Walter Poteet watched the leisurely progress of Gervaise St. Vincent on television, like most of the residents of Harlem. Despite the hyperbole of Ashton Sakurada and other reporters and pundits, most of Harlem was not out in the streets, at least not all at any one time. It took well over an hour for St. Vincent to arrive at the 135th street apartment building. Thankfully he did not bring up Sakurada and her cameraman. The NGC pastor went down to be interviewed, though, probably to take the spotlight away from Muhammad al-Sheik, a younger and more telegenic cleric. At least that was Walter Poteet�s opinion; he shared it with no one else, for the time being.
St. Vincent surprised Poteet favorably by swiftly clearing out all the other visitors to the apartment, something Poteet had been unable to do for any length of time. He then took Poteet aside, into the tiny bathroom, and asked, �What as the boy told you, and what do you believe?�
�He hasn�t told me anything, really,� said Poteet. �I think he was close to a few times, but his mother always stepped in.�
�A dynamic woman, she is. They are always difficult to deal with, although usually worth the trouble. Did you notice the bruises on the palms of our Mr. Grandville?�
�I did, I did. So will the police.�
�I am sure they will. I did not see any powder traces, but I neglected to bring my forensic laboratory.� St. Vincent took his phone from his clear plastic carryall. After looking at the screen, he closed it. �Nothing that can�t wait. What offer do we have from the prosecutor�s office?�
�All that Mr. Shipwright is offering is life without parole.�
�He must be under considerable pressure to be so lenient.�
�For Adam Shipwright, that is leniency. He�s a great believer in the death penalty.�
�I think you mistake my nuance, Mr. Poteet,� said St. Vincent. �I was not jesting, in primary. I think we can get far better terms. But I also think we can win this case, especially with your help. If you leave, you will hurt the boy�s chances. But if you are leaving, it would be better to leave soon than late. Can you find it in your heart to stay on, despite any doubts you may have?�
Walter Poteet took a moment to find his answer. �I haven�t told Mr. Grandville or his mother about the offer. I want to, now that you are here. And I want to hear the truth from him.�
�Are you sure about the last, Mr. Poteet?�
�I am.�
St. Vincent pulled at his goatee, a signature gesture. �Well, well. It�s dangerous, but for your sake, I think we shall risk it. At the least we shall be better prepared against surprise from the prosecution.�
Inspector Cohen wasn�t going to use Kimberly Chiba�s magic eye any more on Grandville after the toilet scare, but there was an alternate: One of the senshi was a little girl with uncanny hearing she could �lend� in a similar manner to Kimberly�s supernatural vision. The girl was listening in, keeping one wing on a female Marine sergeant with many stripes using a court-recording setup. They worked smoothly together; the Inspector was sure they must have worked together before quite a lot.
The girl with the magic ears said, �He�s talking with the lawyers now.�
�We can�t listen in,� said Shipwright.
�We can,� said the Colonel.
�Verhofen� was the name on his uniform, but the Inspector had a hunch he�d seen
him using another name somewhere.
�Nobody supposed to get hurt,� said Michael Ennis
Grandville. His mother slapped him. Grandville surprised Poteet by neither
cringing nor lashing back. Instead he put a hand to his cheek and said, �It was
a lot of money. You wouldn�t have to scrub white people�s toilets no more.� �You were going to set us up by robbing a
delicatessen?� She drew back her arm to hit him again, but did not, perhaps
because St. Vincent chimed in: �That would seem a poor choice of targets if
acquiring genuine wealth was your ambition, Michael. What made you pick
that place?� �These two dudes were going to make a trade there.
It was just the place. We were gonna jump �em, take their stuff. The deli, that
was just where they was gonna be.� �Who�s �we,� Michael?� demanded his mother. �It was me an� Cousin Pete an� Cousin Tim, and
some dude who knew about the trade. He call himself Abdul. But Abdul not
there.� He�d been staring down, but now he brought his head up to look at
his mother. �They dead, Mama.
