She fretted her lower lip, as though mulling it over, but her eyes were sparkling. "Say please."

"Please," I said.

Her smile widened. "Pretty please?"

"Don't push me," I half growled, but I doubt it came out very intimidating.

She smiled at me. "It might take me few minutes. I haven't looked at that book in some time. I'll have to prepare. Meditate."

"Is it that complicated?" I asked.

She sighed, the smile fading. "There's so much of it, sometimes my head feels like a library. I don't have a problem remembering. It's finding where I've put it that's a challenge. And not all of it is very pleasant to remember."

"I know what that's like," I said. "I've seen some things I would rather weren't in my head."

She nodded, and paced over to settle down on the couch next to me. She drew her feet up underneath her and wriggled a bit to get comfortable. The wriggling part was intriguing. I tried not to be too obviously interested, and fumbled my notebook and trusty pencil from my duster's pocket.

"All right," she said, and closed her eyes. "Give me a moment. I'll speak it to you."

"Okay," I said.

"And don't stare at me."

I moved my eyes. "I wasn't."

She snorted delicately. "Haven't you ever seen breasts before?"

"I wasn't staring," I protested.

"Of course." She opened one eye and gave me a sly oblique glance. Then she closed her eyes with a little smile and inhaled deeply.

"That's cheating," I said.

She smiled again, and then her expression changed, her features growing remote. Her shoulders eased into relaxation, and then her eyes opened, dark, distant, and unfocused. She stared into the far distance for several moments, her breathing slowing, and her eyes started moving as if she were reading a book.

"Here it is," she said, her voice slow, quiet, and dreamy. "Peabody. He was the one to compile the various essays."

"I just need the poems," I said. "No need for the cover plate."

"Hush," she said. "This isn't as easy as it looks." Her fingers and hands twitched now and then while her eyes swept over the unseen book. I realized after a moment that she was turning the pages of the book in her memory. "All right," she said a minute later. "Ready?"

I poised my pencil over my notepad. "Ready."

She started quoting poetry to me, and I started writing it down. It wasn't in the first poem or the second, but in the third one I recognized the rhythms and patterns of a phrase of summoning, each line innocent on its own, but each building on the ones preceding it. With the proper focus, intent, and strength of will, the simple poem could reach out beyond the borders of the mortal world and draw the notice of the deadly faerie hunter known as the ErIking, the lord of goblins.