Dreams Underfoot

Ghosts Of Wind And Shadow

Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, from two to four, Meran Kelledy gave flute lessons at the Old Firehall on Lee Street which served as Lower Crowsea’s community center. A small room in the basement was set aside for her at those times. The rest of the week it served as an office for the editor of The Crowsea Times, the monthly community newspaper.

The room always had a bit of a damp smell about it. The walls were bare except for two old posters: one sponsored a community rummage sale, now long past; the other was an advertisement for a Jilly Coppercorn onewoman show at the The Green Man Gallery featuring a reproduction of the firehall that had been taken from the artist’s In Lower Crowsea series of street scenes. It, too, was long out of date.

Much of the room was taken up by a sturdy oak desk. A computer sat on its broad surface, always surrounded by a clutter of manuscripts waiting to be put on diskette, spot art, advertisements, sheets of Lettraset, glue sticks, pens, pencils, scratch pads and the like. Its printer was relegated to an apple crate on the floor. A large cork board in easy reach of the desk held a bewildering array of pinnedup slips of paper with almost indecipherable notes and appointments jotted on them. Postits laureled the frame of the cork board and the sides of the computer like festive yellow decorations. A battered metal filing cabinet held back issues of the newspaper. On top of it was a vase with dried flowers—not so much an arrangement as a forgotten bouquet. One week of the month, the entire desk was covered with the current issue in progress in its various stages of layout.

It was not a room that appeared conducive to music, despite the presence of two small music stands taken from their storage spot behind the filing cabinet and set out in the open space between the desk and door along with a pair of straightbacked wooden chairs, salvaged twice a week from a closet down the hall. But music has its own enchantment and the first few notes of an old tune are all that it requires to transform any site into a place of magic, even if that location is no more than a windowless office cubicle in the Old Firehall’s basement.

Meran taught an old style of fluteplaying. Her instrument of choice was that enduring cousin of the silver transverse orchestral flute: a simpler wooden instrument, sideblown as well, though it lacked a lip plate to help direct the airstream; keyless with only six holes. It was popularly referred to as an Irish flute since it was used for the playing of traditional Irish and Scottish dance music and the plaintive slow airs native to those same countries, but it had relatives in most countries of the world as well as in baroque orchestras.

In one form or another, it was one of the first implements created by ancient people to give voice to the mysteries that words cannot encompass, but that they had a need to express; only the drum was older.

With her last student of the day just out the door, Meran began the ritual of cleaning her instrument in preparation to packing it away and going home herself. She separated the flute into its three parts, swabbing dry the inside of each piece with a piece of soft cotton attached to a fluterod. As she was putting the instrument away in its case, she realized that there was a woman standing in the doorway, a hesitant presence, reluctant to disturb the ritual until Meran was ready to notice her.

“Mrs. Batterberry,” Meran said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were there.”

The mother of her last student was in her late thirties, a striking, welldressed woman whose attractiveness was undermined by an obvious lack of selfesteem.

“I hope I’m not intruding ... ?”

“Not at all; I’m just packing up. Please have a seat.”

Meran indicated the second chair, which Mrs. Batterberry’s daughter had so recently vacated. The woman walked gingerly into the room and perched on the edge of the chair, handbag clutched in both hands. She looked for all the world like a bird that was ready at any moment to erupt into flight and be gone.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Batterberry?” Meran asked. “Please, call me Anna.”

“Anna it is.”

Meran waited expectantly.

“I ... it’s about Lesli,” Mrs. Batterberry finally began.

Meran nodded encouragingly. “She’s doing very well. I think she has a real gift.”

“Here perhaps, but ... well, look at this.”

Drawing a handful of folded papers from her handbag, she passed them over to Meran. There were about five sheets of neat, closelywritten lines of what appeared to be a school essay. Meran recognized the handwriting as Lesli’s. She read the teacher’s remarks, written in red ink at the top of the first page—“Well written and imaginative, but the next time, please stick to the assigned topic”—then quickly scanned through the pages. The last two paragraphs bore rereading:

“The old gods and their magics did not dwindle away into murky memories of brownies and little fairies more at home in a Disney cartoon; rather, they changed. The coming of Christ and Christians actually freed them. They were no longer bound to people’s expectations but could now become anything that they could imagine themselves to be.

“They are still here, walking among us. We just don’t recognize them anymore.”

Meran looked up from the paper. “It’s quite evocative.”

“The essay was supposed to be on one of the ethnic minorities of Newford,” Mrs. Batterberry said.

“Then, to a believer in Faerie,” Meran said with a smile, “Lesli’s essay would seem most apropos.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Batterberry said, “but I can’t find any humor in this situation. This—” she indicated the essay “—it just makes me uncomfortable.”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” Meran said. “I didn’t mean to make light of your worries, but I’m also afraid that I don’t understand them.”

Mrs. Batterberry looked more uncomfortable than ever. “It ... it just seems so obvious. She must be involved with the occult, or drugs. Perhaps both.”

“Just because of this essay?” Meran asked. She only just managed to keep the incredulity from her voice.

“Fairies and magic are all she ever talks about—or did talk about, I should say. We don’t seem to have much luck communicating anymore.”

Mrs. Batterberry fell silent then. Meran looked down at the essay, reading more of it as she waited for Lesli’s mother to go on. After a few moments, she looked up to find Mrs. Batterberry regarding her hopefully.

Meran cleared her throat. “I’m not exactly sure why it is that you’ve come to me,” she said finally.

“I was hoping you’d talk to her—to Lesli. She adores you. I’m sure she’d listen to you.”

“And tell her what?”

“That this sort of thinking—” Mrs. Batterberry waved a hand in the general direction of the essay that Meran was holding “—is wrong.”

“I’m not sure that I can—”

Before Meran could complete her sentence with “do that,” Mrs. Batterberry reached over and gripped her hand.

“Please,” the woman said. “I don’t know where else to turn. She’s going to be sixteen in a few days.

Legally, she can live on her own then and I’m afraid she’s just going to leave home if we can’t get this settled. I won’t have drugs or ... or occult things in my house. But I ...” Her eyes were suddenly swimming with unshed tears. “I don’t—Want to lose her ....”

She drew back. From her handbag, she fished out a handkerchief which she used to dab at her eyes.

Meran sighed. “All right,” she said. “Lesli has another lesson with me on Thursday—a makeup one for having missed one last week. I’ll talk to her then, but I can’t promise you anything.”