The witch killed them. The little one. I saw it, they dead, Pete an� Tim.� Mrs. Grandville made a horrible sound somewhere
between a screech and a squeal, and covered her mouth. St. Vincent kept his
poise. �Witch? It was a woman who killed your cousins?� �The little one killed them. The big one, she know
who I am, I shoot her before she burn me. But the little one, she hit me with
her stick an� then she burn up Pete an� Tim. She burn �em up like you put a
blowtorch on little toy men, burn right through them. I pick up my gun and
shoot her before she burn me. I shot at some dude who yelled at me. Then I run,
I run . . . I don�t remember nothin� until I almost home.� St Vincent said, �You said one of them knew who
you were. Do you know who she was?� �She Sarah Uer, U-E-R.� Walter Poteet managed to speak before St. Vincent:
�How did she know you?� �She get in my brain! I know it her, she
know it me. She a witch, dude! I saw it! I saw it in her
brain! They been killin� an� killin� for years! They try to kill me in
the toilet!� �In the toilet?� One of St. Vincent�s frosty brows
rose a bit. �You think I crazy, but I saw it! Was a rose,
stickin� clear through the wall by the toilet paper! The hole�s still there!� Rose? That strange little leaf Poteet had cut his
finger on . . . Walter Poteet lost himself for a moment. But he didn�t follow
out the thought because the apartment phone rang. �I turned it off,� said Mrs.
Grandville. �Probably the cops,� said her son. He dragged out
a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one, ignoring his mother�s glare. �One of us should answer, I think,� said St.
Vincent. �Mr. Poteet or myself, I mean. I agree, it is most probably the
police. May I?� St. Vincent�s hand was already on the old-fashioned corded
receiver, and he picked up as soon as Mrs. Grandville nodded. �Grandville residence.
I am Mr. St. Vincent, an attorney for the family.� His frosty brows rose slowly
as he listened. Then he said, �We�ll have to speak with her first, my colleague
and myself. This instrument does not have caller ID. May I have the number
where you can be reached?� St. Vincent wrote a number on the wall in pencil,
and then ended the call. �Who was that?� asked Mrs. Grandville. �It was Sarah�s mother. She said she wanted to
talk to you.� �What else she say?� asked Grandville. �She says her daughter and the other girl who were
shot are alive and have identified you.� �She say they comin� to get me? She the head
witch!� Grandville broke into disturbing laughter. �She the head witch,�
he repeated, pulling a cigarette from a battered pack and lighting it, ignoring
his mother�s glare. After a long drag, Grandville said, �You all think I crazy,
even you, Mama.� St. Vincent continued: �She says she wants to talk
mother-to-mother, Mrs. Grandville. I would advise against it. It is much too soon
for anything like that, especially for you to be talking to anyone without
counsel.� Ernie Cohen�s musical tastes were two: Country,
and Western. But his wife Dianne was a classical fan and had several CDs with
this face on the box: Michiru. The senshi with the magic ears began
talking to her in French when she entered the room. Michiru said, �Please use
English for the others.� �Oui, Maman.� But the little one said no
more. The inspector went up to her and asked, �What did she say?� �One of the lawyers wants Mr. Grandville to give
up now. The other wants to wait,� said Michiru. The very senior sergeant recording the overheard
conversation spoke up for the first time. �Colonel, one of the lawyers wants to
talk to the press now.� �Kill his phone,� said the Colonel. �Moon-sama, do
you want to do something?� �I will talk with him,� said the Rabbit Queen. �This is interesting,� said Gervaise St.
Vincent. �Suddenly my service is unavailable. Could I borrow your phone for a
moment, Mr. Poteet?� St. Vincent tried the phone. After a moment he said, �Your
service is unavailable as well, Mr. Poteet.� The apartment phone rang, an old wall phone with a
corded receiver. St. Vincent had meantime moved so that his hand was poised
over the receiver. �This is probably the police.� �I turned it off!� said Mrs. Grandville. �Then it is most certainly the police. May I
answer?� St Vincent picked up the instant Mrs. Grandville nodded. Poteet tried
to follow the conversation from the one side he could hear. �I believe we
agreed that you would wait for our call . . . No, I am afraid I cannot agree. I
feel it would not be in the best interest of my client, Madam . . . That might
be acceptable. I must discuss it with Mr. Poteet and my client. Please wait
until we call back, Madam.� He hung up. �What she say?� demanded Grandville. �Madam Chiba wanted to keep the identity of her
daughter secret. We can�t let that happen, of course. We�ve got to let people
know why you, Mr. Grandville, were targeted so quickly.� �Do we?� asked Walter Poteet. �Damn, I should have thought of that!� said
Grandville. �Everybody know it her kid, they kill me, people think she have me
killed. Damn!� �Well, someone thought of it in time,� said St.
