That Wednesday night, Sandra took the evening off, and she invited Mark out for a date night at the tavern. She had thought a long time about the setting. The house felt like home to her now, and Brigit’s Hearth was a place most magical. In the end, however, she decided that she needed to be in the place she felt clearest and strongest, and that was here, in her own tavern, the place she had built up herself. She’d had her hair trimmed, too—not that Mark would notice—and she’d spent too much time dressing: fifteen minutes trying on clothes, and then ten minutes telling herself it didn’t matter what she wore, and then another fifteen minutes trying on clothes. In the end, she went with something that made her feel very confidently witchy: a black bodysuit with a deep purple tie-dye duster over it, and her favorite pentagram pendant at her throat. Mark arrived at around six, and Sandra was waiting for him. She looked fabulous, sitting there in the far corner of booth seven, with her gold pendant sparkling entrancingly. He ordered a Guinness, and she ordered a Coke. Watching her from across the table, Mark began to suspect that she was up to something. She wasn’t usually this dressy on a Wednesday night at the tavern. Plus, she was laughing and making small talk, just as if nothing was going on. So, obviously, something was going on. Their server brought their drinks and asked whether they were ready to order. He was about to say yes—but Sandra asked for a few minutes. Okay, now he knew something was up. Obviously, neither of them needed to look at a Rose and Feather menu. “Mark,” she began, “I have something I want to ask you, before we eat. And I just ….” She trailed off and sat in silence, apparently searching for words. Finally she exclaimed, “Well, damn it! I thought that if I did this here, in my own tavern, I would feel calm and confident. I thought that if I was wearing something that makes me feel good, it would be easier. But now, none of that’s helping! “But comfortable or not, here we go: Mark, will you marry me?” Mark blinked. He didn’t usually doubt his short-term memory, but did she actually just say the words that seemed to be echoing around in there? “I know,” she continued, “I know you asked me, not that long ago, and I said no. I said no, mostly because I thought that being married would mean that I had to be someone I’m not: a pastor’s wife. And there were two things wrong with my thinking there. First of all, you wouldn’t ask me to be anyone I’m not. I know that. And second of all, I do care about your people, about your congregation, so even though I’m not a Christian, it turns out that I can be a pretty good pastor’s wife, in my own Wiccan way.” Only now did it begin to sink in for Mark: she actually wanted to marry him! “And speaking of my Wiccan way,” she went on, “I like rituals and ceremonies. So now I think we should have one where we bind our lives together in front of all our friends. Which is to say that I want to get married. Unless … that is, you haven’t asked me to marry you, recently. And, Mark, if you’ve changed your mind, that’s okay. Because I love you, married or unmarried, no matter what. I thought maybe you were just giving me some space, but, you know, if you don’t want to, any more—” “Stop,” Mark interrupted. “You were doing so well, right up to there. I haven’t asked, recently, because I didn’t want to be a pest. And then after I got all banged up, I guess maybe I didn’t want you to marry me out of pity, or a sense of obligation, or something.” He shook his head. “Or maybe I just felt too pathetic to be, you know, an attractive prospect for marriage. But of course I haven’t changed my mind! And I think I can be a pretty good tavern-keeper’s husband. “So, yes. I will marry you. Thanks for asking.” He leaned across the table and kissed her, thinking, How did I get so lucky? But then, inexplicably, she pulled back and took his face between her hands.

Tales of Corwin

Chapter Twenty: Thanks for Asking

“Okay then,” said Timi. She took a deep breath. “Well. According to my vision, there’s a way—a way for you to do the work you love, and stay in Corwin, and help to heal the world. And all we have to do is figure out what it is.” John laughed. “That Goddess didn’t give you the business plan?” “Nope. So, I guess we just have to work backwards. Picture yourself making a presentation to those people at Rogers Markham. You’re proposing a project that involves you setting up a lab in Corwin. What are you telling them?” “Well, if you put it that way, I do have something with me that they would really be interested in. I have my work on the super-strep pathogen. And I think I’ve isolated the antimicrobial agent in the sulfur shelf.” “Would they pay a lot, for something like that?” “Well … they’d be interested, but maybe not hugely interested. The world really needs new antimicrobials, but the sad truth is that there isn’t a whole lot of money for pharmaceutical companies in that kind of thing. It’s a kind of drug people take briefly, and very occasionally—you know: you get sick, you take it for a week, you get better, you stop taking it. Big pharma is, understandably, more interested in things they can sell more of, and at higher prices. “Still, if we have the only known effective antimicrobial against a rapidly spreading new strain of strep, they’d be very interested. And I could give them a huge head start. Usually, they fund research programs that search for new drugs. With what I have, it’d be like offering them the needle instead of the haystack.” “I think you could at least hint that you have more to offer, too,” said Timi. “I was talking this over with Mom and Grandmother last night. They suggested that they have some remedies you might like to do some research on. Mom says, for instance, that she has something for erectile dysfunction that works better than Viagra.” John’s eyes opened wider. “Now you’re talking!” he said. “Antimicrobials are something the world really needs, but a next-gen ED treatment? That would definitely get the investors’ attention.” “Speaking of,” said Timi, “Grandmother also told me to tell you that we have plenty of capital, if you need some start-up funds for your lab, or like that. She says, if you’re planning to create a business, don’t sell it all to strangers before you’ve offered shares to us in the Circle.” John laughed in surprise, but then grew more serious. “But really,” he said, “that brings up a concern. I’m proud of my work on this, but after all, so many people were a part of the sulfur-shelf remedy. Mark and his tree; our squirrel friends; Lois brewing her Winter Noodle Mushroom; Sandra having it tested on herself. It doesn’t feel right that I should profit from it alone.” “Well,” Timi said reasonably, “we can talk about that with everybody, when we get back to Corwin. But for now, let’s just think about putting a proposal together. We’ll be in LA in two days—Sunday morning. Assuming you can set up a meeting in Palo Alto for, say, Monday, what will you say? What will you offer, and what will you ask?” They worked on a proposal all afternoon, while the train lost its race with the sun and darkness fell on the lands around them. They continued to brainstorm about it all through dinner in the dining car. They lingered over wine afterward, moving on to less businesslike topics; Timi kept John entertained with stories he hadn’t heard, or hadn’t heard in full, like the story of Mark’s first flight, when he woke up in a tree with no idea how he’d gotten there. Finally, she said, “John, I don’t want to alarm you or anything. But have you noticed that you’ve been speaking to me comfortably for, like, four hours?” John smiled. “I have, haven’t I? Why haven’t we talked like this before?” “Well, it might be because you’ve been terrified of me.” He blushed and looked down, and grunted his assent. “Good grief, John, don’t go all tongue-tied again!