Mrs. Batterberry looked embarrassed, but relieved. “I’m sure you’ll be able to help.”

Meran had no such assurances, but Lesli’s mother was already on her feet and heading for the door, forestalling any attempt Meran might have tried to muster to back out of the situation. Mrs. Batterberry paused in the doorway and looked back.

“Thank you so much,” she said, and then she was gone. Meran stared sourly at the space Mrs.

Batterberry had occupied. “Well, isn’t this just wonderful,” she said.

From Lesli’s diary, entry dated October 12th:

I saw another one today! It wasn’t at all the same as the one I spied on the Common last week. That one was more like a wizened little monkey, dressed up like an Arthur Rackham leprechaun. If I’d told anybody about him, they’d say that it was just a dressedup monkey, but we know better, don’t we?

This is just so wonderful. I’ve always known they were there, of course. All around. But they were just hints, things I’d see out of the corner of my eye, snatches of music or conversation that I’d hear in a park or the backyard, when no one else was around. But ever since Midsummer’s Eve, I’ve actually been able to see them.

I feel like a birder, noting each new separate species I spot down here on your pages, but was there ever a birdwatcher that could claim to have seen the marvels I have? It’s like, all of a sudden, I’ve finally learned how to see.

This one was at the Old Firehall of all places. I was having my weekly lesson with Meran—I get two this week because she was out of town last week. Anyway, we were playing my new tune—the one with the arpeggio bit in the second part that I’m supposed to be practicing but can’t quite get the hang of. It’s easy when Meran’s playing along with me, but when I try to do it on my own, my fingers get all fumbly and I keep muddling up the middle D.

I seem to have gotten sidetracked. Where was I? Oh yes. We were playing “Touch Me If You Dare” and it really sounded nice with both of us playing. Meran just seemed to pull my playing along with hers until it got lost in her music and you couldn’t tell which instrument was which, or even how many there were playing.

It was one of those perfect moments. I felt like I was in a trance or something. I had my eyes closed, but then I felt the air getting all thick. There was this weird sort of pressure on my skin, as though gravity had just doubled or something. I kept on playing, but I opened my eyes and that’s when I saw her—hovering up behind Meran’s shoulders.

She was the neatest thing I’ve ever seen—just the tiniest little faerie, ever so pretty, with gossamer wings that moved so quickly to keep her aloft that they were just a blur. They moved like a hummingbird’s wings. She looked just like the faeries on a pair of earrings I got a few years ago at a stall in the Market—sort of a Mucha design and all delicate and airy. But she wasn’t twodimensional or just one color.

Her wings were like a rainbow blaze. Her hair was like honey, her skin a softburnished gold. She was wearing—now don’t blush, diary—nothing at all on top and just a gauzy skirt that seemed to be made of little leaves that kept changing colour, now sort of pink, now mauve, now bluish.

I was so surprised that I almost dropped my flute. I didn’t—wouldn’t that give Mom something to yell at me for if I broke id—but I did muddle the tune. As soon as the music faltered—just like that, as though the only thing that was keeping her in this world was that tune—she disappeared.

I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to what Meran was saying for the rest of the lesson, but I don’t think she noticed. I couldn’t get the faerie out of my mind. I still can’t. I wish Mom had been there to see her, or stupid old Mr. Allen. They couldn’t say it was just my imagination then!

Of course they probably wouldn’t have been able to see her anyway. That’s the thing with magic.

You’ve got to know it’s still here, all around us, or it just stays invisible for you.

After my lesson, Mom went in to talk to Meran and made me wait in the car. She wouldn’t say what they’d talked about, but she seemed to be in a way better mood than usual when she got back. God, I wish she wouldn’t get so uptight.

“So,” Cerin said finally, setting aside his book. Meran had been moping about the house for the whole of the hour since she’d gotten home from the Firehall. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“You’ll just say I told you so.”

“Told you so how?”

Meran sighed. “Oh, you know. How did you put it? ‘The problem with teaching children is that you have to put up with their parents.’ It was something like that.”

Cerin joined her in the windowseat, where she’d been staring out at the garden. He looked out at the giant old oaks that surrounded the house and said nothing for a long moment. In the fading afternoon light, he could see little brown men scurrying about in the leaves like so many monkeys.

“But the kids are worth it,” he said finally.

“I don’t see you teaching children.”

“There’s just not many parents that can afford a harp for their prodigies.”

“But still ...”

“Still,” he agreed. “You’re perfectly right. I don’t like dealing with their parents; never did. When I see children put into little boxes, their enthusiasms stifled ... Everything gets regimented into what’s proper and what’s not, into recitals and passing examinations instead of just playing—” he began to mimic a hoitytoity voice “—I don’t care if you want to play in a rock band, you’ll learn what I tell you to learn ....”

His voice trailed off. In the back of his eyes, a dark light gleamed—not quite anger, more frustration.

“It makes you want to give them a good whack,” Meran said. “Exactly. So did you?”

Meran shook her head. “It wasn’t like that, but it was almost as bad. No, maybe it was worse.”

She told her husband about what Lesli’s mother had asked of her, handing over the English essay when she was done so that he could read it for himself.

“This is quite good, isn’t it?” he said when he reached the end. Meran nodded. “But how can I tell Lesli that none of it’s true when I know it is?”

“You can’t.”

Cerin laid the essay down on the windowsill and looked out at the oaks again. The twilight had crept up on the garden while they were talking. All the trees wore thick mantles of shadow now—poor recompense for the glorious cloaks of leaves that the season had stolen from them over the past few weeks. At the base of one fat trunk, the little monkeymen were roasting skewers of mushrooms and acorns over a small, almost smokeless fire.

“What about Anna Batterberry herself?” he asked. “Does she remember anything?”

Meran shook her head. “I don’t think she even realizes that we’ve met before, that she changed but we never did. She’s like most people; if it doesn’t make sense, she’d rather convince herself that it simply never happened.”

Cerin turned from the window to regard his wife.

“Perhaps the solution would be to remind her, then,” he said. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.

It’d probably do more harm than good. She’s just not the right sort of person ...”

Meran sighed again.

“But she could have been,” Cerin said.

“Oh yes,” Meran said, remembering. “She could have been. But it’s too late for her now.”

Cerin shook his head. “It’s never too late.”

From Lesli’s diary, addendum to the entry dated October 12th:

I hate living in this house! I just hate it! How could she do this to me? It’s bad enough that she never lets me so much as breathe without standing there behind me to determine that I’m not making a vulgar display of myself in the process, but this really isn’t fair.

