"The World in Play: Chapter 4.0" by Lynn K Hollander

Julia

August,  2001

Virginia

           George Coubertin, looking a spectacularly healthy 40 and feeling better than he had when he had been 25, shook hands with the senator and watched at she climbed into the helicopter.   He walked back towards the house and met his other guest, the section head of GAO/SURPLUS.  George nodded to the man's assistant, who fell back.  On the way to the helicopter, the head said,  "I understand you need some documentation for your export license, Mr. Coubertin?  Can I expedite it for you?"

           "No thank you, although it was very kind of you to ask.  My friend will be taking possession here, so we don't need to worry about anything.  Just see that the goods are ready in three weeks at the warehouse."

           "But he'll need..."

           "That will be his problem,"  George said.  "Not ours."

           "Mr. Coubertin, once those items are in private hands, they cannot remain here; and without a license, they cannot be exported."

           "Don't worry about it; it will be taken care of,"  George said, meeting the man's eyes for a moment.

           "All right,"  the department head said slowly.  "The rifles will be there."

           "Good."  Smiling, George shook hands, then stood patiently while the craft lifted and flew east, back towards Washington.  Mixing with simple humans was a necessary task, and almost always boring.  At least he was free of that duty until November.  

           He turned back to the house.  His assistant, two of the gardeners and some of the inside staff waiting by the door shifted back to their various normal, non-human, forms and went about their own duties, avoiding eye contact with him.  

           He went to his library.  There were some minor maintenance tasks to accomplish before he could return to his studies and they could not be delegated.  

           He kept the communication mirror concealed behind one of the paintings on the wall.  The frame of the painting was hinged. Swinging it open, he intoned Xios's name.

           The nearly humanoid demon appeared:  "Greetings, George."

           "Xios.  The rifles will be ready in three weeks.  You will need two trucks."

           "Ah, excellent.  And the location?"

           "The warehouse in New Jersey."  

           "Thank you, George.  I appreciate this."

           "Use them in good health,"  George said.  "I'll send word when I receive the notice."  

           "And when do I return the favor?"

           "Early September of next year.  I will require some bodyguards for, oh, certainly less than a week, probably not more than 36 hours."

           "Certainly."

           George swung the picture back into place.  

           Could the next task be postponed?  No.  There was a date approaching, not soon, not till next year, but time was linear, no matter how powerful he became.  A quick census seemed called for.

            Opening the door to the private stair, he went up to the tower.  

           On the penultimate floor, he stripped and washed his mouth, eyes, and hands.  Naked, he ascended the last flight of stairs to the open room.  Four open arches held up a domed roof, while on the floor was an inset black circle in field of  white marble.  He entered the circle and closed it behind him.  Sitting in the center, he gestured the ring into flame and cleared his mind of everything but the rite.  As his physical vision dimmed, his other sight took over until he could see 360 degrees around him.  He saw the ring grow very bright, then fade as glowing mannequins coalesced out of the light.  

           Ah, his descendants.  Seeking east, he found one of his rare daughters; north, and slightly east of him a son, a grandson, two extant great-grandsons, and a great-granddaughter in utero; further north, an adult male grandson.  North and west, a son.  Further west, another daughter and a young granddaughter.  Eight.  Fewer sons and daughters than six years ago, which was not unexpected, considering their ages.  What was mildly worrying, however, was the limited increase in great-grandchildren.  He would have to do something about that, when he could spare the time from his studies.

June
2002
Virginia

           George Coubertin controlled his panic.  

           Last year he had had his choice of eight.  Now there was only a granddaughter left.  As delicately as he could, he expanded his perceptions, discovering her name and address.  

           Always aware of his enemies, he wondered if this was a subtle attack.  He took a moment to investigate the deaths of his descendants.

           Oh.  His closest son, grandson and great-grandchildren had died on 11 September, 2001.  Their direction agreed generally with the location of the WTC towers.  Another son, further north, had died at sea on 9 December 2001.  His third extant son, located west of his home, had had a heart attack on 23 November 2001.  Of his daughters, the nearest had died in an apparently normal traffic accident in holiday traffic; the last, far to the west, had died of cancer on 3 March 2002.  Everything looked normal, or at least non-magical in origin.

           Well, he would have to do something about this now, and not wait.  Redundancy was a safety measure in magic as well as in modern technology.  What he needed was a popular sperm bank or better yet, several popular sperm banks, with a susceptible technician in each.   He returned to his office and took up the phone book.  Discovering more about this topic required the Yellow Pages, not the circle.  There:  Sperm Banks, right between Speedometers and Spices.  Four in the District, six in the New York Metropolitan Area, and two in Boston.  

           He pointed at some of his Huruvian servitors and delivered a series of commands, ending:  "At these institutions, you will discover the routine for making a deposit and the selection process by which a deposit is utilized.   You will also assess the staff, discovering which one is, or which ones are, open to management; after that, you will return to me.  Go."

           George indicated four of the remaining Huruvians.  "You lot:  find my granddaughter.  Her name is Emily Hughes.  She is in Los Gatos, California.  Her address is 1505 Bent Drive.  You will know her by this,"  he said, imprinting the signature of the girl's aura on the minds of his servants.  "Locate her, track her, establish her routine."

           "Yes, sir."

           "Do not interfere.  Do not be seen if you can avoid being seen, but do not fail to perform this task properly.  Do not alarm the girl, her parents, her friends, her schoolmates, her teachers or her priest if she has one.  Now, I shall send you to a park near her home.  Conceal yourselves there for the remainder of the night.  At dawn begin your surveillance."

July
2002
Washington, DC

           "So it is important, not just for me, that my sample is used frequently,"  George said.

           "I'm very sorry.  I deeply regret disappointing you, but we only use a sample five times,"  the technician said earnestly.

           "I see."

           "We take that very seriously.  There is just no way I can get around that regulation."

"I see.  In that case, I'll just give five samples.  There would be no problem with that, would there?"  he asked, meeting the technician's eyes for a long moment.

           "None at all,"  the technician said slowly.

"Very good.  You should ready five sets of paperwork.  Use these names."  He considered, then wrote quickly.  He handed the technician the list and continued:  "Give me five sample jars, please, and I will return directly."



           George dismissed the succubus.  He had never really cared for sex, and the succubus was the only partner with whom he could achieve climax, even with the aphrodisiac spell.  At least the demon didn't fuss at him, or worse yet, cling.  Taking the sample jars, he returned to the technician.  

           One last task, or rather two:  He cast a fascination spell on the paperwork.  That would insure that when there was a choice between one of his samples and some other sample, his sample would be the one selected.  After that, he forced forgetfulness on the technician.

