My apologies for the extremely long wait. I wrote some of the later chapters in the interim, and this particular chapter kept wanting to continue even after I was ready to finish.

In Search of Mythical Kings has a soundtrack! To hear the collection of songs inspired by the story (the full story, including chapters yet to be published) search "Music for Mythical Kings," on 8tracks, published by temperaxmental (me.)


"Well, why are you so dressed up?"

I paused at the head of the staircase leading down to the foyer. Val, another girl who boarded at St. Dwynwyn's, was standng at the foot of the stairs, her hands on her hips, curlers jutting out from her hair at odd angles.

"I'm going to a party," I said, my heart sinking slightly. I'd rather hoped to avoid the interrogation tonight—being thoroughly nervous already at the prospect of meeting all of Lyall's friends.

"A party? Why wasn't I invited?" said Val coyly.

"It's just a small thing—it's not—"

"You should have let me do your makeup. Why didn't you say anything this morning? No, wait—I'll get an eye pencil from my room."

"I'm sorry—it just didn't occur to me," I lied. Val had a heavy hand when it came to cosmetics; there was no way I could go out and face Lyall looking like the sort of girl who lingered by the docks, half-frozen without her nylons in December.

"No! I wish you'd told me, we could have made a plan—"

"I think I'll be fine without, thanks," I said and edged down the stairs, practically on tiptoe in my high heels. In the foyer, I took a quick glance at myself in the mirror. My hair was pinned back from my temples, the tips curled into upturned waves. Behind me, the louvered door to the kitchen swung open and Mrs. Owens, one of the house matrons, stepped out. She took one glance at me.

"You're going out with a boy," she announced briskly.

"Well, actually it's a Christmas party. We're going as friends—"

"Do mind the curfew. I worry about you girls going to parties with all those young men, drinking and carousing till all hours."

Val giggled. "It's extended curfew tonight," she pointed out.

"I'll be back on time," I promised.

"Just be careful," said Mrs. Owens, as she wiped her floury hands on her starched apron. "Young men sometimes behave as though all the rules of propriety go out the window"—with this, she waved a cloud of floury dust into the air—"when there's alcohol present."

"I'll be careful," I said quickly, to get out from under her scrutiny. Val laughed and made her way upstairs.

"Have a good time!" she shouted wickedly. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

"There's only about one thing on that list," muttered Mrs. Owens under her breath.

I buttoned up my green felt coat and left for the front stoop before anyone else could lecture me on decorum, proper or otherwise. The evening was mild and windless. Though it was only six o'clock, the sky was black. Streetlamps cast a pinkish glow over the street. There was no one to be seen as I walked down the street towards the bus stop where Lyall planned to meet me.

I waited for two or three minutes, having arrived at our meeting place early. Only a sliver of moon was visible in the starless sky. The endless rows of chimney tops repeated like black paper cutouts, pinned to the horizon.

Then, a loud crack startled me so badly I nearly fell over. It was loud as a gunshot, but somehow crisper—like a sheet of metal snapping in half. I jumped back.

"I hope you haven't eaten," Lyall said mildly. "I only just found out that there's going to be hors d'oeuvres."

"Goodness, I didn't see you coming," I gushed nervously. "I thought I heard a crash."

Lyall buttoned the collar of his coat with leather-gloved hands. I'd never seen him make any concessions to the weather before. "I think it was a stray cat," he said uncuriously. "Must have knocked over a bin."

"Oh," I murmured, embarassed. "I suppose...ever since the incident with the tramp in the forest, I've been a little nervous about noises when I'm alone."

"Quite alright," Lyall said, though he looked uncomfortable.

"I know I'm being silly."

"Doesn't hurt to be careful," he said evenly.

"I did eat, a little. I thought it would be only drinks."

"So did I," Lyall said, "but my friend let me know just this afternoon that it's actually going to be catered."

"Really? That's fancy."

"Yes. Well." He examined my expression, as if to see if I was offended. I smiled for him, and the skin around his eyes crinkled, just the hint of my smile returned. "Actually, I heard a few rumours that there might be an announcement."

"Of?"

"An engagement. That would, er, explain the catering."

"Oh, that would be lovely," I exclaimed. "Are most of your friends married?"

"Hardly, " he said, as two bright headlights appeared, swinging around the corner. "I have two friends that are engaged to each other, but otherwise...look, that's ours." The bus had pulled up at our stop, the engine huffing smoke like a jogger's breath in the cold.

I followed Lyall to a row of seats at the back.

"It's not too far," he said, glancing at his watch. "I don't think we'll be late."

"There's no such thing as late to a party!" I laughed.

"Well, it's supposed to start at seven..." he mused.

"Lyall," I giggled, "nobody comes on time to a party!"

He looked more taken aback then I expected, and I almost felt apologetic when he asked me, quite anxiously, "Do you think we ought to have left a bit later?"

"They're your friends, Lyall. You tell me," I said. He looked down at his hands, his brows knit together with concern. I felt a bit guilty for teasing him, but his anxiety was perplexing. If he didn't want to go to the party, why had he invited me?

