“But if I practice, perhaps I will become funny.”

“I’m the funny one,” said Calvin. He backed off, leaving Honoré room to stand without pressing his body against the crates. “Or did you lose your sense of humor under the hedge?”

“We are both funny fellows,” said Honoré. “Let’s follow the man with a basket of souls. I have to know what he does with them.”

“He’s going through a door.”

“Where?”

“In Blacktown,” said Calvin. “There’s junk hanging all over the place. Only one other heartfire in the house.” He whistled. “That’s bright.”

“What’s bright?” asked Honoré.

Calvin didn’t answer.

Honoré leaned closer to him. “It’s not fair not to tell me.

Calvin looked at him stupidly. “Tell you what?”

Margaret sat at her writing table, composing her daily letter to Alvin. She never mailed them. She could have, since she always knew where he was and where he was going. But why make him find post offices in every town he visited? Better to wait until the last hours before sundown. Whatever he was doing, he’d pause and let his thoughts turn to her. More to the point, he would send out his doodlebug to watch her. He could not read her thoughts, but he could see how her arms moved, her fingers; he could find the pen, the paper. She dipped it into ink only so that she could look back and see what she had written. She knew that he could see the words she formed on paper as clearly as if he were looking over her shoulder. She would ask questions; when they were half-formed, she would find the answer in his memory.

It was a lopsided arrangement, she knew. She could see his inmost thought, even the feelings he was scarcely aware of himself. She could see his choices unfold before him, could see them narrow again as he chose. He had no secrets from her. She, on the other hand, could keep anything secret that she chose, except for the condition of her body. He could reassure her that the baby was doing well; he could worry about her working too hard. But her thoughts remained closed to him. It hardly seemed fair.

And yet Alvin didn’t mind—honestly didn’t mind at all, never even seemed to notice. She knew there were several reasons for this. First, Alvin was an open fellow, not given to keeping secrets. He could keep them, of course, but once he trusted someone, he told the whole story, leaving nothing out, whether it reflected badly on him or not. Sometimes it sounded to others like boasting, when the things he had done were quite remarkable. But it was neither boasting nor confession. He simply reported what was in his memory. So it was no burden to him to have her see into his heartfire so readily.

A second reason for his lack of resentment, however, troubled her: He simply didn’t care. He didn’t mind that she knew his secrets, and he also didn’t mind that he didn’t know hers. He might be more inquisitive! Did this mean he didn’t love her? Did it betray some fundamental selfishness? No, Alvin was generous of spirit. He simply wasn’t all that curious about the minutiae of her thoughts. He was content to know what she told him. He trusted her. That’s what it was, trust, not a lack of love.