Little Blossom. Sealing Wax. Pigs. It was him. Little Blossom was Rose. Sealing wax had been on the letters to the newspaper. Pigs were cops. He was mocking the police. Whether pigs have wings. Whether or not they could catch him.

And like Alice, she was going to go through the looking glass to find out who he was.

How could he know that?

Twenty-four

THE TELEPHONE HAD BECOME AN INSTRUMENT OF torture. After Muriel phoned to tell her the man from New York would be at the recital, there was no one else Rose wanted to hear from, except maybe God who would tell her that Nancy and the Christmas Killer were just part of a bad dream and she could wake up now.

Muriel had been effusive and excited, more bubbly than Rose had ever remembered her being. She’d been to New York and had exchanged the tap routine hats and batons. Lighter hats for little kids’ heads, heavier batons to stand up against little kids’ mischief. And she had seen and talked to the “someone” who had agreed to come up for the recital especially to see Rose.

“He’s very interested in you,” Muriel said.

“Who is this someone?” Rose asked, hoping Muriel would say he was connected with the American Ballet Theatre.

“It’s a surprise,” Muriel bubbled. “I’m so happy,” she added before Rose said good-bye.

“This is going to be the best Christmas I’ve had in a long time.”

Talking to Daniel was suddenly a strain, because she kept wondering if she would ever have a normal life with someone like him. What about her children? What if this thing was in her genes, would make them vulnerable, too? Was communication with the dead an inheritable disease? Marriage, children, was it Rosecleer Potter talking, she wondered? Her future had always seemed clear, a beeline to the ABT in New York. Her feelings for Daniel confused her, made her think about a life without dance, made her angry for thinking it, as if he were putting obstacles in her path. She made excuses. It seemed important that he stay away. She didn’t want him to see her going through the looking glass.

And Grace. Grace had taken to sneaking phone calls, whispering her conversations, in case her mother found out she was talking to Rose. Rose felt betrayed. Grace’s mother had known her since she was a little kid, had baked her cookies, put peroxide on scraped knees, once gave Rose the best prize at Grace’s birthday party even though Rose hadn’t done a good job on pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.

“I can come over,” Grace said. “I’ll tell her I’m going somewhere else.”

“Not today,” Rose said, “I don’t feel well. I think I’m having a relapse of the flu.”

“Poor you,” Grace sympathized. “Whoops, here she comes, gotta go!”