           In a state of nearly total collapse, he had his servants carry him out the door and into the limousine.



           As he was being driven home, George calculated how long it would be before he felt up to that again.  On the one hand, sex was uncomfortable and time consuming, not to mention undignified.  On the other hand, without sex there would be no offerings to Prokerekestes, and without offerings, there would be no benefits.  That was unthinkable.

           The aphrodisiac spell had a short effective period, no longer than absolutely necessary, but it had a lengthy, multi-step preparation.  The preparation of the spells, taming the technicians, the act itself, casting the fascinations, and on top of all that, the commute; it all added up to three days wasted, plus recovery time.  The visits to New York and Boston would involve stays in those areas, in private housing that would need to be acquired, somehow...

           He figured it would cost him no less than six weeks to visit every selected establishment.  Well, his mind was already focused on extending his life, and not on his studies.  He would continue his plan, which should conclude some time in August, leaving just enough time before the well named deadline to complete the current offering, and then-finally-return to his home and his library.

July

2002

New York

           "You were told to assess the staff, not alert them,"  George said.  "You have alarmed two of the technicians.  They will have to be eliminated and replaced.   That institution will have to be rescheduled.  I am extremely annoyed."  He pointed a finger at the erring Huruvians and fire engulfed them.  

           The others watched silently.  

           When the fires died, George turned to the other Huruvian servants:  "Some of you, clean that up, then go kill the two technicians.  The rest of you, unpack my gear.  My move to Boston will be delayed."

           "Yes, sir."

***

           "I loathe him,"  one Huruvian said.

           "Well, of course,"  another answered.

           "Who doesn't?"  said a third.

           "Keep your mouth shut, however, or you'll end up like Ramius and Qion," counseled the second.

July
2002
San Francisco

           Helen still had her left foot free and she kicked wildly at her captors.  She connected.

           One of her attackers doubled over and staggered back.  

           With one of her hands now free, she flung a curse into the face of the remaining one.  

           Suddenly palsied, he let go of her right arm and leg.

           She landed flat on the street, the wind knocked out of her.  As she rolled on her side and gasped for breath, two men ran into the alley, both of them pulling out wooden stakes.

           The older man ran up to the first attacker and thrust hard with the stake. Without pausing he whirled and pushed the second one towards his much younger companion. Behind him, the first attacker collapsed into dust. The younger man extended his stake and the second attacker fell onto it, then turned to dust as well.



           Edward Hopkins took a shaky breath.  He never got used to this.

           The intended victim, a young girl, got to her knees and looked around. She suddenly wrapped her arms around herself and started to shake.

           "Are you all right?"  he asked.  

           "Ahh,"  Jan said.  "Uh..."

           "Get it together, Jan.  Are you all right?"  he asked the girl again.

           "I, I..."  the girl said.

           "And what are you doing down here at this time of night anyway?"  Edward demanded.  

           "Y-you're here!" she said.

           "And lucky for you that we are.  Do you know what almost happened to you?"

           "No."

           "I'll explain."  Edward did so, in graphic detail.  "And if you were really lucky, you would have died."

           Jan looked more shocked.

           "Jan,"  Edward said again,  "get it together.  This is what we do, this is the trade off-she's alive, the vampires are dust."

           "Vampires are against god,"  the girl said, obviously quoting someone.  Like Jan, she looked dazed.  "No, it's the belief in vampires that's ungodly, that's it."

           "That's really ignorant. Vampires exist, whether or not you believe in them.  And while some vampires are like the one I just staked, others are very devout and can make perfectly normal neighbors.  On the other hand, we know a very respectable vampire who's an atheist.  Um, that's all irrelevant,"  Edward said.  He wasn't as quite calm as he wanted to be.  "Go home."

           "I ran away."

           "Get over that, and go on home.  Come on, Jan, let's get back."

***

           "They must have been on something.  It was early, with a lot of pedestrian traffic, and they showed no subtlety whatsoever, which was why she had a chance to scream.  Luckily we were right around the corner."

           "Uh, is there always that little squeak just before they turn to dust?"

           "Jan, do you do any of your assigned reading?"  Martin demanded

           "I'm writing it up for the journal,"  Edward said.  "I'll include a special note in case there's some new drug going around the predatory side, and..."

           "Martin?"  

           The vampire glanced up. Galley was standing just inside the door with a human girl beside him.  

           "No kids,"  he said.

           "Oh, hell,"  Edward Hopkins said, putting down his pen.  

           "She followed us!"  Jan said.

           "Obviously,"  Edward said.

           "I was waiting for you to come out,"  the girl said.  "I was afraid I'd missed you."

           "She followed us home, can we keep her?"  Edward muttered.

           Apparently Galley thought his part in the situation was fulfilled, because he turned and left the room.  Martin glared after him, then turned to the girl.

           The vampire saw a short girl, about five feet tall, pasty-skinned, and plump.  She wore generic white tennis shoes without socks, a cheap cotton flowered dress, much too long for her, and a scruffy, pilled, red, polyester man's blazer.  Her dull mouse-brown hair was worn in a heavy ponytail down to her waist.  She had slept in her clothes, and obviously hadn't bathed in a few days.  She looked as if she had a year or two to go before she became a teenager, although she had the sullen glare practiced and ready for the moment she turned thirteen.

           "Absolutely not,"  Martin said.

           The girl turned to the new speaker.  She saw a tall man, with a narrow face under untidy grayish brown hair, worn a little long and with a side parting.  Under a high unlined forehead, he had deep-set brown eyes with black radii and a wide black rim, very dark in his nearly white complexion.  His thin mouth was wide above a square chin.  At the moment, he was unsmiling.

           "You put her out, then,"  Edward said.  He looked at the girl:  "Hello again. I'm Edward Hopkins, this is Jan and this is Martin Stevenson, the highly respectable vampire I told you about.  Martin, uh, this is the girl we rescued tonight."

           "She's what, eleven, twelve?"  Martin demanded.

           "I'm fourteen."

           "That's not really any better,"  Martin told her.

           "I can't take her home with me,"  Edward said.  "My neighbors will talk."

           "And mine won't?"  Martin asked.

           "Let her sleep in the bartender's apartment,"  Edward said.

           "Jesus!  Jan is bad enough-"

           "Hey!"  Jan said.

           "-and he's six years older than she is!"

           "Three years,"  Edward said.  

           "Three and three-quarters,"  Jan said.  

           "Only if she's telling the truth,"  Martin said.

           "I d-don't lie!"

