Fifty-Ninth Beginning: That's the Ticket

No demon walking, lumbering, or flying down the tunnel would have noticed the little red imp as it crouched, rocking in its nook.  For the tunnel was dark, barely lit by the sullen miasmas of hell, and the waste vents, set into one side, dripped a hissing lividity that caused the air to shimmer and quake.  This camouflaged the movements of the imp and covered its chittering.

Aimless was the chittering of the nameless, naked imp as it curled and rocked around its prize.  It had been very daring.  It planned to be more daring still.  In this moment, it gathered its nerve and congratulated itself on its cleverness.  Relaxing somewhat, it held its prize before it, still hunched and rocking, and crooned to it with the voice of a howler monkey.

The Bloodwishstone was its master's stone and more magic than the imp had ever held.  It could feel the magic seeping into its skinny arms.  The imp's master, a demon of some note by the name of Gargak, neither knew nor cared that this particular imp had a second master, a lesser being barely named with a single syllable:  Sul. Imps crawled through hell, ubiquitous as lice.  Demons wasted little thought on them.

As understanding from the stone seeped into it, the imp stilled and quieted.  It began to know that it was a very lucky imp.  The stone would cooperate.  It began to understand, too, why Gargak did not use the stone.  It smiled.  Sul had little, yet, to distinguish itself from other demons, but he had one thing that the imp could use.  He had formed an inflex, a point of shadow transfer to the mortal realms.  Nothing could actually pass through an inflex, but anything held within it cast a shadow of its essence on the other side.

The Bloodwishstone's shadow would do interesting things among the mortal sheep.  Perhaps interesting enough to gain one small imp a name.  Just now other imps were needed, as colleagues and witnesses.  The red imp left its nook, clutching the stone and its cleverness.

-----

It was difficult, but Laura managed to remember to lock the door when she left the house.  Although it ran counter to her nature, her philosophy, and her usual needs, it was a necessary action while house-sitting.  Laura might have nothing worth either stealing or locking up, but the house, only temporarily her place of shelter, owned a great deal and expected to keep it.  Laura was willing to help it, when she could remember.  It was a nice house.

Laura had a split in her sneakers and a garbage bag in her jeans pocket.  The second was due to the first.  The sneakers would have to be replaced soon, and today that meant can-scrounging.  Laura knew where to go first.

In the center of the fancy development in which the house lived, there was a golf course.  Through the course ran a stream, which fed a series of duck ponds.  Following the stream in either direction out of the development would take her to either undeveloped stream beds or blocky, cement culverts, both used by the development teens for beer drinking.  It was can heaven.  New sneakers were at most a month away, probably half that.

-----

The red imp and its cohorts sidled cautiously through Sul's passages, ready to jump and cower in fawning hopefulness at the least sign of any demon.  It was unlikely, though.  Sul was sleeping, exhausted from haunting dreams in the inflex.  It had successfully caused a medium amount of mischief, some of which had the potential to expand into greater mischief unaided.  It was the way of hell that other demons knew this, and that, in deference, they were unlikely to disturb its rest.  The imps picked lightly through the chilly, dripping phosphorescence of Sul's passages, as nervous and abrupt as flies.

They stopped, hovering, uncertain, when they discovered Sul sleeping beside the inflex.  Soft clicks, squeaks, and strangled moans seeped from them, as sign of their worry, leaking out despite all need for caution.

The red imp, alone, was silent and still.  The power of the Bloodwishstone steadied and led it.  It padded directly to the eye- and mind-bending here-and-notness of the inflex and thrust the stone into it.  The other imps quieted as the stone floated in the center of the inflex, and stared, rapt, as images from the mortal world began to bloom.  By the magic of the stone, understanding shone through the unfolding sight.

-----

Laura cashed the check from the recycling center at the 7-11.  The town was a bedroom community on the interstate.  The development was on one side of the overpass and the rest of the town was mostly ignored on the other.  On the development side were grocery stores, restaurants, and one lone pizzeria, all catering to the upscale and keeping up the landscaping.  A row of professional offices buffered the development from even this well washed mercantilism.

The town on the other side was centered, by chance, about a mile north of the freeway.  It was its fringes, therefore, that touched the divide, placing the bits of the city that the citizens shunted aside closest to the development.  Laura had, therefore, only had to cross the overpass to reach the recycling and scrap yard.  The remainder of her trip, past light industry and a few

hog pens, had been burdened only with the weight of the check.

Normally the 7-11 would not cash third party checks.  But the recycling center was known to be good for it and Laura was well known, if not quite an employee.  She did small, temporary jobs - cleaning or subbing or hauling - that were paid under the table by half of the small stores in town.  So six dollars and thirty-three cents changed hands without even a request to see a driver's license.  Laura balanced the money in her palm, jingling the coins slightly.  

"Five dollars is enough of a take for today.  What do you think?  Should I get a coke or a lottery ticket?"

The turbaned man behind the counter smiled.  "You know you want the ticket.  It's always the ticket with you."  He reached and tore one off of the behind the counter display, not waiting for her answer.  It was the right one, he knew, the one with the worst odds but the best prizes.

Laura chuckled, enjoying his understanding.  She held out her dollar.  "You know me too well.  Nothing I have is ever as wonderful as the next thing that might happen."

