“Do you think it possible that in the reticula of medieval architecture we are seeing the subconscious reconstruction of shell patterns found in the earliest protista?” Harper shouted up to them from the foyer.

The two men shook their heads at one another. By following the assorted bangs, creaks, rattles and glubs—not to mention her continued shouting—they could clearly follow Harper’s progress into the house. She was hanging up her cape in the foyer. She was thudding to the fireside, where she invariably relit her pipe. She was at the butler’s tray, pouring herself a glass of water from the pitcher beside the mounted Tatzelwurm.

“Some claim that one planarian which ingests another can then imitate, without instruction, the behavior learned by the victim during its life,” she continued—then paused to swallow. Storm pressed the heels of his palms against his temples. Bernard merely rolled his eyes. Harper’s labored footsteps now sounded on the stairs, her voice growing louder as she ascended. “We admit the inheritance of instinct,” she called, “but could the substance of a more complex memory have been transmitted by more and more complex means until the smithy of a soul contains not just the conscience of its race …” She appeared in the doorway, breathless, propped on her stick, her free hand thoughtfully twisting the mouthpiece of her pipe into her chin. “… but of all creation?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Bernard.

“Ah,” said Harper. “Well, then perhaps we’ll go with the cover story on giant leeches.”

Crossing the threshold, she let her stick fall against one screaming telamon. Fished a manila envelope from her satchel and humped across the room to stuff it in a pigeonhole on Bernard’s workstation. Humped back to the chaise longue in front of the high windows. And, with an enormous groan, sank down onto it.

Through all this, Storm watched her. Bernard watched her. She took her shoes off, massaged her feet, and they watched her do that. She stretched out on the chaise. Smoothed down the viny print of her dress—a vomitous mess of green leaves and purple grapes. Storm stood with his hands in his pockets and watched her. Bernard sat. Watched her.

“What?” she cried finally. “What? What?”

Storm shook his head, lifted a hand. “How could you do this to her, Harper?”

“Ah.” Her pipe had already gone out. She wagged the dead stem at him. “I take it Miss Endering has turned to you for help.”

Still shaking his head, he stepped over to the window beside her. Leaned against the wall with one shoulder, staring out into the dusk. “When I was walking to the hospital this morning, I looked up and saw her standing in this, I don’t know, this big brick turret-like part of the building. She looked like a fairy princess up there, captured in a tower.”

“Ha-ha,” said Harper Albright.