Chapter 17

           Idon’tknowforsurehowotherpeopleareinside—alldifferentandallalikeatthesametime.Icanonlyguess.ButIdoknowhowIwillsquirmandwriggletoavoidahurtfultruthand,whenfinallythereisnochoice,willputitoff,hopingitwillgoaway.Dootherpeoplesayprimly,"I’llthinkaboutthattomorrowwhenIamrested,"andthendrawonahoped-forfutureoraneditedpastlikeachildplayingwithviolenceagainsttheinevitabilityofbedtime?

           Mydawdledstepstowardhomeledthroughaminefieldofthetruth.Thefuturewassowedwithfertiledragon’steeth.Itwasnotunnaturaltorunforasafeanchorageinthepast.Butonthatcourse,setsquareacrossitwasAuntDeborah,agreatwingshotonacoveyoflies,hereyesgleamingquestionmarks.

           Ihadlookedinthewindowofthejewelrystoreatexpandingwatchbandsandglassesframesaslongaswasdecent.Thehumid,windyeveningwasbreedingathunderstorm.

           ThereweremanylikeGreat-AuntDeborahearlyinthelastcentury,islandsofcuriosityandknowledge.Maybeitwasbeingcutofffromaworldofpeersthatdrovethefewintobooksorperhapsitwastheendlesswaiting,sometimesthreeyears,sometimesforever,fortheshipstocomehome,thatpushedthemintothekindofbooksthatfilledourattic.Shewasthegreatestofgreat-aunts,asibylandapythonessinone,saidmagicnonsensewordstome,whichkepttheirmagicbutnottheirnonsensewhenItrackedthemdown.

           "Mebeswacfahwyrmthurhfaegirword,"shesaidandthetonewasdoom.