Chapter Nineteen: The Southwest Chief (Part Two)

And then it was the next afternoon, and Timi was waiting on the platform. And there was John Quick, in his long coat, with a laptop bag in one hand and a carry-on in the other. He paused in the door of the train, at the top of the steps, and took a deep breath. He looked alert, and happy to be home; she took that as a good sign. He saw her, then, and stepped down onto the platform, smiling uncertainly. She wished she could rush up and hug him, but her arms, like his, were full of baggage, so she only smiled and said, “It’s good to see you, John.” “Good to see you too, Timi. Are you, um, getting on here?” “Yes—and so are you, please. There’s no time to explain, but I’ve had a vision, and I’ve made a plan, and I’ve got a ticket for you, and you’ve just got to trust me on this.” “Really? I … I mean, of course, I’ll trust you. I just … where are we going?” “I’ll explain all about it. Just, let’s get on the train now—please?” “Okay, Timi.” He stood aside to let her board first. “Actually, we’ll board down there,” she said, motioning further down the platform. “The train guy explained it to me. Because we have a sleeper.” He froze. How funny—she hadn’t noticed it before, but she could actually see when the fear of being alone with her took hold of him. That was it! Poor guy! “Don’t worry, Doctor,” she said sternly. “Sandra got us a nice room, and there are two bunks. So you don’t even have to touch me—unless, you know, you really want to.” She batted her eyelashes at him, and then laughed. “Come on,” she said bracingly, firmly gesturing toward the sleeper car. “We have a lot to talk about.” She marched forward, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder to see whether he was following. He was, of course. Their sleeping compartment had a recliner, a tiny toilet and shower, a sofa that folded out to make the lower bunk, and a nice window to look out of. Timi guessed there’d be more to look at tomorrow; the snowy farmlands going by at the moment looked all too familiar. On the whole, the sleeper made for a nice, private space—but that was obviously too threatening for John, who clammed up with fright the moment they were alone in it, even with the door open. “Oh, get a grip, John!” Timi exclaimed. “You’re afraid to be alone with me—I get that. It’s even, like, flattering, in a way, now that I think I understand what it is. But just to be sure: when you go all wordless like this, it’s not because you’ve forgotten I’m here? It’s not because you don’t like being with me? It’s not because you find me boring, or unappealing, or kind of pathetic, or anything like that? “No!” said John, aghast. “I think you’re … I think about you a lot, really, and I … it’s just that you’re so … so perfectly …” “Sweet Lady!” Timi laughed, taking pity and cutting him off. “We have so much work to do! Come on, Doctor Quick, let’s go get a table in the lounge car. We’ll get you a glass of wine, and you won’t have to be alone with me, and I’ll tell you why I’ve hijacked you.” They sat across from each other at a table in the lounge car, and Timi told John all that he had missed over the last ten days. He already knew about Sandra’s sickness, and about the squirrels, and about the sulfur shelf, of course; but he didn’t know about Mark’s healing, or about their Imbolc Circle. And he didn’t know anything about Brigit’s Hearth. “Mark still thinks it might be Saint Brigid—or says he does. But you can’t blame him for clinging to that. He seems so much a part of the Circle now, that you forget, sometimes, how different his tradition is, and how recent all this is for him. Anyway, when he immersed himself in the pool, the Lady of the Hearth healed him completely. Not a bruise left on him anywhere, Sandra says. And you should have seen him before! “Then we had our Imbolc Circle down there, just last night. We asked the Lady if there was anything we could do to help her, and then right away I felt this vision pressing on...

Chapter Nineteen: The Southwest Chief (Part One)

She drew a breath, and everyone was silent, suddenly aware of the significance of what they were about to do. “Barefoot, if you please,” she said. They all took off shoes and socks. Sandra and Mark led the way to the basement stairs, and the Rose Feather Circle followed, quiet as mice. Down into the darkness they padded. They didn’t turn on the basement lights; Sandra had placed candles at intervals along the passage. The massive stone, the high ceilings, the still air, the gentle candlelight, the whisper of echoes—it didn’t seem gloomy, but it seemed, somehow, otherworldly. And ancient. Mark wondered just how old it was. The house dated to the late eighteen hundreds, he knew. But what had been on the site, before the house was built? When they reached the door to the chamber, Mark was surprised to see it standing open. He and Sandra stopped there, with the Circle behind them. “Did you leave the door open?” he asked softly. Sandra shook her head. “It’s a welcome, then,” Mark suggested. She nodded. Then she drew herself up and said in a clear voice, “Lady Brigit, the Rose Feather Circle have come to celebrate with you at Imbolc, as in ancient times. We thank you for your presence, and for your welcome.” She went into the chamber, and Mark followed. Behind them, one by one, the members of the Circle passed through the door. The waters of the pool were still and steaming, and the walls flickered as with firelight. Everyone was looking around the chamber in wonder. Lois seemed to know where north was—or at least, she took up her position confidently, between the pool and the left-hand wall—and the others followed her lead, forming their circle around the pool. Mark felt a shiver of awe, as he stepped into his place beside Lois. A queer vibration rose, pressing on his ears with many harmonics—Mark turned his head to listen, but it seemed to be coming from everywhere, uniformly. He felt as if he were inside one of the pipes of a vast organ, just coaxing out its softest sound. The vibration died away, and Mark waited, expecting Lois to begin the casting of the Circle by invoking the spirits of the earth, as she always had done. But she remained silent, her eyes closed. She seemed to be savoring the humid air with each slow breath. Finally, she spoke. “Merry meet, my friends,” she said. “We are guests in this sacred space, and in the Circle of the Lady. I feel her power and her welcome all around us. Therefore, I think we should not call the corners and cast the Circle in our usual way; to do so would be to ignore the fact that we are in the midst of a great working, already begun.” “Yes, Lady Lois,” said Sandra, “I feel that too. And I would also say, the great magic of this place does not feel at all solemn to me. It makes me feel like dancing. This healing well is a well of joy. So: even though we are so little, and the magic here is so big, let’s not let our spirits be dampened! Mark, I hear that you have a song for the Lady. I think this would be a good time to share it with her, and with all of us.” “Yes,” said Mark—but he felt suddenly embarrassed and reluctant. He’d been feeling grateful, shortly after his healing, and he’d written some words to the tune of “A-Rovin'"—an old sea shanty. The song had a lot of Brigit’s interests in it: music, and poetry, and fire, and healing, and a bit about flying with a broken wing. And it left the question of her name open, whether saint or goddess. He’d been pleased with it when he’d written it. But now, seemed too lighthearted to do in the presence of a goddess-or-whatever. “But I don’t know,” he stammered, “I mean, it’s just a little—it’s not really fitting for such a—it’s not really profound or anything, and—” But Lois insisted, rather sternly. “Don’t be foolish, Mark,” she admonished him. “Remember how the Lady spoke to you. Nothing of your own making will be unacceptable to her—you should know that!” Mark assented with a bow. At his signal,

