“It’s not your memoir. It’s my fauxoir. I made it all up, thus the faux.”

“And told me he wanted to publish my book. I thought of how joyful you would be for me, but knew you were establishing your own writing career and would not want your serious work associated with my small tale of spiritual growth.”

“You ripped me off totally. You told me the book was only for your family and students.”

“So it was, lovely girl! The world turns in fantastical ways. On the day I was born, a jaguar was seen in the village by my family’s hut …”

“You were born in Chula Vista, California.” Mercedes had investigated Don Pedro’s background more thoroughly than did his publisher or the reviewers who raved about him. “I concocted that jaguar story. Everything about you is a lie.”

He made a tching sound and then said, “Mi amor, what terrible thing has happened to make you so unhappy?”

“Gee, I don’t know, Don Pedro, maybe some two-bit con artist took advantage of me, causing me to become bitter and cynical.”

“Milagro, I am shocked that you think I planned this happenstance of success! My life’s work is to help others find their calling.”

“Speaking of calling, why did you?”

“I hoped you would want to collaborate with me again.”

I burst out laughing. “Are you out of your twisted corkscrew of a mind? Why would I ever, ever want to see you again, let alone work with you?”

“My publisher wants another book. It could be a quite enriching project for you, not only as an artist, but as a fellow soul who is responsive to our animistic nature.”

“Nothing you can offer me would ever convince me to help you with fauxoir dos, the sequel.”

“Are you sure?” he said, and then he named a significant sum, a sum that surprised me, and added, “Cash. I will be in London for a week, and I can fly you there to meet with me and explore our second adventure together, my little bat.”

A trip to London would get me away from Ian. I’d be able to meet Wilcox Spiggott and he would show me another way, a better way, to live with this condition. “Okay, Don Pedro, I’ll meet you to talk about the book, but you have to fly me out first-class.”

I called Mercedes before noon to tell her what I was doing.

She said, “I can’t believe anyone is paying you that much to write. You can pay off your assessment fee.”

“Exactly. It’s too bad my only success is with loony nonsense. It’s a sad comment on society and the literary world.”

“I can watch Rosemary for you.”

“Fabulous. Do you think you can dig up anything about that vamp I told you about, Wilcox Spiggott? I think I’ll drop in on him while I’m there.”