I suppose you’re wondering what I’m talking about. Well, remember that essay I did on ethnic minorities for Mr. Allen? Mom got her hands on it and it’s convinced her that I’ve turned into a Satanworshipping drug fiend. The worst thing is that she gave it to Meran and now Meran’s supposed to “have a talk with me to set me straight” on Thursday.

I just hate this. She had no right to do that. And how am I supposed to go to my lesson now? It’s so embarrassing. Not to mention disappointing. I thought Meran would understand. I never thought she’d take Mom’s side—not on something like this.

Meran’s always seemed so special. It’s not just that she wears all those funky clothes and doesn’t talk down to me and looks just like one of those PreRaphaelite women, except that she’s got those really neat green streaks in her hair. She’s just a great person. She makes playing music seem so effortlessly magical and she’s got all these really great stories about the origins of the tunes. When she talks about things like where “The Gold Ring” came from, it’s like she really believes it was the faeries that gave that piper the tune in exchange for the lost ring he returned to them. The way she tells it, it’s like she was there when it happened.

I feel like I’ve always known her. From the first time I saw her, I felt like I was meeting an old friend.

Sometimes I think that she’s magic herself—a kind of oaktree faerie princess who’s just spending a few years living in the Fields We Know before she goes back home to the magic place where she really lives.

Why would someone like that involve themselves in my mother’s crusade against Faerie?

I guess I was just being naive. She’s probably no different from Mom or Mr. Allen and everybody else who doesn’t believe. Well, I’m not going to any more stupid flute lessons, that’s for sure.

I hate living here. Anything’d be better.

Oh, why couldn’t I just have been stolen by the faeries when I was a baby? Then I’d be there and there’d just be some changeling living here in my place. Mom could turn it into a good little robot instead.

Because that’s all she wants. She doesn’t want a daughter who can think on her own, but a boring, closedminded junior model of herself. She should have gotten a dog instead of having a kid. Dogs are easy to train and they like being led around on a leash.

I wish Granny Nell was still alive. She would never, ever have tried to tell me that I had to grow up and stop imagining things. Everything seemed magic when she was around. It was like she was magic—just like Meran. Sometimes when Meran’s playing her flute, I almost feel as though Granny Nell’s sitting there with us, just listening to the music with that sad wise smile of hers.

I know I was only five when she died, but lots of the time she seems more real to me than any of my relatives that are still alive. If she was still alive, I could be living with her right now and everything’d be really great.

Jeez, I miss her.

Anna Batterberry was in an anxious state when she pulled up in front of the Kelledy house on McKennitt Street. She checked the street number that hung beside the wroughtiron gate where the walkway met the sidewalk and compared it against the address she’d hurriedly scribbled down on a scrap of paper before leaving home. When she was sure that they were the same, she slipped out of the car and approached the gate.

Walking up to the house, the sound of her heels was loud on the walkway’s flagstones. She frowned at the thick carpet of fallen oak leaves that covered the lawn. The Kelledys had better hurry in cleaning them up, she thought. The city work crews would only be collecting leaves for one more week and they had to be neatly bagged and sitting at the curb for them to do so. It was a shame that such a pretty estate wasn’t treated better.

When she reached the porch, she spent a disorienting moment trying to find a doorbell, then realized that there was only the small brass door knocker in the middle of the door. It was shaped like a Cornish piskie.

The sight of it gave her a queer feeling. Where had she seen that before? In one of Lesli’s books, she supposed.

Lesli.

At the thought of her daughter, she quickly reached for the knocker, but the door swung open before she could use it. Lesli’s flute teacher stood in the open doorway and regarded her with a puzzled look.

“Anna,” Meran said, her voice betraying her surprise. “Whatever are you—”

“It’s Lesli,” Anna said, interrupting. “She’s ... she ...”

Her voice trailed off as what she could see of the house’s interior behind Meran registered. A strange dissonance built up in her mind at the sight of the long hallway, paneled in dark wood, the thick Oriental carpet on the hardwood floor, the old photographs and prints that hung from the walls. It was when she focused on the burnished metal umbrella stand, which was, itself, in the shape of a partiallyopened umbrella, and the sidetable on which stood a castiron, grinning gargoyle bereft of its roof gutter home, that the curious sense of familiarity she felt delved deep into the secret recesses of her mind and connected with a swell of longforgotten memories.

She put out a hand against the doorjamb to steady herself as the flood rose up inside her. She saw her motherin-law standing in that hallway with a kind of glow around her head. She was older than she’d been when Anna had married Peter, years older, her body wreathed in a golden Botticelli nimbus, that beatific smile on her lips, Meran Kelledy standing beside her, the two of them sharing some private joke, and all around them ... presences seemed to slip and slide across one’s vision.

No, she told herself. None of that was real. Not the golden glow, nor the flickering twigthin figures that teased the mind from the corner of the eye.

But she’d thought she’d seen them. Once. More than once. Many times. Whenever she was with Helen Batterberry ...

Walking in her motherin-law’s garden and hearing music, turning the corner of the house to see a trio of what she first took to be children, then realized were midgets, playing fiddle and flute and drum, the figures slipping away as they approached, winking out of existence, the music fading, but its echoes lingering on. In the mind. In memory. In dreams.

“Faerie,” her motherin-law explained to her, matterof-factly. Lesli as a toddler, playing with her invisible friends that could actually be seen when Helen Batterberry was in the room. No. None of that was possible.

That was when she and Peter were going through a rough period in their marriage. Those sights, those strange ethereal beings, music played on absent instruments, they were all part and parcel of what she later realized had been a nervous breakdown. Her analyst had agreed.

But they’d seemed so real.

In the hospital room where her motherin-law lay dying, her bed a clutter of strange creatures, tiny wizened men, small perfect women, all of them flickering in and out of sight, the wonder of their presences, the music of their voices, Lesli sitting wideeyed by the bed as the courts of Faerie came to bid farewell to an old friend.

“Say you’re going to live forever,” Leslie had said to her grandmother.

“I will,” the old woman replied. “But you have to remember me. You have to promise never to close your awareness to the Otherworld around you. If you do that, I’ll never be far.”

All nonsense.

But there in the hospital room, with the scratchy sound of the IVAC pump, the clean white walls, the incessant beep of the heart monitor, the antiseptic sting in the air, Anna could only shake her head.

