"What's the celebration?" she asked Musnakaff.

"There isn't one," he replied. "People are just making the most of what little time they think's left to them."

"Before the lad comes?" He nodded. "Why don't they try and leave the city?"

"A lot of folks have. But then there's a lot more who think: What's the use? Why go and shiver in Trophett6 or Plethoziac, where the lad's going to find you anyway, when you could be at home drinking yourself stupid with your family around you?"

"Do you have a family?"

"The Mistress is my family," the fellow replied. "She's all I need. All I've ever needed."

"You said she was insane."

"I exaggerated," he replied fondly. "She's just a little loopy." they came at last to a three-story house standing on its own, in a snow-dusted garden. There were lights burning in every room, but there were no partygoers here. The only sound was the din of sea-gulls, who sat on the roof and chimneys, staring out to sea. they had quite a view. Even from the street Phoebe was able to gaze down over a chilly but spectacular vista of roofs and spires, all snow-dusted, to the docks and the many dozens of sailing ships at anchor there. She knew very little about ships, but the sight of these vessels moved her, evoking as it did an age when the world had still possessed mystery. Now, perhaps, the only sea left to explore was the sea that stretched beyond the harbor, the dream-sea, and it seemed right to her that these sleek, elegant vessels be the ones to ply it.

"That's how the Mistress made herself," Musnakaff remarked, coming to Phoehe's shoulder to share the panorama.

"Ships?"

"Sailors," he replied. "She traded in dreams, and it made her rich beyond counting. Happy, too; till King Texas."

As he'd promised, Musnakaff had spoken about King Texas on the journey, and it was a sad tale. He had seduced the Mistress in her prime, so Musknakaff explained, and then, tiring of her, had left her for another woman. She had pined for him pitifully, and had several times attempted to kill herself, but life, it seemed, hadn't been done with her, because each time she'd survived to grieve another day.

And then, many years after his departure, he'd suddenly returned, begging her forgiveness, and asking to be allowed back into her arms and bed. Against all expectation, she had refused him. He had changed, she said. The man she had loved and lost, the man she still moumed, and always would, was gone.

"Had you been with me," she'd said, "we might have changed together; and found new reasons for love. But there's nothing left of you for me to want, except the memory."

The story seemed to Phoebe ineffably sad, as did the notion of trading in dreams, though she had no little difficulty imagining what that actually meant.

"Can dreams be bought and sold?" she asked Musnakaff "Everything can be bought and sold," he replied, look ing at her quickly. "But you know that, coming from the Cosm."

"But dreams-?"

He raised his hand to ward off further questions and led her to the gates of the house-which he unlocked with a key hanging at his belt-then ushered her up to the front steps. Here he paused to offer one last piece of advice before they entered.

"She'll want to quiz you about the Cosm. Tell her it's a vale of tears, and she'll be happy."

"That's no lie," Phoebe said.

"Good," he replied, and started up the stairs. "Oh, one more thing," he said as he went. "You may want to tell her I saved you from certain death. Please feel free to lie a little about that, just to make it seem more@'

"Heroic?"

"Dramatic." "Oh yes. Dramatic," Phoebe said with a little smile.

"Don't worry."

"Only I'm all she's got left now that the sailors don't come. And I want her to feel protected. You understand?"

"I understand," Phoebe said. "You love her as much as King Texas."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

"It's not even... I mean... she doesn't All his confidence had suddenly drained from him, He was trembling.

"You're saying she doesn't know?"

"I'm saying... " he studied the steps, "I'm saying she wouldn't care even if she did." Then, not meeting Phoebe's eyes, he turned from her and hurried up the icy steps to the front door. It was open in an instant, and he went inside, where the lamps were turned to tiny glittering flames, and he could wrap his sorrow in the shadows.

Phoebe followed him up and in. He directed her down a narrow, high-ceilinged passage to the back of the house. "You'll find plenty of food in the kitchen. Help yourself." Then he headed up the lushly carpeted stairs, his ascent announce y a tinkling of tiny bells.

The kitchen, Phoebe discovered, had probably been modern in nineteen-twenty, but it was a reassuring place to sit and rest her heavy body. There was an open fire, which she fed with a few logs, there was an immense black iron stove, pots large enough to cook for fifty, and the raw materials for such an enterprise arrayed everywhere: shelves of canned goods, bowls and baskets of fruit and vegetables, bread and cheese, and coffee. Phoebe stood in front of the fire for a couple of minutes, to get some warmth back into her chilled limbs, then set to constructing herself a substantial sandwich. The beef was rare and soft as butter, the bread still warm from the oven, the cheese ripe and piquant. By the time she'd finished putting the sandwich together, her mouth was awash. She took a hearty bite-it was better than goodthen poured herself a cup of fruit juice and settled down in front of the fire.

Her thoughts drifted as she ate and drank, back along the shore, through the crack and down the mountain to Everville. It seemed like days since she and Tesia had waited in the traffic on Main Street, and talked about whether people were real or not. The conversation struck her as even more nonsensical now than it had at the time. Here she was in a place where dreams were traded, eating rare beef in front of a wan-n fire; things were as real here as they'd been in the world she'd left, and that was a great comfort to her. It meant she understood the rules. She wouldn't fly here, but nor would she be chased by the Devil. This was just another country. Of course it had its share of strange customs and wild life, but so did Africa or China. She just had to get used to its peculiarities, and she'd be able to make her way here without difficulty.

"The Mistress wants to see you," Musnakaff announced from the doorway.

"Good," she said, and started to rise. She instantly felt lighthearted.

"Boy, oh boy," she said, picking up her cup and peering into it. "That juice has got a kick to it."

Musnakaff allowed himself a smile. "It's moumingberry," he said. "Are you not familiar with it?" She shook her head, which was a mistake. Her senses swam.

"Oh Lord," she said, and started to sit down again. 'Maybe I should just wait a few minutes."

"No. She wants to see you now. Trust me, she's not going to give a shit if you're a little tipsy. She's scarcely ever sober herself." He came over to Phoebe, and persuaded her back to her feet. "Now remember what I told you-"

"King Texas... " Phoebe mumbled, still trying to order her thoughts.

"No!" he yelped. "Don't you dare mention him."

"What then?" she said.

"The vale of tears," he reminded her.

"Oh yes. I remember. The Cosm's a vale of tears." She repeated it to herself, just for safety's sake.

"Have you got it?"

"I've got it," she said.

Musnakaff sighed. "Well then," he said, "I can think of no excuse to put this off any further," and duly escorted her out of the kitchen, along the passageway and up the stairs to meet with the Mistress of the strange house.

Thou h the trees that bounded the shore of Ephemeris grew