Gheorghenis Chez Eux

It might be amusing to try to answer the question 'What strange event is this story explaining with a stranger event?'

The last rays of the setting sun fell upon the mountain, lighting up the white sandstone at its summit, setting it in stark relief against the already twilight-darkened conifers below. In the high valley, a peasant, dressed in his usual garb of white loose trousers and tunic with broad black leather belt, set down the scythe with which he had been cutting hay, and, looking to the mountain, crossed himself hastily, right to left, before picking up his scythe again and striding on bare feet towards his home, the steep, thatched roof of which could be seen over the next ridge. He did not glance up again, whistling to himself an old doina, a sad, lonely song.

The year could have been 1455, but it wasn't. Or 1815, but it wasn't that, either.

In the town in the valley below, electric lights, not many, were coming on, and a single black automobile was making its way slowly through cobbled streets crowded with pedestrians and bicyclists with string bags hanging from their often rusty handlebars. A variety of clothing styles could be seen, from the traditional costume of the mountain peasant to bright gypsy clothing that stood out in the artificial light among the more usual dress of grey or brown gabardine suits, shabby and patched. The car turned a corner, and moved on past the construction site where an ungainly concrete building was coming into existence, the sign in front promising a new era of prosperity under the profiled photo of King Michael. The driver of the car snorted to himself, and moved on to park near the tiny railway station, humming a bit of jazz.

The year could have been 1945, but it wasn't. It couldn't have been 1948, because then the king's picture would have been gone forever. Let's say it was 1947.

Up on the mountainside, lights appeared in the windows of a curious-looking castle. Unlike King Ludwig's dream house, it could not have been designed by Mr Disney, nor was it one of those towering hulks that loomed over the landscape with menacing reminders of past horrors, like the one in Brasov. This 'castle' looked more like a Mediterranean villa gone mad, with a long, white, rectangular wall surrounding buildings with pagoda-like red-tiled roofs. The effect, though slightly comical in the brooding surroundings, was of reasonable comfort under conditions meant to ensure privacy.

In the window of a downstairs sitting room, a light appeared. Let us follow that light inside, and see what it illuminates...\

If anything.

****************

Dmitri Gheorgheni flexed long, thin fingers and stretched out his hand for the balloon glass. He inhaled the brandy appreciatively.

'Why won't you drink wine like the rest of us?' demanded Elektra, shaking her tawny locks, which gleamed in the lamplight like coiled copper snakes. Her green eyes flashed with amusement.

Dmitri turned his mild gaze on his cousin, his round, brown eyes opened a bit wider than usual, the pupils still darting back and forth in the alien habit he could never lose – he always had the look of an innocent predator. 'Because...I don't...drink...blood, my dear.' He laughed. 'You're perfectly capable of putting an eyedropperful in that Tokay, just to see what effect it would have on me.' He leaned back in the overstuffed chair, and stretched his booted feet toward the fire.

Dmitri looked at home in his own century – the early 19th – in loose white shirt, tight trousers, and riding boots. Elektra, her tastes more eclectic, was having a Chinese evening, and had chosen a silk cheongsam, gold and silver embroidery over Gheorgheni blue. Dmitri hadn't the heart to tell her that cheongsams were designed for less voluptuous figures than her own.

Elektra laughed, and stretched, catlike, before the fire – thus completely spoiling the effect of the cheongsam. 'You are a fool. Moralising about a teaspoonful of blood. Demitasse spoon, more like it. They don't miss what we take. And we pay them richly for it, ' she grinned, 'in shared experience.'

Dmitri shook his head. 'You spoil them for life. You give them a perfect evening – romance, excitement, a soupçon of danger, perfect sensual pleasure – and, at the height of ecstasy, you take the distilled etheric essence of that experience into yourselves.' He frowned into his glass. 'They spend the rest of their lives trying to recapture the knowledge of that moment. That is cruel.'

