family anyway?” Agnes asks herself. “A cytoplas-mic sequence? A postal code?”
[:]
Mrs. Borage was born on Montag.
“Of course,” says Agnes. “The Moon God.”
Every twenty-eight years, the days of the month return to the same days of the week. It is impossible to celebrate your 100th birthday in consonance with the Moon God if you were born on Montag.
“According to the Julian Calendar,” observes Mrs. Borage.
Mrs. Borage follows the Calendar of Drifting Hours. It is also called the Calendar of Midnights. It may even be called the Veterinarian’s Calendar. Dorcas thinks that it is.
“Then when does the party begin?” asks Agnes.
“When the guests arrive,” says Mrs. Borage.
[:]
Bryce stops outside the little room beneath the stairs. She slips a pixie stix beneath the door. Something furry slides out.
“A Rattenkönig,” gasps Bryce. She looks around to see if anyone could have heard her. How could she think it was a Ratten-könig? It is a sheet of fake mustaches. Bryce thinks of all the hair she’s swept into the dustbin in her lifetime and feels ill.
“They are beautiful,” says Bryce. She recognizes one of the mustaches. The young man from the pinochle deck. Of course.
“More slings and arrows,” sighs Bryce. She sticks the mustache to her palm, where her heart line used to be. It tickles.
[:]
Agnes is at loose ends. She puts the Crown of Light on her head. The Crown of Light fits strangely. She wanders through the kitchen, out of sorts. Should Ozark tell her that candle wax is dripping on the lenses of her safety goggles? Ozark is too busy eating anchovies. Anchovies are brain food.
Agnes opens the oven door. What’s this? Oh yes. An alarming letter.
[:]
Dear Dr. Agnes Pancake,
Within moments, a French rocket ship will pass through a spore-nebula of Teufelsdreck, enter Earth’s atmosphere, and drop into the sea, contaminating the world’s air and water supplies with innumerable microscopic spores of Teufesldreck. We invite you to imagine the sea roiling, the valley flooding, red waves, kittens on the gambrel roofs, Wedgewood pitchers, bisque Frozen Charlottes, who knows what-all whatnots. Teufelsflotsam. Teufelsjetsam. Horrors.
Here at the National Zoological Society, we have partnered with Greater Friends & Chemicals of Western Rhode Island to develop O-poxy, a heat-reactive compound that will expand in the thermosphere, creating a powerful seal, thereby preventing the rocket ship and its bacterial cargo from a disastrous re-entry. We believe O-poxy provides the only hope for our civilization.
We are asking for your financial contribution. Every dollar pledged helps ward off the imminent exothanatos.
Sincerely,
The NZS Team
We are not sure exactly how alarmed we should feel. Agnes often receives this sort of letter. Agnes is an heiress.
As for the plesiosaurs in Lake Champlain, Agnes believes that they are sovereign creatures, or, at the least, supraterritorial. Neither Burlington nor Montreal can claim them. Lobbyists should expect no response from Dr. Agnes Pancake.
[:]
For the record:
Mrs. Borage is not alarmed at all. Mrs. Borage remembers the burning sky in Siberia. She regards the stuffed clownfish hanging from the branches of the hat stand, better known as “After the Tunguska Fireball.”
Mrs. Borage turns the keys and the jaws of the clownfish start popping.
“Que sera, sera,” sing the clownfish.
“Que sera, sera,” sings Mrs. Borage.
[:]
“My fingers smell like gas,” says Bryce.
“Gas has no odor,” says Mrs. Borage. “You are smelling the odorizing agents.” Mrs. Borage likes the smell of the odorizing agents. They smell like cabbage.
Either way, Bryce decides to eat her cinnamon toast in elbow-length leather gloves.
“Tannins,” warns Mrs. Borage. “Tannins.”
X
Bryce is uncoupling the gas lines in the elementary school cafeteria. She removes the bottles of gas. All done. She looks around the cafeteria.