Chapter Eighteen: Imbolc (Part Two)

Mark and Sandra had so many other things on their minds that they were both surprised when they discovered a pressing commitment on the calendar: the Wiccan festival of Imbolc was only a few days away, and before that, they had a class to prepare. Their Wheel of the Year class for Imbolc had already been scheduled and advertised for the last day of January. For several days their kitchen table at home became their joint workspace, as they spent their free hours planning the class—together if their schedules permitted, separately if necessary. The weather cooperated, for once, and the evening of the class was clear and calm (though bitterly cold). They had a good turn-out at the church. They lit candles in the Fellowship Hall, and Sandra opened by talking about the ritual use of candles in her tradition: how they generally began rituals with a lighting of candles and closed them by extinguishing the flames. (“Christians do just the same,” she had said to Mark while they were planning. “They’ll see the connection, don’t you think?”) Mark then spoke about Candlemas, an important Christian celebration corresponding to Imbolc. The Corwin Congregational Church didn’t celebrate Candlemas, so the whole concept was new to many in the audience. Mark taught about the Candlemas ritual of blessing the year’s candles for the church, as practiced in many other branches of Christianity, in town and around the world. “Do Wiccans bless all their candles for the year at Imbolc?” he asked Sandra. She didn’t do so, she said, but she blessed and anointed candles for various purposes throughout the year. The other Christian celebration at this point in the Wheel of the Year was Saint Brigid’s Day. Mark told about some of the legends of Saint Brigid, one of the three great patron saints of Ireland, emphasizing her generosity and her healing miracles. She was said to be the founder of the double monastery at Kildare. Mark showed people a Brigid’s Cross—a little cross woven of green rushes, with four equal arms—and he told one of the legends of how St. Brigid had come to weave the first such cross. Then he said, “Now, that’s a sweet story, but I suspect that they were weaving these crosses in Ireland, long before the time of Saint Brigid, and indeed before Christianity ever came there. Sandra?” “Thank you, Mark,” said Sandra. “See, folks: Mark and I can agree—that makes twice this week.” There was a laugh. “Now,” she continued, “let me tell you some of the ancient customs that involve Brigit’s Cross—customs that I think go back to the days long before the Christian religion came to Ireland.” In Sandra’s hands, the story of Saint Brigid became the story of the goddess Brigit, and the rush-woven cross became a symbol, not of the cross of Christ, but of the sun, and of the quartering of the year. Sandra tried, as always, to emphasize the rhythms of nature. Imbolc was a cross-quarter day: roughly half way between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. That made it a natural time to start thinking about the spring season to come. The first signs of spring were, perhaps, a bit hard to read at the start of February in Illinois; they would have been more obvious to the ancient Germanic and Celtic peoples of Europe, with whom many Imbolc customs originated. For them, it was lambing season. Herd animals that conceived in the fall would give birth now, and the time of planting was not far off. And there was a critical question on many people’s minds: will our stores of food and fodder and firewood last the winter out? Will winter be long or short? That, of course, led neatly into a discussion of Groundhog Day. At the first mention of that name, Mark triggered a little clip from the movie: That’s right, woodchuck chuckers … it’s Groundhog Day! “Hey, can you guys sing ‘I’ve Got You, Babe?’” called someone from the audience—Terri, of course. “Sorry, no, we didn’t think of that,” said Mark. “Well, you should learn it!”

Chapter Eighteen: Imbolc (Part One)

Upstairs, she roused Mark from his recliner. “Mark,” she said. “Mark Lucifer! I need you in the basement. Something strange is going on down there.” Mark’s eyes popped open. Her tone of voice must have told him something serious was afoot. “Just a minute,” he said. It took more than a minute, of course; Mark was unable to do anything quickly these days. He pushed aside the blanket and worked his way out of the chair and onto his feet. Sandra helped him into a zip-up fleece jacket—he never tried to pull anything on over his head these days—and he stepped into his slippers. Finally ready, he followed her down to the basement. “Okay,” he said, “What’s going on?” “Well: I was just tending to my flame, and thinking along, and I had a visit from my spirit friend. She led me to a strange place in the basement, a place I never knew was here. I hope it’s still there, or you’ll think I’m crazy.” She led him back to the place. The door was still there, thanks be. “There!” she said. “Has that door always been here?” Mark went up to it, and reached out slowly to touch it. “No!” he said. “I’ve known every inch of this basement since I was a boy. I’d swear this door wasn’t here before.” “So,” Sandra began, “here’s what happened. I was thinking about your injuries, wishing I could do something for you, and, like I said, I had an encounter with my fox-friend. She told me that for healing, and creativity, and a fire on our hearth, it was Brigit’s help we needed. And she told me that we were lucky to have a home of Brigit right here. And she led me to this door.” “Brigid?” asked Mark. “Brigid of Ireland?” “Yes.” “Saint Brigid? One of the three patron saints of Ireland?” “Um … no, not exactly,” said Sandra. “I was thinking more of the old Irish goddess Brigit. I don’t really know what my fox-friend meant, but I doubt she was talking about a Christian saint! But we can talk about that later. Go ahead—open the door. I’ve already been inside. It’s … well, you’ll see.” Mark lifted the latch and pulled open the door. That same warm, humid air rolled out to meet them, and the same flickering firelight. Sandra breathed a sigh of relief, glad that Mark could see what she saw. “Um … I went in barefoot, and I think that would be best,” said Sandra. “Here, let me help.” Mark kicked off his slippers, and she bent down to help him; socks were especially annoying for Mark these days, because he couldn’t easily reach them. Once barefoot, Mark bent cautiously down and passed through the door. Inside, he slowly straightened, and stood transfixed. “Gramma said that the house holds many secrets,” he said softly. “Damn! I guess she knew what she was talking about. This … this pool, now. What makes that current? And what keeps it hot? There are no hot springs anywhere near here, as far as I know. And what makes that flickering light?” He moved to touch the walls, lost in thought. “All interesting questions,” said Sandra, “but I don’t think that asking, ‘How does this work?’ is quite the right thing at the moment, you know. This place is a gift to you, or to us, meant for your healing. You should take off your clothes.” “What?!” said Mark. “Take off your clothes. The pool is for your healing, I’m sure of it. I was wishing for your healing, and the house offered this, and my fox spirit led me to it. And Brigit is a goddess of healing, and of fire, and of healing wells. It’s perfectly clear to me, you’re supposed to bathe in the water.” Mark looked at her skeptically, then went to examine the pool again. “Huh,” he said at last. “You know, this makes me think of the pool of Bethesda—do you know that story?” “No,” said Sandra. “What pool is that?” “It’s from the New Testament. Early in the Gospel of John, there’s this story that takes place by a healing pool in Jerusalem called the Pool of Bethesda. Apparently, the waters of this pool were sometimes mysteriously stirred up, as if by unseen hands,

