Quincunx

What we need is a tongue hinge, installed in the center of the mouth, so we can make right angles in our mouths to flip out the 'hw' (who knew that Beowulf would aid me more in foreign lands than four years of Latin?) and point the tongue down the throat quickly so one can say 'å' and the rest of the word in one fluid string of sound. Star does have a philips head screwdriver, but it's part of a computer repair kit and unsuitable for assembling anything larger than a pair of eyeglasses. (Rydia takes the flat-headed screwdriver and the jar of pickled beetroot, applying one to the other in attempts to remove the lid.) Dear. . .haven't we been to parties very similar to naked Twister furniture assembly? I think I remember drunken Invader Zim catapult assembly.

This is the first non-cooperative piece I've seen from you in I-don't-know-how-long. My Everquest background seeps into the reading and distorts it a bit, although I know you and remember that it wasn't your intent.

My appreciation of the story jumped when Chapter Two was posted, as it shifted to immediate action and left behind the weakness of explaining everything in the first chapter. (I don't have a solution for that. Maybe, when the tale is longer, some of the exposition can be shortened, moved, or cut completely.) Here your short, sturdy sentences and paragraphs make this different than the majority of fight scenes I've read here; some are even fragments that must be fused to their previous sentence, which usually began with a connector such as "and" or "yet". I have no quibbles with the plots or the construction of the fight.

Weird little gem. I particularly liked the deflation of the unshouted advertisement.

This is delightfully open-ended, thanks to the unusual detail of the prophecies. Did the prophecies already come to pass over the centuries and will the rest of the book talk about those? Will someone in the present day use the propechies and fit them to current events? It is a bit unpolished, but nothing that a spell-checker couldn't fix--the marks of the story coming out in a rush. (Ok, looked back over it. . .yes, one or two things the spell-checker won't fix. Still, cosmetic details mostly--no major lapses in grammar or story flow.)

Not only that. . .she'll be armed with the hammer that the experimenter was so foolish as to leave in the box with her! Hahahahahahahahaha! (gasp for breath) Laughter is healthy and all, but try telling that to my rib muscles right about now. I'd be more worried about that home ec. textbook if A: it weren't pitched to teenaged girls, who will read textured tripe if they think it'll land them a man (for proof, go to a supermarket checkout and scan a magazine or five) and B: I knew any 1950s woman who acted that way, much less believed it. Instead I knew (R.I.P. most of 'em, life is much. . .quieter without you) verbose, aggressive women who herded their men into the dining room at the business end of a rolling pin and made them sit and listen to their grievances while dinner was brought out, or articulate, self-possessed women whose men were already trained to set out the silverware and glasses while they received directions on the next stage of their careers.* Venefyxatu, to a native English speaker, there's a strong, cultural, confrontational overtone of "You did nothing all day, compared to me" to that phrasing. Also I suspect that Salinye would rather be destructive to an object than caustic to a person. Be glad it's a replaceable type of destruction. On dinner: Slow cooker (Crock-Pot for those of us in the U.S.), if you can remember to load it in the morning, makes old-fashioned meals where all the tastes run together and can substitute for the oven. Microwave shortens cooking time on veggies and meat, defrosts the stuff you didn't remember in the morning either, and reheats leftovers from the extra Tupperwares you filled during that day full of cooking. A flat-faced sandwich press (or George Foreman grill for those of us in the U.S.) is a bugbear to clean but helps make do-it-yourself fast food style meals, like hamburgers and hot sandwiches, good if you have to feed many and realize what it does to the fast food bill. *Maybe having no role models for "suffer in silence" partly explains why I don't understand a lot of Pennites.

I enjoyed the plotting immensely. Had sent out a hailstorm of PMs during character creation and free RP, setting up if-we-get-to-it bargains and deals left and right--then the roles came down and the PMs quit, except ever-more-dramatic death scene scenarios to Tanny*. Poor Gryphon, Terry would've gotten an eyeful of VaVoom girl if we went on to day three. Special 'wow' to Vahktang for setting the era and Kasmandre for talking my ears off with technical terms. *And one '60s etiquette PM.

