By now Betsy had seen enough of needlepointers to know that a needlepointed rose was often four or more shades of red. So why not a horse six shades of blue? She started to put the folder back, but changed her mind and kept it out.

There was no sketchbook in the file cabinet, of course; she had realized as soon as she opened it that the sketchbook was too big to fit in the drawer—Betsy had seen the sketchbook, it had a thick red cover with spiral binding across the top. Any other notes Margot had made on the original horse she’d either thrown away or taken with her to the museum, where she’d probably added a few new ones. And she’d never gotten a chance to put them back into the folder.

They were probably with the sketchpad.

Which wasn’t in the closet. It wasn’t tucked behind the file cabinet or the dresser, either. Or under the bed. Or under the comforter pulled across the bed.

Betsy searched the other closets, cabinets, bookshelves in the apartment with equal lack of success. She went out to the kitchen to spread a dab of peanut butter on a slice of the Excelo Bakery’s excellent whole-wheat bread and do some thinking.

Betsy had overheard some conversation between Margot and a customer about using a computer to design patterns. Margot had sounded knowledgeable on the topic; maybe she did that herself.

Betsy put down her bread half-eaten and went back to the bedroom. She booted up and looked for a publishing or artwork program. The first one she found didn’t have anything connected to needlework in it. The second one was for designing needlework, but there were no files in it. She searched around for a while, found no other design program, and finally summoned the word-processing program.

The computer burped and gurgled at her, and instead of a screen ready to accept text, offered something called What Are You Supposed to Do Today? It had a list under it, beginning with some general notes: Betsy’s birthday, October 15, for example. Under that were specific dates. Wed, Aug. 19, 11 am—See Hud at museum, read the first of those entries. Under it, indented: 2 pm, Penberthy, sign papers; and under that: 7 pm, City Hall, bring report on art fair.

Betsy smiled. She had not been able to find a physical date book because Margot kept her appointments on her computer.

Thursday, Margot was supposed to see if Eloise was back in town and ask her if she would run the food shelf this winter. Friday asked, Told Betsy yet?

Betsy sat frowning at that. Tell Betsy what? She thumped the screen with a knuckle. Tell me, she thought at the screen, as if it had ESP and would respond. But it didn’t.