           "Martin, she doesn't really make it any worse:  If they find out about Jan, or us, or you, we're screwed anyway.  What's one more,"  Edward looked at the girl, obviously considering her,  "sullen, volatile, temperamental, teenager?"  he continued as he turned back to Martin.

           "There's a difference between dynamite and nitroglycerin,"  Martin said.  

           "Not in the long run,"  the girl said.  "Dynamite is unstable."

           "Quiet."

           "The filler can decompose and release the nitro, so you not only have dynamite, you have nitro coated dynamite."   Her voice had the quality of someone reciting a drilled lesson as she continued:  "Fertilizer and diesel is a better way to go."

           "I said quiet."

           "Yeah,"  Jan said.  "Bad analogy."

           "You, go home,"  Martin told Jan.  

           The boy grinned, waved at Edward, and left, picking up his helmet from the table.

           "And in any case,"  Edward said,  "it's past two.  If we toss her out now, she gets raped or eaten or both."

           "Or she gets arrested and given a bed for the rest of the night before she's sent home."

           "From where she has already run away."

           "I w-won't go home."

           "Why not?"  Edward asked.

           "They m-make me work."

           "Everybody has chores,"  Martin said impatiently.  "Doing the dishes won't hurt you.  For years, I carried in the coal, I carried out the ashes, and I shoveled the sidewalks every time it snowed."  

           "Sewing."

           "A useful as well as a womanly talent,"  the vampire said.  "Even my mother sewed."

           "Ten hours a day.  High school sweaters,"  the girl said.  "S-school uniforms.  Blazers for employee of the month,"  she tugged at the soiled hem of the jacket she was wearing, "banners, aprons, c-crap like that."

           "Don't swear,"  the vampire said.

           "Contract sewing, sweat-shop stuff?"  Edward said.

           "Yes,"  the girl said.

           "So who's making you sew?"  Edward asked.

           "My mother and stepfather; mostly my s-stepfather, but my mother always does what he says."

           "How can he make you get a job?"  Martin said.  "Who would hire an obviously underage girl?"

           "He owns the factory."

           "David Copperfield,"  Martin muttered.

           "The magician?"  the girl asked.  "I wish.  He could make my stepfather disappear."

           "At eleven, at your age...Even if you're fourteen, you can't just drop out,"  Martin objected.  "He'd have truant officers showing up every day asking why you weren't in school."

           "San Francisco doesn't deal with truancy that often, usually they just let it slide,"  Edward said.

           "And anyway, I have a diploma."  

           "From grade school?"

           "High school!"

           Martin glanced at Edward.  

           "How?"  Edward asked.  

           "I passed the test, and my mom and stepfather sent in the papers.  We got back my diploma.  My stepfather has it."

           Edward explained:  "She was home schooled.  She passed the school-leaving tests, she graduated.  No truant officers will be interested in her."  

           "And she doesn't know about David Copperfield?"  

           "It's California,"  Edward said.  "Education has become erratic here in the past twenty years.  She can probably weave beautiful baskets."  He turned to the girl:  "What about your father? Or his parents, your grandparents on his side?"

           "They're dead, and my d-dad is gone."

           Edward looked at Martin, who threw up his hands.  "All right, she can stay."

***

           "What's your name?"                 

           "N-no,"  the girl said.  She flinched.  Defying an adult led to punishment.  Placating an adult led to punishment.  For a moment, she didn't know what to do.  If he knew her name, he would send her back.  If she defied him, he would be angry.  She didn't know what to do.  She didn't look at the vampire, even when she heard him stop and turn toward her.

           "As a name or an attitude for anyone older than two and a half, that's not acceptable.  We need a referent for you, beyond just 'hey you'.  It's July; we'll call you Julia, Julia Taylor.  OK?

           "If you don't like that,"  Martin continued, as the girl didn't speak,  "suggest something else."

           She risked a look up at him.  He didn't seem angry, but that didn't mean that he wasn't.  He nodded at her.  She drew a quiet breath.  Maybe Julia wasn't hit.  She knew some girls weren't hit.  "I was g-going to say that was f-fine with me,"  Julia Taylor said.

           Martin didn't know whether to believe her, but it was the first time she had cooperated at all.  He decided to accept small favors gratefully.  "Come along,"  he said, and led the way down a dark hall and up two steps into a studio apartment:  a room, with what a designer would call a sleeping area, a sitting area and a kitchen area.  There were two other doors, one in the outer wall, to the right, and another in the interior wall.  There were no windows.  (From the outside door, enclosed stairs ran down the south-east side of the building, in a switch-back landing arrangement, with a locked door opening on 12th street beside the front of the White Elephant.)

           The room contained a wardrobe, a large, round, battered table and two side chairs, an arm chair, a small refrigerator supporting a large coffee machine, a two-burner hot plate on the table, a roll-away cot and some plastic milk crates as a night stand that supported a small flexible desk lamp with a hemispheric metal shade.  "Sometimes I have a bartender using the place.  It's quiet, at least during the day."  Martin opened the refrigerator:  it contained three kinds of coffee beans and an eight-pack of Cambells.   "Have you had dinner?"

           "Some pizza(1)."

           "Good."

           "Tiny,"  Julia said, walking over to the door on the left.  She came back and sat on the roll-away.  "The bed's hard and there isn't even a mirror in the bathroom."

           "So?" the vampire demanded.  "Do you need to shave?"

           "I'm supposed to comb my hair."

           "You could have fooled me.  I'll do something about it in the morning.  Right now, I'll see if there's any spare clothing around."

           "The whole bathroom is the shower?  Weird."

           "It's utilitarian."  Martin opened the armoire and checked the drawers:  "OK, sheets, towels, and an old shirt for a nightgown.  It's clean."

           "Wow,"  Julia said, looking at the gaudy tie-dyed shirt.  "You're a Deadhead?"

           "It was a gift."

           "You used it to paint in."

           "That was an accident.  Soap, shampoo, a comb, and a pillow.  Have fun, get clean, and lock the door behind me."

           "Thank you,"  Julia said.

           Martin, halfway out the door, looked back.  "You're welcome."  

  

***

           "So what's this?"  Julia asked, looking at the bowl Martin had just handed her.

           "Porridge,"  the vampire said, pouring the heavy cream usually reserved for Irish Coffees over his own oatmeal.

 "Weird."

           "Classic,"  Martin corrected.  "I had it every day when I was growing up and I sometimes miss it.  What do you usually have for breakfast?"

           "Two pieces of bread."

           "What?"

           "Bread."

           "And lunch?"

           "Bread, sometimes tortillas."(2)

           "Where'd you get the tortillas?"

           "The women at work,"  Julia said.  "Sometimes they would wrap it around some beans and rice."

