Oh, snakes and scorpions. Of course I couldn’t go. The archives were all the hostage anyone needed to hold me. Without them, what did I have to Deal, except fast talk and falsehood?

“Excuse me,” the pale thread of a voice came from the figure on the floor. “Can I borrow two pennies? The man with the ferryboat won’t take my I.O.U.”

She hadn’t moved, except to open her eyes. Those were fixed on me, large and black and smudged underneath with the driven weariness that, I now realized, had been there all night.

“You’re not going to die,” I said. It would be harder than that to squeeze sympathy out of me.

“Ah. That explains it. Though I can’t imagine why I’m not.”

“Because there’s a cure for overwork. More’s the pity.”

She closed her eyes at that. “Do you know, I think I agree?”

I stood up with a lurch and went to pour more water into my mug.

“For what it’s worth — which I suspect is not a lot — I’m sorry,” she added. “When I have a little more energy, I’ll endeavor to grovel, if you want.”

“Don’t put yourself out on my account.” I thought about going into another room. But it would have looked, and felt, like retreat. And there was the possibility, small but non-zero, that if I stayed I might be able to make her uncomfortable. I sat down again. “So, did you have a nice time? Did you get everything you wanted?”

“Out of you? No, since what I wanted was to find out you were Tom Worecski. Does it make you feel better, or worse, to know that you went through that for nothing?”

“Only from your point of view. It makes me feel better that I’m still alive.”

“Ah, yes. Everyone’s first desire. To stay alive.”

I suppose what happened was that we were both made uncomfortable. At any rate, the conversation faltered there.

It was she who broke the silence. “You were in Louisiana?”

At the word, I remembered: waking disoriented and empty of thought, chilly and stiff-limbed, to a steady sound I didn’t recognize. I’d struggled up on one elbow, discomfort in my eyes until I’d realized I could rub them with my fingers and the feeling would go away. Running water, that’s what the sound had been. I flinched and splashed my tea.

“I am sorry,” Frances said. “Whatever that was, it was probably my fault. Memory is like silt, sometimes. It may be a while before it settles.”

“No. I just — I didn’t know I remembered it.”

“What was it?”

“The first thing I ever… Coming up, the first time.”

She looked amused. “The first time for what?”

“No, the first time for anything. When I woke up.”

“It can’t have been the first time, you know,” she said. “You must be one of us, riding a cheval. You’ve mislaid your identity, but it may turn up.”

“You’re the one who went through my head with a crowbar. Didn’t you find it?”