"So scratch it and see if you win."

Laura took the quarter from her loot and scratched.  Behind her a junior high aged boy juggled and armload of candy, chips, ice cream, and soda meaningfully, but with no success in catching the clerk's eye.  Both he and Laura watched as the markings on the card were revealed.

$50,000 - - $50 - - WISH.  Laura stopped.  Wish?  Usually it said CHANCE or GO or TV.  Wish?  Laura and the clerk exchanged puzzled glances and shrugs.  The boy pushed in beside her an started unloading onto the counter.

"I've never seen that," said the clerk.  Laura displaced herself down the counter a bit, to make room, and the clerk displaced with her.  The boy brought out money, which hung in the air as Laura continued scratching.

WISH - - $1,000 - - WISH.

"Hey, I won a wish!  That's too cool for words.  What's the prize?"

"I have no idea.  I will check the rules."

"Hey!"  The boy waved his money as the clerk calmly rooted under the counter for a pamphlet.  The boy visibly controlled himself as the clerk read the pamphlet thoroughly.  

"I will phone their number, here.  There is no mention of a wish."  The clerk ducked under the counter and exited the store to use the pay phone."

"Shit.  Doesn't he want my money?"

Laura shrugged absently and looked at the ticket.  "I get a wish," she said.  I wish I had a coke."

-----

Down in hell, a handful of imps sucked in a hiss of breath.  So much potential, for very much potential for harm, and it was starting so poorly.  The Bloodwishstone had manifested as the full, traditional wish triad in the mortal world.  Their hearts had raced at the sight of it, sure of grand success.  And now, so weak a wish!  How much harm could even the Bloodwishstone squeeze from such a weak wish?

-----

There you are, you thieving little . . . !"  The boy beside Laura looked vaguely ill for just a second, then his face flared with resentment.

"What do you mean 'thieving', witch?  You ran off without leaving me anything to eat."

"I ran off to work, you spiteful little piece of garbage, and I left you a casserole in the refrigerator."

"You left garbage in the refrigerator . . . "

"And don't call me a witch, you thief.  Now give me my money."

Things began to deteriorate from there, with violence looming closer, until the clerk leaned in at the door.  "Do not worry, ma'am.  I call the police and they come arrest the thief and give you your money."

Both unhappy customers began to yell their opinions as to the desirability of this action, but the clerk just smiled and nodded and turned back to the phone, shop door closing behind him automatically.

As the objections dwindled to a couple of muttered imprecations, Laura picked the ice cream bars out of the pile and popped them back into the freezer before they could melt.

"He's talking to someone else right now," she said.  "If you're gone before he finishes, he'll have no reason to make another call."

The mother held out her hand, an ultimatum.  The boy threw the money on the counter and stomped off, trailing obscenities.   The woman echoed his obscenities dully as she hung there for a moment, tired and defeated.  Then, with a second wind, she grabbed the money from the counter, jammed it into her pocket, and headed after him.

"I guess it could have been the floor," she muttered as she strode toward round two.

Laura began re-shelving snacks.  The clerk re-entered.  "They say it is a fraud.  There is no such ticket.  I say I tear it from the roll myself, see you scratch.  They say slight of hand, a switch.  I argue.  They argue.  Phooey.  I will get you a new ticket."

"No.  I like this one.  Do you think it's one wish or thr . . ." Laura stopped, her eyes wide.  "Look!"

The clerk read the ticket:

$50,000 - - $50 - - $50

WISH - - $1,000 - - WISH

"It must have been three," he finally said.  "I do not like this."

"But did I make a wish?  I don't remember it."  Laura frowned, but worry was foreign to her and it passed quickly.  "Oh, I put his stuff away.  Except for the coke.  Fountain drinks don't go back very well."

The clerk slid it toward her, an obvious offer.  Laura smiled and drank.  

"Thanks.  You don't know how good this feels."

"You should be careful.  Wishes can be bad things."

"Like in the Monkey's Paw?"

"Monkey's Paw?"

"A story about a magic monkey's paw that granted wishes.  An old couple used it to wish for money and it came immediately - but it was from their son's life insurance.

"Ah, so their son died from the wish.  Yes, that is what I mean.  Wishes can be bad."

"Their next wish was worse.  They wished him alive."

"That is bad?"

"They forgot to wish him healed . . . and he had been buried for three days."

"Ah."

"The last wish sent him back to the grave.  I wonder why it's always three wishes."

The clerk shrugged.

"There's the story of the fisherman and his wife.  They got three wishes too."

"I have heard that one - sausages, sausages on the nose, sausages off the nose."  The clerk smiled, relaxing.  "That one is not so bad.  The lesson is to make small, careful wishes and to watch your tongue."

"And to make the wishes soon, before you forget and wish for something odd.  That will be hard.  I like things that haven't happened yet.  Well, thanks for cashing the check and for the ticket and for the coke.  I needed a caffeine fix.  Bye."

"Be careful."

"I will."