           "I almost hesitate to ask:  Dinner?"

           "Bread."

           "Wait a moment,"  the vampire said and went over to the bar.  In the refrigerator he found a plastic gallon container of pickled onions, another of stuffed olives, some celery sticks and a pitcher of tomato juice, both for human-style Bloody Marys, and a pitcher of orange juice, used for screwdrivers.  He shrugged and poured out a glass of each juice.

           "Eat your oatmeal and drink your juice,"  the vampire said, setting the glasses in front of Julia.

           She looked up at him in surprise.  "T-thank you."  She took a sip from each glass.

           "Tonight, we'll get some take-out."   

           "Pizza?"

           "Let's expand your culinary horizons.  We'll start with soup and a salad, and go from there."

***

           "Because she needs some clothes,"  Martin said patiently.  "She can't keep on wearing the ones she arrived in and those cast-offs."

           "Why me?  Why not Karelle, she's a girl."

           "Clothing stores aren't open at night, Karelle can't go out during the day, I can't go out during the day, Galley..."

           "I get it,"  Jan said sulkily.  

           "Edward is busy all day,"  Martin continued.  "You're free on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Tomorrow is Tuesday.  Tomorrow, you take Julia shopping."

           "He doesn't need to,"  Julia said.  "I can go by myself."

           "Maybe next time,"  Martin said.

           "I want to get my hair cut,"  Julia said.

           "OK,"  Martin said.  

           "Short."

           "OK."

***

           Jan wasn't happy about being saddled with a gawky girl, and despite what Martin had said, there was someone besides him who was free during the day.  With any luck, he could shift this whole thing off on her and he and Edward could have a real dinner together before they started patrolling.  He turned north on 101, then turned right instead of left on Lombard Street and zigzagged up the hill up to Compass Place.  

           The cul-de-sac(3) jutted north off Chestnut Street, on top of an outcropping that formed the northern-most part of Russian Hill.  There was an apartment building on the south-west of the cul-de-sac, and a row of modern townhouses along Chestnut to the east.  The three houses in Compass Place were all different:  one red brick, with sandstone accents; one ivory brick with glazed tile decoration; and one stucco, with a red tile roof.  Number fifteen, the ivory brick house between the other two, was his destination.  Climbing the stairs to the front door, he considered what he would say.

***

           Ann Grove had finished breakfast and was reading an e-mail from Sarah Thompson, one of her vampire friends.   

           Almost two years ago, the young vampire had had an extremely traumatic transition.  After staking the vampires who had raped, murdered and turned her, she had been considering suicide when she met Ann.  

           Ann had always believed that adults in their right minds should be permitted more freedom of action than children, but that wounded children should be kept from harming themselves further.  She had kidnapped Sarah and committed her to a hospital run by a mixed staff, some human, some not.  Eventually they had helped the vampire progress towards recovery.

           Shortly before her release, Sarah had written a history for her therapist of how she had become a vampire.  After returning to college, she had turned the narrative into a screen play.  This summer she had submitted it to two agents.  The first said the market for 'Ann Rice inspired scripts' was slow and returned it.  The second agent changed the title from 'Tragedy of a Vampire' to 'Revenge of the Vampire Co-eds', and sold it.

           "Which just goes to show you,"  Sarah continued,  "but I have no idea exactly what."  Then, very casually,  she mentioned the real message in her letter:  "PS, I have written to Nick."

           Well, that Sarah could care about her former boy friend, could even laugh at herself a little, was good news and boded well for the girl.  Vampires, having immortality unexpectedly thrust upon them, generally when the human victims were young, half educated, totally lacking in empathy, markedly egocentric, and culpably oblivious, had more difficulty than most immortals in growing up.  Some immortals, not just vampires, never managed it, no matter how many years they lived.  Apparently there was hope that Sarah might achieve adulthood.  Good.  Ann enjoyed grown-ups.

           Her door bell rang.  Ann frowned.  Why was Jan vanderWitt calling at this hour?  She thought the boy never rose before noon on Tuesdays, Thursdays and weekends.

***

           "Good morning, Jan.  Would you like some coffee?"  Ann Grove asked.   She did not appear in the least surprised to see him.  Even when she was at home, she was neatly dressed:  A pantsuit, in black wool flannel, with pleated trousers and a lapel-less jacket, worn open over a red V-necked blouse.

           "Ah, yes."  

           "Come in."  She gestured to his right.  "You can put your helmet and jacket on the rack, and the washroom is the door at the end of the hall.  Join me on the deck."  She turned about and walked straight away from the door.

           Jan placed his riding gloves in his helmet and rested everything on the shelf of the coat rack, then put his jacket on a sturdy hanger.  He ducked into the bathroom and washed his hands and gave his longish blond hair a quick comb.   

           On the deck, there was a small table, set for two, with coffee, fruit and pastries.  Under a closed laptop, copies of The Tri-Valley Gazette, The Stanford Daily, The Daily Californian, The Oaklander, The Sing Tao Daily, The Benicia Capitol Journal, The Marin Times, The San Jose Record, and The Noe Valley Neighborhood Reporter were stacked haphazardly on a third chair.  Just east of the table and chairs, at the corner of the deck, was a somewhat larger table, lower and extending through both the north and east railings on the diagonal.  This table was occupied by many red and green birds, squabbling over fruit and nuts.

           "Hey, look,"  one bird said.  

           "It's him again,"  said another.

           "But he doesn't have that ugly machine,"  objected a third.

           "Or that thing on his head,"  said a fourth.

           "I thought that was a mating crest,"  a fifth bird said.

           "No,"  another bird said.  "It's a human thing, it goes on and off.  It doesn't mean anything."

           "Flock,"  Ann said,  "this is Jan."

           "Hi,"  the birds said in a ragged chorus.

           "Hi,"  Jan answered faintly.

           "Jan, this is the Nob Hill Flock.  They're red-faced parakeets."

           "We're feral."

           "We escaped."

           "We're hatched,"  another parakeet insisted.

           "We're all hatched," the second parakeet responded,  "but some of us were hatched and then escaped, while others of us had parents who escaped and then hatched us."

           "Oh,"  the third parakeet said.

           "Sometimes, we work for her,"  a fourth parakeet said.

           "We tell her what we see."

           "Sometimes, we carry messages."

           "And I'm very grateful for all your help,"  Ann said.  She sat and poured Jan a cup of coffee.  "How do you take it?"

           "Uh...Oh, with hot milk and cinnamon,"  Jan said, sitting down and twisting his head to watch the birds.

           Ann passed him a silver tray, containing a small cream pitcher, a sugar bowl, a jug of hot milk and several long thin cinnamon sticks in an antique footed cigarette urn.  "I can also offer you a croissant."(4)

           "Fine."  

