decided to go ahead and just sit right down on the floor. Maybe for a minute or so. Just to get his wind back.
At that unfortunate moment, and entirely without intending to do so, he glanced up at his reflection in the mirror. The sight froze him for a moment; a whiskery evaporite with sallow skin and sunken eyes seemed to be wearing his bathrobe.
So,
the thought struck him.
Two weeks until showtime, then.
At the same moment, Vignette stood silent as a shadow inside of the front room coat closet. She was close enough to the slatted door to hear the chatty women in the next room, even though she was hidden back in the corner behind Randall’s heavy winter coat. Nobody had any reason to touch that coat, so she felt safe enough. Her dark clothing helped her to remain in the shadows whenever anyone opened the door to put a jacket in or take one out. Her top was a simple blouse that allowed free movement, as did her lightweight trousers.
Her shoes were the softest men’s shoes that she could find. She could run fast in them, all that she wanted to, and practically forget that she had them on. Either her leg muscles or her wind would give out on her before her feet would blister. That fact always gave her special confidence during high-acceleration situations.
She had already endured two and a half hours in there, just to make sure that she avoided being spotted around the house and drafted into the occasion. She needed to be free to perform this reconnaissance work.
Now they were all there: all six leaders of the Ladies’ Hospitality League. Just them and Miss Freshell, who was brashly using their family home to host the ladies. Of course she convinced Randall that she could not possibly entertain them at her hotel.
She had also astonished Vignette by telling Randall that she intended to use the meeting to introduce Vignette to these women, so that Vignette could “experience the social company of women of that caliber.”
And of course she said nothing to Vignette about it beforehand. She had taken over Randall’s brain and now she seemed to think that she was taking over Vignette’s life.
The Eastern Whore’s behavior tempered Vignette’s resolve to the point that it no longer mattered to her if she had to do something that might make Randall mad—not if it helped him to open his eyes to this woman. He would eventually get over being mad. He always had before, hadn’t he? And once he got far enough away from Miss Freshell to get his vision back, he would see that they were all better off without her in their lives. He had to.
Meanwhile, the nattering continued and there was no way for her to avoid it. These nattering ladies seemed to do nothing else in life other than natter at other nattering ladies until they sounded like a flock of squawking birds. Vignette’s hidden place held her in the path of every tedious word, while the women cheerfully one-upped each other with passing references to gifts, vacations, property, and the remarkable successes of various children, many of whom seemed to be already grown.
Vignette sighed and shook her head. Over the course of her time in the closet, she had begun to experience the nattering as if every word were a single tooth on a heavy saw blade being slowly dragged across the top of her head. For an instant she thought about pulling Randall aside at the first opportunity and trying to tell him about the nattering (perhaps skipping the closet part), strictly as a way of using it to help explain why she could never live like one of these creatures, why she had to sneak into police training, why she
needed
to succeed at it.
The thought faded. She could not imagine being able to get the concept across.
She noticed that a painful stiffness was really starting to settle into her legs and her back. It was a relief to hear Miss Freshell raise her voice to get things started. Her tone clearly indicated that it was time to stop the informal nattering and
At that unfortunate moment, and entirely without intending to do so, he glanced up at his reflection in the mirror. The sight froze him for a moment; a whiskery evaporite with sallow skin and sunken eyes seemed to be wearing his bathrobe.
So,
the thought struck him.
Two weeks until showtime, then.
At the same moment, Vignette stood silent as a shadow inside of the front room coat closet. She was close enough to the slatted door to hear the chatty women in the next room, even though she was hidden back in the corner behind Randall’s heavy winter coat. Nobody had any reason to touch that coat, so she felt safe enough. Her dark clothing helped her to remain in the shadows whenever anyone opened the door to put a jacket in or take one out. Her top was a simple blouse that allowed free movement, as did her lightweight trousers.
Her shoes were the softest men’s shoes that she could find. She could run fast in them, all that she wanted to, and practically forget that she had them on. Either her leg muscles or her wind would give out on her before her feet would blister. That fact always gave her special confidence during high-acceleration situations.
She had already endured two and a half hours in there, just to make sure that she avoided being spotted around the house and drafted into the occasion. She needed to be free to perform this reconnaissance work.
Now they were all there: all six leaders of the Ladies’ Hospitality League. Just them and Miss Freshell, who was brashly using their family home to host the ladies. Of course she convinced Randall that she could not possibly entertain them at her hotel.
She had also astonished Vignette by telling Randall that she intended to use the meeting to introduce Vignette to these women, so that Vignette could “experience the social company of women of that caliber.”
And of course she said nothing to Vignette about it beforehand. She had taken over Randall’s brain and now she seemed to think that she was taking over Vignette’s life.
The Eastern Whore’s behavior tempered Vignette’s resolve to the point that it no longer mattered to her if she had to do something that might make Randall mad—not if it helped him to open his eyes to this woman. He would eventually get over being mad. He always had before, hadn’t he? And once he got far enough away from Miss Freshell to get his vision back, he would see that they were all better off without her in their lives. He had to.
Meanwhile, the nattering continued and there was no way for her to avoid it. These nattering ladies seemed to do nothing else in life other than natter at other nattering ladies until they sounded like a flock of squawking birds. Vignette’s hidden place held her in the path of every tedious word, while the women cheerfully one-upped each other with passing references to gifts, vacations, property, and the remarkable successes of various children, many of whom seemed to be already grown.
Vignette sighed and shook her head. Over the course of her time in the closet, she had begun to experience the nattering as if every word were a single tooth on a heavy saw blade being slowly dragged across the top of her head. For an instant she thought about pulling Randall aside at the first opportunity and trying to tell him about the nattering (perhaps skipping the closet part), strictly as a way of using it to help explain why she could never live like one of these creatures, why she had to sneak into police training, why she
needed
to succeed at it.
The thought faded. She could not imagine being able to get the concept across.
She noticed that a painful stiffness was really starting to settle into her legs and her back. It was a relief to hear Miss Freshell raise her voice to get things started. Her tone clearly indicated that it was time to stop the informal nattering and
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