"I don't think it will be any trouble," he said softly, almost to himself. We fell into a silence neither tense nor comfortable. I watched through the window as the city lights passed by, yellow eyes blinking in and out of view, overlaid by our reflection—behind me, Lyall had taken out his small, forest green notebook and was rereading his own illegible cursive. I remember marvelling at how he could read such tiny letters, and feeling the lazy vibrations of the bus beneath me, and I thought—


I wasn't tired at all, but the next thing I knew, Lyall was gently urging me to wake up, with a hand on my shoulder.

"We're here," he said.

"I'm so sorry—I have no idea why I fell asleep. It must have been the motion of the bus. I'm terribly embarassed.

Lyall blinked. He seemed to realize his hand was still on my shoulder and jerked it away.

"Sorry. I, er, I didn't want to wake you," he mumbled. "Until it was time."

"No, it's my fault," I assured him.

"Oi! Are you two getting off or not?!" yelled the driver.

We quickly disembarked as an elderly lady replied to the driver: "When I was that age, I would never have had the temerity—"

The door slammed shut. I whispered to Lyall, "I don't think they had buses back when she was our age."

"That lady's always there," he said. "I've seen her a million times. Here, the road's a bit icy."

He offered me his hand to help me up onto the pavement. My heels clicked against the cement. The row houses before us were large and well-cared for. We made our way up several stairs to a door hung with a Christmas wreath made of painted twigs that shone gold and silver in the lamplight. Lyall reached for the doorknocker, but the moment his finger touched the brass, the door flew open. There was no one behind it but a short corridor and the muffled din of a party beyond the walls.

"That's odd," I remarked. "Did you see how the door just—"

"Must have been the wind," Lyall said shortly.

"I didn't feel any."

"Come, we're upstairs."

I followed Lyall down the corridor and up a flight of steps that seemed awfully long and steep, but only took three or four seconds to climb. The noise became louder; I could make out a man's roaring laughter and the clinking of glasses. When we reached the second floor, an arm shot out of an open doorway, grabbed Lyall roughly by the wrist, and unceremoniously yanked him through.

"There he is!" said a man's raucous voice. I approached timidly, cluching my purse to me as though it were a teddy bear.

"Where've you been? We've all been waiting here, desperate, heartbroken—"

"Oh, ha-ha," said Lyall dryly. He nodded at me and I joined him and his friend in the dimly lit parlour. I was relieved to see that everyone around us was just about Lyall's age. There must have been fifteen or twenty people spread between the parlour and the dining room, where a long, oak table groaned under a magnificent spread of food.

"So you've got a plus-one," said Lyall's friend, a young man with a boyish face and dark, wavy hair. "That's entirely new." He spoke with a thick Scottish burr. It seemed mismatched with his rakish posture; he exuded the handsome laziness of a minor duke or heir to some fortune.

"This is Hope," said Lyall. He turned to me, raising his voice to speak over the ambient noise. "I'm sorry, I should have introduced you to Ogilvy."

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that name."

"Ogilvy. Yes, it's just my last name. Long story. And you're Hope?"

"Hope Howell," I said shyly. I noticed a tray of canapés being passed around in my peripheral vision. Certainly none of my friends had food like that at their parties.

Ogilvy's dark eyes twinkled as he looked from me back to Lyall. "You told me you were bringing a friend, but I notice you neglected to mention that she was of the feminine variety."

My cheeks warmed. Lyall's mouth tightened into a line. "Forgive him," he said. "Ogilvy's been living in a study carrel for the past two years. He's forgotten how to interact with people who aren't diagrams."

"Oh," I murmured, "are you studying medicine?"

He grinned, flashing a row of crooked teeth. "Not quite."

I masked a flash of déjà vu with a smile. What was it? Before I could remember, two more men holding drinks came to join us.

"Lupin."

Lyall nodded to the taller of the pair, a burly man with a friendly expression and a small waistcoat straining at the seams. I nearly expected a button to fly off and hit me in the face.

"Hope, this is Hoyt."

"Pleased to meet you," he replied, offering me a meaty hand to shake. His grip was surprisingly gentle.

"Hope is a friend of mine," Lyall said preemptively, as Hoyt give him a questioning look. "She's shown me around Cardiff."

"You must be very well acquainted with the city now," Ogilvy ribbed, prompting Lyall to shoot him a glare colder than ice.

"Only a few places," I said, blushing.

"I'm Antony," said Lyall's other friend, a short man with wiry blond hair, oval-shaped glasses and a square jaw "Antony Mountcreed." His accent was posh, all garden luncheons and Savile Row tailoring. Unlike Hoyt, his suit was supremely well-fitted to his short, skinny frame, although the effect was somewhat diminished by the pastry crumbs scattered across his coat.

"We all went to school together," Lyall explained.

"You really must try some of these aubergine things, they're excellent," said Antony, licking his lips.

"Can't you just be a normal person and call it eggplant?" said Ogilvy in mock exasperation.

