondered. She looked around the room in the vague hope that a vase might miraculously present itself.

"Such a dreary job, don’t you think? And so hard on the feet."

"You can’t buy Evelyn with flowers!" cried Stephanie, which made no sense at all to Janis, nor apparently even to Stephanie herself, as she then rose to her feet and ran from the room, weeping.

Janis shook her head and plucked at the bouquet, trying to pretend that she was doing something useful with it, arranging it perhaps.

Brittany closed her eyes.

"No," she agreed softly. "No, Evelyn cannot be bought. Not with flowers." She perched herself on the edge of a couch. "You should put her to bed, Mark," she said. "She’s overwrought."

Mark snatched the bouquet away from Janis.

"Just give me those," he snapped. "I’ll find a nurse to take care of them." He stalked out of the room. Janis watched his retreating back for a moment, then sniffed and returned to her chair to fumble for her crumpled up napkins.

"Sorry about that," she said, after a minute had passed in silence. "She’s just really tired."

"Mark didn’t call me."

"Yeah, I know." There was no point in asking Brittany how she had found out. Brittany had her ways. Janis looked at her. Now she’ll ask me, she thought. Now that she’s not distracted with other things. She’ll say: where have you been, Janis? You just disappeared. You were gone for days. But Brittany just picked up a magazine and began flipping through it. Her hands were shaking violently, and the dark circles under her eyes extended even beyond the bottoms of her glasses.

"I really am sorry about that," Janis said again. "It was nice of you to bring flowers."

"Do you think so?" Brittany looked up at her and smiled strangely. "Stephanie doesn’t."

"She’s just—"

"Tired. Yes. So how is poor Evelyn?"

"You really want to know? She’s a mess. She broke her hip and one of her...what are they called? Femurs? Her thigh bone. It really got smashed: they’re going to have to put pins in it. And she’s got a lot of internal injuries: a ruptured spleen..." She trailed off. Brittany had closed her eyes again; now she looked as if she were about to be sick. Oh, get over it, Janis thought irritably. She’d always hated that about Brittany, that stupid squeamishness. If you didn’t want to know, she thought, then why the hell did you ask?

"She’s going into surgery in a little bit," she summarized. "She’ll need a lot of that. But she’ll live."

"Is...she in a lot of pain?"

"Not right now. She’s drugged."

"Jesus." Brittany looked up at her unhappily. "Is she going to be able to walk?"

"Yeah, eventually. But she’s going to need physical therapy." Janis peered at her curiously. "I had no idea the two of you were close."

Brittany shook her head and said nothing. Her hair seemed caught on something at the sides of her head; looking more closely, Janis thought that she might have cotton balls stuck in her ears. Well that explains it, she thought. She probably has an ear infection, and that’s why she looks so crapped out.

"If you want to hear all the details," she told her, "you should ask Mark. He’s been all over the doctors ever since he got here. He seems to have become our official medical liaison."

Brittany smiled. "Has he now?" she said. "Well. He must be enjoying that."

"Of course he isn’t enjoying it," snapped Janis.

"Brittany." Stephanie stood in the doorway. Her hands were behind her back, and she had the dutiful expression of a young child who has just been reminded by a parent to thank her host for the lovely birthday party. Mark’s been at her, Janis thought. "I’m sorry I was so rude," she said. "It was very nice of you to come, and to bring the flowers."

"Not at all," Brittany told her. "And you were quite right, you know. Evelyn doesn’t like flowers."

"Well, I do," said Stephanie. Mark came up behind her and put his arm around her shoulders.

Good doggie, thought Janis. Have a biscuit.

"Ma-ark," Stephanie said as Mark ushered her back to her seat. God, Janis thought, does she really have to whine like that? "Mark, did you get Chris yet? I want Chris."

Yeah. I’ll just bet you do.

"Well, I tried him again, but um..." Mark cast a swift nervous glance in Janis’ direction. "He’s still not home."