           "We're going to go eat gravel,"  one of the parakeets said.

           "Then I'll see you tomorrow,"  Ann Grove said.

           All the red-faced parakeets took off and flew west, heading for the Presidio.

           Jan turned to watch them go.  

           "Or a bagel."  

           Jan's head jerked around as Ann spoke again.  He was still holding the tray.

           "OK."

           "Or possibly some hemlock?"

           "Thanks."

           "Jan:  What's the matter?"

           "Have you seen Martin recently?"

           "No,"  Ann frowned.  "I haven't seen him since July.  I talked to him briefly two days ago and he sounded fine.  What about Martin?"

           "Well,"  Jan began, wondering how to explain everything.  He had assumed that she knew about Julia, and apparently she didn't.  "Well, about ten days ago..."

 

           After Jan's report, Ann considered him for a moment before she said,  "You rescued the child; you can take her shopping.  It is, after all, a simple, easy task and one which you are perfectly capable of executing."

           "No, I'm not.  She needs guidance.  Her taste is terrible, so... so gauche."(5)

           "De gustibus non est disputandum(6(; besides, if she ran away from home with just the clothes on her back, they may not be an accurate approximation of her taste."

           "Yeah, but..."  Jan rapidly shifted his tactics.  "I was wondering if you'd come along."

            "Why?"

           "You're not gauche and I don't know where to take her, she'd look ridiculous in anything from North Beach Leather.   You must know where to shop, I mean, you're always so nicely dressed.  We have to take her someplace where she can't buy anything that makes her look even more like a épouvantail."(7)

           Ann smiled.  "All right.  When?"

           "After lunch."

           "Today?"

           "Yeah."

           "All right.  I'll met the two of you at the Lounge, probably about 1:30."

***

           Well, Ann thought.  Martin hadn't mentioned picking up a stray teenager, but then their recent conversations had been brief, with Martin and Edward working extra shifts since they were a vigilante short.  

 Frustration was an experience.  Experiences were to be savored, although privately Ann thought it was an example of Fate's very low sense of humor to bring her an adult and responsible lover, one who was as well intelligent and good looking, in a mature and ectomorphic way, and then to keep the affair from consummation because of that lover's sense of responsibility.  Jan probably felt the same way, although with his eighteenth birthday coming in November, at least the boy had an end to frustration to look forward to.  She poured herself a last cup of coffee, gestured away the breakfast dishes, the newspapers and the extra chair, and, taking her laptop, climbed the stairs up to her office.  From there she called Edward Hopkins at work.

           "Hopkins."

           "Ann Grove, Edward.  May I have a word?"

           "Sure.  What about?"

"Julia, the young runaway.  Why didn't you send her off to child welfare?"

           "Martin told you about her?"
           "Jan.  Why leave her with Martin?"

           "Um, what do you know about the juvenile care system?"

           "The last time this situation arose, the local one had an excellent reputation, it just wasn't appropriate for the particular child.  He was a shape shifter, and not even born on Earth."

           "Um.  Ours, even when well intentioned, is overcrowded, understaffed and operates some unsafe group houses.  I admit I did assume that one of two things would happen:  Either Julia would calm down, tell us her real name and go home or Martin would-you know how vampires can do the 'I am your master, you must obey me' thing?"

           "Seduction, enthrallment or persuasion.  It's also been termed mesmerism, animal magnetism, focused charisma and a lot of other names.  I'm familiar with the phenomenon, in a theoretical way.  Is Martin any good at it?  He's only about a century old,"  Ann said,  "and that's a skill that grows with age."

           "I've only seen him use it on building inspectors and the like.  I don't know if civil servants are a fair test, but I didn't expect him to have any trouble sending the girl home at some point.  It seems that didn't work.  It's been nearly two weeks; Martin seems content to have her around or at least resigned to her presence."

           "And the girl?"

           "Seems content to be around, which makes me wonder if her home situation was worse than she described."

           "The dramatis personae are a classic set-up for a variety of abuse,"  Ann said.

           "Which I'm not sure is what happened,"  Edward reminded her.  

           "So is she safer at the No Mirrors Lounge than at home?"  Ann asked.

           "It would appear that she thinks so.  Her stammer is gone,"  he said.  "When she first arrived, when she wasn't fighting or screaming, she sometimes stammered.  Now, she's speaking quite clearly."

           Ann rang off, then went down to the living room to observe her assignment board.  An average number of incidents of unfinished magic; she would handle them, then meet Jan and the girl.  

***

           "Who are you?"  Julia asked.

           "Call me Ann.  I'm a friend of Jan's, and of Edward's and Martin's."

           "Are you supposed to make me wear dresses?"

           "I beg your pardon?"

           "I don't want dresses, I want blue jeans.  Martin said I could have blue jeans."

           "Fine,"  Ann said.

           "You don't need me, do you?"  Jan asked.  

           Ann and Julia ignored him.

           "And I want my hair cut,"  Julia said flatly.  "Martin said I could have it short.  Shorter than Jan's."

           Ann calmly examined the girl, extending one hand to lift and turn her chin.  

           Her intention was complex:  Ann was not in the habit of burrowing through the minds of every human she met, certainly not of a child who didn't happen to be a juvenile delinquent pointing a wand at her.  Julia, however, was an unknown, apparently Martin's friend if not exactly Jan's, and Ann would be responsible for her safe return to the No Mirrors Lounge.  She needed to be able to find the girl if they were separated, she wanted to know if what she suspected was true, and she wanted to see if the girl's somewhat plump face could support the harsh frame short hair could offer to anything less than a classic oval face.

           Power tingled beneath her fingers.  Right, another witch, Ann thought.  I'll have to mention this to Martin, at some point.  And do something about her nutrition.  What has the girl been eating, or rather not eating?  That pallid puffiness does not indicate an acceptable level of health.  On the other hand, she does have good bones, even if they aren't as dense as they should be.  "Short hair requires a certain amount of up-keep, a weekly or monthly trim, which some people find a bother,"  she said, lowering her hand,  "but you might do well with it.  Do you think you'd like a Joanne Woodward?  Or maybe a Halle Berry?  Just a minute, Jan."

           Jan had attempted to slip out the door.  He found he could not pass through the doorway.  He glanced at Ann, who smiled at him, then turned back to Julia.

           "No.  Are they in movies?  I haven't seen a movie in five years."

           "Well, no doubt there will be pictures showing some choices and you can always just tell the cutter to keep cutting until you're happy.  I think we should cut your hair first.  Do you agree?"