“None ... none of this is real ....” she said.

Her motherin-law turned her head to look at her, an infinite sadness in her dark eyes.

“Maybe not for you,” she said sadly, “but for those who will see, it will always be there.”

And later, with Lesli at home, when just she and Peter were there, she remembered Meran coming into that hospital room, Meran and her husband, neither of them having aged since the first time Anna had seen them at her motherin-law’s house, years, oh now years ago. The four of them were there when Helen Batterberry died. She and Peter had bent their heads over the body at the moment of death, but the other two, the unaging musicians who claimed Faerie more silently, but as surely and subtly as ever Helen Batterberry had, stood at the window and watched the twilight grow across the hospital lawn as though they could see the old woman’s spirit walking off into the night.

They didn’t come to the funeral.

They

She tried to push the memories aside, just as she had when the events had first occurred, but the flood was too strong. And worse, she knew they were true memories. Not the clouded rantings of a stressful mind suffering a mild breakdown.

Meran was speaking to her, but Anna couldn’t hear what she was saying. She heard a vague, disturbing music that seemed to come from the ground underfoot. Small figures seemed to caper and dance in the corner of her eye, humming and buzzing like summer bees. Vertigo gripped her and she could feel herself falling. She realized that Meran was stepping forward to catch her, but by then the darkness had grown too seductive and she simply let herself fall into its welcoming depths.

From Lesli’s diary, entry dated October 13th:

I’ve well and truly done it. I got up this morning and instead of my school books, I packed my flute and some clothes and you, of course, in my knapsack; and then I just left. I couldn’t live there anymore. I just couldn’t.

Nobody’s going to miss me. Daddy’s never home anyway and Mom won’t be looking for me—she’ll be looking for her idea of me and that person doesn’t exist. The city’s so big that they’ll never find me.

I was kind of worried about where I was going to stay tonight, especially with the sky getting more and more overcast all day long, but I met this really neat girl in Fitzhenry Park this morning. Her name’s Susan and even though she’s just a year older than me, she lives with this guy in an apartment in Chinatown. She’s gone to ask him if I can stay with them for a couple of days. His name’s Paul. Susan says he’s in his late twenties, but he doesn’t act at all like an old guy. He’s really neat and treats her like she’s an adult, not a kid. She’s his girlfriend!

I’m sitting in the park waiting for her to come back as I write this. I hope she doesn’t take too long because there’s some weirdlooking people around here. This one guy sitting over by the War Memorial keeps giving me the eye like he’s going to hit on me or something. He really gives me the creeps. He’s got this kind of dark aura that flickers around him so I know he’s bad news.

I know it’s only been one morning since I left home, but I already feel different. It’s like I was dragging around this huge weight and all of a sudden it’s gone. I feel light as a feather. Of course, we all know what that weight. was: neuromother.

Once I get settled in at Susan and Paul’s, I’m going to go look for a job. Susan says Paul can get me some fake ID so that I can work in a club or something and make some real money. That’s what Susan does. She said that there’s been times when she’s made fifty bucks in tips in just one night!

I’ve never met anyone like her before. It’s hard to believe she’s almost my age. When I compare the girls at school to her, they just seem like a bunch of kids. Susan dresses so cool, like she just stepped out of an MTV video. She’s got short funky black hair, a leather jacket and jeans so tight I don’t know how she gets into them. Her Tshirt’s got this really cool picture of a Brian Froud faery on it that I’d never seen before.

When I asked her if she believes in Faerie, she just gave me this big grin and said, “I’ll tell you, Lesli, I’ll believe in anything that makes me feel good.”

I think I’m going to like living with her.

When Anna Batterberry regained consciousness, it was to find herself inside that disturbingly familiar house. She lay on a soft, overstuffed sofa, surrounded by the crouching presences of far more pieces of comfortablelooking furniture than the room was really meant to hold. The room simply had a toofull look about it, aided and abetted by a bewildering array of knickknacks that ranged from dozens of tiny porcelain miniatures on the mantle, each depicting some anthropomorphized woodland creature playing a harp or a fiddle or a flute, to a lifesized fabric mach& sculpture of a grizzlybear in top hat and tails that reared up in one corner of the room.

Every square inch of wall space appeared to be taken up with posters, framed photographs, prints and paintings. Oldfashioned curtains—the print was large dusky roses on a black background—stood guard on either side of a window seat. Underfoot was a thick carpet that had been woven into a semblance of the heavilyleafed yard outside.

The more she looked around herself, the more familiar it all looked. And the more her mind filled with memories that she’d spent so many years denying.

The sound of a footstep had her sitting up and halfturning to look behind the sofa at who—or maybe even, what—was approaching. It was only Meran. The movement brought back the vertigo and she lay down once more. Meran sat down on an ottoman that had been pulled up beside the sofa and laid a deliciously cool damp cloth against Anna’s brow.

“You gave me a bit of a start,” Meran said, “collapsing on my porch like that.”

Anna had lost her ability to be polite. Forsaking small talk, she went straight for the heart of the matter.

“I’ve been here before,” she said.

Meran nodded.

“With my motherin-law—Helen Batterberry.”

“Nell,” Meran agreed. “She was a good friend.”

“But why haven’t I remembered that I’d met you before until today?”

Meran shrugged. “These things happen.”

“No,” Anna said. “People forget things, yes, but not like this. I didn’t just meet you in passing, I knew you for years—from my last year in college when Peter first began dating me. You were at his parents’ house the first time he took me home. I remember thinking how odd that you and Helen were such good friends, considering how much younger you were than her.”

“Should age make a difference?” Meran asked.

“No. It’s just ... you haven’t changed at all. You’re still the same age.”

“I know,” Meran said.

“But ...” Anna’s bewilderment accentuated her nervous bird temperament. “How can that be possible?”

“You said something about Lesli when you first arrived,” Meran said, changing the subject.

That was probably the only thing that could have drawn Anna away from the quagmire puzzle of agelessness and hidden music and twitchy shapes moving just beyond the grasp of her vision.

“She’s run away from home,” Anna said. “I went into her room to get something and found that she’d left all her schoolbooks just sitting on her desk. Then when I called the school, they told me that she’d never arrived. They were about to call me to ask if she was ill. Lesli never misses school, you know.”

Meran nodded. She hadn’t, but it fit with the image of the relationship between Lesli and her mother that was growing in her mind.

“Have you called the police?” she asked.