Janis picked up a magazine and began flipping through it. "I wouldn’t worry about it," she told them. "He probably just crashed somewhere last night."

"It doesn’t matter," said Brittany. "He won’t come here."

Stephanie stared at her. "What?"

"Yeah," Mark admitted uncomfortably. "She’s probably right, Stephanie."

"What do you mean? Why not?"

"Well..." Mark shifted uneasily in his seat.

Brittany looked up at him. "Go ahead, Mark," she said. "Tell her. Why won’t Chris come here?"

"Well..." said Mark, even more uncomfortably. "It’s just, um, you know. The way Chris is. He never visits sick people."

"Evelyn isn’t sick," said Stephanie.

"Or people in hospitals. He says that he finds it too upsetting. You know. Sick people. And hospitals." He shrugged defensively. "Well, you know how sensitive he is."

"That’s no excuse," said Janis, more severely than she had intended.

"No," Brittany agreed crisply. "It really isn’t. We’re all sensitive. And nobody likes hospitals." She rummaged through her bag. "He can’t possibly dislike hospitals as much as I do," she muttered under her breath, pulling out her bottle of pills.

"Hey," Claude said from the doorway. "We got your message. How is she?"

"Oh, sweetie." Susan ran across the room to give Stephanie a hug.

"This is, like, so weird," said Jim. He threw himself down on the floor just beneath Janis’ chair and leaned up against it, for all the world as if he expected her to give him a backrub. "Isn’t this weird? Whoah!" he exclaimed, looking at Brittany. "Breakfast of champions, huh? What are those? Can I see?"

Brittany looked down at the three yellow pills she had just poured into her palm as if she had never seen them before in her life. She glanced at the clock on the wall and bit her lip. Then, deliberately, she put all but one of the pills back into the bottle, closed it, and handed it wordlessly over to Jim.

"What, only one this morning, Brittany?" asked Janis. "Don’t you know that it’s never a good idea to skimp on breakfast?"

"She wasn’t ‘on’ anything," Stephanie was telling Susan, her voice rising. "And she didn’t jump. She was pushed."

Susan glanced back at Mark. "I thought you said—" she began, but Stephanie cut her off.

"She was pushed. She said so."

Brittany looked sharply up at Mark. "She was conscious?" she asked him. "Earlier?" He nodded.

"Whoah," said Jim. "Did she say what happened?"

"She said," Stephanie repeated angrily, "that she was pushed."

"Did she say who pushed her?" asked Susan.

There was an expectant hush.

"Go ahead," Mark snapped. "Tell them."

"She, well..." Stephanie looked around the room. "She said that...well, actually, she said that..." She took a deep breath. "She said that Jesus pushed her. Actually."

There was a long silence.

"She was kind of out of it," Stephanie added. "At the time."

"Evidently," murmured Brittany.

"But if Evelyn says that she was pushed, then I believe her."

"Stephanie," Mark began cautiously. "You know that the truck driver said—"

"Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?" Stephanie tossed her head defiantly. "What else would he say? Besides, how would he know? It was dark, and he was going too fast anyway. He was probably drunk."

"They gave him a breathalyzer," Mark said wearily. "He wasn’t drunk."

"Still," said Janis. "Somebody could have pushed her." Stephanie threw her a grateful look. "Well, it’s just as likely an explanation as anything else, isn’t it?" she said, in response to Mark's disbelieving eye roll. "And Stephanie’s right. It was dark, and if there had been someone else there, someone who had just pushed her, then the truck driver likely wouldn’t have seen that person. He would only have seen Evelyn."

"Maybe it was someone who looked like Jesus," suggested Susan.

"Someone who had just been pushed in front of a truck," said Mark, "wouldn’t look anything like somebody jumping in front of a truck."

"What is your beef, dude?" Claude asked him. "Evelyn would never jump in front of a truck, man. She just wouldn’t."

"We don’t know that."

"Evelyn doesn’t lie," said Stephanie. "And she was the one who was there. And she says that she was pushed."