Vincent. �I may have another timely thought. The sudden loss of phone service
for Mr. Poteet and myself strikes me as a little too fortuitous to be a
coincidence. We may be under surveillance. Of course I am confident that
District Attorney Shipwright would never dream of introducing evidence obtained
by illegal surveillance, but perhaps one of our earlier visitors left an
electronic calling card. There were so many. I hardly think one of our present
quartet is a police spy, but one learns to be careful in dealing with law
enforcement. I have found their enthusiasm often clouds their judgement.� �Not they aim, though,� said Grandville. �They put
enough shots in poor Mr. Satamuk.� He began laughing again. None of the others
joined him. �Your hunch was right,� murmured Reuben Fine. He
realized it was a stupid remark as soon as he had said it. However he followed
it up with a more intelligent one: �I wonder why Sarah�s family went public so
soon?� �Maybe to beat his lawyers,� said Anastasia
Godolfin. �He must have recognized her. I was so surprised you didn�t.� �Yeah. Well, us old guys tend to lose track of
who�s cool and who�s not. Is �cool� still cool?� Seeing Ashton Sakurada come on
screen with St. Vincent, he picked up the glass ashtray Anastasia was reaching
for. �I wasn�t going to throw it,� she said. �I know,� Reuben replied. But he
still held onto the ashtray while she flicked her ashes into it. Ashton Sakurada had legs long enough to put the
top of her head five feet and eight inches from the ground with bare feet, and
she liked high heels that made her legs look even longer. Joe Kettering solved
the framing problem this time by scrounging two chairs for the interview,
putting St. Vincent in the higher chair. The Cajun of color did not have a
stature that matched his oversized personality. He did have a fairly long waist,
though, so the height mismatch wasn�t too bad for a sit-down. �You look like a cowboy,� said a young man
watching him set up. �I was. Don�t like cows all that much, so now I do
this.� Actually he�d run sheep before he�d got off of his parents� ranch in
Wyoming, but cows made a better story. �Ready, Ashton.� �Yes, David.� She was talking to the national
anchor. �I�m with attorney Gervaise St. Vincent. We�re in front of the building
where Michael Grandville lives with his mother, in Harlem. Mr. St. Vincent,
what do you say about the announcement by Usagi Chiba that one of the victims
is her daughter?� �I have the deepest sympathy for Mrs. Chiba. I am
the parent of five daughters myself, as you may know.� �Will Michael Grandville be surrendering soon?� �Mr. Walter Poteet and myself are in negotiations
with the police and the district attorney, Mr. Shipwright.� �Have you spoken to Michael Grandville in person?� �I am in communication with Mr. Grandville, and
that�s all I will say about that subject at this time.� But of course St.
Vincent did not stop talking, not with camera and mike in front of him. Pastor Boardman had come back just before St.
Vincent went down for the interview. Walter Poteet was not overjoyed to have
him back, though the NGC minister seemed to be solid, sincere person. He was
not an attorney, and Poteet wondered how much damage he could do with what he
had heard so far. But Poteet wouldn�t dream of chasing him off now; Mrs.
Grandville wouldn�t let that happen. Michael Grandville did not seem to care
for the pastor, though he was subtle about it, even in his desperate state.
Poteet had noticed that Grandville had kept finding unobtrusive ways to be
where Pastor Boardman was not. Grandville seemed to be in good humor now. Walter
Poteet wondered if he had adjusted his mood chemically on his most recent trip
to the toilet or the single bedroom. But it could be a natural high. Walter
Poteet had seen it in clients before, and experienced it himself. Fear can make
one feel vividly alive. But Grandville�s mask melted away when there was a
knock at the door. He fled to the bedroom. Walter Poteet followed as quickly as
his sixty-eight years allowed. By the time Poteet entered the bedroom,
Grandville had one leg through the window onto the fire escape. At that moment
Mrs. Grandville exclaimed, �Oh my Lord!� It wasn�t a fearful squeal.
Grandville retrieved his leg, closed the window, redrew the curtains, and went
out the door, pushing Walter Poteet aside. The boy exclaimed, �You here?� �I am,� answered a mellifluous tenor voice. It was
a familiar voice. Walter Poteet saw that the face and frame matched it. The
Reverend John Lee Swainson, Prophet of the New Gospel Church, had just entered
the apartment. How had a famous white man slipped into Harlem unnoticed, and on
this day? The Reverend�s piercing eyes caught Poteet�s as he shook hands, and
he murmered, �Mysterious ways.� Then he spoke up. �I see that Mr. Al-Sheik has
inserted himself into the interview with Mr. St. Vincent. Pastor Boardman, you
would do well to go and provide a balancing Christian perspective.� �You read my mind, Reverend.� Boardman left.