"What, I'm only calling it what it is—"

"Hoyt, tell him it's a bloody eggplant."

Hoyt laughed. "I don't know if I want to start with you two."

"I didn't start anything," insisted Antony.

"It is a bit pompous," Hoyt admitted. "If you want to split hairs." Ogilvy grinned hugely in triumph, while Antony began to protest. I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder.

I turned to see Lyall looking down, a bit of a smile playing on his face. He sighed.

"Sorry about that," he said. "I think...when we're all together, it, er, it brings out the most puerile instincts."

"Don't be. My friends aren't any more grown-up when we get together."

He raised an eyebrow so subtly I laughed aloud.

"Alright, maybe a little more. But that's just girls, we're like that."

"Would you like a drink?"

"May I take my coat off?"

"Oh...right. Here, give it to me."

Lyall removed his coat and draped it around mine before hanging it in a closet.

I leaned to the side, peeking at a side table laden with pitchers and bottles, but my view was blocked when a man went to pour drinks, his female companion lingering with him directly in my line of sight.

"Would you like a drink?"

"It depends," I said shyly, playing with the ball of amber on my necklace. "Are you going to offer me a 'girly' drink?"

"I will offer you anything you'd like, so long as Ogilvy hasn't already finished it," said Lyall. "Are you going to accept my offer?"

"Mmhmm."

He smiled then, effulgently; it was the first full smile I'd ever seen from Lyall, whose mood was usually restrained. The light was dim, but we were standing close enough together that I could see my own rounded reflection in his dilated pupils. I looked very short and small, and it occurred to me that I was seeing myself as he did. The effect only lasted a moment before he tilted his head somewhat and two yellow lamps reflected off the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his eyes.

"I'll be right back," he said, and disappeared as a throng of people passed by the sideboard. The doorbell rung, (What doorbell? I hadn't seen any doorbell when we were downstairs) and a girl wearing soft, in-door Chinese slippers peeked out the window through the drapes.

I felt somewhat cut adrift, and not only by Lyall's quick departure. It was a strange night, even stranger than I could have known; there were too many moving pieces, and nothing seemed to fit. When I was a child, my mother took my sister and I to visit relatives in Swansea and I remember their perfectly symmetrical blue house; it looked very small on the outside and the inside seemed far too large, amplified by mirrors and trompe l'eoil murals. I'd felt so confused and disoriented by the strange geometries around me that I'd cried, telling my great aunt that her house was "too small to be big" (profusely embarrassing my mother in the process.) The sensation returned to me that night, though I felt not upset, but intoxicated.

"Here you are," said Lyall. "It's punch...I don't think it will be too strong."

"Thank you." I accepted my drink from him; it looked like ordinary fruit punch, but it was served in a bronze goblet etched with swirling curlicues. I heard someone put a record on, the volume cranked up all the way. "You haven't introduced me to the host."

"What?!"

"I said, you haven't introduced me to the host." I took a sip. It was wine—fruity, not too sweet but not too dry either.

"Ah," Lyall said, looking bemused for a moment. "That's going to be a bit, er, complicated."

"A bit what?"

"A bit complicated." He squeezed the stem of his own goblet, which was filled with dark amber liquid. I drank another mouthful of wine; it seemed to morph from one flavour to another as I tasted it.

"Why is it complicated?" I immediately felt guilty for asking; I didn't want him to think I was interrogating him.

"Well..." He said something I couldn't hear.

"What?!"

He repeated himself, but I still couldn't hear.

"What?"

"I SAID, FOLLOW ME."

He led me past the crowd who had gathered around the turntable; a man twirled two girls in flaring skirts on their heels. We reached an alcove with a small table, where people had left their empty goblets next to a framed photograph. It was somewhat quieter there.

Lyall leaned towards me and spoke into my ear.

"You remember I told you how people suspected there was going to be an announcement of an engagement?"

"Yes."

"Well..."

He absentmindedly took his handkerchief from his breast pocket and folded it into a fractal of triangles.

"The thing is," he said, "Corner—Irvin Corner, the man whose flat this is, he isn't really a friend of mine. We were a bit—well, he wasn't very friendly with Ogilvy at school. They had something of a rivalry. His sweetheart is an...ex-girlfriend of Ogilvy's. I wasn't terribly fond of Corner either."

My expression must have conveyed some of my confusion, for Lyall spoke more quickly, with a somewhat pained expression.

"You see, Gil and I were quite inseparable at that time, he was, er, much less outspoken at the—anyways, I don't think Corner is all that happy to see me. But I had to come because Tertia's father is a good friend of mine, and he's got a prestigious position high up in the Minis—in the field Ogilvy's studying, so Gil wants an introduction, but that means cozying up to Tertia again, except without me it would look too much like, er..."

"Like he was trying to get back together with her,"

"Exactly." Lyall considered the tiny, densely packed kerchief in his hand and smoothed it back into a rectangle. "I'm presumably here because we're old family friends, Tertia and I, but that is something of an exaggeration...I had, er...hoped to avoid running into either of them. There was something of a falling out between my mother and her mother, not that it's really concerning us."