-----

The imps all but vibrated in place.  This was hell for them.  Sul's presence required quiet.  But the ambiguity of the Bloodwishstone's working frayed their nerves and drove them to chatter.  Possibilities span from the first wish.  Rancor danced with reconciliation.  Mayhem brushed by generosity.  The mother and son shared both miserable circumstances and a basic love.  And the wish had been neither theirs nor directly about them.  Therefore the stone could not continue its influence.  There was no telling how things would end.

Beside the inflex, Sul stirred.  The imps froze, then sank down and seeped toward the walls.  Al except one.  Unable to move from his handiwork, the red imp slid between Sul and the flickering images and turned his back on the sleeping demon to gaze into his magic's heart.  It saw, as the others did not, the evil the stone had gathered, had infused into the inflex.  If it could not be siphoned through, what would happen to it?

-----

The split in Laura's sneaker widened on the way back to the house.  When she got there, there was a letter from her sister.  Although purporting to be a civil, helpful letter, it was, instead, an admonishing letter that often reached far past politeness to touch the sarcasm it plainly felt entitled to.

Laura sighed and folded the letter back into its envelope, re-containing it.  For extra protection, she laid it on a table in the entry, near the door, and put the wish ticket on top of it.  The phrase 'bread on the waters' echoed in her head.

'Bread on the waters' was another protection, Laura's personal talisman against the proper animosity of her sister, Cheryl.  'Bread on the waters,' 'lilies of the field' - these phrases, plucked by deliberate study from the bible, could send Cheryl into a spitting, howling rage, when properly applied.  Not that Cheryl yelled.  No, the biting, scattershot attack these words could provoke would be delivered in a strangled whisper, a show of righteous anger held back by propriety.  

How dare Laura quote scripture?  It wasn't Laura who had turned to religion.  She had been the one who had done that in a selfless attempt to guide her wayward sister's ways.  She had been the one who had joined a proper church, run the cleaning committee, held bake sales.  She was the one who called relatives and kept the family Facebook page active, offering her judgment and advice and her help when needed.

How dare Laura quote scripture when she had done none of these things.  How dare she talk about 'obvious new testament themes' as if all a person had to do was read a fool book!  As if Cheryl had the leisure to read, busy as she was.  And if a certain person was responsible enough to have a cell phone like an adult, she wouldn't have to waste time writing letters.

"Bread on the waters," Laura said it out loud. Then she looked down at her shoe.  "Well, you won't last the week at this rate.  Should I wish for new shoes?  No.  Then I might find a dead body with sneakers just my size.

Let's see.  I could wish for cans.  After cleaning up it will take them awhile to build back up.  But I don't want them to build up forever.  How to cover the bases?

Okay, ticket, here it goes.  I want seven days with just as many cans as today, exactly where I collected them today, and after that I want no cans there.  I want it to stay clean after that."

Laura turned the ticket over.  It read:

$50,000 - - $50 - - $50

$1,000 - - $1,000 - - WISH

"Cool,"  Laura said, putting the ticket back on the letter.  She smiled as she turned toward the kitchen.
-----
The red imp hugged itself to contain its rising elation as understanding of the images filled it.  The wish had centered on a location - two locations.  The stone's effect could be focused there, could work unseen to apply the wish and its curse to the best effect.  

The stone hummed as influence after influence formed in the inflex, formed and cast shadows outward.  Drunkenness, argument, rape, defiance, vandalism, and death simmered, occurred, in the air before it.  So many cans to come, each splattered with the blood that would be used to prevent the coming of further cans after the stone had worked its magic for seven glorious days.

Against the walls, the other imps stirred and chittered, impressed into incaution, or so the red imp thought until a hand grabbed his neck and thrust him into the inflex.  Another hand grabbed the stone from the air and brought it crashing into the imp's head.  Sul had awakened.
-----
In a back bedroom of the house, Laura prepared cartoons for mailing.  Three were for fantasy magazines and one was for a mystery magazine.  Laura had a list.  The cartoons would be sent away in sequence down the list until accepted.  Lately, they were all accepted eventually.

This was Laura's health insurance and retirement plan.  Every bit of her cartoon and story money went into savings and mutual funds.  Food came from small gardens and odd jobs.  Clothes came from recycling and from garage sale resales.  Beyond food, clothes, and security, what else did she need?  A house?

Laura was well-known to those who needed house-sitting, in-house baby-sitting, and in-house cleaning.  She also had friends with couches or soft rugs.  And she had learned that begging to use computers after hours could get her locked into offices overnight, where begging for couch space wouldn't.  Laura trusted the world in general too deeply to feel homeless.

Life would be grand if only Cheryl would back off.  Lately all her other relatives were either avoiding her or regaling her with Cheryl's advice or both.  It was sad.  It was obvious to Laura that they'd been bullied into it, smothered with Cheryl's talk until, gasping, they'd taken in some of it as their own:  the cost of a breath of air.

Laura went back to the entry.  She picked up the ticket with one hand and the letter with the other.  She looked at both and considered.  Then she shook her head and began to set them down.  
-----
Floating in both the inflex and the inherent ironies of hell, the red imp span limply and recognized for the first time his name:  Bot.  Enough trouble, finally, to earn a name and most of the trouble seemed to be his.  He would have smiled bitterly if he'd had that much control, but his skull was smashed, leaving him alive, oh yes, in hell, eternally alive, but helpless.

