The Ugly Baker

By L R Farish

The town of Grasshopper, Ohio is not known for a whole lot in 1995. Maybe its odd characters, its ethereal setting of forested undulations, and its beloved Just Like Uptown bakery.

The bakery is a staple in the daily lives of its denizens, from Mr. Eliza Snobe who works by the cemetery, and Doyle who can't muster up the courage to ask out the schoolteacher, and Sky Flanders whose background is as much a mystery as Uncle Talbot's buried treasure. Cheerfully icing cakes in the front window is the bakery owner, Dinah Safford. All the goods on display are baked by Hilary. He's nothing to anyone but a suggestion behind a slatted backroom doorway, a twinge of a shadow in twilight hours. And what is Dinah Safford to Hilary? Are they siblings, cousins, or merely friends with a long history? A few Grasshoppers refuse to believe Hilary is real.

Hilary does exist in three clearly-defined worlds: his kitchen, his attic room at his parents' creaky old mansion, and the faraway fantasy realm of St. Goslington's. This is the home of Hilary's imaginary best friend, Mortimer, a fairytale prince with fairytale magic. Hilary has grown up hearing all about St. Goslington's and the five Sainted Realms, a land of silver-feathered swans, busy gnomes and mysterious dryads, a magical castle that once housed the most famous resident of St. Goslington's, and, nearby, the evil Sir Gravecrow who wants nothing but to be the next duke of the Wish Fairies. Content in his life, surrounded by Mortimer's stories and his own shelves of books, Hilary can't foresee that much will change. He can't foresee that he'll soon be involved in a violent fight for the Wish Fairies' duchy.

Next door to Hilary is dark and shuttered Honey Plum House. Long ago, before Hilary hid himself away, the remaining members of the Lipot family scattered. The surprise return of the youngest, Ren Lipot, stirs up Grasshopper gossip and Hilary's curiosity. Encouraged by Ren's benevolence, Hilary offers to fix a few items to make Honey Plum House livable. Ren's friendliness makes Hilary wish he were different, prettier and more interesting, better at speaking and not so bulky and clumsy. After living more than a decade sequestered from people outside his family, Hilary's confidence is broken and his innocence is a hindrance.

Ren, as a child, had caught a glimpse of a teenaged Hilary, but he was nothing at all like the quiet, burly man he grew up to be. Back at his grandparents' in order to plan his sister's wedding, with her kitschy idea of bringing glamor to that backwater house, he is drawn into the tangles and old myths of Grasshopper, and right back to romantic wonderings about the alluring hermit just across the lilac hedge. The longer he stays around, the more he wants to know about the baker, the more he wants to be with the baker, and the more it seems that Hilary wants to be with him.

As Hilary's adoration for Ren generates changes, havoc ensues in his relationship with Mortimer. But it isn't just ugly jealousy. It's a shift in the entire energy that permeates Mortimer's home of St. Goslington's, and maybe even Mortimer himself. Hilary crosses the line between his world and Mortimer's, finding himself the centerpiece of an unfinished tale involving a magical box, nefarious elves, and a determined fairy queen's desire to find a suitable candidate for the duchy.

Action between the two worlds narrows and narrows and squeezes Hilary. Soon, it seems that even citizens of Grasshopper are part of another world. Only through the application of his own internal magic, exposed and defined as he falls in love, can Hilary find a way to protect Ren and Mortimer from nebulous but villainous intentions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L R Farish
• Release date: Feb 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215053195

L R Farish

Please add me to your favorites list, as I plan to release a backlog of work steadily throughout the next couple of years. Visit the journal/blog for updates. Note the new journal/blog address! (Old links will still work, but updates are forthcoming to former links in released books.)Everything I write is created using 100% Authentic Human Brain. I am not AI. I do not use AI. I will never use AI.Thank you for your support!---Recent ReleasesJuly 2022 - Death in a Broken TownSeptember 2022 - Darke Crossing (in which "Darke" is not spelled incorrectly)February 2023 - The Ugly Baker---Upcoming Releases1 Sep 2023 - Big on Lyrics

Book preview

The Ugly Baker

by L R Farish

Copyright 2023

Cover design: LRF, 2023

Swan Photograph: Mark Fletcher Brown (@instamerkle)/Unsplash

First Smashwords Edition

February 2023

For more information visit www.smashwords.com

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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental and not the intention of the author.

This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage all the friends you have to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer, or you may make multiple purchases in various formats. Thank you for your support.

Book Series Sequence Information

Chronology: Year 1995

Ohio Book: 3

KRS Book: 3

KRS Level: Extreme

Other Books by L.R. Farish

Death in a Broken Town

Darke Crossing

Upcoming Releases:

Big on Lyrics

Fablegate

The Ugly Baker

CONTENTS

January

February

March

April

May

June

End Notes

January 1995

I.

The streetlights of downtown Grasshopper carried faint orange beams up and down the brief length of Main Street. Against the bulbous glow, shed from lamp to lamp, snowflakes were easily discernible, even to Hilary's tired eyes. He rubbed the crevices above his eyeballs, winced once more into the lights, but all that did was exacerbate the filmy flares. Whether it snowed hard or it didn't, whether it was bone-chilling cold or it wasn't, Hilary had hours ago made up his mind that he was going to brave the elements for the walk home. There'd been too many days, logged in his recent memories, of staying overnight at the shop. The weather had been awful lately. Snow, sleet, a bit of wind, then a whole lot of wind—sometimes an infrequent burst of sunshine, as if to remind everyone it was still there, lying in wait. Though it was the middle of January, they'd already been blessed with their one fifty-degree day that month. There's always one, so he'd grown up hearing from his dad, and now his sister told the same to her child. There's always one warm day in January. And, if it gets to be very warm, then a dandelion or two will come out. Dinah had a way of telling tales—the old ones that she liked best, yet Squirt had a way of listening to everything with the incredulity of a cantankerous octogenarian, not a lad just barely ten. They had had their one warm day, and days of no snow, days of mock sunshine—when it would radiate across the hills of southern Ohio, tease people out of their homes, their coats, their scarves, only to throw a bitter north wind right over their hopes. Hilary minded neither snow nor cold. He minded not much of anything. But he knew that if he stayed in the little back room at the Just Like Uptown Bakery one more night, after so many nights that week, he'd lie awake in a state of perpetual anxiety. Such a north wind meant to leak into every crevice around windows and doors. A lonely, inconsolable wind, cold enough to want to slip inside to get itself warm. Hilary preferred his oblong upstairs bedroom, built into the attic where he'd be out of the way. It faced southeast, with little to say to the north wind and not much to say to summer storms that huffed in. It would welcome him back, console him for eight hours, and help him wake refreshed and ready for another morning. 