Poteet noticed that the hallway seemed to be empty as he did. Swainson did not
make to shake hands with Grandville. Instead he said, �I see you do not share
your mama�s faith, son.� �You ain�t my daddy, Reverend.� Mrs. Grandville
started to ask him to be polite, but he cut her off. �He ain�t my daddy, Mama.
Why you here?� Poteet wondered why Grandville was overtly hostile
to Swainson. He�d simply avoided Pastor Boardman. Swainson said, �Your daddy
died in prison, son. If you don�t want to do the same, maybe you should start
using the good manners I know your mama taught you.� Michael Grandville said, "You girl a witch." That remark
brought a swift blow from his mother. Michael Grandville asserted once more,
"His girl a witch, Mama. I see that. She close with the one who know me." The
Reverend Swainson intercepted Tiffanye Grandville’s next blow effortlessly.
Poteet hadn’t expected that. "You should not strike your son," Swainson said,
gently guiding her arm down, "For telling the truth. Michael, have you told
anyone else besides your mother, Mr. Poteet and Mr. St. Vincent what really
happened this morning?" Walter Poteet began to protest. "I don’t think—" Swainson cut him off. "Clergy, like lawyers, have
the privilege of confidentiality. I can’t be forced to reveal anything you say
to me in confidence. Now, go on." Poteet did not give up yet. "Reverend, some things
that have happened make me think we are under surveillance here." "I think you can depend on it," said Swainson.
"But privilege would still apply, and the surveillance is probably not
court-sanctioned. I’m risking quite a lot coming here. Before I decide what
help I might give, I must know what happened. Now, Michael, tell me." "Tell him, Michael," said his mother. Poteet knew
he was trumped. Michael Grandville repeated his fantastic story. Swainson only
occasionally prompted Grandville. Grandville also retold the rose-in-the-toilet
story. Swainson asked him what color the rose was. "The color?"
exclaimed Grandville. "It is important to me, son," said Swainson. "Do
you remember the color?" "It blue . . . light blue." "Thank you, Michael. You’ve lifted a weight from
my heart." Walter Poteet wondered what Swainson was about.
Did he really believe it all? Of course, that strange leaf that had cut his
finger . . . Poteet posed his
question carefully. "What do you mean when you say the Reverend’s girl is a
witch, Michael?" "She like the others. She one of them." Swainson said, "Do you know who the other witch
was, the one that killed your cousins?" "Her name Mimi." "How do you know that?" asked Swainson. "It in the first one head." "You saw a lot in there, didn’t you, Michael?"
said Swainson. "Yeah. I saw a awful lot. Awful lot." Grandville
said the words slowly, for emphasis. Swainson leaned back a little, bringing his large
hands together palm-to-palm under his chin. "You must have a strong mind. Other
people who’ve seen into that girl’s head have gone mad enough to be locked
away." "But I ain’t crazy." "No, but to anyone who doesn’t know the true
nature of our Rabbit Queen and her court, your stories sound crazy. Mr. Poteet,
do you think they sound crazy enough for a defense?" asked Swainson. "Insanity defenses are not easy," said Poteet.
"Especially if your client isn’t crazy." "But it is surely an option to consider. I am, of
course, not a lawyer." Swainson turned back to Grandville and asked, "What was
the second one wear? And what did she hit you with?" "She in PJs and a coat, then she in this black and
orange dress. It stop bullets! I saw them fall off!" "And the stick?" "It pretty long. It have a star on the end. The
star get bright when she burn Pete an’ Tim." "Did she have wings?" "No." "What about Sarah Uer? Did she change?" Grandville took a moment. "She think about
it, but she was the same when I leave. Maybe she change back. I know she have
black wings." "You’re not sure you know from what you saw in the
delicatessen, or from what you saw in her brain? Is that it?"
"That it," said Grandville. He was suddenly growing more confident.
"That it. I saw a lot in her brain. I saw lots and lots
in her brain. It kind of like I was her, almost."
"Almost," said Swainson. "But you still shot her,
didn’t you?"
"What I see scare me. What I see scare anybody,
Reh-vuh-rend."
"Watch your mouth, Michael," warned his mother,
raising her arm.