Intimate, now, with the inflex, the imp knew the full danger of his actions.  If the evil the Bloodwishstone had gathered was not shunted through into mortality, it would rebound, would backlash viciously.  The mischief from the coke was not enough.  The mischief from the cans was yet to come.  All depended on the third wish.  The third wish could lessen the danger from the second or it could open the floodgates of hell.

Yet either way, what would happen to him?  What would happen to one small, trapped, paralyzed imp?

Sul was also aware of the buildup of evil but, unlike the imp, he could send his influence through the inflex.  The imp flet him push, an insistent imperative for an immediate, substantial wish, forget the risk.
-----
Laura still held the ticket, thinking.  She loved her sister, even admired her in some ways.  She just couldn't stand her.  And she really didn't understand what drove the woman.  It seemed like that was the key.  If they only understood each other, things would be different.

The letter landed in the wastebasket.  "Okay, ticket.  Listen closely.  I don't want to change my sister and I don't want to change me.  I want us to stay just the way we are.  But within that constraint, I wish we understood each other."

It was the biggest wish that Laura could think of - changing Cheryl's mind.  A reverent moment or two passed before Laura turned the ticket over.

$50,000 - - $50 - - $50

$1,000 - - $1,000 - - $50

"Oh," she said, surprised.  "I won."
-----
Back in Sul's den, even the lichen felt the wrongness coil to unleash.  Bot was all but smothered with it.  Bot alone felt the tendrils of change unwind and reach even as the evil cramped itself tighter in the hanging air.  He was not surprised when Gargak burst, roaring, into the chamber.

Imps fled as demons fought and the canker of the Bloodwishstone festered toward eruption.  Bot saw only a swath of the floor as he hung, turning slowly.  He would be annihilated, he was sure, reduced to a pained awareness caught in the inflex.  And if Gargak won, as he probably would, and decided to unravel his opponent's resource?  What then?

The inflex erupted, flaring outward to join the battle of Sul and Gargak, to joing Sul, to join Gargak, to join much else beyond them.  Bot felt pain, great pain, but he knew it wasn't his.  The pain belonged to Sul, to Gargak, to the inflex, to every living and unliving thing in the chamber and the passages just beyond.  He felt the pain of these things as they melted and ran together while he floated safely in the eye of the wishstorm.
-----
Laura bought her own coke this time at the 7-11.  She handed the money and the ticket to the clerk.  "What do you think of that?"

"I think you have won.  Is this the same ticket?"

"Yep.  I think I figured out what the first wish was.  It was the coke.  And that boy got into trouble."

"That is fine.  The mother brought him by to apologize.  They paid for the coke.  It seems they were up all night yelling and crying and hugging.  The boy will get a paper route to earn snack money.  It will keep him busy after school until his mother comes home.  It is good."

"Good."

"You made other wishes?  What were they?"

"I wished I'd find as many cans as yesterday for seven days and then that there would be no more cans in those places."

"Cans for money, yes?"

"Yes."

The clerk shrugged, not quite understanding.

"It felt like it was going to happen, too.  I was sure of it.  Then I made another wish.  I wished that my sister and I could understand each other."

"What happened?"

"Well, it seemed for a second like it might happen.  Then I was suddenly sick all over the floor.  I spent the next four hours groveling in the bathroom and then poof! the sickness was gone."

The clerk began to laugh.  "Ah, you asked for too much.  I know your sister.  She's been here twice threatening to turn me in to the IRS for giving you money with no taxes.  What you asked for was too much for the poor ticket and it died."

"My sister threatened what?:

"Do not worry.  I asked my bother if she could do it and he said she could, but it would be stupid.  On your end, the little bit you get for the little bit you do, it would be like trying to tax a lemonade stand.  On our end, you're not an employee, you're an independent contractor, like the boy will be when he delivers newspapers.

My brother says let her notify whoever she wants."

"Oh, good," Laura smiled and shook her head.  "You're right, I think.  I asked for too much and it broke.  Oh, well.  It was a nice idea while it lasted.  Tell me, is this ticket good?"

"Let me call in the side codes and see."
-----
Bot shied and danced around the now-living chamber.  The lives of Sul and Gargak and two of the fleeing imps, not to mention the lichen and ooze, had been woven into the inflex, extending its power and the power of the chamber.  Bot himself was healed.  Not just healed but winged as well and larger than before.  He shone with healthy, red vigor.

The paradox of the wish had been too much.  Understanding was a change.  It was not possible to change a person and leave them unchanged.  The backlash of the aborted wish had destroyed the shadow cast through the inflex.  The Bloodwishstone was not unhappy, though.  It radiated contentment and promises from the floor by the chamber entrance.

Bot knew, now, that the stone was happiest when causing grief in hell, which he had helped it to do.  Now he had a name and here was the stone in a powerful new chamber with no master.  It was a deadly trap and he knew it.  He tensed himself to spring, hoping he had enough strength to fly over the stone and out of the chamber.  He did not believe the odds favored him.  The stone's promises were so very sweet.  Bot hoped that the human would suffer as much as he did.
-----
It was such a nice day in the development that Laura decided to go jogging in her new shoes.  "I should have wished for a winning ticket at the start," she thought.  