Elektra sighed, and crossed to the table to pour herself a glass of wine from the carafe in which it had been breathing. 'You may be right, but what else are we to do, Dmitri? We have...a task. And it's been a long time. This helps get it done.' She turned on him, demanding, 'What would you have us do?'

Dmitri had opened his mouth to answer when another member of the family strode into the room. Alexei, tall, broad-shouldered, with white-blond hair, dressed in the current fashion, though more elegantly than most, took Elektra in his arms and kissed her briefly on the neck, before looking down at Dmitri, a humorous quirk to his mouth. 'What is that in the bedroom upstairs? Your latest conquest? Really, Dmitri, you have no more morals than an alley cat. Must you bring your doxies home with you? Why can't you leave them in their brothels, like I do?'

Before Dmitri could answer this, Elektra broke out in peals of laughter. 'Oh, Dmitri, up to your old tricks again? Who is she this time? And why bring her here?' Pouring a glass of wine for Alexei, she joined him on the couch, where she leaned against her brother, resting her head on his shoulder, running her painted nails through his thick, ashen hair.

Dmitri took a deep breath, and finally managed to get a word in edgewise – something that was hard to do with his relatives. 'I will introduce the lady later. And Alexei, the word 'doxy' is out of place in this time setting. I believe the word you were looking for was 'chippy'.' More laughter from Elektra.

Alexei frowned as he sipped his wine. 'Another child, I suppose? The stars in conjunction for yet another avatar, or some such?' For answer, Dmitri abruptly rose from his chair and, crossing to the large bay windows, pulled away the heavy drapes that protected some of the inhabitants of the castle from too much direct sunlight.

The vista was breathtaking, and almost as bright as day, as the gibbous moon, nearly full, cast a golden light over the mountainside and valley below. Dmitri stood, feet planted apart, studying it thoughtfully. 'Rose moon tomorrow. And by then, we'll be ready.'

Elektra sniggered inelegantly, and kicked off her high heels to snuggle better against Alexei. 'Aha. Another decade, another attempt at 'him, of whom the writings have writ...'

Dmitri turned to face her, leaning against the broad windowsill, and made a gesture as if to ward off flies. 'Mock. I don't care. At least I'm not a mosquito.'
Elektra, unsurprisingly, stuck her tongue out at him. Surprisingly, the tongue was green – she'd been sucking on a mint.

Alexei shrugged. 'To each his own in this game.' He sat up straight suddenly, and one might have sworn that his ears pricked. 'Has anyone seen Ilya?'

Dmitri, still by the window, shook his head. 'The last time I saw your son was in Berlin, about '43, it was...come to think of it, the moon was full then, too...' Elektra frowned. 'Why are you thinking of Ilya?'

As if in answer, there was a loud banging on the heavy outside door. No one moved, knowing there were servants, but a short while later, there were slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs, the door to the sitting room opened, and Ilya Gheorgheni stumbled in. Elektra looked him over without moving. 'Oh, that was why. Speak of the devil, and he will appear.'

Dmitri sprang from the window to embrace Ilya, who looked over his taller uncle's encircling arm with haunted eyes. He was always thin, but now looked positively gaunt, his hair, white-blond like his father's, falling lankly over his forehead. He was dirty and dishevelled, in a Russian officer's uniform, filthy, its epaulettes torn.

Alexei barked, 'What are you doing in that uniform? I told you to join the Germans.'

Dmitri mumured, 'Welcome home.'

Ilya shrugged, as Dmitri helped him to an armchair and brought him bread, cheese, and wine, which he accepted gratefully. 'Thanks, I haven't eaten in two or three days.' To Alexei: 'I wanted to get back here, Tata. This uniform seemed easier.'

Elektra sniffed. 'At least you could've gotten a clean one. You smell of death.'