“As soon as I got off the phone. They told me it was a little early to start worrying—can you imagine that? The detective I spoke to said that he’d put out her description so that his officers would keep an eye out for her, but basically he told me that she must just be skipping school. Lesli would never do that.”

“What does your husband say?”

“Peter doesn’t know yet. He’s on a business trip out east and I won’t be able to talk to him until he calls me tonight. I don’t even know what hotel he’ll be staying in until he calls.” Anna reached out with a birdthin hand and gripped Meran’s arm. “What am I going to do?”

“We could go looking for her ourselves.”

Anna nodded eagerly at the suggestion, but then the futility of that course of action hit home.

“The city’s so big,” she said. “It’s too big. How would we ever find her?”

“There is another way,” Cerin said.

Anna started at the new voice. Meran removed the damp cloth from Anna’s brow and moved back from the sofa so that Anna could sit up once more. She looked at the tall figure standing in the doorway, recognizing him as Meran’s husband. She didn’t remember him seeming quite so intimidating before.

“What ... what way is that?” Anna said.

“You could ask for help from Faerie,” Cerin told her.

“So—you’re gonna be one of Paulie’s girls?”

Lesli looked up from writing in her diary to find that the creepy guy by the War Memorial had sauntered over to stand beside her bench. Up close, he seemed even tougher than he had from a distance. His hair was slicked back on top, long at the back. He had three earrings in his left earlobe, one in the right. Dirty jeans were tucked into tall black cowboy boots, his white shirt was half open under his jean jacket. There was an oily look in his eyes that made her shiver.

She quickly shut the diary, keeping her place with a finger, and looked around hopefully to see if Susan was on her way back, but there was no sign of her new friend. Taking a deep breath, she gave him what she hoped was a look of appropriate streetwise bravado.

“I ... I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“I saw you talking to Susie,” he said, sitting down beside her on the bench. “She’s Paulie’s recruiter.”

Lesli started to get a bad feeling right about then. It wasn’t just that this guy was so awful, but that she might have made a terrible misjudgment when it came to Susan.

“I think I should go,” she said.

She started to get up, but he grabbed her arm. Off balance, she fell back onto the bench.

“Hey, look,” he said. “I’m doing you a favor. Paulie’s got ten or twelve girls in his string and he works them like they’re dogs. You look like a nice kid. Do you really want to spend the next ten years peddling your ass for some homeboy who’s gonna have you hooked on junk before the week’s out?”

/_,,

“See, I run a clean shop. No drugs, nice clothes for the girls, nice apartment that you’re gonna share with just one other girl, not a half dozen the way Paulie run his biz. My girls turn maybe two, three tricks a night and that’s it. Paulie’ll have you on the street nine, ten hours a pop, easy.”

His voice was calm, easygoing, but Leslie had never been so scared before in her life.

“Please,” she said. “You’re making a mistake. I really have to go.”

She tried to rise again, but he kept a hand on her shoulder so that she couldn’t get up. His voice, so mild before, went hard.

“You go anywhere, babe, you’re going with me,” he said. “There are no other options. End of conversation.”

He stood up and hauled her to her feet. His hand held her in a bruising grip. Her diary fell from her grip, and he let her pick it up and stuff it into her knapsack, but then he pulled her roughly away from the bench.

“You’re hurting me!” she cried.

He leaned close to her, his mouth only inches from her ear. “Keep that up,” he warned her, “and you’re really gonna find out what pain’s all about. Now make nice. You’re working for me now.”

4,/

“Repeat after me, sweet stuff: I’m Cutter’s girl.”

Tears welled in Lesli’s eyes. She looked around the park, but nobody was paying any attention to what was happening to her. Cutter gave her a painful shake that made her teeth rattle.

“C’mon,” he told her. “Say it.”

He glared at her with the promise of worse to come in his eyes if she didn’t start doing what he said.

His grip tightened on her shoulder, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her upper arm.

“Say it!”

“I ... I’m Cutter’s ... girl.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

He gave her another shove to start her moving again. She wanted desperately to break free of his hand and just run, but as he marched her across the park, she discovered that she was too scared to do anything but let him lead her away.

She’d never felt so helpless or alone in all her life. It made her feel ashamed.

“Please don’t joke about this,” Anna said in response to Cerin’s suggestion that they turn to Faerie for help in finding Lesli.

“Yes,” Meran agreed, though she wasn’t speaking of jokes. “This isn’t the time.”

Cerin shook his head. “This seems a particularly appropriate time to me.” He turned to Anna. “I don’t like to involve myself in private quarrels, but since it’s you that’s come to us, I feel I have the right to ask you this: Why is it, do you think, that Lesli ran away in the first place?”

“What are you insinuating? That I’m not a good mother?”

“Hardly. I no longer know you well enough to make that sort of a judgment. Besides, it’s not really any of my business, is it?”

“CerM, please,” Meran said.

A headache was starting up between Anna’s temples.

“I don’t understand,” Anna said. “What is it that you’re saying?”

“Meran and I loved Nell Batterberry,” Cerin said. “I don’t doubt that you held some affection for her as well, but I do know that you thought her a bit of a daft old woman. She told me once that after her husband—after Philip—died, you tried to convince Peter that she should be put in a home. Not in a home for the elderly, but for the, shall we say, gently mad?”

“But she—”

“Was full of stories that made no sense to you,” Cerin said. “She heard and saw what others couldn’t, though she had the gift that would allow such people to see into the invisible world of Faerie when they were in her presence. You saw into that world once, Anna. I don’t think you ever forgave her for showing it to you.”

“It ... it wasn’t real.”

Cerin shrugged. “That’s not really important at this moment. What’s important is that, if I understand the situation correctly, you’ve been living in the fear that Lesli would grow up just as fey as her grandmother. And if this is so, your denying her belief in Faerie lies at the root of the troubles that the two of you share.”

Anna looked to Meran for support, but Meran knew her husband too well and kept her own council.

Having begun, Cerin wouldn’t stop until he said everything he meant to.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Anna asked. “My daughter’s run away. All of ... all of this ...” She waved a hand that was perhaps meant to take in just the conversation, perhaps the whole room. “It’s not real. Little people and fairies and all the things my motherin-law reveled in discussing just aren’t real. She could make them seem real, I’ll grant you that, but they could never exist.”

“In your world,” Cerin said.

“In the real world.”

“They’re not one and the same,” Cerin told her.