He aimed to go to work in the dark, and aimed to go home in it, too. He enjoyed this. Perhaps loving the dark more than anyone else, Hilary used the Veils of Nyx to his advantage. The night hid him. He preferred to be hidden as frequently as he could. People in the town of Grasshopper were less aware of his existence than they supposed: They knew Dinah and Alec Safford had someone else helping in the bakery, that the boy was said to be Dinah's brother—a cousin—something of the sort. They knew him to be the lone son of the all-but-forgotten man named Toller, who'd once lived at Beech Hill house. But they had never really seen the boy. The only ones who had seen him were the elders, remembering him as a child before he quit going to school; and he was etched in their minds as a boy of twelve years. To the rest, who couldn't remember him, even his old classmates, Hilary was a vague shadow. A striation of black between the two sets of slatted doors that closed the front of the bakery off to the ovens, countertops, dishes—Hilary's world in the rear of the shop. But they couldn't say more about him than recite he was tallish with big shoulders without a forward tilt to them, that he possessed a pile of dark hair on top of a wide face wholly devoid of details. The little crevice between the doors, and on the doors, gave away more of himself than he wished, but through such a tiny crack he might be anything to those willing to peer in. He exceeded their expectations that way. In real life, in daylight, his face—his miserable, unfortunate face—would terrorize their nightmares for weeks. And his face was only half the trouble. He was older than they could see, being a perpetual boy, in a state of Pan, when, in fact, his thirty-sixth birthday lay on the horizon. Besides having a higher age than they believed, he was pityingly homely. Out of the fringes of youth he'd relinquished all traces of high vanity, and succumbed to the fact that he was never going to be anything but mutant-like. It wasn't until he was eleven that he realized his homeliness hindered the formation of friendships. Exactly eleven years and three months, because Hilary remembered slights, and could recall the entire conversation that took place between himself and Doyle that severed their friendship, and all of Hilary's friendships, for good. It was only when Doyle came into the shop, usually Saturday afternoons just before closing, that Hilary ever peeked through the crack to get a good look at the kid that had once been his friend, never would be his friend again. To Hilary's satisfaction, Doyle grew balder by the minute, though his clothes were all right, and he had done rather well for himself. But, as far as Doyle and anyone else in Grasshopper knew, Hilary had gone away, joined the Army at the time of Desert Storm, and hadn't until recently come back to that dinky town. 

The umbrella swooped up and out with a great whoosh, like a preying bird about to go in for the kill. The wind was a dead thing, softly, slowly oozing its way down from the northwest. It wouldn't bother him or the umbrella during the trek home. He locked the back door, rattled the handle to be sure it closed, and checked the status of the cat food dish he put out every night to feed the ample amount of stray, somewhat feral creatures living in and around downtown. Some little furry mouth had come by to take a few nibbles. He used the inside of his foot to scoot the dish below the low, wide eave, in hopes that it wouldn't be buried in inches of snow by morning. In winter, the cats who had no homes to go to spent time in the shed. A dismal, rectangular thing attached to the end of the narrow strip of grass. The grass sprouted beyond the big concrete slabs necessary for delivery trucks. There was a row of wispy underbrush, and also a brave pawpaw tree, and on the other side of the miniature boscage a drop-off, a scree, into the creek that trickled into the Muskingum River. Hilary had always heard it went into the Muskingum, had used his finger to follow the creek to the Muskingum on the oversized county map he had hanging in the attic. He'd yet to see this melding of waters with his own eyes. In spite of the town being surfeit with rumors about Hilary, he had never stepped a toe out of the county before. 

Well, that was a slight exaggeration. A toe, yes; and once or twice his entire body. Grasshopper rested at the corner of three adjoining counties: Muskingum, all wide and fat and running up to the north; Perry to the west; Morgan to the southeast. The other side of Goose Creek was considered Perry County. A couple of streets over, the town seemed to end without warning, right at the border of Morgan County. If he ever dared peer out the grimy back window of the back room into the parking lot, he saw bunches of cars whose license plates carried counties all over his part of Ohio. But he'd never seen those other counties. The furthest he'd been was Zanesville, the Muskingum county seat. He'd worked there for a little while before smuggling himself back into Grasshopper after Dad's death and the deflation of every one of his boyhood dreams. 

Dinah and Alec kept the family house going. Beech Hill was a squarish place resting on the top of a slope. Not hard to do, of course, with the dizzying topography around them. But it was the only major hill on Millers Street and Hilary was often a little too proud of his house settled on the top. It had straight lines, narrow but long windows, a wrap-around front porch whose gingerbread and railings had begun to peel and sag. A one-lane drive, once of cement, though now the cement had gone through so many cycles of weather that it had become a uniformly cracked lane. Alec unleashed swears at it in winter, being covered in ice; in the summer he yelled at it again, when the inevitable puddle formed at the end, and one had to hop over it, tadpoles and mosquito larvae and all, to get to the mailbox. Hilary climbed the hill, ogling his house, daydreaming about the attic warmed by the little wood-burning stove he'd installed years and years ago. Alec didn't often like Hilary staying up there all the time, only there was no chance for Alec to deny how well Hilary had fixed the place up. The stove, built-in bookcases, a wee bathroom with the smallest shower anyone in the family had ever seen. With Squirt, six at the time and very knowledgeable, asking his uncle how the heck a guy his size was supposed to bend over in a thing like that! It caused an eruption of laughter. Hilary hadn't been sure about Squirt the first few years he was there in the world, being worm-like and reddish, his only talent screaming, and in that he was determined to succeed. It was quickly apparent to Hilary that if Squirt hadn't come along the entire family wouldn't laugh as much as they did. Hilary was no good at being funny. He told no jokes, no stories, no lies; he didn't often open his mouth but to put food in it. Dinah was used to it. She'd grown fond of Hilary quickly, now used to his ways and his quietness, his deformed hand and the way his fat ears stuck out at their tops. Alec was perturbed by Hilary, at first. Any husband with a family to think about would've been. He learned soon enough that Hilary was a big, gentle beast of a man. A hardworking, intense, private person who might think more than he let on, but of course would never let on that he had an independent thought. Hilary learned to tolerate Alec's bumbling methods, then learned to find them endearing. He's a good sort of man, Dinah, Hilary had told her a few days after his return. Her soft smile was partly for the praise, and partly that Hilary said a word. Dinah was the only kin he had. And, even then, their bloodlines were not identical, not as everyone in Grasshopper supposed. Dinah and her husband came to live with Hilary in the same house on the hill on Millers Street, and therefore it was easy to assume they were natural siblings. Neither of them had never known a better family unit. 

