So Roland told Callahan the part of their story which bore directly upon Susannah and the women who had been before her. He concentrated on how they’d saved Jake from the doorkeeper and drawn the boy into Mid-World, telling how Susannah (or perhaps at that point she had been Detta) had held the demon of the circle while they did their work. He had known the risks, Roland told Callahan, and he had become certain—even while they were still riding Blaine the Mono—that she had not survived the risk of pregnancy. He had told Eddie, and Eddie hadn’t been all that surprised. Then Jake had told him . Scolded him with it, actually. And he had taken the scolding, he said, because he felt it was deserved. What none of them had fully realized until last night on the porch was that Susannah herself had known, and perhaps for almost as long as Roland. She had simply fought harder.

“So, Pere—what do you think?”

“You say her husband agreed to keep the secret,” Callahan replied. “And even Jake—who sees clearly—”

“Yes,” Roland said. “He does. He did. And when he asked me what we should do, I gave him bad advice. I told him we’d be best to let ka work itself out, and all the time I was holding it in my hands, like a caught bird.”

“Things always look clearer when we see them over our shoulder, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell her last night that she’s got a demon’s spawn growing in her womb?”

“She knows it’s not Eddie’s.”

“So you didn’t. And Mia? Did you tell her about Mia, and the castle banqueting hall?”

“Yes,” Roland said. “I think hearing that depressed her but didn’t surprise her. There was the other—Detta—ever since the accident when she lost her legs.” It had been no accident, but Roland hadn’t gone into the business of Jack Mort with Callahan, seeing no reason to do so. “Detta Walker hid herself well from Odetta Holmes. Eddie and Jake say she’s a schizophrenic.” Roland pronounced this exotic word with great care.

“But you cured her,” Callahan said. “Brought her face-to-face with her two selves in one of those doorways. Did you not?”

Roland shrugged. “You can burn away warts by painting them with silver metal, Pere, but in a person prone to warts, they’ll come back.”

Callahan surprised him by throwing his head back to the sky and bellowing laughter. He laughed so long and hard he finally had to take his handkerchief from his back pocket and wipe his eyes with it. “Roland, you may be quick with a gun and as brave as Satan on Saturday night, but you’re no psychiatrist. To compare schizophrenia to warts …oh, my!”