Chapter Seventeen: Brigit’s Hearth (Part Two)

By the next morning, Sandra’s fever was gone, and she was feeling reasonably well—still a little shaky, but not in any need of help to go up and down stairs. Mark was another matter. He had slept fitfully: quite a lot, with the help of Lois’ concoctions, but always waking in pain and having to struggle just to get out of bed. When, at nine o’clock, he struggled out of bed once again, the day just got worse. He was trying to be grateful for his blessings, but reality kept intervening. First, predictably, every breath hurt, and every cough hurt a lot; sneezing was unbearable. Second, surprisingly, his house was full of strangers. Apparently, a number of neighboring families had availed themselves of his hospitality overnight. He first discovered this when he met old Mrs. Teep, who was coming out of his second-floor bathroom; she couldn’t get over having ridden on a snowmobile, at her time of life, and ominously she thanked him on behalf of “all of us.” When Mark got downstairs, he discovered that “all of us” included the Millers, the Coxes, Dan and Toni Lacerte, and a variety of other neighbors he could only vaguely identify, including a number of children who were watching “Frozen” on his TV. And, yes, he had invited them all to take shelter in his house at need; and, yes, he would, under other circumstances, be glad to know they had taken him at his word. But at the moment, it was a strain to appear cheerful and welcoming. He felt like hell, and he wished he could send them all to the devil. Then there was the hospital. The storm had blown itself out overnight, and his friends had cleared the driveway and the walks. As soon as they found that the roads were navigable as far as the hospital, they took him there. The visit took hours, and as far as he could tell it did him no good at all. The hospital had a generator, but in spite of that it was inexplicably cold. It was also noticeably understaffed. Eventually, they X-rayed his chest, and the ER physician pulled a very long face over his condition. “If you’d come twenty-four hours ago, I’d have ordered more imaging, and I might have admitted you for observation. Two broken ribs are clear on the X-rays, and you might have had more internal injuries. But since, by the grace of God, you’ve made it through twenty-four hours without any other symptoms, and your blood work is normal, we’ll let you recuperate at home.” The doctor told him he would probably have pain from the injury for at least six or eight weeks—six or eight weeks!—and gave him strict instructions to do nothing but rest, and to see his own doctor as soon as possible. He was most of the way home before he realized that the prescription the doctor had given him was useless until the pharmacy reopened—and who knew when that would be? He hoped Lois had more of whatever she had been giving him for the pain. And he hoped it wasn’t habit-forming. Back home, at least there was one piece of good news: the power had been restored, and the neighborhood guests had all departed—all except for Lois, Eunice, and Timi, who were actually welcome. Sandra set him up in the recliner in the living room, and they dosed him and fed him and pampered him until he slept again. The story Lois had told his neighbors was that he’d been out on an errand of mercy on foot, in the early hours of the storm, and had been hit by a car. Lynn Gertzig, the Moderator of the church, heard some version of the story and called the house that afternoon. Mark was zonked out in the recliner when she called, but Sandra handled it for him; she told Lynn about Mark’s broken ribs, made him sound very pitiful, said he didn’t remember much about the hit-and-run accident, and relayed some entirely fictitious doctor’s orders for two weeks of strict bed rest. Lynn said she’d take care of it. Mark protested when Sandra told him what she’d done. “Damn it, I don’t need to use sick days for this! I can still write; I can still talk.

Chapter Seventeen: Brigit’s Hearth (Part One)