"Us?"

"Tertia and I."

For a moment, I had wondered if we were an us. My thoughts were interrupted by a girl hurrying down the hall. She rudely pushed between Lyall and I to get past, muttering only a cursory, "excuse me."

"Was that her?" I asked timidly.

Lyall shook his head and gave me an impenetrable look. "Tertia's the one in slippers. For all intents and purposes, she lives here." He looked down immediately after saying that, and took a small step backwards, bumping into the table. A framed photo fell forward. Lyall righted it, and shot me an apologetic glance. "I probably shouldn't have said that."

"Why not?" I said, half laughing.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it, and then opened it again. "Well...I don't want to offend you..."

I smiled at him. "I won't be."

He glanced at the ceiling as if to search for the answer up there. "It's just that, er, some people—people I know—they might not approve of, er, co-habitation before marriage."

"Do you think I'm just scandalized?"

"I—" his expression was twisting into a mixture of fear and laughter when we were interrupted by Ogilvy, who slung an arm around Lyall's back so forcefully that Lyall grimaced.

"HAVING FUN?" he shouted. I noticed a gold-coloured drink in his other hand. Before Lyall could answer, he said, "I knew I'd find you in a corner somewhere. You're no fun at parties."

"I'm never any fun at all," Lyall said dryly, "so why would you expect any change?"

Ogilvy looked me up and down. "Pity you've gotten all dressed up for this stick in the mud. Don't you want to come have a go at Expl—"

"Gil," said Lyall quietly. To my surprise, Ogilvy went silent and shot a look at Lyall before bursting into a fresh round of giggles. Lyall sidestepped him and swallowed the remainder of his own drink.

"Do you want some food?" he offered. "I know you've eaten earlier, but..."

"Oh," I blushed. "Well...maybe some fruit salad.

"Alright, then. If you don't mind, since I haven't had dinner..." He gestured towards the dining room and I followed him. Most people had taken plates of food to eat in the living room, but there was a man who looked to be in his fifties sitting in a corner, shovelling Welsh rarebit and green beans into his mouth off a plate held just under his chin. He made eye contact with Lyall and nodded.

Lyall cleared his throat nervously. "Hello, Mr. Corner."

The man swallowed and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "Lyall Lupin, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"I heard you got a major grant from the SASQUATCH*.

"Oh, it—it wasn't that major," Lyall muttered.

"The what?" I whispered.

"Acronym," he said curtly.

"Hmm. Well, my wife certainly thought it was major," said Mr. Corner, loading up his fork with a pile of meat. "Who are you?" he asked me matter-of-factly.

I shrunk back, feeling as though I'd gatecrashed and been caught.

"This is a friend of mine," said Lyall quickly. "She's—not from school."

"Ah." A wry smile crept across Mr. Corner's face. "I see. Well, what are you two waiting for then?"

I blushed.

"Go get something to eat! We haven't put out all this spread for decoration..."

"Thank you," I murmured. Lyall nodded awkwardly at Mr. Corner and then loaded a plate with a towering pile of various foods, not noticing that he was heaping gravy onto his chocolate éclairs. I took some fruit salad and attempted to scoop some ice cream into a bowl, but it was rock hard. An arm extended around mine and took the scooper from me.

"Let me do that," said Lyall. He carved out a ball of ice cream as easily as if it were margarine.

"I'm really not that weak, usually," I protested.

"It was frozen solid," he said, his solemn expression twitching slightly.

"No, really. I always open jars on my own."

"I believe you." His mouth held just the hint of a smile.

"Lyall!"

"I do. I believe you eminently." He gestured towards a sofa in the parlour, where two deep indentations implied a recent vacancy. "Would you like a seat?"

"I don't need to sit," I giggled. "Really."

"Suit yourself," he said. "I prefer to sit while I'm eating." He sat down at the end of the sofa, by the armrest. The middle was empty; on the far left, a drunk-looking man was sleeping, his head tossed back against the pillows.

I gave in and sank down between them. Lyall's expression was part smug, part amused.

"Comfortable? Would you like an extra pillow?"

"Oh, stop it, you." I couldn't help but laugh. Someone put on another record; I heard the needle scratch, and then the music roared before the volume was quickly adjusted.

Lyall leaned closer and said, "I'm sorry. I had no intention of injuring your feelings."

In the lamplight, I could see the faintest lines beginning to crease his forehead.

"I'm no delicate flower."

"No, no. You're a very strong little flower." He eyed me seriously for a fraction of a second before breaking out into his second real grin of the evening. For a moment, I had the urge to remove his glasses and see what he looked like without them, as if some hidden self only glimpsed through the slats of a fence might be revealed to me in full.

"Who's a flower?" asked a female voice. I looked up to see a girl my age with red lipstick and curly dark hair pinned back from her face with numerous bobby pins.

"Oh, hi."