He was exhausted, recounting in his busy mind the amount of pies he'd made that day. Three apples for order. One peach to sell. One blueberry for display. Two cherries, one latticed and one crusted, for posterity. There should always be a cherry pie or two, if it was just to look at. Pies were not so much for eyeing as the cakes and cookies. He'd made enough of them, too, that his hands were still stiff from controlling frosting bags. He preferred the mini double chocolate cakes. Small, four-inch double-stacked cakes of chocolate, with fudge icing, and chocolate icing piped around the edges. He never ate them himself, once he knew the recipe was all right, but he liked to look at them. They were expensive, six dollars for a mini, but they were Saffords' best seller. People seemed to feel less guilt if they ate a mini rather than an entire cake. Cakes did not sell quick enough on their own; he no longer made them but by special orders. In a town of 1,661, birthdays, anniversaries and other special occasions did not happen every day. He liked it best when someone ordered a cake for no apparent reason whatsoever. Ziggy Morgan practiced this. He was one of the few Grasshoppers that Hilary recognized by voice, by sight, and by car. Ziggy drove an early '70s Corvette, with a lively voice and a shock of wiry white hair. Ziggy lived up the road and sometimes, if he thought about it, if he was ambitious enough in his fifty-eight-year-old heart, he'd come by and shovel the driveway. But he'd not been by that evening, though through the thick, snow-dappled air, Hilary heard a snowblower somewhere. It would be up to him to clear the driveway. Alec would have to go to the plant in the morning. Squirt would have to walk down to the school. Dinah would have to go to the shop. 

He left the umbrella just inside the detached garage. The cold failed to penetrate his heavy-duty outerwear as willfully as the damp. It was a wet, dangerous kind of snow. Good for making snow people. Good for creating glistening rows of icicles. But dangerous. It was barely two inches thick, and already the bottom of it stuck to the pitted driveway like glue. He started from the top of the driveway, right in front of the garage, and worked his way downward in straight, horizontal rows. No movement of his was ever too quick or too slow. Instilled in him by his father was the desire to do things right the first time. On his own he'd learned that a person never benefited from being in a hurry. Time gets used up no matter what. Regardless of the mantra, Hilary soon rammed the shovel tip into a loose collection of cement pebbles. A released specimen of good size toppled leisurely down the driveway, unhindered by the snow, and made a satisfying smack when it landed in the road. Hilary would've happily thought nothing about it but that a car braked, slid a little on the tightening slush, and then sat idle, as if waiting for another landslide. 

Hilary exercised every ounce of courage, yet armed himself with the shovel and pulled his oversized stocking cap closer over his ears, and went to the end of the driveway. Hilary's knowledge of cars was fairly limited. He liked what he liked and that was all. Dad used to talk about cars, and sometimes Alec, when he was in the bakery, talked to the car boys at Mike's car shop about what they were working on. Hilary would listen for a minute before completely zoning out. Yet this car was supreme. Shiny, new, and when the window of the driver's side rolled down, new car scent wafted out, strong enough to drown the smell of wet wool mittens and damp road. He hoped it drove on soon so he could find out what county it was from. 

All of these thoughts, mushed together, barely overshadowed the fact that a stranger—a stranger at Hilary's quick estimate—sat behind the wheel. The gentleman was altogether handsome, put together in a fine way, as though with great care, since everything in his face seemed to be exactly where it should be, very evenly spaced, not too big and not too small. A stranger's face, with a familiar tincture to it, in a stranger's car. These facts joined together and put Hilary at his ease. Strangers were not so bad. They never stayed in Grasshopper long enough to know names, remember faces; they stayed in Grasshopper only to find their way out of it. 

Narrow, dark brows tried to meet together over the stranger's eyes. Hilary had an odd sensation that he was about to be scolded. As a precaution, beginning to get hot in the neck, he removed himself two whole paces back. 

You don't have to run away, the stranger said. He couldn't see the young man's face—it was all distorted in shadows and light-play, but he was aware of the retreat. I promise I won't hurt you. I was only going to ask if everything was all right up there. I saw the ice fall and thought I'd better stop and ask. In this awful weather, I guess nobody knows what might come down next. 

It was the sort of regal behavior Hilary expected from Grasshoppers but not from strangers. Momentarily at a loss for words, Hilary looked up the driveway. A floodlight in front of the garage came on. He flinched and looked back to the car. Since speaking made him nervous, afraid to open his mouth in fear of saying the wrong thing—words did destroy nations, and words did hurt people—he stuck by his rule of keeping it simple. 

It's fine, thank you. 

He got hazardous with stones. The driveway was problematic. If he had all the money in the world, in the spring they'd have a new driveway. Every spring they'd have a new driveway. He was glad for the backlighting, however, to keep him from being seen by the now squinting individual in the car. Hilary got a better look at him, saw that he was younger than first supposed—in his twenties, not more than that. His hair was rather reddish, black and reddish. Or that was just a trick of the street lamps. 

Not to be presumptuous—

Hilary had an idea of the word's meaning, but was more concerned about having to carry on a conversation. 

But are you Alec Safford?

No, Hilary said, relieved that his brother-in-law was known. I'm Hilary.

Oh, Dinah's brother! Good! That's even better. I'm Ren—Ren Lipot.

The revelation caused Hilary to shift his weight from one foot to the other, nervously. The Lipots! They lived in the next house over. The big, sprawling house that looked like it had been put together from many smaller houses. It was over a century old, rumored to have been a farmhouse at one point in time, when all the land of Grasshopper belonged to a man named Lipot. One of Ren Lipot's forefathers. But the fresh generation of Lipots had gone away from Grasshopper years before, decades before. The house had stood empty, something of a derelict. There was old poetry in its angles and fancy shingle work, so Hilary had always thought. He had a view of its front turret out of his attic room window. Old poetry, sorrowful and forgotten. He'd heard chatter in the shop about the Lipots, that they still owned the house, that the boy, Hilary guessed then that they meant Ren, still paid taxes on it, paid for Mr. Lowry to come and mow the grass and trim the hedges four times in the growing season. But the Lipots had been gone—gone and gone. North, Hilary had heard. Columbus, maybe, or farther than that—so far that Hilary's brain struggled to process it. 

