By eight, Charlie was on the roof throwing pieces of cold cereal at . . . to the pigeons, listening to the Virgin Morning Show on 98.5 wafting up through the air vents off the apartment over the eco store on the corner. At ten seventeen, her phone rang, the ringtone proving that the universe had a crap sense of humor. No matter how empty she felt, she’d never have used “I Can See Clearly Now.” “Morning, Auntie Catherine. What did you See?”

For a moment she thought the older woman was going to play games, but she only sighed and said, “I Saw a baby playing with two worn-out and remarkably ugly teddy bears.”

“Describe them.”

“Excuse me?” The subtext informed her that the end of the world was no reason to indulge in bad manners.

“Could you please describe the teddy bears?”

“Better. Solid colored bodies, striped arms and legs, most of the fuzz had been chewed off them . . .”

“Wait . . .” No doubt about the bears, but . . . “. . . don’t you mean babies?”

“If I’d meant babies, Charlotte, I’d have said babies. I mean baby. Singular. Now, ask me why I called to tell you.”

“Okay. Why . . .”

“None of your business. Honestly, this family.”

“This family what?”

“If you have to ask, Charlotte, I’m certainly not going to be the one to fill you in.”

“About what?” But the connection had been terminated. Probably with extreme prejudice, if Charlie knew Auntie Catherine. “Okay. That was weird. Er. Weirder. Weirder than usual.” Not that it mattered; she had what she needed.

It was Sunday. Ritual was Wednesday.

As long as she went before the ritual, it didn’t really matter when she left. If Jack had gone to the Courts to get the proof he’d need to convince her to take him back four years and, therefore, keep them out of ritual, he’d return Tuesday at the latest. If all he’d discovered was that they couldn’t teach him . . . Would he remain in the UnderRealm until the ritual was over? Or would he risk what the ritual would do to them in order to combine their power in the hope of stopping the asteroid? Did he even realize what it was that ritual would do to them or was he thinking like a seventeen year old and seeing it as a way around the rule? Would he wait until the last minute, when the boys had antlered up and it was too late?

“Screw it. This is like trying to play Tchaikovsky on the bagpipes, I don’t have enough notes.”

The pigeons gave her a collective dubious look.

“What? I like Tchaikovsky. He used cannon as percussion.” She tapped out the signature measure of The 1812 Overture against her thigh as her background music switched to full orchestra. “Okay. Forget Jack. For all the talking we’ve been doing, I’ve got bugger all in the way of actual information. Given the given, what do I do?”