Sandra woke from a deep sleep and realized that she was drenched in sweat. Her PJs, her sheets, her pillow, all soaked. Even her hair seemed to be wet. Yuck. She sat up and flung the soggy covers off of herself. She felt light-headed, and weak as a kitten, but not quite so miserable as she had been, thank the Goddess. There was daylight in the room. The clock said three—but three o’clock of what day? And where was Mark? “Hello, Sandra,” said Lois McCutcheon from a chair in the corner. “Don’t stand up yet, child; let me have a look at you.” Lois set down her knitting and came over to the bed. “Ah, I can see that your fever has broken. Blessing on the squirrels, and may their fur never fall out!” “Sorry?” said Sandra. What did squirrels have to do with anything? “You’ve missed rather a lot, my dear. I’ll explain everything; but let’s take your temperature.” Lois popped the thermometer into Sandra’s mouth. “Ninety-nine five,” she announced. “So much better—but not quite back to normal. Try standing.” Lois held her arm, and Sandra rose unsteadily to her feet. “I’m okay,” she said—or tried to say: it came out as something between a whisper and a sizzle. “I need the bathroom—and a shower.” “We-e-ll,” said Lois, considering. “Very well, then. I’ll help you on the stairs.” When Sandra came out of the shower, she felt much better. She also felt completely exhausted. The face that looked back at her from the mirror was shockingly pale and unwell, with red-rimmed eyes and chapped lips. Lois had brought her fresh pajamas, and she got herself into them and wrapped a towel around her wet head. But that was about all she could manage. She hesitated, her legs trembling, at the bottom of the stairs. She began, “I’m sorry, Lois, I don’t think I can”— but just then Eunice came up behind her. “Allow me, please,” said Eunice, and Sandra felt herself scooped up into the strong woman’s arms. “You look much better, sister,” said Eunice, “but not quite all better. Let’s get you back to bed.” Eunice climbed smoothly up the stairs with Sandra in her arms, set her down on fresh sheets, and propped her up on a couple of fresh pillows. “Thank you,” whispered Sandra. Timi came into the room as well, carrying a tray. “Sandra! Oh, I’m so glad to see you awake!” She came over to the bed and took Sandra’s hand. “Are you feeling better, then?” “Well—I feel much better,” said Sandra, her voice still sandpaper-rough, “but not particularly good. Your mother just had to carry me up the stairs.” “Well, it’s only been, what, about six hours since your first dose,” said Timi. “First dose of what?” asked Sandra. “What’s going on? And where’s Mark?” “First dose of this,” said Lois, taking a mug from the tray and handing it to Sandra, “and here’s your second dose. And I’ll catch you up on all that has happened, while you take this medicine, and drink some more water, and rest.” Sandra tentatively sipped the concoction in the mug. She was expecting some kind of vile-tasting medicine, but it turned out to be noodle soup, warm but not hot. It was more like food than like medicine, and quite good. She swallowed some more. How nice to be able to swallow without so much pain! “Now: do you remember our Healing Circle?” asked Lois. “Vaguely,” said Sandra. “When was that?” “Yesterday, Thursday, around sunset. Your fever was a hundred and three when we started it. The Circle didn’t seem to help you, and we were very worried. But your friends the squirrels came out, and Pythagoras spent quite a while conversing with them after the circle. Everyone had gone home, or to the tavern, before the storm got too bad—everyone except Pythagoras, and Eunice and Timi, and me. When he was able to speak to us again, Pythagoras told us what the squirrels had told him: the sulfur shelf from Mark’s tree was the right medicine, they said. “Unfortunately, by the time we heard that, the storm had closed in around us,

Chapter Sixteen: Storm Tossed (Part Two)

Mark put on all the winter gear he had, with an empty backpack underneath his coat. He went out the back door, closed it firmly behind him, and walked down the back steps onto the screened porch. The wind was roaring around the house, and a fine mist of snow was sifting in through the screens. He had admired the grandeur of the gale at other times; now, thinking of himself up in that vastly powerful air, it seemed not admirable but merely terrifying. What could he do up there, but get himself dashed to pieces? He went first down into the basement. He didn’t have any ski goggles, like Vicente had for snowmobiling, but he had some safety glasses down there, and he put them on underneath his ski mask. The mask pressed the glasses uncomfortably against his face, but it would have to do. Then he walked on back to Sandra’s basement room. Her spirit lamp was there, still burning on her altar table; the thought that her life’s measure might be no more than the measure of oil left in the lamp made him close his eyes in dread. Daisy, dear, he thought desperately. Can you help me? Of course, Mark Lucifer. Only tell me what you need, came the reply. Mark opened his eyes, and there was Daisy, calmly regarding him by the light of the lamp. I need to get to the McCutcheon farm, quickly. We’re out of safer options—flying seems the only way. But I’m afraid. I don’t know how to fly in such a storm. You can do this, responded the duck. And you will do still greater things than this. If you get lost, look for me, and I will lead you. She spread her luminous wings and beat them slowly, rising into the air to look Mark in the eye. Do not be afraid, she said. Then, with a bright pulse of light, she vanished. One feather drifted down from where she had been. Mark caught it wonderingly. After a moment, he opened his jacket and tucked the feather into his shirt pocket. Back out on the porch, the wind pressed on all the screens, shaking them like an invading host. When Mark stepped outside, he was quickly up to his knees in the snow. He turned to face away from the wind. He felt clumsy and weak; he could barely walk through these drifts, in these boots, in all this gear. The grey morning light revealed snow spilling through the air all around him in vast, twisting sheets; there was some visibility—more than last night, anyway—and he could see maybe fifty yards. But flying seemed impossibly far-fetched. Yet Sandra needed him to do it. And Daisy said it was possible. He considered the problem. He’d have to stay low, so as not to lose sight of landmarks on the ground. He’d be visible in the air, of course, but after all: who’d be out in a storm like this? Only a fool such as himself, obviously. He was probably safe from discovery. And safe or not, it had to be done. He’d follow Amber street, turn left at Central, and then right onto Old 31, and then follow that north out of town. None of the roads would be plowed, but surely he’d be able to tell where they were from the air. The McCutcheon farm was about two miles north of town; it should stand out from the air because of the thickly wooded margins that protected it from the neighboring farmlands. Right. He put his hand over his shirt pocket where the feather was. Help is on the way, true love, he thought. Then he turned to face the wind, spread his arms, and tentatively rose up into the air, making the earth go down by about fifteen feet or so. Immediately, the wind threw him back. He tumbled, lost his sense of direction, whipped through the branches of a bush, and hit the ground, getting a face full of snow. Damn it! It should have been obvious: tentative flying wasn’t going to cut it, not in this storm. He pulled himself to his feet, fueled by anger, and threw himself back into the air, his arms in a swept-back position, hands low by his waist.   Timi couldn’t wait peacefully, as her mother and grandmother seemed to be able to do.

