Then we sit down to dry off and have tea. Ginger teases Humpback’s hair into a mass of braids, but only on one side. She gets bored, and also there’s interference from Nanette, jealous and showing it. Humpback puts the bird on top of his head, and she immediately calms down and stops screeching. I say that even one-sided braids look nice, and Noble says that he misses his hair like crazy, because the way it is now it can’t be plaited at all. I play the Snow Song—it’s not as good as the Rain Song and is also much shorter, but on the other hand it fits this winter day better.
At lunchtime Dylan arrives, fashionably late for the great migration. Sphinx’s favorite, son of Mona, coal black and the loudest singer we know. Except you have to wait until spring to hear his songs.
“And where’s your tribute rat?” I ask him.
He just turns around and walks away, the shiny back swaying as he goes. A supremely self-absorbed animal.
The floor is covered with sausage ends and saucers of milk. The windows, with the crystal patterns left by the frost.
It’s evening now, and it’s snowing again.
The crow and the cats are testing each other’s alertness. Humpback, one side of his head still in braids, is trying to soothe them with the flute. Lary powders his zits, cinches the belt, turning a bit blue as a result, and runs out in search of adventure. Noble wheels out immediately after. No one has come out for the snow battle, for some reason. I sit on the sill and wait, but it’s empty down there. Empty and dreary. I study the frost patterns on the windowpanes and discover myself in them, endlessly repeated, all kinds of me—on Mustang and without it, shaggy and well-groomed, there’s even one clad in the new vest. I scratch out a tiny window for that crystal me, to make his life easier and more pleasant. Sphinx frowns as he observes me do it.
“It’s kind of a superstition,” I say. “You see, there’s another me here.”
“Oh. Yeah,” he says, “you can find all kinds of stuff in there. Tell me this, though. When you were painting that dragon on the ceiling . . . you wouldn’t happen to have drawn it a heart? Shot through by an arrow? You know, accidentally.”
“No,” I say. “That would have been too corny. All I did was give it an eye. In accordance with the instructions received in a dream.”
Lary comes back. He’s still on the purplish side. Circles around the room a couple of times, sighing like a hungry ghost.
“I’ll bring her,” he says suddenly. “To say hello. You’re going to like her. She’s a really cool girl, you’ll see.”
We wait. Lary waits. Watching Humpback all the while, for some reason.
“Sure, why not,” Humpback says. “What are you looking at me for? It’s not like I make the rules around these parts.”
“You see, we love each other,” Lary explains. “You see? I mean, for real. Could you, like, have a friendly conversation with her when she comes? You being my friend and all.”
Humpback stares in horror.
“What about? What do I need to talk to her about?”
“Well, there’s knitting, for one,” Lary says eagerly. “You should see the sweaters she makes! Crazy! Almost as good as yours. Honest.”
Humpback wilts. Everyone knows he likes to keep that skill private. Everyone, including Lary. But apparently real love interferes with the basic functioning of memory.
“Friendship demands sacrifices,” I say soothingly when Lary runs out again.
Smoker asks who Lary’s girlfriend is. We shrug in unison. No one knows. All we know for sure is that there isn’t another Gaby in the House. There are plenty of other horrible creatures besides her, though, and Logs’ standards are notoriously loose, so we all fret a bit, Humpback more than others.
We don’t have to wait long. Lary comes back accompanied by this flaxen-haired stick of a girl, unsteady pencil-thin legs perched on top of high heels. She takes position behind Lary’s back and marvels at us from there. He reddens in apparent delight. Another second and he’s going to melt like a blob of tomato paste.
“Allow me to introduce Needle. She knits gorgeous sweaters. Like really gorgeous. I’ve seen the last two myself. They’re in huge demand. Cool, huh? Humpback?”
Humpback shoots me a desperate look. Then clears his throat and asks what gauge of knitting needles she, that is, Needle, prefers. You couldn’t hear him at two paces.
Needle smiles pitifully. It’s time to ride to Humpback’s rescue. And Lary’s, even though he’s a nitwit. I take charge. When I speak, everyone hears what I say.
“Patterns? What kind? Cables, twists? Herringbone? Oh, eyelets, how lovely!”
It takes me half an hour to establish that the girl’s favorite color is beige, that she was born in November and is therefore a Scorpio, that she likes tea but not coffee—at which point Lary pours two cups of tea into her—that she gets sunburned easily, can cook oatmeal but not much else, and also puts on a bit of mascara but no other makeup, thank you. Finally Lary takes her away, satisfied, and I can breathe easier.