"Oh, hi to you to. Where've you been all night? Ashleigh tells me you were hiding in a dark corner last he saw you."

"I've been—" Lyall glanced at me, looking embarrassed. "I should introduce you, shouldn't I?"

"Oh, you're the guest, then. Gil said Lyall had brought someone, but I didn't believe him."

"...oh."

"This is Felicia," Lyall said as he stared down at his plate. Apparently, he'd noticed the gravy seeping into his dessert, as he pushed the eclairs to the side of his plate with a dejected clink of his fork. "Felicia, Hope Howell."

"Hello," I said shyly.

"Felicia is another friend," said Lyall. "She's Hoyt's fiancée."

"Yes, that's Ashleigh," she added, "but no one calls him that but me. He's gone to the loo."

"Too much to drink again?" asked Lyall dryly.

"You've no idea. We've been here since six-thirty. I only hope it's not coming out the way it went in." She scowled and then broke into a smile. I noticed the ring on her finger. If I hadn't known she was engaged, I would have taken it for normal jewelry, for it was silver and the diamond was so small it looked like a baby's stud earring.

"I'm sure he'll be fine," said Lyall, who seemed to have relaxed enough to take a giant bite out of his chocolate éclair.

Then music was switched off. Mr. Corner, alone in the doorway to the dining room, was tinkling a spoon against a goblet. He waited for the din of conversation to die out and then pulled an embarrassed-looking young man with big ears and tiny wire-framed glasses to his side.

"That's Irvin," Lyall breathed into my ear.

"Er, hello everyone," said Mr. Corner cheerily. "Welcome. I hope you enjoyed the food, all of it homemade, of course," he added, with a dramatic wink. A few people laughed dutifully, and I heard a cat meow.

"As you know, this is, er, Irvin's day, not mine. That's why we're here...no thank you, Pudding," he said, looking down; for a moment, I assumed he was speaking to a child, until I saw the black and white cat at his feet who held an entire roasted chicken in his jaws and was patiently offering it to Mr. Corner. "Sorry about that.

I giggled and several heads turned to look at me. Lyall stared down at his plate.

"I'm sure you know that today is a special occasion for our family, and not just because it's my wife's birthday."

Irvin, whose ears where reddening as he stared down at the floor, muttered "Dad."

"Alright, alright, to the point. Well, I'm sure you all know that my son has been, er, going out with a very lovely young lady—"

"Dad."

("Oh my god," whispered Felicia next to me.)

"Yes, yes, you want to do it yourself. Go ahead." Mr. Corner stepped off to the side, accidently treading on the cat's paw. With a muffled meow in protest, the cat scurried away, roast chicken still dangling ten inches off the floor.

"Erm." Irvin spoke up. He was looking at someone sitting right before him, presumably Tertia.

"I just—I wanted to thank you all for coming today, and, er, I know it's almost Christmas and a lot of you have other events to go to..."

He reminded me of Lyall a little too much and I smiled to myself.

"And I just wanted to—" Looking a bit lost, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and stepped forward. My view was blocked by the crowd sitting and standing ahead of me, including Lyall, who glanced at me and looked away.

"Tertia," continued Irvin unsteadily, "erm...I suppose you know what this is."

("Yes," whispered Felicia, "it's just about the least romantic—"

"Shh!" warned another girl.)

"...don't you?"

I heard an embarrassed titter.

"Tertia, I, er, I love you very much," he continued shakily. "And, er, I want—"

"JUST DO IT!" came a man's voice from somewhere near the front door. No more than one person laughed; Lyall reflexively clapped his hands over his face, fingers sliding beneath his glasses to cover his eyes.

"Please tell me that wasn't Gil," whimpered Felicia.

"It wasn't him," Lyall whispered automatically.

Whoever it was, Irvin bravely obeyed. "I want to marry you."

"Do you want to re-phrase that as a question?" asked Mr. Corner cheerily.

"No, I want to die," said Felicia flatly, under her breath. The cat mewed in agreement. Even I felt my cheeks burn.

"Erm...Tertia, will you marry me?"

("I can't believe this.")

As a long, silent moment passed, I worried that she had been taken by surprise and was completely unprepared to answer. Then people started clapping and cheering, and I realized she must have nodded. Mr. Corner beamed with pride. An older woman I assumed must be either Mrs. Corner or Tertia's mother hugged both Irvin and Tertia, whose face was glowing red. Someone put the turntable back on, mercifully, and the noise level rose to drown out any lingering awkwardness.

"That was, er..." Lyall looked at me, bemusement on his face. "Unexpected."

"Oh my god," said Felicia, "I'm so sorry you had to witness that, Hope. We all thought they were already engaged and today was the announcement. I never imagined this travesty would occur before my own eyes."

"It's alright," I laughed. "I had a surprise."

Lyall swallowed the last of his drink and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I don't understand," he said, "how you could propose to someone in front of everyone you know. I just don't understand."