Fifty-Fourth Beginning: The End of the Stair

End of the Stair

. . . Lethilde felt the cold, polished hallway floor sting against her feet as she ran, panicked, through the shape-filled dark.  She heard the sharp sounds as her feet struck, heard beneath it the ragged sound of her own breathing, the beating of her heart, stumbling and afraid.  She did not waste perception on the sights in the unfamiliar hall, sights she knew by heart and would soon see again.  What Self she had she spent on slowing her feet, smothering the fear - - anything to keep from passing through the door at the end of the hallway, from what would come after . . .

. . . There was a sound above and Lethilde knew she had not been quick enough.  She hurried faster, clutching the remnants of her robes around her, feet flying down the carpeted stair, calves aching with unaccustomed exertion. One hand, seeking balance, brushed along the uneven, sometimes sharp stones of the outer wall. There was no inner wall, only a steep drop.

Lethilde felt her nose beginning to run and wondered if the steps would ever end. Surely she had come down far enough to reach ground level. Coldness twisted in her flesh as she wondered if the stair was spelled. This was a wizard's house. Could the stair be spelled to send strangers traveling round and round forever without moving at all between floors?

She heard an animal's whine and recognized it for a sound from her own throat. Then she saw the archway and hurried through it, terrified at her own imaginings.

Lethilde felt the cold, polished hallway floor sting against her feet as she ran, panicked, through the shape-filled dark. She heard the sharp sounds as her feet struck, heard beneath it the ragged sound of her own breathing, the beating of her heart, stumbling and afraid. She began to notice the pattern again and to hope that, like last time, she would be spared the sight of the thing at the bottom of the stair. A part of her withdrew as she raced along, tensed as her hand closed upon the doorlatch . . .

. . . The footsteps receded and Lethilde released her breath, thankful that whichever servant had passed had needed nothing in this supply alcove. Naked, she fumbled with the robe that she had grabbed, amazed that her hands shook so when she, herself, felt no anxiety. The robe was torn and rumpled and reeked with the fear she could not feel. She fastened it about herself as best she could. She listened carefully. Slowly and calmly she crept out of the alcove and down the carpeted stairs that ran in the tower down the side of the house.

Slowly she began to descend those stairs, listening as she went. Slowly she went and then faster and faster still, as the fear that had hidden, clenched in her bones, uncoiled itself to take her.

There was a sound above and Lethilde knew that she had not been quick enough. She hurried faster, clutching the remnants of her robes around her, feet flying down the carpeted, circular stair, calves aching with unaccustomed exertion. One hand, seeking balance, brushed along the uneven, sometimes sharp stones of the outer wall. There was no inner wall, only a steep drop.

Lethilde felt her nose beginning to run and wondered if the steps would ever end. Surely she had come down far enough to reach ground level.

Lethilde's Self stirred warily. Could the stair be spelled to send strangers traveling round and round forever? The pattern was edging her backward, further from the horror at the bottom of the tower, but that thought was not as comforting as it had been. She heard an animal's whine and recognized it for a sound from her own throat. Then she saw the archway and hurried through it, terrified.

The weight of unformed memory pressed and she shifted beneath it. She felt the cold, polished hallway floor sting against her feet. The memory centered on the stairway and she gave her perception to that. An image formed in the part of her mind that watched rather than ran. It was a symmetrical image - - a perfect helix with hallways at the top and bottom. She heard the sharp sounds as her feet struck, heard beneath it the ragged sound of her own breathing, the beating of her heart, stumbling and afraid. And at the end of the two hallways, two doors.

A panic rose within Lethilde's Self to match that of the self that ran. For if she was moving away from one door, she was moving toward the other . . . and both doors were closed on horror. Deep with herself, Lethilde began to scream. The scream grew to fill her senses, a rattling, grey scream that drowned out all other sound and then all sight, and then, mercifully, all sensation.

------

The blow across her cheek shocked Lethilde's eyes open and stopped her crying as suddenly and unexpectedly as a duck caught in a pond freeze. Her father's face swam into focus as she hiccoughed and sniffed. His expression was disdainful. It was a familiar expression. He handed her a handkerchief and turned pointedly to look out a window as she guiltily mopped her face into presentability.

At the window, her father smoothed his robes and beard and began to explain, with the obviously careful patience he used only when he felt himself to be speaking to one who, despite reasonable expectation, was behaving with the intelligence of a half-witted child. He explained again what he plainly thought would be obvious to all - - that a night, even a fortnight, spent with the son of the Wizard of Hilltower, was more than worth the price that man was willing to pay.

Still gazing out into the streets, he listed, one by one, her reasonable fears and, one by one, discounted them. Lethilde tensed, knowing that her fear was not a thing that could be named and banished, like a milk-sprite. Lethilde relaxed, recognizing this time as a relatively safe one.

Her father would win the argument, of course; had won it. She would be sent to Hilltower in a closed litter carried by two dark men and preceded by another man with a lantern. She turned her attention back to the man at the window. He was saying, matter-of-factly, that it was not as if she were a virgin or as if she were likely to marry, even young as she was, burdened, as she was, with a deformed bastard daughter. There was no trace of sarcasm or censure in his tone as he said this.