"By Jesus."

"Mark," Janis said sharply. "Shut up."

Mark looked around the room, a perplexed and baffled expression on his face.

"Doesn’t anyone but me," he said wistfully, "care at all about what really happened? Don’t you, Brittany?"

"Personally?" said Brittany, without looking up from her magazine. "I incline toward the theory that Jesus pushed her." She turned a page.

"You think that’s plausible, do you?" Mark asked her in an unfriendly tone.

"Plausible? No, darling. Not plausible. Merely true. Evelyn said so, after all. And why on earth would she lie? You surely don’t think that she would bear false witness against Jesus, do you?"

"Yeah, and it’s just the sort of thing that Jesus would do, isn’t it?" agreed Claude. "I mean, look at the way he blasted that fig tree, man. It’s like, ‘it’s the middle of the winter, how dare you not be bearing figs? Can’t you see that I want figs?’ And then—blam! Let’s face it here. The guy was, like, totally psycho."

"You think that Jesus pushed Evelyn in front of a truck because she refused to bear fruit out of season?" Janis asked, grinning.

Brittany shuddered and closed her magazine with a convulsive gesture, crumpling the cover. Janis stared at her. What is wrong with her today? she wondered.

"Hey, guys?" Doctor Waitling was standing in the doorway, his stethoscope at its usual Dr. Kildare angle. "I’m really sorry to have to do this to you, but we’ve got a kind of an emergency here, and I’m afraid that I’m going to have to ask you all to go home for a little while." He smiled apologetically around the room. "Really," he said. "It’s nice that you’re all such loyal friends, but there’s not much you can do to help her for the next few hours, and you need to get some sleep yourselves."

"But—" Stephanie began.

"I promise." Doctor Waitling held up one hand. "I promise you. I’ll call if anything happens. If she wakes up, if there’s any change…you have my word. I have your number right here." He patted the breast pocket of his white coat.

"What kind of an emergency?" asked Mark.

"I don’t see why Stephanie can’t stay, at least," Janis said. "Evelyn’s parents aren’t here yet, so she’s sort of..."

"In loco parentis," Brittany finished for her. "Come now, doctor. Isn’t it better for the patient, really, to know that loving arms are hovering somewhere close by? Oh, dear." She screamed with laughter. "Hovering arms. Can you imagine? No, what I meant to say—"

"I’m sorry, Miss Clairmont," Doctor Waitling said firmly.

"At least let me stay," Mark said. "I know how to keep out of the way."

"But I need to stay here," Stephanie wailed. "Evelyn needs me here. What if she wakes up again? What if she wants to talk to me?"

Janis glanced quickly at her, and then at the doctor.

"We’ll stay," she announced, staring steadily at him. "You won’t even know we’re here."

"Oh," the doctor said. "Okay, then." He blinked three times rapidly, squinted as if trying to remember a word that was just on the tip of his tongue, then shook his head and turned and walked away.

"I…" Janis began, and then sneezed four times in rapid succession.

"Geez," Mark said. "Bless you."

"Ugh." She coughed, doubled over her napkins. "Jesus," she croaked. "I hate colds." She looked up. "This is a cold, right?"

"You’ve never had a cold before?" Stephanie asked her.

"Not in a long time," said Janis.

•

9:35 am
MR James Memorial Hospital

In the corridor outside, Terence Waitling walked briskly past a group of interns huddled around a pile of blankets on a stretcher.

"The light!" the pile of blankets screamed hoarsely. "The light!"

Waitling stopped and looked again. Yes, there was a patient under there somewhere.

"Hypothermia," one of the interns explained. "Frostbite. And on top of all that, either a psychotic break or some really bad drugs."

"Oh, hell," Waitling sighed. "Be sure to get his blood. Where was he?"

"Staggering around the reservoir. Those techs from Washington found him and called for the ambulance. The guy was totally out of control—naked, screaming, waving this knife around... He attacked the paramedics. We can’t sedate him with his temp this low, so we’ve just had to keep him in restraints."

