From where?

“From grace,” he said. “From the books…”

“Neal…”

Neal Nash screamed; a deep bellow of rage that rattled the rafters of his trophy room…the nerves of his wife…and the glass that shielded his meaningless catch.

“Stand up, Neal,” Barbara said, impatiently. “For Christ’s sake. You’re making it sound like I did the most terrible thing in the world. It’s not like I’m not worried as it is. I broke a rule, Neal. A big one. For you.” She shook her head. Neal wept. “You might’ve thought you’d been hiding your desire for that bird all along, dear, but a wife knows. A wife knows. And no silly ordinance has ever stopped us before. It’s a wonderful gift, Neal, and when you finally come to see that the North Woods aren’t going to miss one owl, you’ll thank me for giving you the greatest gift of your life. Happy birthday,” she said, flummoxed still. “Happy birthday, Hunter.”

Then she turned and walked out of the hangar, back out under the crazed Goblin sky. The party was still going; Barbara would even say it was growing. And as she reentered the throng, she recalled the sound of her husband whimpering, the snotty sobs she’d heard as the hangar door closed behind her. She heard his cries in the music played by the band, in the laughter and shouts of the guests.

She even heard it in the falling rain, each drop a reflection of the sound Neal was making as he knelt among his trophies, crying rain among his game.

Presto

1

Dick Mable sat in the eighth row of a small crowded theater and might not have known his wife sat next to him if she weren’t gripping his arm in terror. It was dark in there (cave black, he’d called it, finding the description to be clever) and, except for what was happening on the makeshift stage, you couldn’t see a thing. Dick couldn’t get over it. The show.

This guy Emperor was honestly unreal.