Lethilde let her perception waft back to her own actions. These consisted of tormenting a sodden handkerchief with both hands and trying to keep the breath from aching at the back of her throat as she tried, desperately, to construct some argument that would keep her from her fate. This being impossible, Lethilde let her perception wander. She could go through the motions well enough without attending. Her father's voice droned on.

A moment of silence caught her attention. She looked up to see her father looking at her expectantly. The moment extended. An answer was required but neither Lethilde nor her Self had one. It didn't matter. Wouldn't matter, Hadn't mattered.

"Well?" said her father, his hands clasped behind him in a scholar's pose. He considered himself to be a scholar, her father did, though others called him Deyron the Scribe and set him to copying contracts and business messages. He had named all her fears and patiently refuted each. Therefore any fear she still harbored was, by definition, irrational or, worse, willfully wrong-headed.

"Good," said her father, as if she had agreed, and her heart fell within her. "Good," he said, and her heart lightened, remembering that the talking was over. Deyron would construct her no more patient sentences of carefully, slowly chosen words. The was a right word for the expression of every thought, every sentiment, and Deyron, by his own admission, knew them all. He had, so he said, a natural way with words. There was a proper action for every situation. Deyron knew those as well, or could calculate them, given time and quiet.

That Deyron was constantly surrounded with idiots who could not see the proper action for their situation, and therefore acted differently, inconveniently, was Deyron's curse. That these idiot's actions imposed upon the time and quiet he needed to be sure of his own actions was his infuriation.

Lethilde was plainly in the wrong, plainly behaving improperly, and, therefore, plainly infuriating. Being his daughter, she had no excuse. She had had the advantage of his teaching.

Deyron turned, equally satisfied with the outcome and his own generous patience. Lethilde's perception drifted. It was time for supper, which would be eaten in tense silence. There was no point in wasting perception on this. It was not terrifying, but it was not comfortable. Best to think of other things. Everything here had already happened. Everything would happen again, with no help needed from her. Lethilde could not remember the Wizard's son's name. But until she entered his rooms there was nothing that could not be . . .

. . . though expected, the knocking was early. Supper was not yet finished. Deyron was plainly not pleased as he left the table. Lethilde's numbed fingers could neither raise her filled spoon to her lips nor set it back in the bowl. Her mind dulled. She could not decide which of these actions she should seek to accomplish, though it was important that she know. Her Mind cleared. Something had happened. There had been a jump.

Deyron returned, irritated, and began to explain something that Lethilde couldn't hear, hadn't heard, properly. He looked disgusted when the spoon fell from her hand with a splash and clatter. Lethilde saw that her hand hadn't moved . . .

. . . the rocking would have been soothing if her food weren't arguing with her stomach. There were no windows, just slots high up in the box, and those were covered with a fringe of tassels. It was dark and close but at least she was not required to move or speak or be looked upon.

There had been another jump. How was this happening? Was someone . . . she didn't want to think about that. There was a small lurch as the man to the rear of the litter stumbled . . .

. . . Lethilde was walking up a carpeted stair. Although she kept her eyes carefully on the stair, she knew that the old man drawing her along was watching closely, enjoying her. Somehow she had thought that anyone described as somebody's son would be young, but this was not true . . .

. . . "You blush so marvelously," was the sound, and the feel was of the backs of his fingers, loosely curled, stroking against her cheek. There was wine in the cup in her hands; she could smell it. It was stronger than the scent of her fear. She would drink it down to ease things if only her throat would open. Lethilde wondered how she could keep holding the cup. Her hands felt so limp and looked so dead.

The hand lifted and turned, fingers sliding down her neck, slowly, from ear to collar. He said other things. She did not attend, had not attended. Lethilde didn't remember, didn't wish to remember, what came next. Especially not jumping like this. Before there had been time to go as limp and dead as her hands. . . .

. . . The man was angry with her. He was pacing back and forth, punctuating his complaints with sudden sweeps of his arms. Lethilde saw him at the edge of her vision as she sank down into herself. Soon she would be small enough to hide, surrounded by a protective cocoon of unhurt, unfeeling flesh . . .

. . . eighty-three . . . eighty-four . . . eighty-five . . . What was this?

Oh, yes. The tapestry. She had counted the stitches in a white rose . . . eighty-nine . . . Her body must be somewhere. Such cold toes . . . ninety-three . . . It was easier than she expected . . . ninety-five . . . ti ignore it again. Poor body . . . ninety-eight . . . now there were two selves ignoring it . . . one hundred . . . And, counting the body, three selves ignoring him . . . hundred and three . . . Oh, yes, he's angry about that. I can hear him complain . . .

. . . The room comes back from far away. Lethilde is floating about her body. There are two of her floating, but one self cannot see the other, which is lonely. Meaning comes back to the shapes that become him drinking by the fire, his back to them. There must be somewhere else someplace if only she could think about wanting to be there . . .

. . . The footsteps receded and Lethilde released her breath, thankful that whichever servant had passed had needed nothing in this supply alcove. Naked, she fumbled with the robe . . .

. . . There was a sound above and Lethilde knew that she had not been quick enough. She hurried faster, clutching, one hand brushing along the uneven stones of the outer wall, the inner wall only a steep drop . . .