"SOME PEOPLE THINK THAT'S ROMANTIC!" shouted Ogilvy, who had materialized in front of the sofa with another goblet in hand. Even in the dim light, I could see beads of sweat on his forehead. "NOT ME, BUT SOME PEOPLE."

"Do you know you're yelling?" asked Lyall casually.

Felicia shook her head ruefully. "Have you seen Ashleigh?" she asked. "I'm starting to worry."

"HE OBVIOUSLY HASN'T LEFT, HIS COAT IS STILL HERE."

She rolled her eyes. "You lost him, then."

"I'm sure he's fine," said Lyall, "just fine." He sounded slightly dazed, as though he'd been hit over the head with a mallet. "It's not as if..." His brow furrowed. "I don't understand...because if she refused, then what?"

"I would crawl under a sofa and never come out," I admitted.

"Well, I would kill Ashleigh if he did that to me. And my father, and everyone else who witnessed that," Felicia announced, gesticulating so violently she hit Ogilvy in the stomach. It was at least twelve seconds before he reacted.

"OW! WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU?"

"Go away, you're spitting on me when you talk," she complained.

"I'M NOT SPITTING. LYALL, AM I NOT SPITTING? I MEAN, NOT SPITTING?"

Lyall merely looked at me with a slight smile.

Felicia leaned away from Ogilvy in disgust. "You're doing it again."

The song changed to something brassy and fast-paced. I noticed a man ahead of us spinning a girl around playfully, the plaid of her skirt spinning into rings like those on a potter's bowl. She laughed and collapsed backward into his arms, pretending to object when he kissed her neck.

"WHY SO GLUM, MY SUGAR PLUM?" Ogilvy yelled in our general direction. I wasn't sure which one of us he was addressing, but Lyall looked away from the couple with an insulted sniff, while Felicia got up off the sofa and smoothed down her skirt.

"I'm leaving," she said. "I hate couples, they're so depressing."

"BUT YOU ARE A COUPLE. I MEAN, HALF OF YOU—I MEAN—"

"Not without Ashleigh. Well, I'm off to find him. It was nice meeting you. So sorry you've been subjected to all of this, Hope," she said kindly. "Ogilvy isn't always this bad. It's nice to see you bring someone," she added, turning to face Lyall. "You should try it more often."

"Oh..." I clutched at my fork, not quite knowing what to say. "It was...nice to meet you."

"ARE PEOPLE GOING HOME? ISN'T IT SO EARLY?"

Lyall ignored Ogilvy and turned to me. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it, gazing down at his plate studiously.

"Er...do you think you'd like to get another drink?"

"I probably shouldn't," I said hesitantly. "I mean, I don't want to be tipsy when I get home. We're not really supposed to, you know..."

"Drink. I see. Well, maybe you'd like some water?"

"Yes, please."

I followed him to the side table, weaving through clusters of people. Every so often, the doorbell chimed or a group of men laughed loudly.

"It's a bit rude for people to come after the main event, don't you think?" I said.

"Well, you can't blame them. Nobody was told Irvin's father was going to make him propose at nine-fifteen."

"You don't think he forced him to, did he?" I said, feeling, slightly alarmed. Lyall shook his head.

"I doubt it. I mean, certainly the venue was his idea, and probably the modus operandi but those two have been going steady since we were in school." Lyall poured me a glass of water. Ice cubes clinked together in the heavy bronze pitcher.

I took a sip of water, but the punch I'd drank earlier had already gone to my head; it was just enough, combined with the strange atmosphere, to make me a little more flirtatious than necessary.

I stood on tiptoe to reach his ear and whispered, "Everything here looks like it came from a medieval manor."

He nodded. "It probably did. The Corners are old money." He glanced around and leaned closer to me before whispering, "Thank goodness they only had boys, or my parents would have tried to...you know..."

"To fix you up?" I smiled at him, knowing it would make him stammer and backtrack. I was not disappointed.

"Well—I don't mean they really...it's not that I actually, er, look for that sort of...that sort of person..."

"Of course you don't."

He hesitated, looking flustered.

"Lyall, I'm only joking."

He eyed me suspiciously and sipped his drink. Behind him, I noticed a girl sitting on the floor, her knees drawn up. She appeared to be crying.

"Do you think we should—" I gestured to her.

"Oh," he said dumbly. "Yes..."

We approached the girl; she was clutching her knees, which peeked out from argyle socks. Her face was flushed, her cheeks the colour of a lobster.

I knelt down next to her. "Are you alright?"

She shook her head without speaking. Lyall glanced at us and backed away shyly.

"What's the matter?" I touched her shoulder. "Did something happen?"

"Yes, something happened," she blurted angrily.

"What—"

"What happened..." she whined loudly, "what happened is these DRUNK PEOPLE are STEALING my COLESLAW!"

At this, she gestured wildly to a plate beside her on the floor. There was nothing on it but crumbs. I recognized the pattern, though; it was from the cheese platter.

Lyall looked at me. His mouth was a perfect O.

"LYALL!" yelled someone from across the room. As soon as he turned in the direction of the man's voice, the crying girl pushed herself to her feet and huffed, "No one is being faaaaaair! No one–HIC!—has any manners any more!"