"Beautiful. Do we have an ID?"

"Shouldn’t be too hard. He’s a trans. We’re checking records for—"

"Nigel Moore," Waitling said immediately. "He’s a resident alien." He peered down at Moore, who stared back at him, lips blue and cracked. "Don’t worry, Mr. Moore," he told him. "You’re in good hands. Christ," he muttered to the interns. "Whatever you do, don’t give him any cause for complaint, or we’ll never hear the end of it. He’s a Brit."

"The light," Moore gasped, eyes bulging. "The light!"

"You bet," one of the interns agreed cheerfully. "Sure. The light. Let’s get him upstairs."

Waitling shook his head, trying to remember just what it was that he had been on his way to do again. Oh, that was right. He had to see Graves this morning. Wonderful, just what he needed. People always said that doctors made the worst patients, but the people who said that? They had obviously never had to deal with cops. Cops, now, cops made the worst patients. Cops...and students.

He paused, frowning. Something had just...what had he just been thinking about? He thought that...something about...

His brow furrowed, then relaxed. Oh yes, that was right. He had been thinking about Moore. Nigel Moore. Now, there was another one. Yet another of the Blood, down for the count. What in God’s name had happened to all of them last night? It couldn’t be good, this trend, that was for sure. He had tried to tell Hoover that the Great Call had been a bad idea. You sent out a Great Call, you just never knew what you were going to attract. Tainted mares, failed Doorways...

He stopped again, dead still in the corridor, forcing a nurse to veer sharply at the last minute to avoid colliding with him. He didn't even notice. He raised one hand to his temple, wincing. He had...what had he...something about—

Failed Doorways.

Waitling's eyes widened, and he drew in a sharp breath. He cast a single nervous glance back to the entrance of the ICU waiting room, then very quickly trotted up the stairs to his office on the second floor. He picked up his telephone and dialed Hoover's special number.

•

10:45 am
MR James Memorial Hospital

The creature masquerading as Lily Mankevich shook her head slowly from side to side.

"Youngjack..." she began.

"It has invoked the Law of Kin," the short balding man with the pudgy nose reminded her.

"I am aware of that." She turned to the man on the bed. "Youngjack," she told him. "If you insist, then we will deliver your message. But please try to understand."

Youngjack moved his plate slowly onto the bedside table. He pressed a finger on the empty tray to lift a crumb, frowned at it, and then flicked it onto the plate.

"Go on," he said.

"This calls for truth. Will you hear it? Then listen. He will never release you. Never. These bargains of yours serve only to amuse him. You know what he is. Malice is his nature. He dangles the prize before you only for the enjoyment of watching you find it once more beyond your grasp. Your failure is his pleasure, Youngjack. He has no interest in any other service you might provide him."

"I do not need you," Youngjack said, "to tell me of the Gaunt Man’s malice."

"That is his interest in you," the woman repeated. "His only interest. The pleasure he derives from your failures."

"I am well aware of—"

"And," she added. "From your forfeitures."

Youngjack shuddered and looked away.

"I had not forgotten the forfeitures," he whispered, after a long moment.

"I am sorry. But this must be said. It is painful. For all of us." She paused, then added: "He gloats."

"He gloats to us," the man elaborated. "It is extremely unpleasant."

"Yes, I can see that," Youngjack murmured. "How difficult that must be for you. I’m truly sorry to have caused you such inconvenience."

"Come now, Youngjack," the man said. "How many times must you do this? You are rapidly running out of things to forfeit. But, no. That’s not entirely true, is it?" He cocked his head to one side. "There is one more thing."

Youngjack smiled bitterly and shook his head.

"Oh, but you really do underestimate him," he said. "His malice. His taste for sport. He would never take that from me. Not yet, at any rate. And miss out on my dotage? Never. Just think of it, Manitou. Enfeeblement. Dentures. Senility. Drooling. Incontinence."