"He’s right. What he saw would scare anyone half to death.
I know because I’ve seen it."
"You’ve seen it?" asked Walter Poteet. He was humoring the
Reverend, trying to assume he was going along with the boy’s wild story,
but he sounded so sincere.
"Yes, Mr. Poteet. She looked into me, and I saw into her when she did.
That petite teenager is a terror. Holy or unholy, I haven’t decided yet,
but a terror. But she didn’t kill you, Michael.
Why do you think she didn’t?" Either Swainson was the believed what he was saying or he was the
most incredibly skilled liar Walter Poteet had ever met.
"I saw lots," said Grandville, sounding yet more confident.
"And yet you were able to shoot her before you killed you," reiterated
Swainson. "She’s killed before, many times. But she gave you time"
"I was lucky. I had my piece on her when she look in my head"
"So you saw all you saw in a second, or less," said the televangelist,
embracing a large invisible sphere and compressing it to nothing between
his huge hands. "I have only seen her kill in her memories, but I have
seen her change. It is very fast. Very fast. Very fast." He coughed,
and turned to Mrs. Grandville. "My throat has become a bit dry. Could
I trouble you—"
"I just made up a new pitcher of orange drink," said Mrs. Grandville,
shooting to her feet.
John Lee Swainson did not stay much longer in the apartment. He asked
for a final word outside as he left. Walter Poteet noticed that, again,
the hallway was empty. In fact, the only noises at all coming from the
other apartments was snoring and one television tuned to a different
channel.
Walter Poteet asked quietly, "How much of the the boy’s story is true?"
"Everything about Sarah Uer. I don’t know who the other girl was, so
I can’t swear to that part. About the rest, well, the boy is still too
scared lie as effectively as he will later." Swainson took Poteet’s shoulders
in his massive hands. "Walter, my friend, that girl is the President’s
friend. She saved the President’s life two years ago. She could have that
boy killed or disappeared with a phone call. But she’s giving that boy
a chance."
"And why is she doing it?"
"I don’t know." Swainson released Poteet. "Do your best. Don’t
go too hard
on my daughter."
"Your daughter?"
"She’ll be involved. Good evening, Counsellor."
"One more question?"
"Why am I helping that boy?"
"Yes."
"The mother, of course." Swainson disappeared down the stairs. The doorbell rang. The doorbell? Who could that be? Reuben Fine's money-pit of a
home was surrounded by a high fence pierced only by locked gates. He went to the door
of his study and called out to Tatiana, crossing the living room, "Tatiana, did you
let someone in?"
"No, Mr. Fine."
Anastasia--he thought she had been asleep--appeared on the stairs one of his robes,
thrown-on. "Is it Georgi with Dov?"
"I don't know. Stay back while I check this out, both of you." He ducked back inside
his study and pulled up the security cameras on his computer. There were no unfamiliar
vehicles on the street. Unfortunately he didn't have a camera by the front door. The
doorbell rang again. Home invasion robberies were not unknown in upstate New York.
He took out the gun he kept locked in his desk and went to the front door. It was a
good, thick door, with the hinges on the inside, but it had no peephole, and the
narrow windows on each side admitted light but not information through their frosting.
He kicked up the door stop, harder to defeat than a chain, and cracked the door open.
"Who are you?"
Two people were visible through the cracked door: a short, swarthy man with a Mexican
Bandit mustache in a cheap suit, and a tall girl with long black hair done in a single
loose braid. The man produced a badgel. "Sergeant Castillo, NYPD. I'm here to interview
Ms. Godolfin."
Reuben Fine let the strange pair inside his home. "Pardon my gun, but how the devil
did you get past the fence?"
"I didn't have any trouble," said the girl. Her voice was two-toned, like an adolescent.
"Are you a police officer too?"
"No, she just gave me a lift," said the little cop.
Anastasia had come, and Tatiana. Reuben Fine unloaded his gun in the cop's sight
while he introduced them. "Sergeant Castillo, this is Anastasia Godolfin, and
Tatiana Samsonov. Tatiana's parents are my driver and housekeeper. And your
friend, Sergeant?"
"Betty," said the girl. "I'm a friend of Sarah's. I was in your place once, but
you weren't there."
Anastasia offered her hand. "I don't remember Sarah saying anything about you,
but I don't know her that well."
"She remembers you," said Betty.
The cop said, "I'm sorry it took me so long to get here, Ms. Godolfin, but it's been a
hell of a day. I talked to your brother."