Ren had a desire to be helpful. He couldn't help it. He was a Lipot, and any Lipot had a soft spot for creatures that suffered. He'd heard his own variety of stories—ranging from gossip to truths—about Hilary. Whose last name no one knew, and didn't know if Hilary was his first name, his last name, or not his name at all. Who rarely spoke. Never let anyone see him in the harsh light of day. Ren remembered seeing Hilary once in the summer of 1980. Grandmother had a dying wish to see the old homestead again, and so they drove down on a hot summer's day. They did not stay at the house, but stayed at the creepy old inn downtown, made creepier by a passing thunderstorm and lingering shower. Ren had found his grandmother and his father bickering, their rules stifling to the little brash nonconformist, and he'd run away. He'd run back to the big Lipot house on Millers Street. And saw—actually saw—the faceless man with the umbrella roving up the street. Ren had hidden in the shadows of the front porch of the big house, and watched Hilary climb the driveway in the rain. But when Hilary vanished into the backyard, Ren chased him down. The ground was soft from days of rain, the verdure noiseless, as he hid near the shrubs that separated the two yards. He made it just in time to see Hilary take a set of keys from the pocket of his pants, unlatch the door. He used his butt to keep the door open while he shook the umbrella free of excess water. Only from the faint, dismal light of a mercury vapor, not in the Safford's yard but the next house over, did Ren see any facial characteristics of the fabled Hilary. Something was wrong with his face, but what it was exactly Ren couldn't figure out. He'd wandered back to the downtown inn still contemplating it. His grandmother and father had never noticed he was gone. Hilary had seemed old then; to an eleven-year-old boy everyone past the age of eighteen seemed ancient. Yet, according to his father, whom Ren pumped for information about Hilary, Hilary couldn't have been more than twenty at the time. And, the next time he roamed into Grasshopper, to go through some things at the big house, he went into Safford's shop and asked Mrs. Safford if Hilary was around. Hilary had been gone from Grasshopper for years by then. 

Ren understood that they had drifted into silence. He brandished a smile. Don't suppose our driveway's cleared off, is it?

Doubtful, Hilary replied. Simple. Straight to the point. He wasn't going to use up more breath than necessary speaking to a Lipot. They had had servants with single names, like him; he remembered Endfield, the valet: a kindly gent in white gloves and black suits. The Lipots had dishes rimmed in gold and imported from Austria. And, as Alec had once said in his deprecating way, toilet seats covered in ermine. Hilary always thought that must be very odd, a furry toilet seat on one's bare bottom. Though maybe nice on winter mornings. 

I'll park on the street. I don't suppose you'd be interested in earning an extra ten dollars, would you, Mr. Hilary? I'll give you ten if you clean off the driveway in the morning. Would you?

Hilary nodded. Rarely having a chance to earn money of his own, let alone ten dollars for what promised to be a brief job, the Lipot's driveway stouter than theirs, Hilary leapt at the chance. 

All right. Thank you so much. I'll see you tomorrow. Since Hilary offered no reply, no handshake, Ren lifted the window. He drove about ten feet, the car hugging the curb in front of his grandparents' house. He gathered luggage from the trunk, and a flashlight in case all the bulbs in the house were burned out—or Ilsa hadn't handled the electrical being turned back on. He was climbing the drive, ankle-deep in slushy snow, and heard the rhythmic scraping of Hilary's work. And, somewhere, a snowblower, no doubt choking on the wet snow. But otherwise it was quiet. He couldn't wait to get up in the morning just to hear nothing. Get the urban buzz out of his brain. Smooth his outsides, then smooth his insides. But—no, not a piece of his internal self could be assuaged until after the wedding. 

The front door wouldn't give way to his push. He had to bump his shoulder into it several times before it ripped from the framing and scooted inside. The first thing he did was try the light switch, its spot he remembered from boyhood: two steps across the foyer and to the left. He moved it up. Nothing happened. In disbelief, he moved it up and down rapidly. Then he sighed and let his forehead fall flat to the wall. 

Hilary had gone just more than halfway down the driveway when Dinah came rushing out. Even in winter, she looked like a butterfly, full of skirts, layered to keep away the cold, in glittering hair clips and fascinating earrings she made herself. Her big, polka-dot galoshes were certainly a match for the slippery slush. Oh, Hilary, what are you doing out here now? I didn't mean for you to— She slipped a little, cutting off her sentence, and latched to his arm as he steadied her. 

Okay?

Yeah. I'm all right. Then she let all of her sororal affections show by smacking him across the lapels of his old wool coat. You're wearing yourself out doing this now! After the kind of day you've had! I can make Alec do this, you know. She might ask Alec if he'd finish the driveway, but both of them knew she couldn't really make Alec do anything. You should come inside. I made macaroni and cheese. And there are some sausages. Aren't you starving?

He was hungry, but he wanted to finish the work first. Nearly done. Oh, look, Di. He lifted a mittened hand to the car parked on the curb. 

Whose is that?

Ren Lipot's.

Good grief, you don't say! Dinah scanned the car for signs of the Lipots' rumored wealth. A Lipot must own a luxury vehicle. Where is he?

The house.

Are you sure? There are no lights on.

Hilary looked, finished pushing snow into a pile formed at the end of the driveway, then looked again. There were no lights on in the Lipot house. Just as he was thinking it, he saw a light move indistinctly in the front room. A flashlight beam, no doubt. 

Don't tell me they don't have any electricity.

Hilary did not need to tell her the obvious. He went back to the snow. Two lanes left, then one. The Lipots were no concern of his. The big house's front door opened, slammed shut. Dinah, who'd been wrestling with her conscience for the last minute, seized the opportunity to help Mr. Lipot. Hilary watched her approach Mr. Lipot, agog at the madness people had to seek conversation with other people. He stayed, pretending to chop up stubborn piles of ice, but really staying to protect Dinah. 

Mr. Lipot, I'm Dinah Safford. Forgive me for being so blunt. Is everything all right at the house?

He had his luggage with him, the same soft-sided bags he'd taken out of his trunk five minutes ago and was about to throw back in. Hello, Mrs. Safford. It's nice to see you again.