"Please," said the woman.

"It has been thirty years," Youngjack told her. "Think. This body is now sixty-two years old. It has tooth decay. It has gum disease. Have you any idea how disgusting that is?"

"I have offered—"

"I know what you have offered. But think. Malice is his nature? It is also his weakness. That one thing he will never take from me? That is the one thing which he should take. But he will not. I will live, and I will fail, and I will forfeit. And he will continue to accept my contracts for as long as I am able to propose them. But in the end, Manitou? In the end, it will not matter how many times I have failed, nor what I may have forfeited. Because however many times I may fail," he said, "I only need to succeed," he told them. "Once."

He smiled then. It was a remarkably unpleasant smile. The Manitou gazed back at him.

"Anything may happen once," the man said grudgingly.

"It may," said Youngjack. "In fact, it inevitably does. That is one of the fundamental laws of history."

"History?" The woman shook her head. "History is long, Youngjack. Long. The time remaining to you..."

She and the man exchanged glances.

"It has optimism," she said despairingly.

"It cites the lessons of history," the man agreed.

"Those aren't our traits, Youngjack. You have begun to settle." She looked at him. "And you’ve begun to adopt their antipathies as well. You do not...like us?"

"Frankly?" Youngjack thought. "No," he said. "No, I don’t. I find you cold, and unsympathetic. And..." he trailed off, staring at the man, whose face had begun to elongate, nose to narrow. "And," he continued, taking a deep breath and turning to look into his own eyes staring out of the face of the woman who was no longer a woman. "And I wonder, Manitou," he said softly, "if there is a riddle you might answer for me."

"I should think," the woman who was now a tall lean man said, with a small smile, "that you would have had quite enough of riddles, Youngjack."

"Indulge me." He smiled back at it. "Tell me," he said. "What is the property of a broken mirror?"

"The broken mirror," repeated the third tall, lean, greying man in the room. "The broken mirror continues to reflect."

"Yes," said Youngjack. "Yes." He looked back and forth between the two copies of himself in the hospital room, then sighed and shook his head. "You aren’t even aware that you’re doing it, are you?"

"Doing..." the one who had been Lily Mankevich began, then looked at its companion and stopped. It glanced down at its hands, and then at Youngjack’s own.

"I didn’t think so. Another riddle, Manitou. What does it mean when the mirror begins to reflect itself?"

The two Manitou were silent.

"You cast out your hand in the dark," he told them. "At random. You hand the knife to your prey, and of all the blades in the world, you find that you have chosen the Blade of Ashura. You—"

"Silence, Youngjack," snapped one of the identical men.

"Oh, please." Youngjack smiled thinly. "Do call me Thomas, Thomas. We needn’t be so formal, surely? Not when you’re wearing my form."

It blinked. "Does that really bother you?"

"It bothers them," the other said.

"It ought to bother you. It’s hardly an auspicious form, now, is it? But then, that’s hardly surprising. Considering the situation. Why do you think that you’re reflecting me? What drew you to the side of my bed this morning? Is there meaning here? I wanted you to act as my messengers, but what message do I have for you, Manitou? Could the messenger be the message?" He glanced quickly between the two of them. "You said that my situation called for truth," he said quietly. "You spoke it. I heard it. Will you listen now? To my truth? Must I mention what is happening in Utah?"

"No." The other man shook his head. "No. Speak, Thomas. We are listening."

"A riddle. What does it mean when the grain begins to grind the millstone? What does it mean when the Laws turn on themselves? What does it mean when the pattern emerges that there is always, always to be one more turn of the screw? Does this riddle have an answer?"

"All riddles have answers," one of them told him. "As you learned yourself, to your detriment."

"It means..." the other began, then stopped.

"It means that the Door has already begun to open?" Youngjack asked it.

"Yes. That is, in all probability, what it means."