. . . the cold polished hallway floor stinging against her feet, she heard the sharp sounds . . at the end of two hallways: two doors.

Once again her hand closed upon the doorlatch. Once again her shoulder struck the sticking door. Once again it gave way suddenly. Once again she stumbled onto damp stone steps only to slip and fall - fall down and down, down onto symbols drawn in blood on a black glass floor - down into pain and roaring . . .

I KNOW THE REST.

Lethilde gasped at the shock of being reconnected to her body. It felt as if she had been dropped into it, raw and naked and unfamiliar, from a height. She felt her hands on herself, felt the meaninglessness of the robe. She watcher her hands touching - arms, shoulders, face. She felt a panic at not being able to see her face, as if it might be missing if she could not see it. Was this a feeling of past panic that she could jump away from?

No. The panic belonged to this place and time, to this event that she would not be jumping away from. Not seeing her face was just the thought occupying the moment when the panic had returned. It was a normal thing. The panic belonged to the shapes in the center of the room, to the death that she felt swimming in her veins.

YES. HE KILLS YOU. I AVENGE YOU. BEHOLD!

A large, grey shape, difficult to see in the dim room, lifted the limp form of a wizard. If this was the Wizard of Hilltower, he looked much younger than his son. He looked handsome and vital and merely asleep in a strange, lumpy chair. But the chair bent a noseless, mouthless face to the wizard's chest and, as Lethilde watched, the wizard aged.

Had he been dead? Was he dead now? There was no outcry, no moan or movement. Was there pain?

Slowly the wizard wrinkled and withered and began to collapse, as if hollow. Lethilde stepped back, bumping the stone wall behind her. A glance revealed no exit but the circling stairs that lay beyond - - that. She looked back. The wizard was a brittle, folded mass, small enough to hold in two hands . . one hand.

The chair straightened. The wizard was now a handful of crumbling dust, drifting down the chair's - the demon's front. He was certainly dead now. Lethilde was the double circle of symbols that the wizard had used to summon and contain the demon. The inner one was smeared.

YES. YOU FALL. YOU DOOM HIM. HE KILLS YOU. YOU REMEMBER?

"Why? Can't you pull that from my mind, too?" Lethilde's voice was a small, dry croak in the echoing dark.

DISTRESS. APOLOGY. KNOWLEDGE NEEDED. WHERE COME? WHERE DANGER? WHO MASTER?

"You eat master."

NO. EAT WIZARD THAT KILLS MASTER. RELEASE. EAT OTHER. EAT WIZARD SON THAT CHASE YOU DOWN TO DIE.

"No."

MASTER SUMMON. MUST SERVE. COMMAND.

"No. Hush and let me think." Lethilde tried to remember what had happened since the stair. If felt strange to be going through her memories alone, after the demon's rifling. Her mind felt bruised.

The stair seemed the most real thing in her memory. At the top things had happened, unavoidable things, things she didn't want to think about. At the bottom . . . what? She had fallen. She had smudged the wizard's circle. Had she? It seemed so. But how had she smudged only the inner circle? How had she come to be outside the circles and across the room?

Had she walked through that wide, intricate outer circle, the demon would have been released into her world. But the demon was still trapped. She tried again to remember. There was the fall, the landing. With the landing came pain and noise. Slowly the memory came, but it was a vague and dim thing next to the scenes the demon had pulled through her.

In the memory, the demon roared in triumph and hatred and reared above her, terrifying and indistinct. The wizard roared in anger and contempt, handsome eyes icy. As the demon lunged, the wizard turned, his hands flaring. Lethilde had been thrown across the room by the bolt, had felt the death of his spell enter her and curl, larval and waiting. She remembered one other thing as well: looking into a demon's eyes is a mistake.

COMMAND.

"No. Wait. Can you undo the wizard's spell, the one that's killing me?"

NO. RELEASE. EAT OTHER.

"No." The thought of the demon loose in the town was unbearable, the final obscenity of a hideous night. She had not actively cooperated with the other. She would resist this, too.

The demon did not seem troubled. Perhaps, being a demon, he could not be troubled. Perhaps it showed differently. Perhaps . . . Lethilde looked at the blood of the circles. It had been arranged as plump little puddles, puddles that were beginning to dry. Perhaps the demon could cross a circle of dried blood. Perhaps it only needed to wait.

"I release you," Lethilde croaked.

CANNOT. MUST SERVE. ASK.

Lethilde groaned. She was beginning to shiver. She had been unable to forestall her father or the so-named son upstairs. How could she forestall a demon?

"If I ask and you give and I say . . . say . . 'I release you, return from whence you came,' would you have to go?"

There was a shuffling and a smoldering.

YES.

Lethilde sat down to think. Presently: "Does giving information count?"

YES. IF INFORMATION IS SIGNIFICANT.

"What is behind you there?"

THAT IS NOT SIGNIFICANT.

"I know. Just answer."

WIZARD'S WORKBENCH.

"What is on the workbench? List everything and what it does."

Lethilde only half listened to the sorcerous recitation. As she had suspected, most of the information was meaningless to her. The demon's voice boomed brokenly on and on as her insides shifted warmly. The floor was getting colder. It was so hard to feel the words. How was she going to find a way to . .