Ilya stopped eating for a moment to give Elektra a vulpine grin. 'All uniforms smell of death.' He shrugged. 'But I got this one off a dead Russian...been walking a long time.' Dmitri was about to ask more, but the door opened again, and a plump, matronly woman in a black dress rushed in and threw herself on Ilya, ignoring the dirt and the smell, covering his face with kisses and making him spill his wine.

'Oh, Ilya, Iubitile meu, where have you been? I have missed you so much, you naughty boy, you have not come home for so long, what kept you?' Ilya returned the affection shown, with interest. 'Mama Marya, I'm sorry, but I'm back now.' The lady thus addressed glared at Alexei. 'It is your fault, Excelenta, see what you have done. He is all bones.' Alexei stared at his housekeeper haughtily, but, out-stared, turned to look out the window, feigning indifference.

Dmitri decided to give his nephew over to the care of his doting Mama Marya. 'Here, take him and clean him up. We can talk more over dinner.' Marya eagerly complied, saying as she led him away, 'What do you want for dinner, eh? I know, your favourite, blini. We make blini...' When they were gone, Elektra, embarrassed, unfolded herself from the couch and poured more wine, tossing her head and staring at the moon outside as if it had offended her in some obscure way. When Dmitri took a breath to speak, Elektra held up her splayed hand, imperiously.

'Not now, Dmitri. We aren't in the mood to listen to you now.'

So Dmitri remained silent.

****************

Dinner in the castle was mostly a quiet affair. The shy, freckle-faced young woman with the red hair – less fiery and somehow more natural-looking than Elektra's – was introduced as Lady Isobel Douglass, and promptly ignored by everyone except Dmitri. Elektra might have paid more attention, but as the young woman said little, and was dressed in an unexceptional black evening dress rather than a Regency peignoir, Elektra became bored with what she regarded as utterly mundane beauty, and kept up a conversation with Alexei on the subject of postwar politics, of which she knew quite a lot.

Brief excitement was provided when Ilya shouted that there was a cockroach in his salad. This alarming fact could not be proven, as Ilya had suddenly swallowed the evidence, citing a proverb, 'In Russia, even a bug is meat.' Lady Douglass appeared unhappy (not as unhappy as she would have been had she known Russian), but Dmitri took her hand and whispered something in her ear, and the charm or spell he had cast upon her restored itself, so she finished her meal in quiet decorum.

After supper, Alexei announced pointedly that he thought it was time for the ladies to withdraw, so Elektra, with a moue of annoyance, escorted the bedazzled Isobel off to the drawing room, where she gave her coffee and cake and tried to find out what on earth she thought she was doing in Romania.

At the table, Dmitri proposed a toast. 'To Ilya's return!' Ilya, smiling wanly, nodded thanks. Alexei drank the toast, but then said briskly, 'To business. Dmitri, why is there an antigravity saucer on my back lawn?'

Dmitri looked at Ilya and winked. 'I, er, thought I'd go for a ride, Alexei. The moon will be full tomorrow.'

Alexei snorted and spoke with mock patience. 'What difference does it make what phase the moon is in, you idiot child, if you're on the moon?"

Ilya chuckled. 'I know the answer to that one, Tata. And so does Dmitri. The phase of the moon depends on the relative positions of the bodies. As, I suspect, does what Dmitri's planning.' It was his turn to wink.

Alexei leaned back in his chair, turning his wineglass in his hand and thinking. 'Do you really believe that these children of yours will do the trick?'

Dmitri nodded soberly. 'I do. The engineering requires sentience. We know that. And the method you and Elektra are employing...takes too long. By the time you've collected enough for a pattern, the pattern has changed again. This could go on forever.' He stood suddenly, running his hands through his straight black hair.

Ilya poured himself more wine. 'It's not as if we don't have forever, but...'

Dmitri replied softly, in an absent voice. 'But they do not.'

There was nothing to say to that, so they asked the ladies to join them on the rear terrace. The moon had climbed higher in the sky. No longer huge and yellow, it now cast a silver light across the grass...

