I awoke without moving my body, my eyes fluttering open to stare at the ceiling. Lying in dim gray-white light, I slowly became aware of a subtle desire, like a mild withdrawal. In just a few short days of performing the morning invocation ritual, my body was already becoming synchronized with the dawn. It knew it wanted the pleasant sensation of light washing over it, sparking it awake with renewed energy. When I had first learned the ritual as a young boy, my body's essence took weeks to become attuned to the diurnal rhythm of the sun. Now, it was like resetting an alarm clock.

I rolled out of bed and stood before the window with my head bowed and arms crossed over my chest. As the disc of the sun pierced the horizon, its warm glow touched my forehead. Inhaling deeply, I raised my arms. I had forgotten how soothing the ritual felt, chanting the ancient Gaelic paean, waking my body with the stretching postures. I could not remember why I stopped doing it. I couldn't believe I had gotten to a point in my life where doing something so simple had become so inconsequential to me. As the sun climbed to sit momentarily on the edge of the horizon, I ended the chant in the final stance, head thrown back, arms down and out, with the light centered on my chest, the seat of my essence.

The reality that Tuesday had come again pressed itself upon me while I was under the water in the shower. The word beat at my mind, its innocent sounds colored with dread. Another week had passed since I had stood in a wet alley looking at a chest with a crater in it. Today, the cycle was likely to repeat. I dried myself off, picked up my coffee mug, and went into the study.

My first order of business was to call Murdock to see where we were with our decoy. He hadn't checked into the station house yet. It was still early. Rather than call his beeper or his house, I left a message for him. Thinking about the decoy reminded me that I wanted Tansy to observe the stakeout if she were willing. Pulling a glow bee out of me fridge, I held it tightly in my hand, feeling it come to life. It surprised me how quickly it responded. I sent it off to Joe with a message to find Tansy and meet me later in the day.

Before it got any later, I decided to place my calls to Europe. Working internationally usually meant east, which meant I had to make contact before noon. Otherwise, everyone would be going home for the day. I didn't expect the bad guys to accommodate my schedule.

The Avalon database had listed Cheryl Atworth, a human who had given birth to a boy named William, last reported in England. The father was a fairy. She would have been in the States in 1960, making her around sixty-five years old today. The Ward Guildhouse in London was a little sloppy with its paperwork, but since the fey were welcomed and admired in the British Isles, Atworth wasn't likely to hide her association with a former lover. That made my first call to Rory Dean, an old drinking buddy of mine from poorly remembered bacchanals in the early nineties. He definitely owed me a few favors, if not a few beers. After an interminable time wandering through the voice mail system, I finally got Rory's cheery voice informing me that he had gone to lunch. I left a message with what details I had, a plea to rush it, and a promise to visit.

Germany was another matter. The only people I knew there showed bare disdain for Americans, which is at least nicer than what they thought of the Brits and Irish. In the early part of the century, the dwarves and elves had formed the Teutonic Consortium and caused havoc. At the end of World War II, they cut a deal with Russia not to impede the final push into Berlin in exchange for northeastern Germany. When the Berlin Wall came down, a demilitarized fey zone went up next to the city where it abuts Consortium territory. Even now, one of the big issues of the Fey Summit was the constant skirmishing between the Teutonic Consortium and Maeve's fairy defender warriors. The elves routinely threatened to push the border back to France. Humans might have resolved a lot of their differences with the fall of the Soviets, but the fey still stared at each other, spears at the ready, always in danger of resuming their part of the war.

I really didn't have any contacts, but I had no doubt the Guildhouse would be able to find the two people I sought. Berlin kept careful track of fey folk. The fey folk were allowed a Guildhouse only on the condition of strict government oversight. Before the War, the fey had ignored the edict, but once atomic energy had been harnessed, the playing field had leveled, so they acceded to the more stringent demands.

The only details I had were names and dates. Gerda was in the States in and around 1948 and had a son named Gethin. Britt was here in 1972 and had given birth to a daughter she named Welfrey. Their surnames were given as Alfheim, which was just a general elf clan affiliation. The Berlin Guildhouse used a customer-service center that was derisively referred to as the informant center. Nondescript agents, many of them human and suspicious of everyone, took notes, gave no information, and occasionally actually called back. I knew the officious agent I snagged would complain that clan affiliations were scant detail at best, and he did. Still, as politely as possible, I gave him the names and dates, diplomatically asked for urgency, and supplied him with the case number and Murdock's name and my cell number to assure them it was an official investigation.

Frustrated, I wandered out to the Avenue and gazed at the shops, the pubs, and the stores. They were all familiar but, really, they changed every day. A little more wear or a fresh coat of paint. People frequented them, or never came again, or arrived for the first time. Yet I felt as though they were always the same, especially in the morning when everything was devoid of activity. The long street felt like a stage waiting for a play.

A large old woman sat on the curb wearing a ragged sweatshirt, her gray hair sprouting out from beneath a black woolen cap. She jiggled a worn paper coffee cup, making a meager jingling sound. She eyed me impassively as I came near. "Change for a truth! Change for a truth!" she said in rhythm with her shaking.

I paused, digging in my pocket. I wasn't so much looking for a truth as I was just willing to give her money. Normally, I ignored the pleas of street people. The Weird had too many of them, and if you frequented the neighborhood at all, they remembered and pestered you if you'd even once given them a dime. But it was early and I was feeling helpless over other things, so I dropped a couple of quarters in her cup. She glanced at them for a moment, then looked up at me with a huge gap-toothed smile. "Change," she said. "Yes," I said.

She shifted her bulk so she could lean against a newspaper box. "Change. There's your truth." She chuckled, then closed her eyes as though asleep.

I chuckled myself and continued on. Vaguely, I wondered if she were a failed druidess, one of those with no more talent than for one small thing, say, articulating simple truths, or if she were merely a beggar with a gimmick. Regardless, I knew from experience that change is not always good. Knowing how to make the best of it was what really mattered.

As I moved along, I came to the main stretch of the Avenue that was preparing for the Midsummer parade. Glittery cellophane suns topped old lampposts, which were bound one to the other with banners of frilly green plastic that was supposed to symbolize the new grass of summer. Any bare surface of building wall was layered with advertisements for parties and sales and the latest import bands that would be playing locally.

My cell phone vibrated gently against my hip, and I was amused at how similar it felt to a glow bee. It was Murdock.