Anna began to rise from the sofa. “I don’t have to listen to any of this,” she said. “My daughter’s run away and I thought you might be able to help me. I didn’t come here to be mocked.”

“The only reason I’ve said anything at all,” Cerin told her, “is for Lesli’s sake. Meran talks about her all the time. She sounds like a wonderful, gifted child.”

“She is.”

“I hate the thought of her being forced into a box that doesn’t fit her. Of having her wings cut off, her sight blinded, her hearing muted, her voice stilled.”

“I’m not doing any such thing!” Anna cried.

“You just don’t realize what you’re doing,” Cerin replied.

His voice was mild, but dark lights in the back of his eyes were flashing.

Meran realized it was time to intervene. She stepped between the two. Putting her back to her husband, she turned to face Anna. “We’ll find Lesli,” she said.

“How? With magic?”

“It doesn’t matter how. Just trust that we will. What you have to think of is of what you were telling me yesterday: her birthday’s coming up in just a few days. Once she turns sixteen, so long as she can prove that she’s capable of supporting herself, she can legally leave home and nothing you might do or say then can stop her.”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Anna cried. “You’re the one who’s been filling up her head with all these horrible fairy tales. I should never have let her take those lessons.”

Her voice rose ever higher in pitch as she lunged forward, arms flailing. Meran slipped to one side, then reached out one quick hand. She pinched a nerve in Anna’s neck and the woman suddenly went limp. Cerin caught her before she could fall and carried her back to the sofa.

“Now do you see what I mean about parents?” he said as he laid Anna down.

Meran gave him a mockserious cuff on the back of his head. “Go find Lesli,” she said.

“But—”

“Or would you rather stay with Anna and continue your silly attempt at converting her when she wakes up again?”

“I’m on my way,” Cerin told her and was out the door before she could change her mind.

Thunder cracked almost directly overhead as Cutter dragged Lesli into a brownstone just offPalm Street. The building stood in the heart of what was known as Newford’s Combat Zone, a few square blocks of night clubs, strip joints and bars. It was a tough part of town with hookers on every corner, bikers cruising the streets on choppeddown Harleys, bums sleeping in doorways, winos sitting on the curbs, drinking cheap booze from bottles vaguely hidden in paper bags.

Cutter had an apartment on the top floor of the brownstone, three stories up from the street. If he hadn’t told her that he lived here, Leslie would have thought that he’d taken her into an abandoned building. There was no furniture except a vinyltopped table and two chairs in the dirty kitchen. A few mangy pillows were piled up against the wall in what she assumed was the living room.

He led her down to the room at the end of the long hall that ran the length of the apartment and pushed her inside. She lost her balance and went sprawling onto the mattress that lay in the middle of the floor. It smelled of mildew and, vaguely, of old urine. She scrambled away from it and crouched up against the far wall, clutching her knapsack against her chest.

“Now, you just relax, sweet stuff,” Cutter told her. “Take things easy. I’m going out for a little while to find you a nice guy to ease you into the trade. I’d do it myself, but there’s guys that want to be first with a kid as young and pretty as you are and I sure could use the bread they’re willing to pay for the privilege.”

Lesli was prepared to beg him to let her go, but her throat was so tight she couldn’t make a sound.

“Don’t go away now,” Cutter told her.

He chuckled at his own wit, then closed the door and locked it. Lesli didn’t think she’d ever heard anything so final as the sound of that lock catching. She listened to Cutter’s footsteps as they crossed the apartment, the sound of the front door closing, his footsteps receding on the stairs.

As soon as she was sure he was far enough away, she got up and ran to the door, trying it, just in case, but it really was locked and far too solid for her to have any hope of breaking through its panels. Of course there was no phone. She crossed the room to the window and forced it open. The window looked out on the side of another building, with an alleyway below. There was no fire escape outside the window and she was far too high up to think of trying to get down to the alley.

Thunder rumbled again, not quite overhead now, and it started to rain. She leaned by the window, resting her head on its sill. Tears sprang up in her eyes again.

“Please,” she sniffed. “Please, somebody help me ....”

The rain coming in the window mingled with the tears that streaked her cheek.

Cerin began his search at the Batterberry house, which was in Ferryside, across the Stanton Street Bridge on the west side of the Kickaha river. As Anna Batterberry had remarked, the city was large. To find one teenage girl, hiding somewhere in the confounding labyrinth of its thousands of crisscrossing streets and avenues, was a daunting task, but Cerin was depending on help.

To anyone watching him, he must have appeared to be slightly mad. He wandered back and forth across the streets of Ferryside, stopping under trees to look up into their bare branches, hunkering down at the mouths of alleys or alongside hedges, apparently talking to himself. In truth, he was looking for the city’s gossips:

Magpies and crows, sparrows and pigeons saw everything, but listening to their litanies of the day’s events was like looking something up in an encyclopedia that was merely a confusing heap of loose pages, gathered together in a basket. All the information you wanted was there, but finding it would take more hours than there were in a day.

Cats were little better. They liked to keep most of what they knew to themselves, so what they did offer him was usually cryptic and sometimes even pointedly unhelpful. Cerin couldn’t blame them; they were by nature secretive and, like much of Faerie, capricious.

The most ready to give him a hand were those little sprites commonly known as the flower faeries.

They were the little winged spirits of the various trees and bushes, flowers and weeds, that grew tidily in parks and gardens, rioting only in the odd empty lot or wild place, such as the riverbanks that ran down under the Stanton Street Bridge to meet the water. Years ago, Cicely Mary Barker had catalogued any number of them in a loving series of books; more recently the Boston artist, Terri Windling, had taken up the task, specializing in the urban relations of those Barker had already noted.

It was late in the year for the little folk. Most of them were already tucked away in Faerie, sleeping through the winter, or else too busy with their harvests and other seasonal preoccupations to have paid any attention at all to what went on beyond the task at hand. But a few had seen the young girl who could sometimes see them. Meran’s cousins were the most helpful. Their small pointed faces would regard Cerin gravely from under acorn caps as they pointed this way down one street, or that way down another.

It took time. The sky grew darker, and then still darker as the clouds thickened with an approaching storm, but slowly and surely, Cerin traced Lesli’s passage over the Stanton Street Bridge all the way across town to Fitzhenry Park. It was just as he reached the bench where she’d been sitting that it began to rain.

There, from two of the wizened little monkeylike bodachs that lived in the park, he got the tale of how she’d been accosted and taken away.