And on the ridiculous object there. Largish, about the size of a barn, the silver disc sat there, an affront to common sense, with not even a door, window, or glittering array of lights to justify its ludicrous existence. Elektra sighed melodramatically. 'Take your girlfriend, and that stupid spaceship, and go. Couldn't it at least be purple?'

Ilya turned to his uncle. 'May I go along? Feed the dolphins?' He smiled wrily. 'I'm rather tired of this planet.'

Dmitri put his hands on Ilya's shoulders, and looked down into his eyes. 'Not just yet. Stay here.' He smiled. 'Let Marya baby you. You owe her that much.' Ilya's eyes widened, and he nodded agreement.

With a courtly gesture, Dmitri offered Isobel his arm, which she took, looking around her at the night as if she were in a fairy tale. She seemed to think the bizarre ship was only a reasonable substitute for a pumpkin coach and white mice horsemen. Dmitri reached into his pocket, and, taking out a small black object, pointed it at the giant disc and pressed its sides. A light beeping noise was heard, and then a door opened on the upper level of the disc, and a ramp descended in one smooth motion. Dmitri and Isobel mounted the ramp, turned, waved goodbye, then entered the craft, whose doors closed behind them.

Shortly after, the edge of the disc did begin to glow, with coloured lights running around it. The outer edge began to rotate, moving up to a speed in which the colours blended together again to white. Then, slowly, the disc began to rise, hovering a moment, and then shot sharply upwards, stopped, then flew with amazing speed at a tangent.

Alexei, Elektra, and Ilya stood watching until the flying saucer was out of sight, even to a Gheorgheni. Then, sighing, Alexei and Elektra headed back inside, Elektra hanging on Alexei's arm, whispering something that made him laugh.

Ilya stayed behind, gazing up at the moon and what stars could be seen on so bright a night. His thoughts would be hard to describe, for Gheorghenis do not think in words. Images, some bright, some dim, flitted across the inside of his eyes, while the outside saw the moon.

Awhile later, he went into the kitchen to ask for hot cocoa, even though it was midsummer. He had missed hot cocoa in Siberia.

Outside, the moon shone down on the castle, the mountain, the farm, and the town.

It could have been any year, but it was 1947.



Diary of an American Robin

I know you Brits keep bird diaries. I also know you watch for the first robin of spring. Did you know that our enterprising American robins keep diaries on us?

28 FebruaryArrived at the usual place, a little ahead of the crowd. Traffic was terrible this year – major congestion over Florida. Flamingos all over the place. Note to self: Learn Spanish. I am sure they are cursing.

Annoyed at still finding snow in North Carolina. What is going on here? Note to self: Visit resident groundhog in Raleigh, leave messages indicating disgust on his vinyl siding. Decide to make the best of it by spending night in warm conifer with several dozen of my closest friends.


1 MarchDo a recce in the old stomping grounds. Only slight new construction in the neighbourhood since last year. Humans must be having a recession – good. No recession in tree growth, however. Lots of good spots left – sparrows and nuthatches seem to be the only other early arrivals.

Crows as obnoxious as ever. They do not seem to be speaking Spanish. I suspect Serbo-Croat. Note to self: Get Rosetta Stone.


2 MarchBegin marking territory in area that contains: 1 tree large enough to support self, spouse, and eventual offspring, tall enough to discourage cats, dogs on leash only, a minimum of squirrels (they lower the tone of the neighbourhood, but seem to be ubiquitous). Mark territory with melodious call.

Spotted several human children of species Noisus aggravans. Hopped around on ground until they got used to me. Gave them disapproving stare to let them know who is boss around here. Not for nothing am I called an "authoritarian" bird.

3 MarchGetting to know the neighbours. If that mockingbird does not stop mimicking me, I am going to get a restraining order. Or pull out a few tailfeathers.

Note to self: Although quite attractive, Reese's Peanut Butter Cup wrappers are too slick to be good nesting material. The contents, while apparently tasty to squirrels, are disgusting. Squirrels will eat anything.