"Then have a care, Manitou. Have you come to Herschberg seeking something? This is not a good season for hunting. Not even for the hunters’ hunters. Especially not for them. A mirror is one thing. A hall of mirrors is quite another. Take a long look at me, and think about what you see. And have a care."

They stood, one on either side of his bed, in silence.

"We have listened, Youngjack," one of them said, finally. "And we have heard. We will bear your message to the Gaunt Man. Your other message we will keep for ourselves."

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."

They nodded and left him there.

Outside, in the corridor, one of them said:

"Truth sits upon the lips of dying men."

"We mustn’t become distracted," the other replied. "We have business here."

"The Teck woman," the first said, and smiled slightly. "Well. At least that should prove good sport."

"Yes," said the other. "It could amuse. I feel the need of some amusement." It shivered. "I feel very badly," it said. "The need for some amusement."

•

12:45 pm
M.R. James Memorial Hospital

"You want to think about who he is," Brittany was saying. "About what he does. Who is this man, and what function does he serve?"

Matilda, sitting on the floor beneath Brittany’s chair, examined her hands and frowned.

"Well," she began tentatively. "He’s a king..." Brittany waved her hand irritably in the air.

"No, no, no. Darling, please. Anybody can be a king. No. What he is, in essence, is a man who answers riddles."

Janis smiled faintly, then looked around the waiting room, now littered with the detritus of the pizza they’d ordered and the dishes that Claude, Susan and Jim had brought for them. Evelyn’s friends had gone home earlier that morning, only to return around lunch time with an astonishing quantity of food: some veggie nut loaf thing, and some bagels and humus and dried apricots from Zabar’s, and a big bag of tortilla chips, and a plate of home-baked brownies that Mark had hesitated only briefly before accepting. They were now congregated in a tight circle around Stephanie. Susan was braiding her hair, while Claude was massaging her ankle. Jim had solicited everyone in the room for their birth information; he was explaining Stephanie’s natal chart to her, lying on his stomach with his Birkenstocks kicking up in the air behind him, shading in the wheel he had drawn with some colored pencils.

"Well, that’s because you’ve got Cancer rising, see?" he was telling her. "That’s why you’re so caring and intuitive."

"I’ll bet she’s a great cook, too," Susan added. "Aren’t you, sweetie?"

Stephanie smiled shyly and shrugged. "I’m not too bad," she admitted.

God, they’re good with her, Janis thought. She wondered if Evelyn’s friends had any idea how strenuously Stephanie had always disapproved of them.

And you did too, she reminded herself severely. You always assumed that they were flaky, didn’t you? Untrustworthy. Unreliable. But just look at them now. They aren’t unreliable at all, not when push comes to shove, not where it really counts. They’re good people, really good people. They’re probably the best people in this entire room.

The sounds of the crowd outside filtered dimly into the waiting room: babies crying, children whining, people complaining to the staff, the crackle of the PA system as it summoned this or that doctor to this or that location. In contrast, this room was an oasis. The nurses hadn’t even come in to remind them to get their blood tested. In fact, no one had bothered them at all since the doctor had tried to kick them out earlier that morning.

Janis unwrapped another eucalyptus cough drop and thought: I really should go do that blood thing. She would have to do it eventually, she supposed. Best just to get it over with. At the same time, though, she didn’t like the idea of the questionnaire. Will I have to tell them that I’ve been in Utah for the past week? she wondered. Will they ask me questions about it? Or—worse still—will they fail even to notice what I’ve written there? Will their eyes just drift over the words? Will they start to look all vague, the way that everyone seems to do whenever I mention the fact that I’ve been away?

She popped the cough drop into her mouth and wondered where Chris was. He hadn’t been home to answer his phone all day. And that was something else that she just wanted to get the hell out of the way. Chris. Dealing with Chris.

Maybe, she thought, maybe he was actually infected. Or drugged, or whatever, by this stuff in the water. Maybe he was in a ward somewhere. And if that were the case, then maybe she would never have to deal with it at all. That would be sort of nice, actually.

