The practical effect of Sabon’s resurrection of discussions initiated by Duncan was that Frankwrithe & Lewden bought the rights to his books from Hoegbotton & Sons and proceeded to publish them in a badly edited, hideously expensive, horribly abridged omnibus entitled Cinsorium & Other Historical Fables (Dad would have punned it as Sin-sore-ium & Other Hysterical Foibles), an edition intended solely for the library market so that scholars could peruse it as part of their primary text exploration of Sabon’s books. The rights Duncan had sold to Hoegbotton were all-encompassing and he could do nothing but accept a trickle of royalties from publication of the omnibus. He could not stop the butchery of his original texts. (Nor could I afford to object anyway, my income having dropped off precipitously since AFTOIS could not sustain me by itself.)

The omnibus received scant attention from reviewers—it was considered a historical curiosity, reflecting the “hysteria and ignorance of a less enlightened time,” as one of the few notices put it—meaning that kind readers like Mortar and Pestle only encountered Shriek through Sabon’s filter. One hates to think of Duncan struggling to express himself while F&L and his beloved Mary struggle to snuff him out, but that’s exactly what was happening.

Despite Sirin’s assertions from time to time—rebutted by Lacond at many a furious AFTOIS meeting, where according to Duncan, the issue came up continually—that Sabon meant no harm by her actions—perhaps even the opposite—and that neither did Hoegbotton in selling the rights to Frankwrithe & Lewden, I’m certain she resurrected him merely to more effectively destroy him. Whether she meant to or not. Nativism, as it turns out, was an excellent descriptor for Mary’s own actions.

What made me angriest, though, is that Duncan didn’t even seem to mind, as if accepting her right to take advantage of him. (I couldn’t hate her for it. And even as the sight of butchered chapters and paragraphs cut me to the quick, part of me thrilled to see any of my words back in print, in any form.)

No, what I said to Mortar and Pestle with sincerity and with hope, as I handed them my cheat sheets for the rest of the tour was simply, “If you do ever see Mary, tell her that Duncan sends his love.” It’s a pity I couldn’t maintain my composure later, on a certain marble staircase, but I’ve never claimed to be consistent.

Then I put my arms around Mortar and Pestle and turned all three of us to face the tour group.

“I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans. These two fine upstanding citizens from Stockton will be leading the rest of the tour. Enjoy!”

I left them without regret, Mortar and Pestle speechless, and climbed the steps to Duncan’s apartment overlooking Voss Bender Memorial Square, where we talked for quite some time, while below, through the open window, we witnessed the slow disintegration of the tour group.