Chapter Sixteen: Storm Tossed

Mark stepped out of his front door the next morning and was immediately aware of the threat. There was some kind of odd reversal going on: it was harder to breathe outdoors than in, more claustrophobic under the sky than inside the house. He found that it took an effort even to lift his eyes to the heavens, where heavy-looking masses of grey cloud, pressing down low in the sky, seemed to weigh on his gaze. It was the sort of day that makes any sensible animal decide to remain in its den. But although the official forecast was dire, and the supermarket forecasts even more so, and although the news from neighboring states showed the power of the winter storm now bearing down on them, still everyone agreed that it wouldn’t hit until tomorrow, probably tomorrow night. Mark hunkered down in his jacket and headed over to the church, thinking with a pang of his warm bed, and the warm woman he had left sleeping there. Inside the church, Mark could ignore the skies and breathe normally again. It was a good day for working indoors. There was no shortage of things to be done: an annual report for the denomination, and an essay for the monthly newsletter, and a sermon, and a new hymn that wanted to be written. There were, for a change, few interruptions. Perhaps the ominous weather was keeping people from venturing out. But whatever the reason, on this day, Mark was glad of the solitude. That evening, Sandra was scheduled to close at the tavern, so Mark decided to work late himself. He drove through McDonald’s for dinner—a little indulgence that he knew Sandra wouldn’t want to share with him. He took the food back to the church and reworked the first draft of his sermon. By nine o’clock, he thought the second draft was in good shape, so he went up the back stairs to the empty sanctuary and sat there for a while. He didn’t feel like talking, and no prayer came to his lips. He just wanted to spend some time there, sharing a companionable silence. Eventually, with a murmured thanks, he left the sanctuary, closed up the office, and headed home, planning to end his solitary day by settling down with a cup of cocoa and a book, waiting for Sandra to come home. When he got there, however, he saw that Sandra’s car was already in the garage. Huh—he was sure she had told him she was closing. But inside, he found her on the sofa, and one look told him why she was home early. She was sick. “My dear!” he said. “What’s wrong?” “I feel terrible,” she said in a raspy voice. “Fever, chills, achy all over. And my throat’s sore.” “Oh, poor thing … I was working late, because I thought you were working late. But I’d have been here to coddle you, if I’d known.” “Just as well you didn’t know, then,” she said, with a pained smile. “When did this come on?” Mark asked her. “I think I was already getting sick this morning. But the sore throat got me after lunch, and I couldn’t ignore it, so I came home.” Mark saw that she was shivering, in spite the blanket she was huddled under. She looked miserable, and his heart went out to her. “Let’s get you up to bed, my dear,” he said. He walked her up to the bedroom, got her some medicine and a glass of water to wash it down with, and tucked her in. She endured it all quite meekly—she must, Mark thought, really be feeling terrible. In the morning, she seemed a little better, and Mark went to work, under a sky that looked even heavier than the day before. But when he came home at noon, Sandra was worse again. Her fever had risen to a hundred and three, and her throat looked repulsively painful. Mark called the McCutcheon farm, and Timi called Lois in from the greenhouses to speak to him. “Lois,” he began, “Sandra has the super-strep, I think. She has a fever of a hundred and three. I don’t want to take her to the hospital—they can’t seem to do anything for this anyway—but I don’t want to be alone here caring for her when this storm hits. I’m sorry to ask this of you, but—”

Chapter Fifteen: Fever (Part Two)

Sandra was worried about Mark. He’d told her about Clare Tannerman. There had been a shuttered look about him—no telling what was going on behind his eyes, when they looked like that. Then he’d gone out to clear some snow. Two hours later, he was still at it, out in the bitter cold: snow blowing, shoveling, scraping; driveway, porch, steps, sidewalks. She’d left him to it, thinking that it might be one of those things he found therapeutic. But when, finally, she heard him come in, she went downstairs to find him sitting rigidly at the kitchen table, stripped down to his long underwear and his long-sleeved T-shirt, staring at his hands. His hands and face still looked red with cold, but his T-shirt was soaked with sweat. “Mark,” she said. “Are you okay?” “No,” he sighed. “You’re not blaming yourself about Mrs. Tannerman, are you? You did everything you could for her.” “No, I’m not blaming myself. Not really. If I’d gone there sooner—but who knows? I didn’t do anything wrong. But I’m just so damned depressed. And,” he added, shamefacedly, “I’ve hurt my back.” She thought, Of course you’ve hurt your back, you big idiot! She said, “My poor dear man. Where does it hurt?” She made Mark shower, and change, and dress. It took a while, because he was in considerable pain and moving very tentatively. Then she eased him into her car and took him over to Hecate Holistic Health for a massage. He protested against this, but in vain. “It’ll be fine,” she reassured him. “And I’ll stay with you the whole time.” The massage did wonders for Mark. He was tense on the way in, but once on the massage table, he seemed resigned to whatever fate Eunice had in store for him. She kept the gloves on, and under her skillful hands, his resignation became relaxation, and eventually he simply dozed off. Sandra and Eunice left him under hot stones on the massage table and sat together on the sofa in the next room. “Tell me what happened to Mark,” said Eunice softly. “I loosened him up and adjusted his spine, but there’s more amiss than just shoveling, isn’t there?” Sandra told Eunice about their adventures of the previous day, and about the news Mark had received that morning. “I see,” said Eunice, nodding her head. “That fits. But don’t worry—he’ll bounce back, with your help. He just wants to save everyone, bless him.” Then she continued, more gravely: “But this sounds like the start of the ‘cold deaths’ Timi foresaw, doesn’t it?” “So it seems,” said Sandra. “And four more storms to go,” Eunice continued. “And it’s only just January. But, you know, I don’t feel the least bit oppressed by this hard winter, so far. It’s because I have something new to hope for, I guess.” She smiled. “Maybe Mark could use something to hope for as well?” “Oh, not you, too!” Sandra snapped. “Just leave it alone, will you?!” “What?” said Eunice. “Oh, I see. No, I was just going to suggest planning a vacation together, or something of that nature. I wasn’t advising you to marry him—or to have a child with him.” She laughed. “Now, if you were to ask my advice—but no, I won’t trespass there. I take it that people have been dropping hints?” “You could say that,” said Sandra, venting her annoyance. “It feels like people have been, not so much dropping hints, as launching them at me. And then yesterday, a very sweet crone from Mark’s church came right out and told me that I should marry him—that I should ‘have him,’ she said, as in ‘to have and to hold’ or something. She gave me some annoying observations to go with her advice, too. Annoyingly accurate observations. She’s such a dear lady, I couldn’t be mad at her, but it’s left me a little off balance.” She paused, and sighed, and smiled contritely at Eunice. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, sister,” she said. “Don’t worry about it,” said Eunice. “You’ll let me know if I can help?” “Yes. And thank you for waiting to be asked.” Sandra shook her head. “So: how are you doing?