4 MarchThe neighbourhood is filling up. Have seen cardinals and a tufted titmouse. I do think a bit of colour adds tone to the community.

Tell friends at evening confab about strange human with binoculars. Overheard him (I am sure it is a male, due to his distinctively drab colouration) calling self a "thrush". THRUSH? I am a robin, thank you very much. I do not appreciate that name Turdus migratorius much, either. It sounds vaguely rude.


5 MarchI have seen the first writer of spring. He appears to be tame – lives in a treehouse behind screened fencing. Fencing duly noted, as it appears also to imprison two cats. Look all you want, cats, we are aware of your presence, though we do not deign to acknowledge it beyond an alarm call or two. Writer identified by his characteristic call of "Honey, where are my glasses?"

Note to self: continue scouting for cowbirds. They shall not pull that dodge on me again – I shall evict any and all eggs that do not resemble my beautiful blue darlings.


6 MarchAfter due consideration, nesting site chosen. Rapprochement reached with nuthatch. She may climb my tree.

Note of outrage: Overheard writer claim that – according to some alleged "authority" of the writer species – birdsong is merely saying, "Go away! This is my bush." Only in more profane terms. Hah! What does he know about it? Our communications are much more nuanced than that, and involve breaking news on the worm front, as well as etiological speculation as to the reason for man's existence. Our conclusions on the latter subject are not flattering, I assure you.
Nonetheless, the humans around here seem harmless enough. No slingshots or bows have been sighted, and children and canines appear to be suitably restrained. Tomorrow I begin nest-building in earnest.

Good night, Dear Diary.

The Librarian's Tale

I suppose all of us see as far as we can in the light available to us. I often used to flatter myself that I saw a bit farther than most.

The town of Jacinthe is charming – a Moravian village in the early 18th Century, a coal-mining town in the 19th, it has recently been gentrified, and boasts internet cafés, arts festivals, and out-of-the-way antique shops in beautifully restored vintage buildings. It is possible to live here almost – I stress the almost – as if in a real city like the one where I spent my life until last year. My apartment is pleasantly appointed (once I straightened out a few things with the landlord) and within walking distance of my new workplace. The cultural atmosphere is almost up to standard, and I have made new acquaintances. It is, I imagine, the best possible outcome after the shock of betrayal in Philadelphia.

That the city government there would have been so pusillanimous as to bow to fiscal pressure and force closures on the library system is, I admit, something I should have been prepared for, but was not. Decades of lowering standards led to this. If they had the foresight to eliminate some of the useless amenities they now offer – net access for street people, bestsellers, videos and CDs instead of serious literature – they could easily afford to retain trained professionals rather than hiding behind an economic crisis in order to replace us with the undereducated whose main qualification consists of the ability to swipe barcodes...

O tempora, o mores. Be that as it may, I lost my satisfying employment of 20 years and was forced out into a cruel marketplace for which I was ill-suited. When the promising lead with a publisher dried up – I suspect my taste was a bit too elevated for their line of product – I was faced with the prospect of either immuring myself behind the checkout counter at ConcordBooks (shudder, where the customer is king), or abandoning the intellectually stimulating environment of the city, leaving behind my museum memberships, season tickets to theatre and opera, the monthly gallery crawl, to venture out into what my friends at La Bonhomie always called 'the philistine countryside'. I had nightmares in which I was forced to drive a bookmobile past fields of grazing cattle, but at last I found a suitable place here in Jacinthe, a haven of civilisation in the Poconos where there is even a community theatre, albeit one too prone to staging musicals.

The library itself is a jewel of a place, a fin-de-siècle mansion donated by a former 'robber baron', who left enough money for the place to be suitably appointed to match its original style. Although smallish, it is elegant. From the mahogany circulation desk I can watch patrons through the stained-glass doors (real Tiffany!) as they cross the marble entryway into what I modestly think of as a sanctum of culture amidst the bustle of the shabby postmodern.