Hilary's head shot up at the magical word, 'again.' When had Dinah seen Ren Lipot? Just as Ren turned to look at him, Hilary ducked and returned to the patch of ice. 

My sister was supposed to handle house stuff, Ren said. Guess she didn't get around to it. So, it's the inn for me tonight. 

The inn? repeated Dinah. 

Ren sensed another kink in his plans. Another glance at Hilary, and once more Hilary faked an interest in the snow. Isn't the inn still there? I thought I heard—but I didn't—make a reservation.

It's closed this week. Interior renovations.

Of course it is, Ren mumbled, vexed but not showing it. To Dinah, he was resigned to his fate. But he was so tired, so aggravated, that he slumped against the Lexus bumper and stayed there. It was more than an hour's drive home, and while still youthful he wasn't exactly looking forward to it. Where's the nearest hotel?

Don't be silly, Mr. Lipot. You can stay with us. 

Hilary dropped the shovel. It clanked madly against the cleared driveway. Dinah waved away his attempts to consult with her about this, his sibilants tickling her ear. Will you just go inside? she snapped at Hilary. Macaroni and cheese—and sausages. You've worked hard enough today, don't you think? Hilary knew he'd never talk Dinah out of letting Ren Lipot stay the night at the house. What did it matter if he did? He'd be someone new for Squirt to stare at, maybe befriend. Someone with whom Alec could engage in armchair politics, and maybe offer him a cigar. Neptune, the family cat, enjoyed sniffing the shoes of newcomers and passers-by. And Hilary could hide away in the attic for the rest of the night. It was very likely that he'd be asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He couldn't remember the last time he was so tired. Aware that Mr. Lipot was coming into the house, whether anyone but Dinah wanted him there for the night, Hilary took up both pieces of luggage. Ren protested meekly, and managed to carry one bag up the hill. Dinah was telling him how the house wasn't much, the rooms weren't much, and he interlarded her modesty with gratefulness. Hilary, meanwhile, took such long, powerful strides that he was inside the house ahead of them. 

The back door opened into the laundry room, then into the kitchen. The old-fashioned floor plan had one room closed off from the other. Kitchen into the parlor, parlor to the staircase, staircase to the spare room right at the top. He didn't have to turn the light on to set the bag beside the bed. He exited as he heard Dinah introducing Mr. Lipot to Squirt and Alec. It was funny to hear how differently everyone pronounced the surname Lipot. From Ren's own mouth Hilary had distinctly heard Lih-poe. A bit Francophone. From Alec came the Anglicized monstrosity Lippet. From sundry other townspeople came Le-pot, Lee-po, Luh-put, and so on. 

Hilary grappled the banister to peer into the silvery dark of the elegant parlor. Squirt and Alec would no doubt be in the back parlor, one of the old sitting rooms that Alec had turned into his palace of manly comforts. Full of plaid couches and thick, brown shag carpeting that he refused to get rid of though it was twenty years old. There was a little color tube television, hooked up to basic cable. Although Hilary liked cooking shows he cared nothing at all for television shows in general. It was a wonder to him that Alec and Squirt could watch the glowing box with such uninterrupted fervidity. He wondered if Mr. Lipot watched television—if the big house next door even had a television. Some people in Grasshopper didn't own televisions. No doubt an odd thing for urbanite Lipot to understand. The state of poverty in Grasshopper would surely shock the hell out of him, if he stayed in town long enough to see it. There had been many months in the last few years that their cable television had been turned off because the bills had piled up. And that was when Hilary told Dinah to stop paying him for his work at the shop. He hadn't seen so much as a dime since. But ten dollars to clear off a driveway—that would be nice. Think of all the cat food it might buy!

When the voices neared the parlor, Hilary hunkered down, like a small child fearing he'd be caught up past his bedtime. Dinah had grown accustomed to not turning on the lights wherever she went. It was frugal to save electricity, and her brother abhorred direct light. Only during those rare instances that Hilary was entirely alone in the house did he dare skulk from room to room, for the sake of turning on all the lights at least once. He wanted to remember what they looked like when they were on. But the chandelier in the front foyer was the most beautiful light he'd ever seen. It had twenty-five bulbs and thirty-three crystals. It resembled an icicle that had swallowed a star. Hilary usually asked Dinah politely, on Christmas Day, if they might turn on the chandelier for a little while. He wouldn't have been surprised if Dinah had turned it on then, so Mr. Lipot might see it and think they deserved to live in that stately old house. Though it smelled like sausages, and Neptune was waxing curious, it was a nice house. The best house, in Hilary's biased opinion, in all of Grasshopper. 

He suspected that a quick upward tilt of Ren Lipot's head gave away his hiding place. There was no direct illumination, only the ambient glow from the kitchen. Hilary waited it out. Nothing unusual occurred. Dinah was telling Mr. Lipot about her father, who'd lived at the place his whole life, and mentioning Hilary's zealous affection for it. But when they started up the staircase together, Hilary slunk along the railing, then crawled backwards deep into the shadows. 

You can go downstairs and grab a bite to eat, if you'd like, Dinah said, her voice holding a trace of finality. I can have it warmed up for you. Alec will be happy to let you watch the football game with him. Or you can just eat in the dining room.

That would be fine, Mr. Lipot said. He'd grown muffled once inside the bedroom. The lamp beside the bed came on. Hilary recognized the pink radiance, like the inside of a conch shell, cast by the dusty rose lampshade. I'm not much of a football fan. At least, I don't think I am. Do you mind if I use the shower, Mrs. Safford, before I eat anything?

No, you may do whatever you like. The food will keep warm.

Neptune, a fat but adorable gray and white cat, sat on her haunches in the doorway. Her eyes were alert and her ears upright. Strangers! It was exciting to her. They didn't receive very many visitors. 

Hope you don't mind cats.

Hilary held his breath as he waited out the answer. If a person in their house didn't like cats, well—!

I love cats.

Hilary let out a sigh. Neptune heard it, peered into the thickening black at the end of the hall, and decided Hilary was in his Invisible Stage. 

I'd have six of them—even more—if—if I were allowed. 

Well, we only have one. This is Neptune. Not well named, since she's a she and Neptune is a he. But Hilary thinks that she has godlike powers, and she doesn't seem to be afraid of water, so that is how she got her name. I don't think there's anything tricky about the shower that I have to explain. There's washcloths in the drawer under the sink, on the right. And big towels in the closet in the hall. There's soap and shampoo and all that stuff. I'll just leave you to do your thing. Come downstairs when you're done, if you're hungry. She bowed a little as Mr. Lipot thanked her warmly. 