What’s on the
[:]
Mrs. Borage was born on Montag.
“Of course,” says Agnes. “The Moon God.”
Every twenty-eight years, the days of the month return to the same days of the week. It is impossible to celebrate your 100th birthday in consonance with the Moon God if you were born on Montag.
“According to the Julian Calendar,” observes Mrs. Borage.
Mrs. Borage follows the Calendar of Drifting Hours. It is also called the Calendar of Midnights. It may even be called the Veterinarian’s Calendar. Dorcas thinks that it is.
“Then when does the party begin?” asks Agnes.
“When the guests arrive,” says Mrs. Borage.
[:]
Bryce stops outside the little room beneath the stairs. She slips a pixie stix beneath the door. Something furry slides out.
“A Rattenkönig,” gasps Bryce. She looks around to see if anyone could have heard her. How could she think it was a Ratten-könig? It is a sheet of fake mustaches. Bryce thinks of all the hair she’s swept into the dustbin in her lifetime and feels ill.
“They are beautiful,” says Bryce. She recognizes one of the mustaches. The young man from the pinochle deck. Of course.
“More slings and arrows,” sighs Bryce. She sticks the mustache to her palm, where her heart line used to be. It tickles.
[:]
Agnes is at loose ends. She puts the Crown of Light on her head. The Crown of Light fits strangely. She wanders through the kitchen, out of sorts. Should Ozark tell her that candle wax is dripping on the lenses of her safety goggles? Ozark is too busy eating anchovies. Anchovies are brain food.
Agnes opens the oven door. What’s this? Oh yes. An alarming letter.
[:]
Dear Dr. Agnes Pancake,
Within moments, a French rocket ship will pass through a spore-nebula of Teufelsdreck, enter Earth’s atmosphere, and drop into the sea, contaminating the world’s air and water supplies with innumerable microscopic spores of Teufesldreck. We invite you to imagine the sea roiling, the valley flooding, red waves, kittens on the gambrel roofs, Wedgewood pitchers, bisque Frozen Charlottes, who knows what-all whatnots. Teufelsflotsam. Teufelsjetsam. Horrors.
Here at the National Zoological Society, we have partnered with Greater Friends & Chemicals of Western Rhode Island to develop O-poxy, a heat-reactive compound that will expand in the thermosphere, creating a powerful seal, thereby preventing the rocket ship and its bacterial cargo from a disastrous re-entry. We believe O-poxy provides the only hope for our civilization.
We are asking for your financial contribution. Every dollar pledged helps ward off the imminent exothanatos.
Sincerely,
The NZS Team
We are not sure exactly how alarmed we should feel. Agnes often receives this sort of letter. Agnes is an heiress.
As for the plesiosaurs in Lake Champlain, Agnes believes that they are sovereign creatures, or, at the least, supraterritorial. Neither Burlington nor Montreal can claim them. Lobbyists should expect no response from Dr. Agnes Pancake.
[:]
For the record:
Mrs. Borage is not alarmed at all. Mrs. Borage remembers the burning sky in Siberia. She regards the stuffed clownfish hanging from the branches of the hat stand, better known as “After the Tunguska Fireball.”
Mrs. Borage turns the keys and the jaws of the clownfish start popping.
“Que sera, sera,” sing the clownfish.
“Que sera, sera,” sings Mrs. Borage.
[:]
“My fingers smell like gas,” says Bryce.
“Gas has no odor,” says Mrs. Borage. “You are smelling the odorizing agents.” Mrs. Borage likes the smell of the odorizing agents. They smell like cabbage.
Either way, Bryce decides to eat her cinnamon toast in elbow-length leather gloves.
“Tannins,” warns Mrs. Borage. “Tannins.”
X
Bryce is uncoupling the gas lines in the elementary school cafeteria. She removes the bottles of gas. All done. She looks around the cafeteria.
What’s on the
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