"What was that?"

WISHES. IN BOTTLE.

"Show me." A dusty bottle, plain as a vinegar bottle, drifted over to bob before her face. Within swam three blue lights, smaller than fireflies. "Explain how the wishes work."

OPEN BOTTLE. MAKE WISH. WISH COMES.

The demon was too pleased with this. There had to be something wrong with it. Something wrong, and thinking was so hard - so very hard to do. Lethilde couldn't feel her hands or her feet. Don't think about that. Think about what would please a demon. Oh, yes. Wishes cause trouble if not wished properly. All the old stories said so. And if she died before she used them all, she could be leaving the demon with a wish.

Lethilde reached drooping fingers toward the bottle, then paused. The wizard hadn't used the wishes.

"Is the bottle spelled?" There was a long pause.

YES.

"What will the bottle do if I open it?"

BREAK.

Oh, yes. But there were breakings and breakings. "Killing me?" There was a longer pause. Above, the voices of the son and servants murmured in an unimportant froth of concern. They had found her gone, evidently, found the open door above. They did not sound like they were coming down.

"Can you open the bottle in such a way that I get the wishes but an not hurt?"

DIFFICULT.

Was the demon arguing. Lethilde could not argue. Could not afford to. She had lost every argument she had ever been part of in her life. Don't think of that. Fingernails were beginning to curl back like drying leaves, lips to droop and drool. Take a breath and concentrate on the words or they won't come out right.

"I command you to open the bottle in such a way that I get the wishes but am not harmed and I command you to be gone to whence you came as soon as this is done."

A roar of demonic rage echoed through the castle. Lethilde heard it flinging itself, panting and growling, against its bonds. Definitely an argument. She had nothing to fight with - had never had anything to fight him with.

"I command." It was foolish to repeat it. Foolish to waste her energy making the words. But there was nothing better to think about and many things to forget.

"I comman'."

The silence as the threefold command took effect was painful to the ears. Lethilde saw the blood of the circles begin to glow and shrink inward. She wondered vaguely what would happen to the demon if it hadn't completed its task by the time the circles shrank to its size. It was a think she was never to learn.

The bottle quickly floated far up over her head, mouth downward, and exploded outward in a tearing pulse of orange light and glass shards. The shards rained and bounced in the dark glass room, pinging gaily, as the floor beneath the demon turned molten, allowing it to dive in and disappear a moment before the circle clenched.

Thoughts came slowly. Over. No. The wishes. The son. Lethilde could imagine him with the wishes. She tried to wish for three glasses of water to use them up, but she could not speak, could no longer sit up. She sprawled sideways as the three small lights floated in a swirl before her eyes.

At least she had banished the demon. Over, now. No more trying. Relax. Ignore this. Think of Ella. Little Ella curled in her basket by the hearth. Little Ella with her club foot. Over.

One of the blue lights expanded, shaped itself into an image of a toddler, curled in a basket. Over. A toddler who could not toddle. Over. No. Not over.

Not over? Tired as she was, Lethilde had a vague feeling that it was not over.

No. I'm tired. Think of Ella. Think of Ella and die quietly. I'm tired.

Think of Ella.

Lethilde thought of Ella and slowly thought of what Ella would look like with two straight legs. She thought of Ella walking . .. and wished.

The light puffed itself out, unraveling into the wish. Lethilde let it go and was glad.

Two more. No. So tired. Think of Ella. Think of Ella living in a town where that up the stairs had two wishes. So tired. A glass of water? No. Think of Ella. Ella with father.

Lethilde thought of a wife for her father, a mother for Ella, and other children for her to play with. She thought of this with a vague sense of financial ease. She wished before the image was clear, hurrying, and the wish raveled away.

So tired. But as the end came there was a sudden sense of desperation, an urgent need to do the last wish properly. Lethilde felt herself wishing without knowing what for, as if the wish were trapped inside her, fighting to get out.

The last light formed an image of Ella. The image grew, changing. Her daughter was growing up without her, would never remember her.

Lethilde wished her last wish as her eyes closed, thinking the words that she could not say, for she could think of no way to form an image of what she wanted.

"I want my daughter to know that I love her, that I'm thinking of her. I want to see her grown and know that she knows that I love her."

Lethilde felt her body drop away, felt herself float upward. She thought of seeing and sight came. Below her something huge spread and ran amid the tatters of an impossibly large, ruined robe. Someone else's problem, now. Within her was an urgency. Examining it, she laughed, though a twinkle is the only laugh a wish can give. Floating, she hurried homeward, not noticing the panic she caused in the hallway.

Some wishes last a long time. She would last until her daughter was grown, embedded in her father's hearth, an unknown source of love and comfort. Everything would be fine, now. No more arguments. Everything would be fine.

----

Deyron looked up from his manuscript when the baby stopped crying, pulling a thick layer of justified satisfaction over the small guilt he felt, smothering it utterly. He blinked to see the small, blue light dancing before the child's eyes.

Good. Lethilde had finally seen her duty and had pleased the wizard's son sufficiently to be rewarded with this small bit of minor magic. Things were working exactly as he had planned, exactly as they ought. Everything would be fine, now. There would be no more arguments. Everything would be fine.