At first, Hilary stayed put. Then, aware that Mr. Lipot was going to be roaming the hallway, he dodged behind the door of Squirt's bedroom. Using the crack between frame and door, he spied on Mr. Lipot. But he didn't do anything very exciting. It was to get a good look at him. The hall light confirmed that his hair was red—but still a strange kind of red, so dark and coarse, and his eyebrows were more black than red. He had features that were inarguably pleasant to the eye. What was the word Dinah threw out occasionally? Aesthetic. Mr. Lipot was very aesthetic. Dinah was probably downstairs right that minute telling Alec how aesthetic Mr. Lipot was. His arms were long, his torso long, his legs short, his neck comely and milky white. He looked exactly as a Lipot should look, as a person should. Hilary watched him bend at the waist to scratch Neptune's ears, a little twinge of envy running in and out of his system. Why couldn't he have been born pretty like Mr. Lipot? Neptune rubbed on his fingers, causing Ren to adore her immediately, as if her corpulence hadn't already been an endearment. She purred, and Ren was glad that Ilsa hadn't talked to the electric company, that the inn was being renovated, that by chance he'd met Hilary and Dinah. 

He swerved around fast at a brush of cold wind against the palms of his hands. All he saw was Hilary's back, still in his coat and outdoor garments, running up the unlighted staircase behind an ordinary door. The attic, Ren assumed. Why did Hilary have a room in the attic? He had a whole big house to romp around in. He hoped his presence hadn't scared the poor hermit. After his shower, he vowed he'd ask Dinah about it. But a shower first. It had been a long, tiring day. His muscles ached. His head, too. Nothing that wasn't curable by hot water and some home cooking. He'd try calling Ilsa before he went to bed, if he was permitted to make a long-distance call. Ilsa wouldn't believe the sort of day he'd had. Five-hour drive. Flat tire. Fix the flat tire. Snow. And all the crap after he'd arrived back in Grasshopper. What she was least likely to believe was that he'd met, even actually exchanged sentences with, was staying in the same house with, Grasshopper's foremost myth, Mr. Hilary. 

II.

Hilary had been right in his earlier assumption that his attic space, the little wood stove, his meager collection of trinkets, would comfort him. As soon as he set the match to the paper kindling, set back to watch the mica windows of the stove glow brighter and brighter, he'd nearly forgotten the intrusive presence of Ren Lipot. As soon as the fire was underway, to take the chill out of his upstairs haven, Hilary gathered clean clothes. He'd long ago put his clothes into two categories, sometimes into subcategories after that. But he had day clothes and he had night clothes. The latter were formed of sorry garments, threadbare, many stitches broken. Garments so old that he'd been wearing them while Dad was alive. His day clothes were the newer things that Dinah ordered for him out of catalogs. Stiff, heavy clothes without any personal history attached to them. Not yet, at least. Only a few of his newer articles, since he'd come back and money was tight, had been relegated into night clothes. He reached for one of these newer items, a flannel shirt whose elbow he'd ripped and mended himself, and pulled out fleece pants and socks. While getting his socks, he saw they were crammed and mixed together unfeelingly with a bunch of his underwear. Billowy boxers, he thought to himself, usually white or so old that their color eclipsed definition. The socks were often sad, too, darned and mended, bumpy and ridged. He'd learned to hold a needle and thread, with enough success to accomplish a few tasks, from his grandmother. She'd outlived Mother, had Granny. Knowing her days were numbered, she quickly instilled as many survival skills into her grandchild as she possibly could. They stuck fast in Hilary's mind. It wasn't until Granny had been buried umpteen years that Dinah came around with an acknowledged sewing talent. Now she made most of the family's underclothes and things, and would go on doing so as long as bleached muslin remained cheaply available at the Grasshopper General Store. He knew his family was a throwback to olden days, partly briar-hoppers and partly redneck trash. But everyone in Grasshopper was like that. Sacrificing one thing to have another. Hilary gladly gave up having new clothes, and wore his billowy boxers proudly, as long as it meant they could pay the taxes on the house. He'd continue to have his night clothes and his day clothes. If he had a Lipot's money, Hilary fancied he'd still sleep in threadbare old garments. What did Ren Lipot sleep in? Silk pajamas? No, for whatever reason, Hilary couldn't imagine it of Ren Lipot.

Working at a bakery didn't leave much difference between the two, day clothes and night clothes, and he hadn't sat in the church congregation for years, so there was no point in having resplendent finery. They were all One Domination there in Grasshopper, unless they went out of town—but Hilary saw One God Indivisible, and had since he was a child and saw his mother's last breath—but he would not go to church for the same reasons he'd stopped going to school at the age of twelve. He could not face people. 

At sixteen, Hilary had blindly taken his GED up at the school in Zanesville. To his shock, and that of the overseeing instructor, he'd passed all the areas of study—just barely but enough. He wasn't smart. He wasn't stupid. He didn't care what he was. He could read like a literature professor, though the books he preferred to read were nonfiction, typically about animals; and sometimes he liked to peruse all the young readers books that came out, about horses and dolphins, dogs and cats. He counted Heidi by Joanna Spyri as one of his favorite books of all time. He felt the same about Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and Anne of Green Gables. His like for children's books about orphaned young ladies living bucolic lives fueled multiple glares from Alec. Dinah understood Hilary better and let him read whatever he liked. What did it matter as long as he read? Perhaps he had more in common with Heidi, Rebecca and Anne than he did with anyone else. 

Of course, there was Mortimer. As far back as Hilary's memory reached, and at times its reach surpassed that of everyone else, Mortimer had been around. No one could've asked for a better, more understanding companion than Hilary received when Mortimer appeared. Though it stung a little, just a little, when he realized that Mortimer wasn't real. Every child had an imaginary friend. But Mortimer outlasted Hilary's childhood. He came and went out of the shadows of Hilary's most trying moments, from the cold of his most painful insecurities. It was Mortimer who'd told him to leave Zanesville and go back to Grasshopper, among other things. He spurred Hilary into action with his unctuous, posh British Isles accent. It will be all right now since Dinah has brought Alec there. Wouldn't you like to see Alec? Mortimer's classy honey-colored eyebrows bounced up and down in his pale white forehead, teasing his playmate. Maybe you'll like Alec better than you like me! Hilary had denied the possibility—it really was absurd—and Mortimer responded by flying all over the room, a cometary blear from corner, ceiling, floor, corner again. 

