Special thanks to Adrien for the insight and determined patience, and to Jym for the constant motivation. Thanks also to Dad, Donna, Mom, Aunt Wanda, Jan Haluska, Wilma McClarty, and Eileen Meagher—who knew it all along.

Yet another round of public appreciation goes to some new friends and colleagues, without whom this edition would have never seen the light of day. Unending thanks to my agent, Lantz Powell, for defending me against the mad pirate; to my editor, the indefatigable Liz Gorinsky, for always being on my side; and to Warren Ellis, for giving me a remarkable chance.

Four and Twenty Blackbirds

I
Eden

I

“Draw me a picture of someplace you’ve been that you liked very much,” Mrs. Patterson suggested, pronouncing each word with the firm, specific articulation peculiar to those who work with children. “It can be anyplace at all—an amusement park, a playground, a tree house, or your bedroom. Maybe you went on vacation once and visited the beach. You could draw the ocean with seagulls and shells. Or maybe you went camping on the mountain. You might have gone down to the waterfall for a picnic, or up to Sunset Rock. Pick a place special to you, and when you’re finished, we’ll put your pictures up on the bulletin board in the hallway.”

I cringed, staring down at the blank sheet of coarse cream paper. Before me was a plastic tub filled with fat, fruit-scented markers, ripe for the choosing. While the other kids at my table dove into a frenzy of scribbles I stalled for time, popping the lid off each color and sniffing for inspiration.

Red is for cherries. Purple is for grape. Green is for . . . I didn’t recognize the scent.

But green is for . . . yes, green is for water.

I jammed the lid onto the back of the marker and began to scrawl a wide pool across the bottom half of the sheet. Green is for water. And for alligators. I picked up the yellow marker (supposed to be lemons, but smelled like detergent) and drew two periscope eyeballs poking up through the swirls. Then I outlined them with black (licorice) and drew a long snout with two bumps for nostrils.

Brown. Brown was chocolate.

I sketched tall, thin trees that reached up past the top of the page. And snakes. Brown is for snakes. Wrapped around one trunk I placed a spiraled serpent with a wide open mouth. I gave him a strawberry pink tongue shaped like a Y.

But I was missing something. I chewed on my thumbnail and tapped the brown pen. A house. A brown house set on blocks for when the water rose too high, with a cherry red canoe tied to the front porch just in case. A brown chocolate house, made of flat boards with a sloping gray roof that let the fresh rainwater run into a barrel. Gray is for . . . A gray roof.

And gray is for . . .

Gray is for . . .