Chapter Fifteen: Fever (Part One)

Clare Tannerman’s tiny house was cold, and she was sitting in a rocking chair when they checked on her. She was shivering, and her speech was slurred. Her eyes looked feverish, but her skin felt cool—maybe too cool. There were plenty of blankets in the house, but she didn’t seem to be thinking clearly enough to put them on. Mark did it for her, and gave her hot cider to drink, while the lieutenant got on the radio to consult with the EMTs. Eventually, they decided it was too risky to try to get an ambulance out to her, so they bundled her up, carried her out to the Humvee, and took her to the ER that way. Mark left her there, promising to visit as soon as he could. Sandra had an adventure of her own, while Mark was out on that call. Ready for a break from the kitchen, she went out on the snowmobile with Vicente to bring a hot meal to Doris Shaughnessy. Doris was the oldest member of Mark’s church, and one of the most outgoing and friendly. She had struck up a conversation with Sandra the first time Sandra had come to a service there; and later that morning, when Sandra had confessed to the old woman that she wasn’t a Christian, only the briefest moment of disappointment had interrupted Doris’ friendly welcome and nonstop conversation. At the end of a long, wooded drive on the west edge of town, Doris lived in a little Victorian cottage even older than herself. It seemed almost too small for human habitation; Vicente, on the porch, looked like he might not fit through the doorway, and when he stomped the snow off his boots, Sandra imagined the whole structure crumbling under his energetic weight. There was a lot of fussy scrollwork on the outside of the house, and Sandra marveled at it as she climbed through the drift at the bottom of the stairs. “Nibble, nibble, like a mouse! Who’s been nibbling at my house?” she murmured to herself. She was planning to try letting herself in—no need to drag the old woman out of whatever chair or bed she was taking refuge in—but Doris met them at the door. Doris was dressed in an odd assortment of clothes. On her feet were slippers, with thick hunting socks showing above them; a long winter coat bulged on her body, suggesting additional layers beneath; a thick scarf was tied around her neck; and she wore a hat that was comically large for her head, a man’s fur hat with ear flaps pulled down. “I heard your machine, and I wondered if that might be you,” said the old woman. “Do come inside. It’s not warm, I’m afraid, but at least you’ll be out of the wind. Leave your boots here, please. See, I have slippers for guests: help yourself.” Sandra and Vicente followed her instructions, and then passed through a short entry passage and emerged into the kitchen, where Doris greeted them again. “Welcome, Sandra,” she said, reaching out to embrace her; Sandra bent down, and Doris kissed her cheek before turning to greet Vicente. “Welcome, sir—I don’t know you, do I?” Sandra introduced Vicente, and Doris carefully removed her gloves to shake hands with him. She sat them down at her little Formica table, looked around for a moment in confusion, and then sat down herself. “Oh, dear!” she said. “It feels so wrong to have guests, with nothing to offer them. I always have tea and cookies—but not today. There’s no hot tea, and I haven’t been able to bake.” She smiled at them. “But, of course, you know that! Thank you so much for coming to visit me. It hasn’t been that long, really; sometimes I’m alone here all day, you know, and I don’t mind it at all. But without the electric, and without any news, this morning is taking forever to pass! What’s going on out there? Tell me what you know.” Sandra began to unload her backpack. “The snow seems to have stopped,” she said, “but the wind is still blowing it around. We get a little news from the police; they’ve been stopping in to warm up in my tavern, where we have our own generator. Last I heard, power was still off all over town,

Chapter Fourteen: Storm Aid (Part Two)

When the snow started Tuesday afternoon, Mark looked up the forecast. He hadn’t really been paying attention to it; it seemed pointless, somehow, when it was clearly just going to be one winter storm after another. But when he saw that they were forecasting sixteen inches, followed by blizzard conditions and record cold, Mark called the Corwin Police Department and asked to speak to Lieutenant Stedman. “Lieutenant, hi, it’s Mark Collins,” Mark began. “I’m not really sure about this, but I have a hunch—well, it’s more than a hunch, really. Just FYI, in case people need help during the storm, and in case there’s a major power outage?” “Go ahead, Mark. I’m listening.” “The Rose and Feather has a new generator. They’ll be warm, they’ll have power, and they’ll have hot food. Even if they’re not officially open, you can call Sandra, or me, and we’ll help. That goes for anybody on the force, in fact: if they need a snack or some hot coffee, they’re welcome to stop in. Sandra says, no charge for police officers during the storm. Also, my house has a new generator, and we have lots of space here. In case of, you know, bigger emergencies.” “Okay,” said the lieutenant. Mark could hear scratching over the phone; the lieutenant was making notes. “So, you’re expecting an emergency?” “Well, yes,” admitted Mark. “Don’t know exactly when, though. One of those things. You know.” “Shit. Ah, sorry, Pastor.” “Don’t worry about it,” said Mark. “Wish I could give you more details, but I’m giving you everything I have. Stay safe, and call me if there’s anything I can do.” “Thanks. Will do.” The lieutenant hung up. Jeez, Mark thought, don’t people say good-bye anymore? Maybe it’s a cop thing. Then Mark made another call, to the Moderator of the church, to suggest cancelling the Church Council meeting scheduled for that evening. She was agreeable. With so many people sick, it wasn’t clear they’d get a quorum, even if the weather had cooperated.   By the time Sandra got home from the tavern that night, after an early closing, there were already five or six inches of new snow. The snowplows were staying ahead of it, so far, but there were few other vehicles on the road. It was a beautiful snowfall, and after a light supper and a glass of wine, Sandra suggested that they go for a walk in it. The winds were still light, and the temperature was only a bit below freezing. Mark and Sandra walked together in the empty streets of the town. They told each other about their day, and they enjoyed the beauty of the night. Against a streetlight, the snow was making every little breeze visible, and they stopped and looked up at it in admiration, mesmerized by the motion, until their necks began to ache. “Isn’t this beautiful!” Sandra exclaimed. “The way the air moves, I mean. I know the wind is always there, but I’m not usually aware of it, except for the little piece of it that’s blowing on me.” “Yeah,” Mark agreed. “Sometimes, when I’m flying, I feel a kind of oneness with the wind, like I imagine a surfer must feel with the wave, or a dolphin with the currents of the sea.” “Do you ever think about trying some winter flying?” Sandra asked him, as they walked on. “Well, I think about it,” Mark replied, “but when I think about it, it never seems very tempting. Sometimes I watch the winter birds flying—the chickadees and the cardinals, and the finches that come to your feeder—and I wonder how they keep their little fires burning in such weather. But I don’t envy them. I guess I’m more like a bat than a bird. I just feel like hibernating until flying weather comes again in the spring.” A snowplow approached, and they climbed up out of the street and onto a snowbank to let it rumble past. “That driver probably thinks we’re crazy,” said Sandra. “You’re the crazy one,” said Mark, “the one who wanted to walk in the snowstorm. I’m just along to keep an eye on you, and make sure you get home safely.”