It was natural, even expected, for a lonely child to have an imaginary friend. But it was a little more unusual for that child's imaginary friend to have no single corporeal shape. Mortimer was a ghost. Not a real ghost, just as he'd never been a real boy. Dinah had heard about it later. They were grownups and she'd wanted to know to whom her brother had been speaking. He told her it was Mortimer, a name from her childhood, from his. Her eyes rolled though she smiled sweetly. Only you, Hilary, would have an imaginary friend that's also a ghost that's also a real person in his other world beyond our world. The statement was a classic summation. Mortimer did have his other world, where he was real. There, Mortimer wasn't only real but highly revered, a prince who lived in an elaborate castle, got into many adventures, and was a close personal friend of dragons, legendary figures, knights evil and errant. It was all very complicated and elaborate, Mortimer's world. Yet when you have a childhood friend for upwards of thirty years, things were bound to become very detailed.

In his night clothes, Hilary lounged in a rickety old chair in front of the stove. He wouldn't mind conversing with Mortimer for a little while tonight. Someone to gossip with about Ren Lipot. 

He's very nice looking, Mortimer declared, propping himself up on his hand, via his elbow, while the rest of his boyish shape lay supine on the bed. In case you were wondering.

You looked at him? Hilary was appalled on Ren Lipot's behalf. In—in the shower?

A ghost has no need for walls. He likes hot showers, too. Again, Mortimer wriggled his eyebrows, the teasing licentiousness of a teenager. The ribaldry Hilary might have had, had his life been different, had been funneled into His Royal Highness Mortimer Gosling of St. Goslington's. Who is he, by the way?

Ren Lipot, Hilary said, trying to find something else to do that didn't require regarding the little freak on the bed. Don't make me sorry I asked you to visit.

You're more sorry lately to see me than I'd like you to be. Don't you like my outfit?

It's—it's nice. Hilary gave a cursory inspection. White, loose-fitting shirt and navy pants with gold stripes down the sides. And bare feet. Because, if you were going to be a ghost who occasionally shaped yourself however you wished, you were going to go around barefoot, especially in winter. It was to make your corporeal companion jealous. Mortimer's feet were always cold, but he had the luxury of being insensible to temperature. You look like—like a nutcracker.

It's your imagination, Mortimer snapped, sitting upright, so don't blame me if I look like Napoleon in a state of dishabille. You conjured me, and you have to put up with me until I choose to go.

Hilary drew a blank. Mortimer was the only person in the world—well, the fake world—to whom he ever conversed easily. Mortimer knew what Hilary looked like, in his clothes as well as out of them, and he continued to bring hope that maybe one day, some day, someone real wouldn't mind looking at him either. I don't want you to go yet. You just got here. How are all your subjects in St. Goslington's?

Mortimer would not be appeased. His keen understanding of his friend gave him cause to grin fiendishly. That's not really what you want to talk about, is it? Anyway, you know very well that the town is always the same. So boring! Don't you want to hear more about Mr. Lipot? Sit! Mortimer flopped a hand to the top of the bed, so that they might sit close together and have a good chinwag about the mysterious visitor. 

Reluctantly, Hilary sat. He grabbed the feather pillow, leaned against the headboard, and clutched the pillow to his chest. His knees rose up and his ankles crossed. Do you know why Mr. Lipot is here?

I think you should call him Ren. He's going to be very important to you, Mortimer said in his most insinuating voice. You knew that already. I don't predict the future, you know, and I can't read someone else's thoughts. Except yours, but I am part of you—

The better parts.

Maybe. But you have the advantage of being alive. And I have the madness of St. Goslington's waiting for me when I get back. The bridge collapsed, and the Wish Fairies are escaping.

Really? Won't they come back if you wish hard enough?

If you do, too. And I can't find that blasted fool Robin Hood.

Again?

You know how he is. One of his friends gets in a slight mishap and he's off to rescue him or her. It's very difficult to find a good thief of the rich these days. Robin's absence is making Sir Gravecrow very difficult to control. He might be collecting the Wish Fairies. What a mess! But it is always the same. I wish you hadn't made me a prince. It's very tiresome waiting around for everything to make sense again.

Well, I was a boy when we met, and—

It's fine. Don't apologize so much. People won't like that about you. If you're going to really get out in the world, Hilary, you're going to have to know what to say and what not to say so people don't think you're a dunderhead. Mortimer was taken aback by his use of the word. Do people use that word this day and age? I don't even know what year it is.

Nineteen-ninety-five. January.

That explains the snow. How about that word, dunderhead?

There's no way to be sure. I'm sorry about the prince thing, Mortimer. I'd wave my hand and undo the spell, but I don't want to. 

Mortimer studied him a moment. He'd known Hilary through all walks of life, from childhood to adulthood, from his first shaving experience to the first time he ever wondered what it would be like to kiss someone. Mortimer supposed he'd be around, too, whenever Hilary got his first real kiss. Or, like it is in fairy tales, he'd be kissed and that would be the end of Mortimer Gosling of St. Goslington's. Only if it was the kiss of true love—or some such thing. Hilary had a long journey ahead of him to get to that point. Neither of them required crystal balls or supernatural foresight to see that. Hilary's walk through life was never effortless. Things—living itself—did not come naturally to him. He contorted and, at times, he broke under the miserable currents. Then he toiled to place his feet firmly on the ground, collect his bearings. He was doing that then. Ren Lipot, the Lipots in general, Hilary found disruptive. Mortimer couldn't bring him all the comfort he required. 

What do you remember about the Lipots? Mortimer asked, taking a turn around the room to see what had changed since his last visit. Anything?

Their servant. I remember him. Endfield. He was nice. He used to bring Granny these butter cookies with little dollops of strawberry jam in the middles. Mrs. Lipot the elder sent them over.

You don't remember Ren?

There have been fifty children come and gone, in and out of Grasshopper since Ren Lipot was born. He was never a Grasshopper, Mortimer. He was a visitor.

"Oh, I see. An outsider." 

His sister and the rest of his family moved away even before Mrs. Lipot the elder died.

And the house has been closed up since?

Sometimes someone comes and cleans it. Airs it out. But it's never anyone from the family. Last year it was an employee of a Parkersburg cleaning service. You don't know why he's here? Mr. Lipot, I mean.

No, Mortimer said sullenly, shaking his head. You'll probably learn why, very soon. Shall I see if he's out of the shower yet?

