Romeo Blue by Phoebe Stone

with a distant bell clanging somewhere offshore. Seagulls followed me and seemed to dive in and out of the murkiness.
    I first came upon the harbor full of lobster boats and sailboats wrapped in blankets of mist, their masts and sails shrouded in wispiness and clouds. The fog too poured through the narrow streets of Bottlebay. It floated and twisted into cracks and crevices, like white smoke. I wondered if I would ever see clearly the shapes of things as they were forming round me. Everything seemed hidden, as if in a dream.
    The town was quite empty, which gave me a shivery feeling. The lights from the shops and houses glowed a soft yellow in the dampness of the afternoon. I walked up the narrow winding streets to the central part of town and found the library sitting up on a rise, with four large white columns at the front.
    I opened the door and went into the warm, cheerful room, full of library tables, each with a green lamp on a small brass stand. All round the tables were walls ofshelved books. Mr. Henley was sitting at a large oak desk in a corner. He waved. “Flissy McBee,” he whispered. “Good to see you! Thanks for meeting me. Let’s step back into the stacks, where we can talk.” We spotted two tall stools under a large oval window, and after struggling a bit, I found myself perched on the top of one.
    “You have something on your mind, then,” I said.
    “Yes,” said Mr. Henley, reaching in his pocket. Now he had a small red leather box in the palm of his hand. He held it out to me. “Open it,” he said. His face was all tingly with nervousness and excitement.
    I took the box carefully and opened the lid. Inside was a delicate little ring propped up in velvet. The gold band was thin and fragile. The ring had little red rubies and pearls round a miniature portrait of a young woman painted on a tiny dome of porcelain.
    “Doesn’t the woman in the little painting remind you of your beautiful aunt?” said Mr. Henley. He looked pleased and shining, the way postmen often do when they know they have something nice in their mailbag for you.
    “Yes,” I said, “she does.”
    “Do you think Miami will like it?” he said with his eyes all lit up softly, like the lamps on the library tables.
    “I shouldn’t wonder,” I said. “It’s lovely.”
    “It’s an antique,” he said. “It’s from 1750. It’s a family ring. I needed to show it to you. Do you think it makes a good” — he paused — “a good” — he paused again — “a good engagement ring?”

    “Oh!” I said. “Oh my. Oh yes. Uncle Gideon will be terribly pleased. I mean, oops, I mean, Auntie will be pleased, of course. An engagement ring! It’s a smashing good idea. Perfect!”
    “Really? I mean, do you think she’d rather have a more traditional ring? I mean, are you sure?” Mr. Henley looked quite wobbly and ruffled in a cheerful sort of way, tipping about on his tall stool. “Flissy,” he said, “could you by chance find out for me what kind of rings your aunt likes? I mean, how does she feel about antique rings? Can you let me know as soon as possible? Everything shall be on hold until I hear from you.”
    I felt quite fond of Mr. Henley as we left the library. He trusted me and he loved my aunt so very much. “You sent me your new poem and I read it,” I said. “And I thought it was wonderful.”
    “Oh, thank you,” he said. He smiled at me in a happy, wistful way. “You liked it. I’m very glad to hear that. Well then, it doesn’t matter if I never get published as long as my friends read my poems.” Then Mr. Henley headed off down Vine Street. He turned and waved to me in his chipper postman sort of way and the fog seemed to wrap its long, smoky arms all round him and draw him away into the whiteness.

Yes, when you live among a family of intelligence agents, everything is hazy and yet a word or a picture can come up out of that haze in spite of itself and can hang before your eyes at night when you should