I instantly fell in love with the view from the circulation desk, which is why I made sure to volunteer for duty there during the afternoons, when the non-librarian flunkies took their lunches. I could work on emails and ILL (inter-library loans, for the non-initiated) while glancing up to enjoy the light as it filtered through the tinted window beside the entryway – cobalt blue, gold, lovely rose...all this and the smell of polished wood and old books. Heaven on earth, only slightly marred by minor differences over policy between myself and Mrs Roszak, the senior librarian, a sharp-beaked party of old-fashioned disposition who meets the cliche standards of bun-at-the-nape-of-the-neck, sensible shoes, and – gods help us – reading glasses on a chain.

Mrs Roszak observed my abstraction with the windows, and smiled like a gap-toothed sybil. 'You've discovered our secret,' she nodded satisfaction, her spectacles bobbing. 'You see that spot over there by the door? Where the light makes a pattern on the parquet?' I had indeed, and agreed that it was...most agreeable. Her gimlety eyes twinkled.

'You'll find the light changes as winter comes on,' she chirped, and then squeaked away in her Airsoles, off to torment the reference people with unneeded advice. I shrugged amiably and returned to my overdue notices.

But I watched that spot of light – that wheel of colour from the rosette at the top of the window that formed an oval pattern on the dark wood of the floor – faithfully, every afternoon. At first it was quite late in the day – I could sit quietly and stare at it for twenty minutes or so, just before the raucous little hellions came bursting in from Wiscasset High. As autumn wore on, the spot appeared earlier, and the colours paler, somehow, thinner, but none the less intriguing, and I began to take my lunch break later, but at the desk, so that I could sit over my tea and croissant (I am a light eater) and study the fascinating variety of the pattern on the floor. I learned that if I unfocussed my eyes just slightly, as one is instructed to do with those three-dimensional drawings, the oval took on new shapes. I could almost fancy that the image against the wood grain was an anamorphic painting by some unknown artist – I thought him my own, private discovery.

You must not think that I paid undue attention to this, or neglected my work. The pattern on the floor was merely a pleasant diversion in the midst of an otherwise interesting professional day. I chatted with coworkers and patrons, filled out forms, helped here, guided there, and shushed the children behind the stairwell. I attended tedious meetings of the Friends of the Library, pretending to like their home-made delicacies and second-hand wit. In short, I lived my library life. The light from the window was only...an extra, something for lagniappe, as they say.

Until December, that is.

I swear I first noticed the change in the pattern about the beginning of that month. I know I was thinking about the church choir and preparations for the Advent season (I am a mainstay tenor there). As I sat over my Earl Grey, eyes lightly unfocussed – as had become my habit – a sort of warm lassitude came over me as I studied the now-familiar constellation of shades. It seemed to me that the red and blue were almost overlapping at one point, making purple...no, perhaps I should call it mauve...when it occurred to me to wonder whether the pattern, rather than being anamorphic, might be considered more the basis for a hologram...

And there it was: Not out of the corner of my eye, oh no, but full-blown from the beginning, a vision so sudden and startling that I almost dropped my teacup – which would have been a shame, as it was Spode, from the corner antique dealer's. In my agitation, I lost sight of the image for a minute, but with presence of mind I repeated the conditions under which I had first seen it – eyes slightly unfocussed, sitting exactly so, and was rewarded with a repetition of the experience.

There was a young woman standing beside the door.

She was palely beautiful – golden hair in a cascade to her shoulders, wide, hypnotic azure eyes, her figure at once slight and voluptuous, if you get my meaning. She was dressed in the style of the 19th Century – I almost said 'the last', but we are in the 21st now, aren't we? As I said, the vision was clad in a flowing evening gown, definitely, most definitely mauve, with a hint of a bustle, and perfect ruching of the fabric, a rich brocade. A fringe of jet beads reached from the (modest) decolleté over enticingly bare shoulders. Delicate fingers held what I could not quite see in the folds of the dress – something dark, perhaps a fan, also of jet. Before I could examine her further, a cloud passed between our library and the winter sun, and she was gone – although in the last instant I thought I saw the figure raise its lovely head, and (although this was perhaps too much imagination on my part) that she smiled at me, just briefly.

