"We have these little invites made, just for the chosen few."

"I'm flattered," Buddenbaum said. "My name's Owen, by the way."

"I'm pleased to meet you. I'm June Davenport. Miss."

The addendum could not be ignored politely. "I can't believe you haven't had offers," Buddenbaum said. "None worth accepting," June replied.

"Who knows? Maybe tonight'll be your lucky night," Owen said. A

lifetime of yearning crossed the woman's face. "It better be soon," she said, more lightly than it was -felt, and moved off to ply the needy with coffee.

was there anything more beautiful, Owen wondered as he left the coffee shop, than a sight of yearning on the human face? Not the night sky nor a boy's buttocks could compare with the glory of June Davenport (Miss)

dolled up like a whore and hoping to meet the man of her dreams before time ran out. He'd seen tale enough for a thousand nights of telling there on her painted face. Roads taken, roads despised. Deeds undone, deeds regretted.

And tonight@d every moment between now and tonight-more roads to choose, more deeds to do. She might be turning her head even now, or now, or now, and seeing the face she had longed to love. Or, just as easily, looking the other way.

As he made his way down towards the intersection, where-Aespite the previous day's encounter-he still intended to keep watch, he chanced to look up towards Harmon's Heights. There was a mist cloud gathering on the summit, he saw, hiding it from view. The sight gave him pause. The sky, but for this mist, was flawless, which made him think it was not of natural origin.

was this the way his employers would come: down out of a clouded mountaintop, like Olympians? He'd not seen them do so before, but there was a first time for everything. He only hoped they wouldn't be too baroque with their theatrics. If they came into Everville like blazing deities, they'd clear the streets.

Then who'd go to June Davenport's party?

The mist had not gone unnoticed in other quarters. Dorothy Bullard had called up Turf Thompson, whose meteorological opinion she'd long trusted, for some reassurance that the cloud wasn't going to dump rain on the day's festivities. He told her not to worry. The phenomenon was odd, to be sure, but he was certain there was no storm in the offing.

"In fact," he remarked, "if I didn't know better I'd say that was a sea mist up there."

Comforted by his observations, Dorothy went on with the business of the morning. The first of the day's special events-a little pageant about how the first settlers came to Oregon, enacted by Mrs. Henderson's fourth-graders in the park, got underway ten minutes later than advertised, but drew a crowd of perhaps two hundred, which was very gratifying. And the kids were completely enchanting, with their little bonnets and their cardboard rifles, declaiming their lines as though their lives depended on it. There was a particularly affecting scene created around one Reverend Whitney (Dorothy had never heard of him, but she was certain Fiona Henderson had done her homework and the tale was true), who had apparently led a group of pioneers out of the winter snows to the safety of the Willamette Valley. Seeing Jed Gilholly's son Matthew, who was playing the good reverend, forging through a blizzard of paper scraps to plant a cross in the grass and give thanks for the deliverance of his flock quite misted Dorothy's eyes.

When the show was over, and the crowd dispersing, she found a proud Jed with his arm around his son, both beaming from ear to ear.

"Things are off to a damn good start," he said to Dorothy, and anyone else in listening range.

"You're not bothered about that other business, then?"

Dorothy said.

"Flicker, you mean?" Jed shook his head. "He's gone and he's not coming back."

"Music to my ears," Dorothy said. "And what about little Matty then?" Jed said.

"He was wonderful."

"He's been learning his lines for the past few weeks."

"I almost forgot them this morning," Matthew said.

"Didn't I?"

"You just thought you had," Jed said, "but I knew you'd remember them."

"You did?"

"Sure I did." He ruffled his son's hair, lovingly. "Can we get some ice cream, Dad?"

"Sounds like a plan," Jed said. "I'll see you later, Dorothy." to see Jed this way, and it She'd seldom had occasion was a real pleasure. "This is what the Festival's all about, isn't it?" she said ps and hats to Fiona as they watched the kids deposit their pro in cardboard boxes, then peel off with their parents. "People enjoying themselves." "It was fun, wasn't it?" Fiona said.

"Where did you find that bit about the reverend, by the way?"

"Well, I cheated a little," Fiona confessed, lowering her voice a tad.

"He didn't actually have much to do with Everville."

,,Oh."

"In fact, he had nothing at all to do with Everville. He founded his church in Silverton. But it was such a good

-q P

story. And frankly, I couldn't find anything about our founding fathers that was appropriate for the children."

"What about the Nordhoff story?"

"That comes much later," Fiona said, in her best schoolmarmish tones.

"Yes, of course."

"No, when it comes to the early years I'm afraid we have some very murky waters. I was quite shocked at how licentious Everville was at the start. There was certainly nothing very Christian about some of the goings-on here."

"Are you quite sure?" Dorothy said, frankly surprised by what she was hearing.

"Quite," said Fiona.

Dorothy left the subject there, certain that the woman was misinformed. Everville had probably seen some robust behavior in its time (what city didn't have its share of drunkards and hedonists?), but its origins were nothing to be ashamed of. If there was to be a pageant next year, she said to herself, then it wouldn't be some phoney story, it would be the truth. And she would tell Fiona Henderson in no uncertain terms that it was her responsibility as a teacher and as a citizen not to be telling lies, however well intentioned, to her charges. As she left the park, she took a moment to study the mist on Harinon's Heights. Just as Turf had promised, it was showing little sign of spreading. It was denser than it had been three-quarters of an hour before, however. The actual peak, which had earlier been visible through the fog, was now lost to sight.

No matter, she thought. There was nothing much to see up there anyhow. Just some bare rocks and a lot of trees. She consulted her watch. It was ten after eleven. The Pancake Contest and All-You-Can-Eat Brunch would soon be underway at the Old Bakery Restaurant, and the Pet Parade lining up in the square. She was due to be one of the judges of the flower arranging at noon, but she had time to drop by and see how things were going at the Town Hall first, where people would already be assembling for the Grand Parade, even though it wouldn't start for another two hours. So much to see. So much to do. Smiling people spilling off the crowded sidewalks, banners and balloons snapping and glittering against the blue August sky. She wished it could go on forever: a festival that never stopped. Wouldn't that be wonderful?

"I don't like this," Telso said.

She wasn't speaking of the climb-though it had steadily become steeper, and now left her gasping between every other word-but of the mist that had been little more than shreds when they'd begun their ascent and was now a thick, white blanket.

"I'm not turning back," Phoebe said hurriedly.

"I didn't say we should," Tesla replied. "I was just saying-" Yes. What are you saying? Raul murmured.

"That there's something weird about it."

"It, s just mist," Phoebe said.