disturbed about the events of the night before, and he’s giving you looks that make you think breakfast isn’t the only thing on his mind.
And after breakfast you go up to change out of your pajamas, and Rick follows and keeps you from getting dressed for an hour at least. And somehow you just forget about the night before, the worry and the curiosity vanishing beneath his warm hands and hot mouth. He keeps you on the edge for what seems like forever, until you are trembling with the strain and the sheer need , and then he lets you go, like a magician releasing one of his doves, and you soar and plummet in the white light of his love. You barely hear his soft “Sleep,” but your body obeys, and you drift again into slumber, worry and fear forgotten.
AND THEN one morning the police come to the club, and Rick has to go downtown and bail one of the waitresses out of jail for solicitation. It’s strange, because the waitress is Billie, and she’s the least likely person you know to wander from the straight and narrow like that. Well, excluding Corinna, of course. You offer to come with him, but he just tells you to go on to the grocer’s and replace the dozen eggs you’d used up in the monstrous—but delicious—omelet you’d made for him earlier.
So you do, and it only occurs to you halfway there that it’s the first time you’ve left the club without Rick in—is it six weeks already? The few blocks to the market retrace the same route you’d walked all those weeks ago on your way from Harry’s, but you’re not the same sad sack that came down that pike; you’ve money in your pocket, new clothes on your back, and a song in your heart.
So that when you see the shabbily dressed woman with the toddler in her arms, holding out a battered man’s hat for people to drop coins in and no one dropping coins, you have to stop. The woman isn’t pretty; she has the sad, drawn face of the hopeless, and the child has her own face buried in the woman’s shoulder. She’s thin and wasted under the worn pinafore.
You stop and pull your wallet from your pocket and take a five-dollar bill out and put it in the hat. “Buy the baby something to eat,” you say gently.
The “baby” turns to look at you, and you step back involuntarily. Those round black eyes have no whites, and instead of a nose, there’s a red vertical slash. When the creature grins, it flashes teeth that are sharp with ragged points. “Gotcha,” it says in a growly voice, and puffs a breath in your face. This time the step back is more of a stagger as the world goes fuzzy.
The woman isn’t shabbily dressed anymore; she’s not dressed much at all, just a bloody animal skin draped over her like an apron. She laughs—cackles, really—and drops the “baby,” who scampers off into the woods that have suddenly appeared around you. The woman, her knotted hair exploding from the neat bun she’d worn before, follows, laughing wildly.
The city is gone. You’re standing in a clearing, in the middle of a circle of stones surrounded by wild woods. Above the trees you see mountains. Your heart pounds in your chest and you spin around, blinking. “This can’t be right,” you say aloud, and the fright in your voice makes you all the more scared.
“It isn’t right,” another voice answers. You’ve heard that voice before, but you have to turn around to be sure.
Dion Winyard is sitting in a stone chair, almost a throne, just outside the circle of stones. He’s wearing the same kind of outfit the crazy woman had on: an animal skin draped over one shoulder and wrapped around his waist. A crown of vines circles his head, and a leather wineskin is in his lap. As you stare at him blankly, he takes a swig from it. “It’s not right ,” he repeats, “but it is the way it is. Only here is the way it should be. Out there—it’s all wrong.”
“I don’t understand,” you say blankly. “Where am I? What is this place, and how did I get
And after breakfast you go up to change out of your pajamas, and Rick follows and keeps you from getting dressed for an hour at least. And somehow you just forget about the night before, the worry and the curiosity vanishing beneath his warm hands and hot mouth. He keeps you on the edge for what seems like forever, until you are trembling with the strain and the sheer need , and then he lets you go, like a magician releasing one of his doves, and you soar and plummet in the white light of his love. You barely hear his soft “Sleep,” but your body obeys, and you drift again into slumber, worry and fear forgotten.
AND THEN one morning the police come to the club, and Rick has to go downtown and bail one of the waitresses out of jail for solicitation. It’s strange, because the waitress is Billie, and she’s the least likely person you know to wander from the straight and narrow like that. Well, excluding Corinna, of course. You offer to come with him, but he just tells you to go on to the grocer’s and replace the dozen eggs you’d used up in the monstrous—but delicious—omelet you’d made for him earlier.
So you do, and it only occurs to you halfway there that it’s the first time you’ve left the club without Rick in—is it six weeks already? The few blocks to the market retrace the same route you’d walked all those weeks ago on your way from Harry’s, but you’re not the same sad sack that came down that pike; you’ve money in your pocket, new clothes on your back, and a song in your heart.
So that when you see the shabbily dressed woman with the toddler in her arms, holding out a battered man’s hat for people to drop coins in and no one dropping coins, you have to stop. The woman isn’t pretty; she has the sad, drawn face of the hopeless, and the child has her own face buried in the woman’s shoulder. She’s thin and wasted under the worn pinafore.
You stop and pull your wallet from your pocket and take a five-dollar bill out and put it in the hat. “Buy the baby something to eat,” you say gently.
The “baby” turns to look at you, and you step back involuntarily. Those round black eyes have no whites, and instead of a nose, there’s a red vertical slash. When the creature grins, it flashes teeth that are sharp with ragged points. “Gotcha,” it says in a growly voice, and puffs a breath in your face. This time the step back is more of a stagger as the world goes fuzzy.
The woman isn’t shabbily dressed anymore; she’s not dressed much at all, just a bloody animal skin draped over her like an apron. She laughs—cackles, really—and drops the “baby,” who scampers off into the woods that have suddenly appeared around you. The woman, her knotted hair exploding from the neat bun she’d worn before, follows, laughing wildly.
The city is gone. You’re standing in a clearing, in the middle of a circle of stones surrounded by wild woods. Above the trees you see mountains. Your heart pounds in your chest and you spin around, blinking. “This can’t be right,” you say aloud, and the fright in your voice makes you all the more scared.
“It isn’t right,” another voice answers. You’ve heard that voice before, but you have to turn around to be sure.
Dion Winyard is sitting in a stone chair, almost a throne, just outside the circle of stones. He’s wearing the same kind of outfit the crazy woman had on: an animal skin draped over one shoulder and wrapped around his waist. A crown of vines circles his head, and a leather wineskin is in his lap. As you stare at him blankly, he takes a swig from it. “It’s not right ,” he repeats, “but it is the way it is. Only here is the way it should be. Out there—it’s all wrong.”
“I don’t understand,” you say blankly. “Where am I? What is this place, and how did I get
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