Chapter Fourteen: Storm Aid (Part One)

Sunday, the day of New Year’s Eve, attendance at church was way down. There was always a bit of a fall-off after Christmas, but now it seemed to be more noticeable. Mark put it down to the strep throat that was going around. People were probably passing the contagion around in church. Mark tried to encourage people to stay home if they felt ill, but there were always some who were determined to come no matter how sick they felt. Charity came again, this time without her parents, and sat with Sandra during the service. She told Mark confidentially that she was really a “Cubs fan,” but that she liked his service better than the one at First Baptist, and this way her parents would maybe not worry about her so much. Mark thought that was probably only part of the explanation; the kid obviously wanted to spend time with Sandra. And, after all: who could blame her? That week, it seemed like half the town was down with the strep throat. Mark started calling it the super-strep—he’d been thinking of it as “Joni’s disease,” at first, but he didn’t want Joni to hear that. Some people got the super-strep, had a fever, and then got better after a week or two. But for other people, the fever seemed to last and last, regardless of what medication they took. And it wasn’t always the elderly and the infirm who got it the worst. There was an article in the local paper about the super-strep—how attendance at school was way down, and what people should do if they got a sore throat, and how busy the urgent care clinic was. But although everybody was talking about it, nobody seemed really alarmed. Every year it was something, wasn’t it? Remember that flu that went around two years ago—or was it three? The Rose Feather Circle was not so sanguine, however. And John Quick seemed so much more himself after Christmas that Mark and Sandra decided to open up to him about it and see what he might suggest. So, Tuesday morning, they sat John Quick down in their kitchen and poured out all their fears. They told him all they could remember about Joni’s illness in the fall—a strep infection that wouldn’t respond to antibiotics—and how she had recovered only with the help of a healing Circle. They told him all they could remember about Timi’s visions: the seven waves of winter weather, and the “sickness falls” and the “cold death” parts in particular. Sandra told him about the warning she had received from the Lady Corinne. Mark told him about the situation at the Veterans’ Home, and the death he had observed there. And they both described the rising number of people in town who were getting sick with a feverish sore throat, similar to what Joni had had. John listened, motionless, with his fingers steepled. When they had finished, he jumped up. “I left my bag by the door,” he said, and he went quickly to retrieve it. He came back, pulling out a pad and pencil, and proceeded to write some notes. While he wrote, he spoke; Sandra was impressed at how he seemed to be capable of speaking to them about one thing while writing about something else. “As a Wiccan,” he said, “—well, a sort of lapsed Wiccan—I accept, naturally, what you’ve told me about Timi’s divinations, and about Sandra’s communications from beyond the grave. Those things have made you watchful, which is good, but there isn’t enough medical detail in them to be of any immediate use.” Scribble, scribble, scribble. “As a doctor, I’ll tell you: I find what you’ve said about Joni’s illness disquieting. This is, like, every doctor’s nightmare: the possibility of another new, antibiotic-resistant bacterial strain that leaves us with no defense.” Scribble, scribble, scribble. “Of course, it’s just anecdotal, at the moment. It might be nothing new. There are all kinds of well-known things that might account for the length of Joni’s infection. The most common explanation in such cases is that the patient screwed it up: didn’t take the prescribed doses on the right schedule,

Chapter Thirteen: Super-Strep (Part Two)

The following Wednesday night was fine and clear, and the bright moon was just beginning to wane. The Figgy Pudding Singers had a long outing, and they came back to Mark and Sandra’s house having sung themselves hoarse. John Quick had not sung with them, but had stayed behind, brewing something in the kitchen, something that he said would soothe their vocal cords. It was hot, creamy, and delicious, and very soothing—but it also seemed to cause people’s voices to jump up by at least an octave, for a minute or two after each swallow. Naturally, everyone found it hilarious, and nobody rested their voices. Judging from the look on John’s face, that was his plan all along. Mark found some sheet music online for “Christmas Don’t Be Late” by Alvin and the Chipmunks, and printed it out, and he played it at the piano while Otter, Star, and Rick Pearson performed it in their newfound ranges. Charity Jackson laughed so hard she cried. Mark was happy to see that she was feeling comfortable with the group; tonight, as was often the case, she was by far the youngest singer. Mark noticed something else, too, for the first time that night. He was watching John Quick, who, with just the hint of a twinkle in his serious eyes, was ladling out his special brew. John filled a glass for Timi, and there was just something about the way she took it from his hand—a lowering of the eyes, perhaps a faint blush—and Mark thought, O-ho! So that’s how it is.  Several times after that, during the evening, Mark caught Timi watching John with a look of furtive admiration.  I wonder if John knows? he thought. Promptly at nine o’clock, Mark and Sandra drove Charity home, as they had promised her parents they would. On the way, Charity said, “Can I ask you guys a question? How come you don’t, like, fight all the time?” Good grief, Mark thought with alarm, is that what she thinks grown-up couples do? But Sandra realized what she was really asking: “You mean, because I’m not a Christian?” “Yeah, that,” said Charity. “Oh, that,” said Mark. “Well, of course, we disagree sometimes, about this and that. But not about religion, particularly.” He paused as he drove, trying to leave a gap for Sandra to jump in, but she seemed to be letting him field this one. He went on: “Honestly, it just doesn’t seem like that big a deal. It’s like, in our different ways, we’re both interested in the great Mystery that lies at the heart of reality. In my tradition, we call that Mystery God, and we try to live into it by following the Way of Jesus. In Sandra’s tradition, there are different names and different teachings. But we both agree that it would be a mistake to think that any one tradition has all the answers, and no other tradition has any.” Sandra said, “It’s kind of like, he follows the Cardinals, and I follow the Cubs. It gives us lots to talk about, maybe even debate sometimes, but it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, or watch the game together.” “Now, let me ask you a question,” said Mark. “Are you still going to church?” “No, Pastor,” she said in a chastened voice. “Except your Christmas Eve.” “Hey, I was just asking. I’m not the church police. Of course, you’re always welcome in my church. But I hope you know, even more, that you’re always welcome to come talk with us, either one or both of us, whatever spiritual path you choose. If you need someone to talk to. Is it making problems for you at home, not going to church like you used to?” “Well,” she said, “yeah … it’s a little … tense, sometimes. I wish my parents were more … but anyway, they’re pretty cool, really. It’s just a little … tense, like I said. And I hate disappointing them, you know? But I just … I can’t always be who they want me to be.” “Well,” said Mark, “I’ve talked with your parents, and I agree: they’re pretty cool. It can be tough for parents to let go of some of the things they’ve planned for their kids. But I think you’ll come through it okay. They love you,

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Tales of Corwin

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