           "Yes."

           "Then we'll do that.  Come along, Jan."

           "Look, you really don't need me and we won't all fit on the bike, why don't I just give you the keys?"  Jan asked.  Nothing was going quite the way he'd planned.

           "We're taking a cab,"  Ann said serenely.  "We'll need you to carry packages."

           "But Ann..."

           "Come along, Jan."

***

           She panicked.  All her new habits couldn't help her in this situation.  She had no idea what happened.  I didn't do it, she thought.

***

           Helen felt a powerful wrenching sensation.  Abruptly, she was not crossing a busy street, but was standing in a large room.  She looked around quickly.  There were windows on three sides, the middle view showing the Golden Gate Bridge on the left and what she assumed was one of the islands in San Francisco Bay.  So, part of her realized, that way was north.

           The rug she was standing on was a large, pale-toned Persian garden carpet.  The furniture, immediately around her and in the dining area at the east end of the room, was Chinese Chippendale.  The tables, in their various heights, appeared sturdy, the chairs graceful and the sofas comfortable.  The cushions and curtains were brocades that echoed some of the colors in the carpet.  The whole room was unique and beautiful, but very cool and formal.

           There was something about the painting above the longer sofa.  It showed a southern California landscape with a house off to one side, almost as if it were merely incidental or an afterthought:  a graceful, welcoming two story stucco building, with a fountain and a wide front door.  The subject matter did not explain why it attracted her attention; neither did the technical execution, which was effortlessly skillful, with warm, life-like tones and faultless perspective.  It was as if there was something around the painting, or maybe behind it.  Later.

           She tore her gaze from the painting and turned to her companions.  The boy was startled, but not frightened.  

           "Warn me when you do that,"  he told the woman.

           It seemed to be unusual but not disastrous.  Calm down.  Come back, Helen thought, it's all right.  No one noticed anything.

***

           "Why did you do that, anyway?"  Jan demanded, looking around Ann's living room.

           "I had my reasons,"  Ann Grove said, turning to Julia.  "Julia."

           The girl was watching her with alarm in her eyes.

           "Julia, it's all right.  We just had to avoid a policeman."

           "Is that all?"

           Jan eyed her impatiently.  "Well, you are a runaway, you know."

           "Yes."  She blinked, then asked:  "What just happened?"

           "Ann can teleport,"  Jan said.  "She does it all the time.  So we didn't really need to take a cab,"  he accused, turning back to Ann.

           Ann looked at him:  "We'll still need you to carry the packages.  I think we'll go to a different salon, one outside San Francisco.  Julia, have you ever lived in or around Walnut Creek?"

           "No.  My stepfather says only messengers of god and agents of the devil can travel like that, and the Star Trek transporter is designed by Satan."

           "It's not,"  Ann said.  "I'm not a demon, I am not a witch, and what I do is perfectly natural for me."

           "So how do you do it?"

           "Like this,"  Ann said.  The room disappeared.  

***

           There was a bustle at the back room door.  Jan, carrying two shopping bags in each hand and a box under one arm, walked in, followed by Julia, who carried two more shopping bags, and then by Ann Grove, who held the door for the boy and girl with one hand and carried yet another shopping bag in the other.

           "Ann?"  Martin said.

           "Hi,  Jan wanted some advice on which shops to patronize."

           "He tried to wriggle out?"

           "Once or twice.  I didn't let him, though."

           "Did you leave anything for anyone else?"  Edward asked.

           "Only our rejects,"  Ann Grove said, putting the shopping bag on the bookcase and joining the vampire and Edward at the table.  Jan piled bags on one chair, put the box on the table and sat.  He looked at Edward, conveying extreme patience sorely tried.  Edward smiled at the boy.  

           "We looked at everything,"  Julia said with great satisfaction.  She was wearing dark brown cords, a matching corduroy cropped jacket in a lighter brown over an orange T-shirt.  Brown boots, a brown belt and a brown suede shoulder bag kept up the brown theme, which gave some warmth to her pale skin.  Her hair was now very short on the back and sides and tousled on the top, adding a little length to her face.  She had had royal blue and Chinese red streaks added.  A pair of small silver-colored hoops were in her ears.  She looked nothing like the scarecrow Jan had called her.  

           "You pierced your ears?"  Martin asked.  He had scented no fresh blood.

           "A long time ago.  Ann noticed, and gave me these.  My mother took away all my earrings; not that any of them were as real as these are.  Nice, aren't they?"

           "Yes, and your hair is extremely short,"  Martin said.  "Sort of shingled, almost.  Happy with it?"

           "Yeah.  I made Cindy cut it twice.  The first time she left it about as long as Jan's, but I wanted it shorter."  Julia released her two bags, which landed with a solid thud on the floor, and sat.  

           Martin looked down.  "Books?"

           "She wanted books,"  Ann agreed, handing Julia a tall glass of what appeared to be a fruit and yogurt smoothie.  It fizzed gently.

           "What's this one?"  the girl asked.

           "A restorative,"  Ann said.  "With peaches.  Shopping can tire you; so can carrying."  She put another glass in front of Jan.  He glowered.  Ann smiled at him.  Amused, Edward watched them.

           "What sort of books?"  Martin asked, peering into the first bag.

           "Later,"  Ann said.  "What with one thing and another, we ended up shopping in Walnut Creek and Berkeley."

           "Oh?"  Martin asked, sitting up and looking at Ann.

           "We attracted some attention on the way to The Hair Place.  I didn't know how much you'd told Julia, so we took a cab, then walked.  Crossing Market on the way to Maiden Lane, we had the bad luck to meet probably the most alert policeman in all of San Francisco.  He took one look at Julia and started talking about her into the mike on his shoulder.  Well, that was not good, so I moved us all to my house, where we spent some time discussing the fact that different people have different abilities.  We briefly sidetracked into religion, but we did arrive at a sort of truce, at least for today.  We went on to another salon, not as noisy or with as much neon as the one I first planned on visiting, but where we still managed to get her hair cut."

           "I was calm,"  Jan said smugly.

           "Well, you did it before,"  Julia said.

           "You handled it quite well,"  Ann said,  "and you didn't bother going off about not believing your eyes, which can be so tedious and time consuming.  That's why we had time to visit the Other Change of Hobbit."

           "Harry Potter is the devil,"  Julia said.

           "Where do you get these ideas?"  Edward asked.

           "My stepfather.  Actually, what he said was J. K. Rowling is inspired by Satan."

           "Most unlikely,"  Ann said, smiling at the girl.  "But you can read the books and decide for yourself.  Now, getting back to the policeman."

           Edward look alarmed.