No, Mortimer! Wait!

But the apparition turned into a puddle of faint light on the floor. The last bit of ghostly glitter winked out. Hilary listened to the wood crackling in the stove, the eaves dripping outside his windows and already forming vast icicles. He crossed his arms tighter over the pillow, pulled his knees closer to his chin. If Mortimer came back and insisted on bragging about all of Ren Lipot's fine physical qualities, Hilary was determined to get him to be quiet. One couldn't really tell a prince of an imaginary land to shut up. If Hilary didn't say it, he'd have to admit a curiosity. Since discovering his own lack of beauty, his crumpled vanity found consolation in the beauty of others. Women did not fascinate him half as much as men did. He could compare his foul qualities with the fine qualities of other men. A feat impossible if women replaced men. Because Hilary avoided seeing other people as often as possible, he rarely knew one man from the next. Alec and Ziggy Morgan were the only ones in town that he knew. He'd seen Alec Safford roaming about often enough in his bathrobe in winter, in his bathing trunks in summer, to have eked all he could of that comparison. Alec was short, paunchy, fleshy, but he had nice ears and a good nose. He might look more like Ziggy and Alec in a few years. He'd seen pictures of Dad as an older man, older than Hilary's thirty-five years and younger than Ziggy. It was possible he might look like Dad eventually, with sad eyes, the undersides sagged, puffed up from alcohol and pills. No, Hilary didn't drink and he would not take pills unless he had a fever. He wouldn't resemble Dad. 

The catalogs that Dinah let him look through, to buy the occasional new article since it was so far to go for anything other than flannel shirts and jeans, had given Hilary specimens to ogle. He relished in the pictures, often spending hours turning the pages in the comfort of his isolated chamber upstairs. The women seemed strange to him, after seeing Dinah for so long, who was not as thin as the ladies in the pages, and did not wear such fancy clothes. The pictures of pregnant women frightened him—and he'd never been able to look at Dinah very long while she was in the family way. She'd thought it funny and laughed at his averted gazes; but hadn't realized that he was afraid for her. In what capacity, exactly, he could not comprehend and found it too difficult to talk about. Mortimer had understood better than anyone, even Neptune, who thought the doings of people beneath her. He knew better now to skip the pages of distended bellies and nursing bras. And, as he wasn't the least bit interested in the frilly, girly underwear—except as a rudimentary interest as he first became aware of such things—eventually he skipped the entire women's undergarments section. He liked to look at men's socks. Hairy calves with such good shapes to them. And who knew there were so many varieties of socks? He remembered putting on his best pair of new socks and looking at his feet and shins in the full-length mirror. After comparing his legs to the legs of the men in the catalog, Hilary was very sure his legs were all right. Not handsome, of course. He'd obtained enough scrapes in childhood to leave lasting scars on his knees. But his legs were perhaps the best thing about his whole body, at least those parts that he could compare with informative magazine photos. 

As for the rest, dutifully covered by his billowy boxers, Hilary didn't think upon as anything worthwhile. His bottom was for sitting on. He didn't let the crack of his butt hang over the belt of his pants, though, as Colonel Mike sometimes permitted, maybe against his will. And he didn't let his pants fall below the waist, either, as young Flanders at the auto body shop was prone to do. Hilary had seen him a few times, when he'd go upstairs to fetch a bag of flour, whose little window gave him a good view of all the Main Street doings. More often than not, Flanders would be working under someone's car with one hand, pulling his pants up with the other. But Flanders was a skinny kid, and maybe they didn't make men's belts small enough. Hilary wondered if Flanders shouldn't try a women's large in lieu of the proper size being unavailable. As prosaically as Hilary regarded bottoms, penises were much the same. He knew of them—readily available on every second person in the world, or a statistic roughly that—but he was not eager to include them in his comparative studies. What he knew was purely book knowledge, mentioned in the nonfiction he read. Animals had them, too. A strange thought, that, as though penises should be allowed to set men apart from beasts, as Free Will and extensive language did. But this had yet to happen. So far as Hilary knew, he had no reason to dislike this portion of his anatomy. It was just sort of there. It functioned well, as far as he knew, and did everything it was supposed to. He doubted he'd ever have a chance to think less or more of it. 

Thoughts such as these prompted Hilary's glare on the returned Mortimer to reflect humor. Well?

Mortimer seemed to draw out a response by warming his never-cold hands in front of the stove. He was getting dressed. It smelled very good in there. Clean and—it was nice.

What are his shins like?

His shins?

Were they as nice as mine?

He'll be here in the summer, Mortimer said, seemingly apropos nothing but with a deviant thought of the future scooting across his thoughts. Or, as it was, his thoughts merely borrowed from Hilary's. You'll see his shins then.

I will?

Sure you will.

In daylight?

Wouldn't you want to see him in daylight?

No, Hilary murmured, the fear he'd been repressing surging to the surface. He clanked the headboard against the wall as he shot back. Pillow crimped in his hands, against his chest, he bowed his head and waved a hand at Mortimer. You displease me. Go away, Mortimer, back to your castle. I don't want to see you right now.

Mortimer was unaffected by the emotional display. He was often the recipient of Hilary's anguish, a viewer of those temperamental moments. His hand reached for the nub of Hilary's knee. A cold set of fingers were like a cold little breath to Hilary. Imaginary Mortimer, the dead prince of a world that didn't exist. His best friend in a world that did exist. This fact, coupled with all the others of his miserable state of existence, shriveled Hilary into the corner. The cold fingers, the cold breath, were held back. 

Why am I mad? Aren't I sane? he whimpered, hoping for a real answer, not one of Mortimer's coy replies. 

You're no more insane than anyone else in this town. Mortimer bent at the waist to lessen the space between him and his master. His chin fell to the blessed knee. You could be beautiful, you know. You really could be if you let yourself. 

He left a kiss at the knee. With his lips still in place, like an ice cube, the details of his costume, his face, his eyes as Hilary looked into them, disintegrated. He left behind his usual faint prism, a rainbow that turned into one tiny grain of light, before that was sucked into the great castle of St. Goslington's. 

Hilary ruminated on Mortimer's parting phrases. Lies, he thought. Pretty lies, as Mortimer always told the loveliest lies that ever fell from his lovely full mouth. Lies, anyway. He stayed in the silence until his breath returned to its normal state and his tears, not quite falling from the watershed, had returned to the inner bivouac. Gone was the desire to hate Mortimer. The meetings between them in the last few