Molly clapped her hands. "Wonderful."
    Needless to say, I didn't like a minute of it. I'm not used to being looked at with such overt scrutiny, let alone while I'm just in my underthings, and I don't like to be touched—that mind/body problem again. Bodies remember in their own way, I learned that when I tried to drive a car. My brain and body do not mirror one another the way I assume most people's do, and it's unnerving to find one's own body a thing apart like that. My only true tactile memories are from those early, preconscious days. And Poughkeepsie, of course. There's that sense of emphatic disjoint that came so close to driving me over the edge in those early months, not helped at all by the emotions those memories conjure, which tend toward the homicidal on my best days.
    Pierre at least picked up on my rigidity whenever he happened to brush me in his measuring and draping, and minimized contact as much he could. To distract myself, I brought up the subject of Cait Sith.
    "Thunderbolt mentioned that you had a break-in the other day."
    "Yes, yes unfortunately. But, he was there, and that was very helpful. He certainly protected us from that criminal and her henchmen. It's...embarrassing, for someone in my position."
    "And she's brand new," I agreed, eying her fastidious shudder with skepticism.
    "I am trusting that Captain Sutton will bring her down eventually."
    I'm not buying this for an instant. I might believe that someone could manage to break into Molly's house—okay, she's not in the Game any more (she says), and maybe her security has gotten a bit sloppy. But that bit about her fainting? Which means that she was in on it. Which means... what? The only idea I have is almost too bizarre to give credence to.
    "Well, has this lady shown up anywhere else since then?" she asked.
    "Oh, yes. She's been sighted once again."
    "Oh really?"
    "She had another run-in with Thunderbolt."
    "And he got the better of her this time?"
    "I wouldn't exactly—ow, don't poke there!—say that," I said diplomatically. "Watch what you're doing with that pin." Pierre muttered an apology.
    "Well, if any of you encounter her again, I'd love to find out what happened to my things. I'll be honest, I haven't even filed a report about it with the police, I'm just so embarrassed about the whole thing."
    "That's okay, we filed one."
    "What?" She looked startled.
    "A report. We have to." Much as Phoenix Talon would like to believe otherwise.
    "Oh. Okay. Well that's good to know."
    "So yes, naturally if we track down your missing property, we'll of course inform you."
    "Thank you. Where was this other break-in?"
    "Outside of town somewhere. Impressive art collection this guy has."
    "Anyone we know?"
    "I don't know if you're acquainted with Mr. Mort."
    "Only by reputation, isn't that the place where...?" Her eyebrows lifted.
    "Yes." Of course the others had told her all about it that first time.
    "I wouldn't go to that building any more if I were you," she suggested.
    "I don't intend to go anywhere near it, personally."
    "Bad things happen to you there."
    "Well, worse things happen to the owner." He's the one who got stunned once and robbed twice; we just get embarrassed a lot.
    Several hours later, Pierre had accumulated a hefty sheaf of sketches. I absolutely refused to countenance anything skin-tight for a costume; it would look ridiculous on me. And I prefer to stick with black. To be honest, I still don't see what their problem is with what I'm wearing now. It's durable, easy to clean and it has pockets. There were drawings for some casual clothes, some less casual, a couple dresses....
    "More of them?" I asked incredulously.
    "These are autumn gowns," Molly explained patiently.
    I know you're not supposed to wear white shoes after Labor Day, but no one ever told me you have to wear entirely different clothes. And the last time I bothered getting dressed up the evening ended so well, too.

September 16, 1987

Stopped by K. Robeson today—one mystery resolved. People really do baffle me. Sometimes I suspect that Scott understands the species better than I do.
    "Oh, hi, Scott," I nodded, finding him there going through still more files. I don't know what he does with them all.
    "Hi," Stephanie nodded. "Have you met Harvey yet?"
    "I don't believe I have. Hello, Harvey." I bent down and let the big cat sniff my hand. He stalked off with a flip of his tail, as if to dismiss me as unworthy of attention.
    "You must smell like other cats," she said, watching him go.
    "Probably Newton."
    "Harvey's possessive."
    "Cats are," I shrugged.
    "What can we do for you?" Felix inquired, turning from whatever he was working on. He certainly seems to spend a lot of time at the office. Keeps him from getting bored, I hope.
    "Um, I just had a thought the other day. A while back you mentioned something about those murders back at the beginning of the year."
    "Oh, yes, the Silas Vandemar stuff. What about it?"
    "When Chandler and Lucky disappeared he left a note that seemed to be vaguely alluding to the same crew. So I was wondering what you'd come up with."
    "I merely had tracked down the connection point between all the women." He turned back to the screen and began calling up records.
    "Oh yeah?"
    He nodded. "They seemed unconnected, but all of them had recently been divorced within the last two years and had gotten into fairly nasty custody battles, over the custody of their one child, and from what I can see of the psych profiles of the people in question, all of them were doing this solely for status reasons. The child had become a possession, something that they had to have. For some reason I think that Vandemar was trying to build up something—and this is just a guess here, because I'm not psychic or magical or anything—some sort of resonance charge about loss and betrayal of innocence? I don't know why he'd be needing that, but that was the only connection point between all of the women. Has the rose guy woken up?"
    "No, and after nine months in a coma it's not likely that he will," I said a bit grimly. "Interesting." It occurs to me to wonder what happened to those husbands and those children since then. Have to check into that. I'm never sure what to expect when it comes to magic.
    "We had assumed that Chandler had said those people were gone?"
    "Yeah; that's why his note is... worrisome." What had he said? That it shouldn't come to that. What shouldn't?
    "I don't even know where he took them, I have no idea."
    "Elsewhere. With a capital E." Could Blaise have escaped? Or are we supposed to watch for someone else, with similar abilities?
    "Here's your coffee," Stephanie said, bringing me a mug. "I hear things didn't go well for you guys over the weekend?"
    "Well, we've had better days." Had worse, too, of course.
    "I'm sure things will improve."
    "I hope so," I muttered.
    "Um, can I ask you something personal?"
    "Sure." I gave her a curious look.
    "You and... Paul," she asked hesitantly, her expression worried.

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