           "He saw me, I think he didn't see Jan, and of course, he saw the old Julia."

           "She stepped in front of me,"  Jan said.

           "Cameras?  Do you think they got shots of them?"  Edward asked Martin.

           "Down there?"  Martin said.  "Hell, there are tens, maybe hundreds.  You walk across the street, and you've had your picture taken the baker's dozen times that's now the American daily average."

           "Damn,"  Edward said.

           "Well,"  Ann said, slowly,  "as it happens, that doesn't really matter, not to us, not this time at least."

           Edward frowned at her.

           "Do you know how, in CG work, you can edit out moving figures, matching the background so it's as if the figures were never there?"

           "No."

           "You can; at least special effects technicians can.  If I don't want them to, humans can't take surreptitious pictures of me, or of people with me, since it would be noticeable if they were talking to thin air.  Frequently, I don't want to be noticed, alone or with friends."

           "Neat trick,"  Martin said.

           "Not mine,"  Ann admitted,  "but very useful."

           "And you don't leave a walking void?"  Edward asked.  "A blur or blank spot?"

           "No. The background shows up, just as it would if no one had ever been in front of it, but we don't.  I am careful to avoid dense crowds; enough people in a small area, and my position becomes obvious.  Elevators could be a problem, if I used them.  Edward, I think Jan wasn't noticed at all, and therefore the absence of a record of him shouldn't intensify anyone's interest."

           "And she says she's not a witch,"  Julia said.

           "I am not a witch," Ann agreed.  "So your parents are searching, but for the old Julia, and the police may be looking for me for questioning, but they won't find me.  Keep your hair short, wear pants, avoid any place you ever went to before you arrived here and don't ever J-walk or get an overdue library book.  Do that the next three and a half years, until your eighteenth birthday; after which, you're legally an adult-well, you're an adult for many practical purposes-and your mother can't reclaim you."

           "That's a third of my life, nearly,"  Julia said.

           "No, it's only forty-two one hundred seventy-fourths,"  Martin said.  "About 24.13%.  A little less than a fourth.  And remember, when you're eighteen, it'll be only 19.44% or less than a fifth."

           Edward glanced at Ann, who smiled and gave a faint shrug.  Edward relaxed a little.  He really didn't want to turn the girl over to the child protection services.  Apparently, Ann agreed with him.

           "Oh, Jan,"  Martin said.  "Would you go down to the storage room?  I think there are a couple of bookcases down there, from the last time I remodeled.  Take Julia with you and see which one she wants, please."

           "And I suppose you want me to bring it up?"

           "If you please?  You're young and sturdy,"  Martin said.  "You can do it easily and I would appreciate it."

           "Oh, all right.  Come on, you."



           "He's really a very nice boy,"  Ann said.  

           "But a little lazy,"  Edward admitted.

           "Ann, what do you think of Julia?"

           "She's hiding something,"  Ann said bluntly.  "I have no real idea what.  I can find out, but if I did that she'd never trust us at all.  I don't feel she's a danger to any of us."

           "Have you seen her undressed?"  Martin asked.

           "Her back?"  Ann asked.

           "Yes."  
br           "What?"  Edward asked.

           Ann said,  "She's been whipped.  She carries the scars on her back."

           "Oh.  I was wondering what changed your mind,"  Edward said.

           Ann nodded.  "Sending her back to her parents is no longer an option."

           "She's been making ricin,"  Martin said.

           "What?"  Edward asked again.

           "In some sort of home lab set up, using home-grown beans and coffee filters.  She wondered what I was making, that first evening,"  Martin explained.

           "Jesus,"  Edward wondered.  "Nitro, fertilizer and ricin.  What else does she know?"

           "She doesn't know what ricin is or how it's been used, she just knows how to make it,"  Martin said.  "And she knows because her stepfather told her."

           "This is so illegal,"  Edward muttered.

           "It was your idea,"  Martin reminded him.

           "I mean all of it.   Not having her here, well, not just having her here.  That's illegal on a variety of levels, but I can live with all that, I mean her life before she ran away.  I'm really worried about what happens to her, no matter what we do."

           "We have two problems,"  Ann said.  "The first is keeping Julia safe from her parents for the next three and a half years."

           "The record for foster children who get turned out on their eighteenth birthday with a hundred dollars and a handshake isn't good,"  Edward said.

           Martin nodded.  "We have to worry about what happens next."

           "Exactly,"  Ann said.  "If we are to do it correctly we're talking about a probable ten year quasi-parental commitment.  Think about it.  She and I have an appointment Monday for a late lunch and a visit to the library.   We can talk again after she and I get back."  

***

           "Are we going to walk?"  Julia, dressed in blue jeans and long sleeved Chinese red T-shirt, with a royal blue cardigan tied around her waist, eyed Ann's somewhat more formal slacks and shirt with qualified approval.  

           "I thought so,"  Ann said.  "I know an Indian place not far from here where we could get something to eat, then we could head north to the City Center.  How free were you to walk around before you came to stay here?"

           "Not!"  the girl said.  "Not at all.  I was always with someone, Mom or my stepfather.  I knew where the bus stop was, but only because we drove past it on the way to the factory."

           Ann nodded, and headed down the stairs.  "You should know your neighborhood, which is why we're walking.  The Main Library isn't far, and despite some design faults, it's still an arresting building, with a reasonable collection.  We'll start there."

           "You walk a lot?"

           "All over.  I like to walk and I need to know the whole area; but Julia, while that's safe for me, there are places you shouldn't go alone."

           "Like my neighborhood, at night."

           "Exactly."

***

           "So where's Julia?"  Edward asked as Ann walked into the back room.

           "Reading,"  Ann said.  "I said I would call her for dinner."

           "Where shall we order?"

           Ann looked affronted.  "I brought dinner,"  she said, indicating a wicker basket resting on a new long table.  

           Edward eyed the basket.  It looked small to him.  "Will there be enough?  I know Martin doesn't eat much, but Julia and I are normal humans, and I've had a long day."

           "There will be enough."

           Martin came in, carrying a tray on which were:  a full martini pitcher, three empty martini glasses, several filled shot glasses with little stick-on labels, and a selection of strange items on toothpicks.  "Ann?  A martini?  Or a Tequini, with tequila, vermouth  and a jalapeño?  If you have it with orange vodka, Cointreau, and pickled watermelon rind, it's a Summertini.  God, how do they think of these things?"

           "A gibson,"  Ann said.  "I like the classics."

           "You've been reading that bartender's trade magazine again,"  Edward said, arranging the martini glasses in front of Martin.

           "Not me,"  Martin said, pouring.  "Faron.  He wants to expand his repertoire."