I was stunned. For a moment, I forgot where I was – until Mrs Roszak came by to break the spell with some fatuous comment about bulletin boards and the need to update them. I shook myself – mentally, naturally – and went about my business, saving reflection for later, saving....savouring the reflection, for later...

The next morning I spent anxiously going about my work, wondering, not quite daring to hope – all right, very much daring to hope, and why shouldn't I? – that the vision would return.

And return it did, all through December. Every day the image grew sharper, or I noticed more detail – the pattern of the fabric, Amy's shoe (yes, I called her Amy, she so reminded me of that spirited young girl in Little Women, only all grown up) peeking coyly out from under her dress, the dimple of her cheek, the bend of her wrist as she held in her hand...I could never quite see what.

She intrigued me, this Tiffany phantom, and I began to think that perhaps she was a spirit of the original building from which the library had grown – after all, there was some resemblance between my blonde angel and one of the family portraits we keep in the Reserve Room, a lost daughter, a jilted lover who haunted the place of her happiness in this unusual way...?

You will expect that, being a librarian and surrounded by research opportunities, I tried to find the answer – that I looked up the history of the place, searched for a mystery, a body in the cellar...

Not a bit of it. I was quite content with my mystery woman as she was, thank you very much. I had no inclination to spoil my enjoyment of the phenomenon with some sordid discovery of fact. I simply looked forward to lunch, and the light, and a chance to bask in the beauty of the light.

I had the occasional feeling that Mrs Roszak might have known something. She 'happened' by most days about the time the light appeared, and seemed to glance at it with something like satisfaction. But she never mentioned it to me beyond that one time. Not until much later, that is.

I believe it was the second week when I first saw the glint on the object in Amy's hand. At first I thought it a freak of the sunlight, or a reflection from the snow outside, which can make things brighter. But the next day it was there, stronger, and I strained to see what it was – a watch, perhaps? A jewel? A golden comb? That would suit her. Every day Amy's beauty grew more lucent, and by now I was certain that the enigmatic smile on her face was just for me. I rarely locked eyes with her, but when I did, a thrill went through me, as if somehow we shared some special communication.

I will admit that during these weeks, as I strolled home past the shops of Stroudsburg Avenue, or sat in my favourite café, I began to invent a story for Amy. I have said that investigating a possible ghost legend was not my intention – I would never have called those Philadelphia parapsychologists out here with their pseudo-scientific equipment. I am a romantic man by nature, and I much preferred my own musings. In my private fantasy, Amy had reached across time, from the elegant age in which she lived like a jewel in a rich setting, to find her soulmate – who was, of course, myself, I blush to say. These reveries were enjoyable, to say the least, and caused me to whistle cheerfully among the holiday shoppers. I even wrote her a poem, which I shall not quote here.

It was four days before Christmas when the change came – the solstice, as it happened. I was gazing at Amy, admiring the intensity of the shadows in the folds of her gown, when a cloud passed over and the image faded for an instant. When the sky cleared, I almost gasped –Amy had moved. She had turned slightly, still with that enigmatic smile on her flawless face. Her right arm was now stretched out toward me, and I could finally see what I had strained to look at for so long, there in her tapered fingers, her snow-white hand...glinting in the pale light of the winter afternoon, glinting sharply, the old-fashioned straight razor, its edge blunted with a gout of mauve...no, scarlet...bloodstain...Amy's smile grew wider, vulpine...I stared at my vision in horror, shock, disbelief...

'Aha! You've seen it! I knew you would, Mr Barnaby. I just knew you would.'