What are you thinking? Janis asked herself crossly. Just what the hell are you thinking? Jesus! What is wrong with you?

"I should go find Waitling again," Mark said, sitting up suddenly on the couch where he had dozed off a while back. "Find out what’s going on with Evelyn’s surgery." In the wake of the crisis, Evelyn’s surgery had been rescheduled for one.

"You should get more sleep," Janis told him, resisting the urge to reach over and brush his hair out of his eyes.

"So should you," Mark told her irritably. "With that cold? And you should go get your blood tested and fill out your questionnaire. It only takes a minute, and God only knows what the lines will look like later on."

Janis smiled affectionately at him. He’d been such a hero through all of this, she thought. But then, everyone had been, really. Mark, shouldering up the burden of dealing with all of Evelyn’s medical information. Evelyn’s friends, tending to Stephanie. Little Matilda, who had come by with Brittany after lunch and brought with her some grapes and oranges from the dining hall and who then, upon noticing Janis’ cold, had run out to the store to get her some eucalyptus cough drops and boxes of kleenex.

Trying to make it up to me, Janis thought, for that time with Chris—but really, who cared about that now? Crises, she thought. Crises bring out the best in people. No matter what anybody says.

Even Brittany was on her best behavior today—but then, Brittany always enjoyed crises, and this one was on a large enough scale that Janis thought it might just keep her happy for weeks. Janis had never seen anyone look quite so thrilled as Brittany had when they had first heard about the possibility of the water in town being contaminated by some drug. And Matilda’s presence probably helped as well: Matilda always seemed to have a calming influence on Brittany. Mark claimed that this was just because she so enjoyed having someone to patronize ("Brittany always has a Matilda," he had told her once. "She gets a new one each semester. You’ll see."), but Janis thought there might be more to it than that. She glanced over now to where Brittany was toying absently with Matilda’s hair as she continued her monologue and thought: I don’t know if that’s Sapphic in the contemporary sense, but it certainly is in the classical one. Brittany was always lecturing Matilda on something.

"He is the one who answers riddles," she was telling Matilda now. "The seeker of knowledge. That is what he does, and that is who he is. He is the person who is supposed to know, the one who is supposed to see. He can see the hidden truths that others cannot perceive. That is not only his function, it is also the very basis of his claim to power. So what you want to consider," she suggested, her eyes fixed on the clock on the wall, "is what it might mean for a man like that to choose, in the end, to blind himself. You want to consider what the playwright is trying to say when he introduces the character of Tiresias, the blind prophet. You want to consider these three things: blindness and power and knowledge—their relationship, their paradox. Once you understand that," she said, "then the entire structure of the tragedy falls into place."

She really does love to hear herself talk, thought Janis with a flash of irritation, but then shook her head, thinking: but still, she’s at her best like this, really, when she has some text to discuss. Arrogant as all hell, yes, but also less affected. Less nervous. And less mean. As if it distracts her somehow, gives her something to pick apart that isn’t one of us.

Apparently the same thought had not occurred to Stephanie, for she now looked over from her huddle and said:

"You shouldn’t write Matilda’s English paper for her, Brittany."

"She isn’t writing it." Matilda blushed furiously. "She’s just helping me with it."

"She’s writing it," Stephanie muttered sulkily. Susan stroked her hair.

"Don’t worry about it," she soothed her. "It doesn’t matter."

Stephanie tossed her head irritably. "Where is the doctor?" she asked. "He said that he would keep us informed, but we haven’t seen him in hours. Where is he? Why won’t anyone tell us what’s going on?"

"Stephanie, have you been out there?" Mark asked her. "It’s a madhouse out there." He looked down at the plastic wristband they had given him. "You don’t want to be too hard on Waitling," he told them. "I saw him when I went out to get my blood done, and he really looked like he had his hands full. And also..." he hesitated.

"What?"

"Well, I overheard him talking to a bunch of those federal guys? He was telling them about Evelyn. About how we’re her friends. And he was convincing them that it was okay for us to stay here for as long as we wanted, and that no one should bother us."