           "Is that a strawberry?"  Edward said, finding a simple pickled onion on a pick and slipping it into Ann's drink.

           "It goes with the fraise one.  I have doubts about that,"  Martin said.  

           "Probably justified,"  Edward retorted, taking an olive for himself.

           "I told him I'd have to try everything,"  Martin explained, twisting lemon peel over his drink and taking a sip.  "Including the water chestnut in the Saketini.  How was the new library?"  he asked Ann.

           "The traffic flow remains awkward, and I'm disappointed in the limited shelf space, but on the whole, it's an improvement.  We got Julia Taylor a card, with the minimum necessary lies.  She's a nice girl, Martin,"  Ann said.  "What are we going to do with her?"

***

           "Julia, you don't have a diploma,"  Martin said.

           "I do too."

           "Think a minute:  What name is on the diploma you earned?  Is it the same as the name on your new library card?"

           A brief silence.  "Oh, right."

           "A way out of this apparent paradox is to go back to school under a different name,"  the vampire said.

           "I've been schooled,"  Julia said flatly.  

           "Not well enough,"  Edward said.  "But the fault is with your teachers, not you."

           "At some point, Julia,"  Ann said,  "you may be obliged to deal with your mother or some other authority figure, either because you've fallen into the hands of the police and been identified or because of a different, more personal reason.  The moment you told the truth, that you live in a bar run by a century old vampire-who has a teleporting girl friend-which is also where the Committee of Vigilance of the Folsom Street Irregulars meets, you'd be labeled delusional if not criminal."

           Well, Martin thought.  Girl friend.  That was encouraging.  Not that they had had any time...He brought his mind back to the problem at hand.

           "If you say that you've been going to school-even using an assumed name-and can prove it, your situation is somewhat more manageable,"  Ann ended.

           "And eventually,"  Martin said, watching the girl carefully,  "you'll want to go to college."  

           "I don't know.  Maybe."

           "Frankly, you're too young for that now, and you'll need to supply a legitimate CV when you do apply to wherever you want to go,"  the vampire said.

           "CV?"   Julia asked.

           "Curriculum vitae,"  Edward said.  "A record of your life.  Hiding from your mother and stepfather leaves a big gap in yours."

             "Plus,"  Martin continued,  "considering how paranoid the national character is becoming, the safest path for you to take after you become eighteen is to reclaim your birth name, if only so you can prove you're a citizen."

           "I like being Julia Taylor."

           "That can be handled,"  Edward said. "Once you're eighteen."

           "Which school?"

           "We were thinking about the Hanyu-Yingyu School,"  Ann said, handing Julia a glossy brochure.

           "Why not the one just over in the Mission?"  Julia asked.

           "You speak a little Spanish,"  Martin said.  "Does your mother know that?"

           "No, but my stepfather does.  Oh."

           "Right,"  Ann said.  "As far as your parents know, you have no friends, no resources and you don't speak Chinese, so a private bilingual English-Chinese all girl school should be far down on any search list your parents and the police may assemble."

           "I don't speak Chinese, I don't speak any Chinese,"  Julia protested.

           "I'll teach you some tonight,"  Ann said.  "Enough for you to get by."

           Julia looked over at Martin:  "Is this a good idea?"  she asked the vampire.

           "I think so,"  he said seriously.  "You've got a good mind, you shouldn't waste it."

           The girl looked up at Ann.

           "Your mother and stepfather are more educated than you are right now, not just older and more experienced, more educated.  If you need to deal with them sometime in the future, you should be as well armed as they are,"  Ann said.

           Julia glanced at Edward.

           "No one likes to date an ignoramus.  No one except another ignoramus, that is.  You'd find that boring."

           "OK."  Julia still looked a little worried.

           "Hey.  It's a good school.  I checked their stats,"  the vampire said, waving a pamphlet.  "The teacher bios are pretty good, with lots of advanced degrees and experience.  According to this, all their seniors graduate and 78% go on to graduate from college.  You'll take some placement tests, then you can pick your courses.  They offer basics if you need them, and some advanced placement courses if you can handle them.  You'll even like the Red Army approved uniforms, pants and a tunic."

           "The uniforms are blue and black,"  the girl said, showing Martin a picture in the other brochure.  "It's just that it's new and a little scary."

           "You were brave enough to run away, you're brave enough to live here, I think you're brave enough to go to school,"  Martin said.

           Julia looked at him, then nodded again.  "OK."

           "Excellent.  Shall we have dinner?"  Ann asked.

           "Yes,"  Julia said.  

           Ann began unpacking the basket.  

 Edward stifled a sigh.  He was a discriminating eater, a talented amateur chef and he liked his cuisine(9) haute(10).

           Ann set out plates, silverware and napkins.

           Edward noticed the plates were Limoges, the silverware antique European-style sterling and the napkins linen damask.  Well, luxury hampers were available, if pricey.   Locally, Portable Feast produced a good line of picnic basket.  If Ann had purchased her basket there, the food would probably be edible, if a little predictable.   

           Ann continued to unpack the basket:  Avocados stuffed with crab salad, orange cups stuffed with mixed bean, nut and raisin salad, fillet of beef, breast of guinea hen on country ham, Franconia potatoes, sweet potato puffs, rice jambalaya with smoked tofu and mushrooms, grilled tomatoes with shaved parmesan on eggplant and Seven Grain dinner rolls.

           Edward eyed the basket again.  He turned to Ann, who was watching him with a small smile.  "No room for dessert?"  

           "I'll unpack that when it's time to serve it,"  she said.  "I hear Jan arriving.  If you would carve, Edward, we can eat."

           "Oh, Jan eats fish, or has eaten fish,"  Edward said.  

           "I'll bear that in mind,"  Ann said.  "For next time."



           "So how are you going to manage this?"  Martin asked.  The vampire was arranging a thin slice of aged cheddar on a sliver of tart apple.

           "A sort of immersion technique,"  Ann said.  "I thought Julia could come home with me, learn Chinese and spend the night.  Tomorrow, we'll wander around Chinatown, learn the basic geography and practice the language.  If that goes well, the day after that, the three of us will go off to school and enroll her."

           "How much Chinese can she learn in one day?"  Edward asked.  For dessert, he had selected grapes, peeled into a melon half and served with a syrup of reduced sauterne.

           Jan and Julia had picked almond Bavarian pudding and cream puffs filled with chocolate mousse respectively.

           "Enough."

           "She looks too sleepy to learn,"  the vampire observed.

           "The process works best if the student is relaxed,"  Ann said.

           "She's so relaxed, her eyes are nearly shut."

           "I'm awake."

***