"Yes there are."
"Are they terrible?"
"Some of them, yes," Phoebe said, "One of them's very terrible indeed," She remembered Abr6's phrase. 'The Cosm's a vale of tears," she said.
It did the trick. The Mistress smiled. "There," she said, turning to Abr6. "Isn't that what I always say?"
"That's what you say," Musnakaff replied. "No wonder you fled it," the woman said, turning her attention back to Phoebe.
111 didn't-"
"What?" "Flee. I didn't flee. I came because there's somebody here I want to find."
"And who might that be?"
"My... lover."
The Mistress regarded her pityingly. "So you're here for love?" she said.
"Yes," Phoebe replied. "Before you ask, his name's Joe."
"I had no intention of asking," the Mistress rasped.
"Well I told you anyhow. He's somewhere out there at sea. And I've come to find him."
"You'll fail," the harridan said, making no attempt to disguise her satisfaction at the thought. "You know what's going on out there, I presume?" "Vaguely."
"Then you surely know there's no chance of finding him. He's probably already dead." "I know that's not true," Phoebe said. "How can you know?" the Mistress said. "Because I was here in a dream. I met him, out there in Quiddity." She dropped her voice a little, for dramatic effect. "We made love." "In the sea?" "In the sea."
"You actually coupled in Quiddity?" Musnakaff said. "Yes.
The Mistress had picked up a sheet of paper from the bed-it was covered, Phoebe saw, with line upon line of spidery handwriting-and proceeded to tear it up. "Such a thing," she said, half to herself. "Such a thing."
"Is there any way you can help me?" Phoebe said.
it was Musnakaff who replied. "I'm afraid-"
He got no further. "Maybe," the Mistress said. "The sea doesn't speak. But there are those in it that do." She had reduced the first sheet of paper to litter, and now picked up a second. "What would I get in return?" she asked Phoebe.
"How about the truth?" Phoebe replied.
The Mistress cocked her head. "Have you lied to me?" she said.
"I said what I was told to say," Phoebe replied.
"About what?"
"About the Cosm being a vale of tears."
"Is that not so?" the Mistress said, somewhat testily.
"Some of the time. People live unhappy lives. But not all the time. And not all of the people." The Mistress grunted. "I guess maybe you don't want to hear the truth after all. Maybe you're happier just sitting tearing up love letters and thinking you're better off here than there."
"How did you know?"
"What, that they were love letters? By the look on your face."
"He's been writing to me every hour on the hour for six years. Tells me he'd let me have this whole damn continent, if I'd only grant him a kiss, a touch. I've never answered a single billet-doux. But still he writes 'em, reams and reams of sentimental nonsense. And every now and then I take a day or so to tear them up.
"If you hate him that much," Phoebe said, "you must have loved him-"
"I told you, I've loved one creature in my life. And he's dead."
"In the Cosm," Phoebe said. It was not a question, it was a statement, plain and simple.
The Mistress looked up at her. "Do you read minds?" she said, very softly. "Is that how you know my secrets?"
"It wasn't much of a leap," Phoebe replied. "You said you dreamed this city into being. You must have seen the original once."
"I did," the Mistress said. "A very long time ago. I was a mere child."
"Did you remember much?"
"More than I care to," the woman said, "far more. I had great ambitions, you see, and they came to nothing. Well, almost nothing.. .
"
"What ambitions?"
"to build a new Alexandria. A city where people would live in peace and prosperity." She shrugged. "And what did I end up with?"
"What?"
"Everville."
Phoebe was flummoxed. "Everville?" she said. What on SEVEN earth could this bizarre creature have to do with safe, smug little Everville? The woman dropped the love letter she was tearing and stared into the flames. "Yes. You may as well know the whole truth, for what it's worth." She looked from the fire to Phoebe and made a tiny smile. "My name's Maeve O'Connell," she said, "and I'm the fool who founded Everville."
Until the early eighties, the route of the Saturday Parade had been simple. It had started at Sears' Bakery on Poppy Lane and proceeded along Acres Street to Main, where it had moved-in about an hour-to its conclusion in the town square. But as the scale of both the parade and the crowd attending it had grown, a new route had to be devised that would allow breathing room for both. After several six-to-Mid night meetings in their smoke-filled room above Dorothy Bullard's office, the Festival Committee had hit upon a simple but clever solution: The parade would describe an almost com plete circle around the town, setting out from behind the Town Hall. This almost tripled the length of the route. Main Street and the town square would still remain the prime sites for view ing, of course, but the spectators there would be obliged to wait somewhat longer for the show to come their way. For the impa fient then, or those with impatient kids, the streets closer to the starting-place were preferable, while for those folks who tluived on anticipation, and were happy to eat, drink, and swel ter for an hour and a half while the music grew tantalizingly louder, there was still no better place to be than on the bleach ers, fire escapes, and window-sills of Main Street.
"The band's never sounded better," Maisie Waits said to Dorothy as the two women stood in the sun outside Kitty's p Diner, watching the parade slowly make its way towards the crossroads. Dorothy beamed. She couldn't have been more proud, she thought to herself, if she'd given birth to every one of these musicians herself, and was about to say so when she checked herself. Wherever that notion had popped up from it was perhaps better left unspoken. Instead she said, "We all loved Arnold, of course," speaking of Arnold Langley, who had led the band for twenty-two years until his sudden death of a stroke the previous January, "but Larry's really worked on updating the repertoire."
"Oh Bill just thinks the sun shines out of Larry," Maisie remarked. Her husband had played the trombone in the band for a decade. "And he loves the new uniforms."
They'd cost a tidy sum, but there was no doubt the money had been well spent. Along with Larry Glodoski's recruitindrive, which had brought a number of new, younger players into the ranks (all but one of them from out of town), the uniforms had given the band a fresher, snappier appearance, which had in turn improved their marching and their playing. There'd even been talk of the band entering one of the big interstate competitions in the next couple of years. Even if it didn't win, the publicity would only help the Festival.
Not that it needed help, Dorothy thought, her gaze moving from band to crowd. There were about as many people here as the streets would bear; five or six deep in some places, their weight putting the barricades under considerable strain, their din so loud it drowned out all but the band's bass drum, which thumped away in Dorothy's lower belly like a second heart. "You know I really should eat something," she said to Maisie. "I'm feeling a little floaty."
"Oh, well that's no good," Maisie said. "We'll have to get some food inside you."
"I'll just wait until the band gets here," Dorothy said.
"Are you sure?" "Of course. I can't miss the band."