Mrs Roszak's piping voice almost made me leap out of my skin. I stared from the vision to her in confusion, my mouth (I fear) agape. I stammered out a denial, all the while looking frantically out of the corner of my eye as Amy appeared to be moving closer (was that possible?), the evil weapon in her outstretched hand.

Mrs Roszak clapped her dry hands in what seemed indecent glee. 'I told the others not to spoil the surprise,' she said as she pointed fondly in the direction of my maniacal beauty. 'We've all seen it, of course.' She folded her hands complacently. 'It's always just perfect today. And now, ' her little eyes twinkled, 'You will surely want to hear the story?' I nodded, mouth dry, but I do not think I could have stopped her. I do not think anything could have stopped Mrs Roszak from telling that story. It was hers, and it would be told.

'It all started when old Miss Gardiner died, ' she said sadly. 'We loved that woman dearly. She was a sweet-natured soul, a dying breed, a cultivated old lady who was fond of literature and good music. Her family had left her well off – she contributed a great deal to the library, you understand – but she was rather lonely in her last years. She would visit us every day, sometimes to borrow books, but mostly to sit and chat. Her favourite chair was by that window.' And she pointed, rather boldly, I thought, for one who claimed to see the vision, right past where Amy –my Amy – was even now threatening to disembowel me while smiling her seductive (though now utterly sinister) smile. Mrs Roszak pointed to the chair by the window, and seemed to be smiling fondly at the demented hologram.

'Of course, we do not usually allow animals on the premises,' she continued as if this made sense –What is she talking about? Animals? But you will see that we had to make an exception for Miss Gardiner. So Toby came with her, every single day, and every single day he sat, as good as gold...right there.' And the madwoman pointed with insane insouciance right through the image – the image that at this very moment was holding out the evidence of its foul and bloody intent – to a point much lower.

'Toby was the sweetest little dog you've ever seen. And so quiet, which is rare in a Pomeranian.' Mrs Roszak smiled radiantly, twiddling her eyeglass chain until I thought I would scream. 'Which is why we all remembered the day – shortly before Christmas, it was – when he stood up on his hind legs and barked.' She beamed at me. 'Of course it is all becoming clear to you now.'

What?, I though. What is this lunatic woman saying? I could scarcely keep my mind on the conversation, as obsessed as I was with watching Amy, afraid to turn away, hoping the vision faded before she...what? Attacked me? What was I thinking? Mrs Roszak twittered on happily.

'Miss Gardiner died that Christmas, unfortunately, and Toby passed away, as well, out of sadness – dogs do that, you know? But every year since then, we've all seen it in the light of that window.' She turned and gazed at the spot on the floor, where Amy's well-shod feet were even now beginning, as I dreaded, to move, oh, so slowly, toward me...

Mrs Roszak stooped down, her hands seeming to caress something invisible to me. She laughed softly. 'Such a nice little dog, ' she murmured. 'And every year, just at the solstice, just like today, he stands up and barks his little bark. We couldn't spoil the surprise for you, Mr Barnaby, you seem like such a kindred spirit here at the library, we wanted you to experience it for yourself...' She turned her head, and I saw her look turn to concern, and then one of alarm, as all against my will, I slid to the floor – and, mercifully, the afternoon light winked out.

I was ignominiously revived with Mrs Roszak's smelling salts, and forced to endure orange pekoe and sympathy from ladies certain that my fainting fit had proven me the most sensitive man on earth – imagine that, so moved by the vision of a little dog...I steadfastly refused to comment on the story.

And I steadfastly refuse to work at the circulation desk again this winter. Oh, in the mornings, of course – I will gladly cover for coffee breaks, and take my turn at the checking out.

But noon will find me elsewhere – in the safety of the Repair Room, rebinding damaged spines by the light of a harsh fluorescent. There are no shadows there.

I suppose all of us see as far as we can in the light available to us. These days, I am a little more careful about where I look.