“She didn’t want to go, sir,” said the one, adjusting the brim of his little cap against the rain.

All faerie knew Cerin, but it wasn’t just for his bardic harping that they paid him the respect that they did. He was the husband of the oak king’s daughter, she who could match them trick for trick and then some, and they’d long since learned to treat her, and those under her protection, with a wary deference.

“No sir, she didn’t,” added the other, “but he led her off all the same.”

Cerin hunkered down beside the bench so that he wasn’t towering over them.

“Where did he take her?” he asked.

The first bodach pointed to where two men were standing by the War Memorial, shoulders hunched against the rain, heads bent together as they spoke. One wore a thin raincoat over a suit; the other was dressed in denim jacket, jeans and cowboy boots. They appeared to be discussing a business transaction.

“You could ask him for yourself,” the bodach said. “He’s the one all in blue.”

Cerin’s gaze went to the pair and a hard look came over his features. If Meran had been there, she might have laid a hand on his arm, or spoken a calming word, to bank the dangerous fire that grew in behind his eyes. But she was at home, too far away for her quieting influence to be felt.

The bodachs scampered away as Cerin rose to his feet. By the War Memorial, the two men seemed to come to an agreement and left the park together. Cerin fell in behind them, the rain that slicked the pavement underfoot muffling his footsteps. His fingers twitched at his side, as though striking a harp’s strings.

From the branches of the tree where they’d taken sanctuary, the bodachs thought they could hear the sound of a harp, its music echoing softly against the rhythm of the rain.

Anna came to once more just as Meran was returning from the kitchen with a pot of herb tea and a pair of mugs. Meran set the mugs and pot down on the table by the sofa and sat down beside Lesli’s mother.

“How are you feeling?” she asked as she adjusted the cool cloth she’d laid upon Anna’s brow earlier.

Anna’s gaze flicked from left to right, over Meran’s shoulder and down to the floor, as though tracking invisible presences. Meran tried to shoo away the inquisitive faerie, but it was a useless gesture.

In this house, with Anna’s presence to fuel their quenchless curiosity, it was like trying to catch the wind.

“I’ve made us some tea,” Meran said. “It’ll make you feel better.”

Anna appeared docile now, her earlier anger fled as though it had never existed. Outside, rain pattered gently against the window panes. The face of a nosy hob was pressed against one lower pane, its breath clouding the glass, its large eyes glimmering with their own inner light.

“Can ... can you make them go away?” Anna asked.

Meran shook her head. “But I can make you forget again.”

“Forget.” Anna’s voice grew dreamy. “Is that what you did before? You made me forget?”

“No. You did that on your own. You didn’t want to remember, so you simply forgot.”

“And you ... you didn’t do a thing?”

“We do have a certain ... aura,” Meran admitted, “which accelerates the process. It’s not even something we consciously work at. It just seems to happen when we’re around those who’d rather not remember what they see.”

“So I’ll forget, but they’ll all still be there?”

Meran nodded.

“I just won’t be able to see them?”

“It’ll be like it was before,” Meran said.

“I ... I don’t think I like that ....”

Her voice slurred. Meran leaned forward with a worried expression. Anna seemed to regard her through blurring vision.

“I think I’m going ... away ... now ....” she said.

Her eyelids fluttered, then her head lolled to one side and she lay still. Meran called Anna’s name and gave her a little shake, but there was no response. She put two fingers to Anna’s throat and found her pulse. It was regular and strong, but try though she did, Meran couldn’t rouse the woman.

Rising from the sofa, she went into the kitchen to phone for an ambulance. As she was dialing the number, she heard Cerin’s harp begin to play by itself up in his study on the second floor.

Lesli’s tears lasted until she thought she saw something moving in the rain on the other side of the window. It was a flicker of movement and color, just above the outside windowsill, as though a pigeon had come in for a wet landing, but it had moved with far more grace and deftness than any pigeon she’d ever seen. And that memory of color was all wrong, too. It hadn’t been the blue/white/grey of a pigeon; it had been more like a butterfly doubtful, she thought, in the rain and this time of year—or a hummingbird even more doubtful

—but then she remembered what the music had woken at her last flute lesson. She rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve to remove the blur of her tears and looked more closely into the rain. Faceon, she couldn’t see anything, but as soon as she turned her head, there it was again, she could see it out of the corner of her eye, a dancing dervish of color and movement that flickered out of her line of sight as soon as she concentrated on it.

After a few moments, she turned from the window. She gave the door a considering look and listened hard, but there was still no sound of Cutter’s return.

Maybe, she thought, maybe magic can rescue me ....

She dug out her flute from her knapsack and quickly put the pieces together. Turning back to the window, she sat on her haunches and tried to start up a tune, but to no avail. She was still too nervous, her chest felt too tight, and she couldn’t get the air to come up properly from her diaphragm.

She brought the flute down from her lip and laid it across her knees. Trying not to think of the locked door, of why it was locked and who would be coming through it, she steadied her breathing.

In, slowly now, hold it, let it out, slowly. And again.

She pretended she was with Meran, just the two of them in the basement of the Old Firehall. There.

She could almost hear the tune that Meran was playing, except it sounded more like the belllike tones of a harp than the breathy timbre of a wooden flute. But still, it was there for her to follow, a path marked out on a roadmap of music.

Lifting the flute back up to her lip, she blew again, a narrow channel of air going down into the mouth hole at an angle, all her fingers down, the low D note ringing in the empty room, a deep rich sound, resonant and full. She played it again, then caught the music she heard, that particular path laid out on the roadmap of all tunes that are or yet could be, and followed where it led.

It was easier to do than she would have thought possible, easier than at all those lessons with Meran.

The music she followed seemed to allow her instrument to almost play itself. And as the tune woke from her flute, she fixed her gaze on the rain falling just outside the window where a flicker of color appeared, a spin of movement.

Please, she thought. Oh please ...

And then it was there, hummingbird wings vibrating in the rain, sending incandescent sprays of water arcing away from their movement; the tiny naked upper torso, the lower wrapped in tiny leaves and vines; the dark hair gathered wetly against her miniature cheeks and neck; the eyes, tiny and timeless, watching her as she watched back and all the while, the music played.

Help me, she thought to that little hovering figure. Won’t you please She had been oblivious to anything but the music and the tiny faerie outside in the rain. She hadn’t heard the footsteps on the stairs, nor heard them crossing the apartment. But she heard the door open.

