“Very much so,” came the reply.
“I’d guessed that.”
We walked for a long while in silence, Larry’s stride matching Jack’s own.
“Are you acquainted with the one called the Count?” Larry asked suddenly.
Jack was silent for several paces, then said slowly, “I’ve heard of him, but I’ve never had the pleasure.”
“Well, he’s come to town,” Larry said. “He and I go back a long way. I can always tell when he’s about. Opener, I’d guess.”
Jack was silent again. In my mind, I revisited yesterday afternoon, when Graymalk and I had made our way along the route Bubo had shown me. She ventured into the crypt while I waited above. She was down there a long while, silent as a cat, before she repaired topside.
“Yes,” she told me then, “the rat was right. There’s a rather handsome coffin down there, up on a pair of trestles. And an opened trunk containing changes of clothes and some personal items.”
“No mirror?”
“No mirror. And Needle’s hung himself amid the roots overhead.”
“I guess Bubo traded fair,” I said.
“Never trust a rat,” she told me. “You said he’d sneaked into your place and was snooping around. Supposing that was his real reason for being there, and he only offered to trade information to cover it over when you caught him?”
“I’d thought of that,” I said. “But I heard him come in, and I know just where he was. All he got to see was the Things in the Mirror.”
“Things in the Mirror?”
“Yes. Don’t you have any?”
“Afraid not. What do they do?”
“Slither.”
“Oh.”
“Come on. I’ll show you.”
“You sure it’s all right?”
“Yes.”
Later, she placed a paw against its reflection as she stared.
“You’re right,” she said. “They, slither.”
“Change colors, too, when they get excited.”
“Where did you get them?”
“Deserted village in India. Everybody’d died of plague or run away from it.”
“They must have a use. . . .”
“Yes, they’re sticky.”
“Oh.”
I walked her back to Jill’s, where she said, “I can’t invite you in, or show you any of our stuff, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay.”
“Will you be prowling tonight?”
“Have to go into town.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Jack and I parted from Larry at the crossroads near his place and headed west toward our own. When we came into the yard, I smelled owl and saw Nightwind perched in the same tree Quicklime had visited. I growled a “good evening” but he did not return it. I rushed inside first in the event he was a lookout, but there was no one there and there were no odor of intruders. And everything was as it should be. Just simple spying, then. When there’s nothing else to do, we watch each other.
Jack went off to deal with his acquisition. I did dognappery in the parlor.
October 10
It rained steadily all day, so I didn’t go out much. And not far when I did. No one came by.
I made the rounds many more times than usual, partly out of boredom. Good thing that I did.
The Thing was strangely quiet as I entered the basement. In a moment, I saw why. We had developed a leak. The water entered at the wall, ran along a sagging beam, and dripped down several feet farther in. It had formed a puddle, and the puddle was slowly spreading. One moist pseudopod was extended in the direction of the Circle, having perhaps another ten inches to run before it breached it.
I howled, a long, loud, mournful thing I saved for occasions such as this. Then I threw myself onto the streamer and rolled in it, absorbing it into my coat.
“Hey!” cried the Thing. “Cut that out! This was meant to be!”
“So was this!” I snapped, and I turned over and rolled in the puddle itself, soaking myself as I tossed and wriggled, absorbing a great deal.
I moved off to a far, dry corner then and turned over several times on the floor there, spreading the moisture about in a place where it would evaporate harmlessly.
“Damn dog!” it snarled. “Another few minutes and I’d’ve made it!”