"Dear god," whispered Lyall.

"Hey! Lupin!" Hoyt pushed past a clique of couples who were simultaneously gossiping and making embarrassingly public displays of affection in the obnoxious manner of those who are either entirely lacking in self-consciousness or possess far too much of it.

"Hi," said Lyall. "I think Felicia's looking for you."

The coleslaw girl took several unsteady steps towards the dining room and stumbled, before a girlfriend of hers took notice and grabbed her arm. Together, they disappeared—quite literally disappeared—from view.

Hoyt shook his head. "We've met up already. She's actually with Tertia. I think they're talking about W-E-D-D-I-N-G-S."

"Good luck with that," said Lyall brightly.

Hoyt grinned at me sheepishly. He looked nowhere near as intoxicated as Ogilvy, and probably even more clearheaded than me.

"I suppose I should explain," he said. "Felicia and I have been engaged for, er, for a while—"

"Congratulations," I said.

"Is it two years now?" asked Lyall. The smirk playing across his face was a shadow of Ogilvy's knowing smile when Lyall had introduced me.

"Well...since Christmas of '55, so I guess...that's almost two years—anyways, for a myriad of reasons, legitimate reasons, most of them financial, we haven't had the opportunity to, you know..."

"Get married?" I offered. Two young men holding pastries wrapped in napkins wandered past us, briefly cutting between Hoyt, Lyall and me.

"Well, of course we want to get married, but, er, the timing has been...something of a point of contention," said Hoyt, who seemed not at all offended by the interlopers.

"Oh," I said.

"You'll be alright," said Lyall. "I don't suppose they'll bring up honeymoons yet, do you? I mean, what with Christmas coming up..."

Hoyt, whose shoulders were already slumped, deflated even further upon the word "honeymoon."

"Lyall." I swatted his arm lightly. "Don't be cruel."

Hoyt from Lyall's arm to my face, and back to Lyall. He said nothing, but Lyall seemed to notice his expression because his posture tightened, and he took a small step away from me. My cheeks burned. Suddenly, the punch seemed to slosh around in my stomach.

"I think I'd like to sit down," I said. "I'm sorry, it's just—I don't really drink often."

"No, of course," said Lyall. "I think the sofa's taken but there are some seats left by the buffet."

"Well, I'll leave you to it," said Hoyt, who was no longer slumped over in defeat. He re-buttoned a button on his waistcoat that had come undone and tried to tug the hem of it down across his barrel chest in earnest. "I don't want to interrupt."

"Oh, it's no interruption," I assured him. "It was nice to meet you."

"Well, I suppose I'll see you later," Lyall said. We parted from Hoyt; he went off towards a doorway leaking a ribbon of gold light across the floor. I followed Lyall back to the dining room. The song playing on the record ended and in the scratchy quiet between tracks, I heard a small pitter-patter on the carpeted floor.

Lyall and I sat down on dining chairs that had been pushed back against the wall to make room for the buffet. The food had been thoroughly picked over; the lovely fruit platter was now a plate of grape stems, decorative gooseberries and the shaved cantaloupe rosette that had been its centrepiece. Several empty goblets had been abandoned next to a tray carrying only a shallow pool of gravy and a single bone.

"I'm surprised there isn't a cake," I said. "I mean—since your friend's father seemed to know in advance that he'd propose."

"There probably will be," Lyall replied. "Knowing the Corners, it'll most likely be iced with the couple's monogram." He was now on his third drink, but showed no sign of it. His hair was still neatly parted and gelled to one side, his skin its usual tan. There was something intriguing about the utter consistency of his appearance from one day to another. He wasn't like some of the men who worked in my office, who slept there overnight during stressful periods and worked the next morning looking dishevelled and weary, wearing what was clearly the same suit and a different shirt. He was more like a raccoon or a cat, who was identifiable clearly by their unchanging coat of fur.

"There goes Antony...I can't believe he's found the only other girl none of us know," said Lyall.

"Where?" I craned my neck, but couldn't spot him in the crowded parlour. I only just noticed a flicker of motion beneath the dining room table.

"You just missed him. They went off together, I think to the study."

"Should I be grateful or disappointed that we're the only ones here behaving?" I asked with a giggle.

"Somehow," said Lyall, "no matter how lucky he gets, Antony still manages to ruin—Hope, move—"

I felt something plop down onto my lap. It was the roast chicken, now slightly torn up and sporting considerable bite marks. Chicken grease now shone from the wool of my skirt.

"Meow!" announced the cat, who had appeared on the chair next to me, with great satisfaction.

"I'm sorry—if I had seen him earlier, I would have warned you," stammered Lyall. He grabbed the chicken from my skirt. A sliver of meat fell off and slid down my thigh onto the floor.