The tune faltered, the faerie flickered out of sight as though it had never been there. She brought the flute down from her lip and turned, her heart drumming wildly in her chest, but she refused to be scared.

That’s all guys like Cutter wanted. They wanted to see you scared of them. They wanted to be in control.

But no more.

I’m not going to go without a fight, she thought. I’ll break my flute over his stupid head. I’ll ...

The stranger standing in the doorway brought her train of thought to a scurrying halt. And then she realized that the harping she’d heard, the tune that had led her flute to join it, had grown in volume, rather than diminished.

“Who ... who are you?” she asked.

Her hands had begun to perspire, making her flute slippery and hard to hold. The stranger had longer hair than Cutter. It was drawn back in a braid that hung down one side of his head and dangled halfway down his chest. He had a full beard and wore clothes that, though they were simple jeans, shirt and jacket, seemed to have a timeless cut to them, as though they could have been worn at any point in history and not seemed out of place. Meran dressed like that as well, she realized.

But it was his eyes that held her—not their startling brightness, but the fire that seemed to flicker in their depths, a rhythmic movement that seemed to keep time to the harping she heard.

“Have you come to ... rescue me?” she found herself asking before the stranger had time to reply to her first question.

“I’d think,” he said, “with a spirit so brave as yours, that you’d simply rescue yourself “

Lesli shook her head. “I’m not really brave at all.”

“Braver than you know, fluting here while a darkness stalked you through the storm. My name’s Cerin Kelledy; I’m Meran’s husband and I’ve come to take you home.”

He waited for her to disassemble her flute and stow it away, then offered her a hand up from the floor. As she stood up, he took the knapsack and slung it over his shoulder and led her towards the door. The sound of the harping was very faint now, Lesli realized.

When they walked by the hall, she stopped in the doorway leading to the living room and looked at the two men that were huddled against the far wall, their eyes wild with terror. One was Cutter; the other a business man in suit and raincoat whom she’d never seen before. She hesitated, fingers tightening on Cerin’s hand, as she turned to see what was frightening them so much. There was nothing at all in the spot that their frightened gazes were fixed upon.

“What ... what’s the matter with them?” she asked her companion. “What are they looking at?”

“Night fears,” Cerin replied. “Somehow the darkness that lies in their hearts has given those fears substance and made them real.”

The way he said “somehow” let Lesli know that he’d been responsible for what the two men were undergoing.

“Are they going to die?” she asked.

She didn’t think she was the first girl to fall prey to Cutter so she wasn’t exactly feeling sorry for him at that point.

Cerin shook his head. “But they will always have the sight. Unless they change their ways, it will show them only the dark side of Faerie.”

Lesli shivered.

“There are no happy endings,” Cerin told her. “There are no real endings ever—happy or otherwise.

We all have our own stories which are just a part of the one Story that binds both this world and Faerie.

Sometimes we step into each others’ stories—perhaps just for a few minutes, perhaps for years—and then we step out of them again. But all the while, the Story just goes on.”

That day, his explanation only served to confuse her.

From Lesli’s diary, entry dated November 24th:

Nothing turned out the way I thought it would.

Something happened to Mom. Everybody tells me it’s not my fault, but it happened when I ran away, so I can’t help but feel that I’m to blame. Daddy says she had a nervous breakdown and that’s why she’s in the sanitarium. It happened to her before and it had been coming again for a long time. But that’s not the way Mom tells it.

I go by to see her every day after school. Sometimes she’s pretty spaced from the drugs they give her to keep her calm, but on one of her good days, she told me about Granny Nell and the Kelledys and Faerie. She says the world’s just like I said it was in that essay I did for English. Faerie’s real and it didn’t go away; it just got freed from people’s preconceptions of it and now it’s just whatever it wants to be.

And that’s what scares her.

She also thinks the Kelledys are some kind of earth spirits. “I can’t forget this time,” she told me.

“But if you know,” I asked her, “if you believe, then why are you in this place? Maybe I should be in here, too.”

And you know what she told me? “I don’t want to believe in any of it; it just makes me feel sick. But at the same time, I can’t stop knowing it’s all out there: every kind of magic being and nightmare. They’re all real.”

I remember thinking of Cutter and that other guy in his apartment and what Cerin said about them.

Did that make my Mom a bad person? I couldn’t believe that.

“But they’re not supposed to be real,” Mom said. “That’s what’s got me feeling so crazy. In a sane world, in the world that was the way I’d grown up believing it to be, that wouldn’t be real. The Kelledys could fix it so that I’d forget again, but then I’d be back to going through life always feeling like there was something important that I couldn’t remember. And that just leaves you with another kind of craziness—an ache that you can’t explain and it doesn’t ever go away. It’s better this way, and my medicine keeps me from feeling too crazy.”

She looked away then, out the window of her room. I looked, too, and saw the little monkeyman that was crossing the lawn of the sanitarium, pulling a pig behind him. The pig had a load of gear on its back like it was a pack horse.

“Could you ... could you ask the nurse to bring my medicine,” Mom said.

I tried to tell her that all she had to do was accept it, but she wouldn’t listen. She just kept asking for the nurse, so finally I went and got one.

I still think it’s my fault.

I live with the Kelledys now. Daddy was going to send me away to a boarding school, because he felt that he couldn’t be home enough to take care of me. I never really thought about it before, but when he said that, I realized that he didn’t know me at all.

Meran offered to let me live at their place. I moved in on my birthday.

There’s a book in their library—ha! There’s like ten million books in there. But the one I’m thinking of is by a local writer, this guy named Christy Riddell.

In it, he talks about Faerie, how everybody just thinks of them as ghosts of wind and shadow.

“Faerie music is the wind,” he says, “and their movement is the play of shadow cast by moonlight, or starlight, or no light at all. Faerie lives like a ghost beside us, but only the city remembers. But then the city never forgets anything.”

I don’t know if the Kelledys are part of that ghostliness. What I do know is that, seeing how they live for each other, how they care so much about each other, I find myself feeling more hopeful about things.

My parents and I didn’t so much not get along, as lack interest in each other. It got to the point where I figured that’s how everybody was in the world, because I never knew any different.

So I’m trying harder with Mom. I don’t talk about things she doesn’t want to hear, but I don’t stop believing in them either. Like Cerin said, we’re just two threads of the Story. Sometimes we come together for awhile and sometimes we’re apart. And no matter how much one or the other of us might want it to be different, both our stories are true.

But I can’t stop wishing for a happy ending.