"That was decent of him."

"Yeah." Mark frowned. There had been something about the tenor of the conversation he had overheard that had made him feel uneasy, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. For one thing, he didn’t quite get it. If he worked in this hospital, he would have kicked them out of here hours ago. It was a little strange, really.

"So the contrast between knowledge and blindness..." Matilda began.

"Paradox, darling, please. Paradox. Not contrast. They’re hardly in opposition. Or if they are, then it’s a Hegelian one." Brittany giggled for no apparent reason and reached for her bag, then pulled her hand back and held it in her lap, lacing her fingers tightly together. She looked again to the clock and closed her eyes. "After all," she said, "what is it that blinds, in this play? What is it, precisely, that destroys? It isn’t ignorance. It isn’t that he finally comes across a riddle that he can’t answer. That might be the play that we would write, because culturally, you know, culturally…" She shook her head and swallowed. "Culturally, we don’t much care for failure. But this tragedy is Greek, and in a classical tragedy, failure is never what destroys. Success is. Not the wish that goes unanswered, but the wish that is granted; not the riddle that you can’t answer, but the riddle that you can. Not ignorance, but truth. Not darkness," she explained. "Not darkness. Light. Fate isn’t stalking him, Matilda. He’s stalking fate, and in the end, he catches up with it, because in a classical tragedy, my dear, everyone gets precisely what they think it is they most desire."

"Nobody writes my English papers for me," Stephanie muttered.

You don’t need anyone to write your English papers for you, Janis thought. Matilda does. But what Brittany is giving her...

"Brittany," she said.

"You wouldn’t let anyone write your papers for you," Jim told Stephanie. "Not with your Moon in Leo."

"In fact," Brittany was now saying, her gaze riveted to the clock. "He’s already answered the riddle, hasn’t he? He answers it before the play has even begun."

"That’s pride, Moon in Leo," said Susan.

"Like a lioness," Jim agreed, and growled. Stephanie giggled.

Is he flirting with her? Janis wondered. Apparently Mark was wondering the same thing: he had furrowed his brow and was staring at Jim.

"What is it that walks on four feet in the morning, two feet at mid-day, and three feet in the evening?" demanded Brittany.

"Man?" Matilda ventured, but Brittany shook her head violently.

"No. Look. I want to know," she said, and held up one hand in front of her face. "What is it that walks on four feet in the morning, two feet at mid-day, and three feet in the evening. I want to know," she continued quickly, before Matilda had a chance to answer, and held up her other hand in front of her face. "Who has brought this plague upon my city?"

"Brittany," said Janis.

"They have the same answer, darling. Don’t you see that?" Brittany rotated her two hands so that their palms faced one another, then slowly pushed them together. She looked for a moment almost as if she were praying.

"Look in a mirror," she whispered. "Look in a mirror."

"Brittany."

Brittany jumped and whirled and stared.

"Brittany," Janis said gently. "Matilda’s paper? Is for freshman comp. Basic freshman comp. It’s a five page paper, Brittany."

Brittany stared at Janis as if she had never seen her before.

"That means that she needs a single interpretation," explained Janis. "Not a half dozen of them. And not one in which the word ‘Hegelian’ appears anywhere. Just a nice, basic idea that will fill five double-spaced pages."

Matilda flashed Janis a smile of relieved gratitude.

"Yeah," she agreed. "It is supposed to be only five pages. Sorry." She frowned. "Are you okay?" she asked Brittany, who was still staring blankly in Janis’ direction. "Brittany?"

Brittany shook her head quickly. She looked down at Matilda.

"Of course," she said. "Sorry. Five pages. Well, then." She sighed. "I suppose that leaves us with dreary old hubris, doesn’t it? Either that," she added, and smiled wearily. "Or with the blindness of prophets. Which would you prefer?"

•

After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,
Guides us by vanities. Think now....

•

(continued)

•

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