"I sent Mr. Samsonov to pick him up," said Reuben Fine, "But they're not back yet.
They got caught in a mess on the Tappen Zee Bridge. Did you see it?"
"We took a different route," said Betty.
"I know you've talked to other policemen today, Ms. Godolfin, but I really need to
talk to you now. You might remember things now you won't in the morning."
"We'll use my study. Tatiana, make the Sergeant's friend comfortable?" The little detective had brought in an attaché
case. He took out a recorder, a pad computer, and a folder. "First I want you
to look at these and see if you recognize anyone." The folder was full of photo
lineups. Anastasia was able to recognize only one person: Michael Ennis
Grandville. Sergeant Castillo showed her several dozen sheets, which prompted
Reuben Fine to ask, "Why so many, Sergeant?" "He had accomplices. But they didn’t make it." "You sound disappointed," said Anastasia. "Alive, maybe we could turn one of them. Did you
see anyone with Mr. Grandville?" "He was with a couple of different women when I
was down for spring break. But I didn’t see him with anyone this time." "This time?" "Since summer break started." "How much did you talk with him?" "Not much. He tried to talk me up last week. I
thought he was trying to pick me up. But Mama called me in back and saved me.
He didn’t bother me much after that." "When was the last time he was at your place?" "The day before yesterday . . . He did ask me
something." "What?" "He asked me if I was going to be working on
Friday. I told him I wasn’t sure." "Were you supposed to be off today?" "No." "So you were playing hookey this morning?" asked
the cop. "I was," said Anastasia. "I knew Dov wanted to go
away with Monika for the weekend. I don’t like her, and so I didn’t feel too
bad about sticking him with work. But I didn’t plan to be gone. I just met
Reuben—Mr. Fine—and what happened, happened." Reuben Fine wondered if the cop suspected Anastasia. Being away from
the scene when the crime happened was convenient, if she was involved.
Cops think like that. But he held his tongue, for now. "Did Grandville ask you about people who came into
your place?" "No, he didn’t ask me anything like that. He might
have found out something from Papa. Papa kind of like him, even though he thought
he was a crook." "A crook?" "Scamming women. He would pretend he was an
African big shot, or on the staff of one, or the son of one." She told the cop
the same stories she had told Reuben about the good-looking young man. "He is
not very tall. It makes him seem harmless. But I guess he isn’t." "He’s taller than me, and I’m not
harmless," said the cop, who had to have gotten a waiver for the height
requirement for the NYPD. He had many more questions. His street-Latino accent
and persona faded as he went on. Reuben Fine recognized a man of considerable
education and intelligence. He also saw determination. <He’s a digger,>
thought Reuben Fine. Ekaterina Samsonov had gotten lost in gossip at
Kresge’s Market. She’d been the last customer out the door. It wasn’t a long
drive back to Hyde Park; she was home in ten minutes. She found the limousine
still missing from the Garage, meaning that her husband Georgi wasn’t back from
the city with the Godolfin boy, the brother of Mr. Fine’s new girlfriend. It
was after eleven now; George had left just before four. She should call him,
but first she would check on Tatiana, Mr. Fine, and his guest, who looked to be
a long-termer. Passing the study, she heard voices, including a
man’s voice. Mr. Fine had another guest, and it sounded like business, maybe a
policeman or another lawyer. She found Tatiana where she expected, in front of
the big living room television Mr. Fine let her watch whenever she asked.
Tatiana was asleep, not unusual. But Tatiana was not alone before the
television. A long-legged girl with long black hair sat in the chair to the
right of Tatiana. "I am Mrs. Samsonov, the housekeeper. And yourself?" "Betty," said the girl. "I came with Sergeant
Castillo." Her voice was changing; she was still an adolescent. But she was
also a woman; she was using a breast pump. "You have a child?" "Two, twins," said the girl, rising. "Did you bring them?" "No." "You seem young to be having babies already." "I’m seventeen." The girl disengaged her pump and
rose. "Tatiana said you went to the market. So, could you use some help with
your bags?" Ekaterina made to rouse her sleeping daughter, but the strange girl
intercepted her with one long-fingered hand, with nails painted a light blue.
"Let her sleep," she whispered, in a mother-to-mother meter. <A strange soul,> thought Ekaterina
Samsonov, <but with a good heart.>
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(Monday January 10, 2005)
Chapter Three, Part Two
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