"Er..." I didn't know quite what to say. "If there's a napkin—"

"Yes—of course—" Lyall got up from his seat and dashed to the table. He was still holding the entire chicken in one hand. The dining room seemed to expand and contract in front of me like a pair of lungs. Brassy, big band music buzzed in my ears. Lyall was searching the table frantically for a napkin, and I remember thinking that with his back turned to me, he could have been anyone—his dark grey suit and neatly combed hair so featureless.

And then Ogilvy staggered in, carelessly sloshing stout from his goblet onto the carpet. I shrunk back in my chair in self-protection, for he looked exceedingly sociable.

"DO YE KNOW FA AH JIST MIT?"

Lyall gave him some kind of meaningful look and said something so quietly I couldn't hear.

"OH, LIGHTEN UP. IF YOU—OH EXCELLENT, WHERE'D YE NAB 'AT FRAE?" asked Ogilvy. "WELL, SINCE YE SAVED ME A PIECE—"

"What?" said Lyall.

Ogilvy ripped a drumstick off the chicken in Lyall's hand and bit off a huge chunk of meat. "AND AH THOUGHT A'TH'FOOD WISH GAEN!" he said nearly incomprehensibly, while chewing. "THANKSH, LUPIN."

I tried to give Lyall a naughty smile but he was frozen, staring at the carpet. The remainder of the chicken fell from his hand to the carpet, where Pudding pounced on it greedily. I watched, mesmerized as Ogilvy stooped down to pet his neck clumsily. The cat escaped from his drunken gesture of affection, leaping onto the table to lick from someone's abandoned goblet of champagne.

"YE C'N TEEL 'S'A GIRL," Ogilvy sniffed, his voice so soft he was almost not shouting. "Nae matter hoo weLl ye treat them, they jist rin awa'."

"Right," muttered Lyall, glancing at his watch. "I think—I think we need to run, you said you must be home by ten o'clock."

"Oh—yes, I didn't notice the time. Do you have—?"

"Sorry," said Lyall, as he quickly handed me the napkins he'd picked up. I wiped up my skirt as best I could. He looked at me tentatively and nodded towards the doorway; I followed him. We wended our way through the crowd. I noticed many of the cliques had broken up into couples. Single girls and young men stood awkwardly with their backs to the wall, some eating cake or fixing their hair.

"I'm so sorry for this—" said Lyall, as we reached the coat closet.

"No, no," I said, smiling. "It happens. I have a cat at home, in Aberystwyth."

"Nonetheless," he said softly. "I'll pay, if it needs to be cleaned."

"It's really alright—"

"No, I insist." His rounded eyebrows were wispy, lighter than his brown hair. I remember it as the first time I ever saw his brows knit together like that, in guilt. Years later, we would laugh at the memory of that night, and I would try to coax him into getting a cat, but he always said no, because Remus's screaming would scare it away.

I sincerely regret not getting Remus a kitten to keep him company. He was really very sweet to animals, though a little afraid of dogs, for understandable reasons. When he went away to Hogwarts, he outgrew the fear, just like so many jumpers and children's games and the way he'd snuggle up to me when I sat next to him on the sofa.


Lyall returned me to my doorstep just in time to make my curfew. He apologized profusely again for the whole evening while I tried to reign in the giggles. He looked very relieved when I patted his shoulder and assured him I'd had a nice time.

We saw each other two more times before Christmas, meeting at the library to look at an exhibition of local college-age artists' work (my idea) and at a malt shop (also my idea, though Lyall was very thrilled by getting to choose whatever flavours he liked for his soda. It was almost as though he'd never heard of a soda fountain before.) He told me he was going to his family home in Lancashire for Christmas. I had never heard of Foxhaven, the tiny village he was from; Lyall assured me it was very obscure.

We exchanged Christmas presents after Lyall finished his soda, though neither of us had known the other was intending to buy anything. He gave me a black leather journal with creamy pages and a red ribbon attached to the spine. The cover was stamped H in gold foil. When I thanked him, he became quiet and tersely suggested it was only right, seeing as I'd been so nice about what he referred to as "the Christmas party fiasco."

I felt a little guilty about my gift for him, a pack of playing cards that came in a colourful tin. There was no way I'd spent half as much on it as he did on my gift; there was hardly anything left in my purse after Christmas shopping. His card was handmade, decorated with pen-and-ink drawings I'd done of stockings filled with sweets hung around a fireplace. Lyall slit the envelope open neatly, without a tear. When he saw my drawing, Lyall's mouth twitched and crinkles appeared around his eyes.

"It's stupid," I said.

"I like it."

"No, it's really dumb."

"I don't think so," he said. "I can't draw like that." He read the message and then folded the card up and slid it neatly back into the envelope, which he had managed to open without tearing.

"Happy Christmas," I said, tracing the curly pattern of the linoleum table.

"Happy Christmas," he said, and frowned.

"What?"

"I don't understand any of these songs on the radio. What does sh-boom mean?"

I shook my head for a long time, ignoring his demands to know why I was laughing.

It wasn't a radio. It was a jukebox.


*Society for the Academic Study of Specular, Quixotic, Unidentifiable And Thaumaturgically Complex Hauntings