John Thessalonian missed most of the commotion, focused on blowing across the necks of a variety of jugs and bottles, trying for the perfect whirling snowstorm sound. When he did finally look away, a large box of his preferred Turkish cigars had been placed on a table near the door, with a single word written on the binding ribbon: Tonight. * Inside his dressing room after filming had ended, Benjamin unfolded the bolero jacket and circle skirt from the box. "This is. . .nice, mother," he commented. "It's not like what you usually wear." He stood up and laid both pieces over the back of a chair, then asked, "Can't I please stay up late tonight?" "You have a full day of filming tomorrow, Benjamin! You must go to bed early and you are not sleeping in here," Marisa disagreed. She dropped to her knees and addressed her son on a level with him. "Peggy Ann will buy you some McDonald's when she takes you home. No cola! There's some milk in the fridge. I'll be home before you wake up. Be brave." "But mother. . .I've never gone to bed alone in the house, before," he almost pleaded. "Benjamin," she coaxed. "It is a hard thing for any boy to accept, but even a mother cannot share everything with her son." * After night had fallen and only the exterior security guard was still on duty, Marisa, wearing her new outfit, unlocked her leather case and removed the five 45 RPM blanks. Her hair, with the stiff daytime pins and curls brushed out of it, rippled halfway to her waist and swished back and forth while she hummed. A few strands fell forward over her shoulders, and she lifted them mechanically out of the beadwork and set them back into place before leaving the dressing room. The rocky moon-surface set for the HMS Incorporated, painted gray, now looked like the New Mexico desert at sunset; Kaz took out a gel, and a prominent boulder briefly turned magenta before he slipped the color into its new light. Zeke stepped out from behind his camera and paced off the distance to that rock, then went back to the camera, muttering calculations. Marisa skirted the set at the habitual fifty-foot radius, thinking If I step into the light, the spell will be broken!, and delivered the records into Mr. Thessalonian's hands. He gave her a thumbs-up and said something, but she couldn't hear him. It's a dream. . .I'm dreaming. . . Entranced, she drifted onto the set and followed Zeke's footprints out to the boulder and sat upon it; meanwhile John lowered a microphone upon a boom and Kaz changed the angle of the most brilliant spotlight, blinding everyone with the sparkle from Marisa's jacket. The technicians shouted to one another but Marisa still heard nothing, not even Zeke shouting, "Three. . .two. . .one. . .ACTION!", until the first notes of poor Doug's guitar solo came over the loudspeakers. It's real! she thought, and it is time to sing. * John stood at the tape-player, pressing the left headphone to his ear and frowning. "Sounds much better when I dub the instrumentals and vocals separately," he reflected. "With them running together like this, it doesn't sound professional. Sounds like something I'd bootleg at a concert in the park." He didn't notice Zeke, who grinned while he poked his index fingers at a bulky keyboard. Marisa, listening to the right headphone, disagreed, "It doesn't matter whether one or the other sounds better. I need both on the LP or it'll be too short. You can place the separated tracks on A side if you say they sound better." "Doesn't sound like anything I've ever heard," Kaz muttered. He was closest to the door of the soundproof booth and didn't seem pleased with the crowded space. "I'd be surprised if you did listen to ranchera. It is either in your blood or it is not. Where it is definitely not is here, Hollywood. Thousands of people here looking for something new, and they will find it, with your names on it!" Marisa proclaimed. "Zeke! Are you finished with that title screen yet?" Zeke stepped away from the editing machine, letting the others crowd around the tiny picture tube: Marisa Herrara "Media Nocte" Guitar: Doug Matthews Camera: Zeke Thompson Sound: John Thessalonian Lighting: Kaz Johnson "Why does he get a left-side mention?" snapped Kaz, pointing at Doug's name. "Respect for the dead," Marisa muttered. "Does this suit everyone?" They bickered among themselves for a few moments, but Zeke kept tapping his finger on a key labeled "Backspace", and everyone stopped complaining. "Good," Marisa concluded. "Zeke, make five copies of the tape. That's five title screens, and 50 minutes of film, five reels. . .and payment for tonight's filming. . ." She opened her purse and slowly counted out some more large bills. "If it weren't for Mendacious Studios, I could not afford you!" Zeke reached out his hand and took the bills quickly, as if afraid she would retract them again; the other two watched the transaction with hawk's eyes. "Two tapes for me, and one for each of you." Kaz, John, and Zeke all snapped their heads around and stared at Marisa while the editing machine began to spit out tape. "Yes. I pay for your own demonstration tapes. Twelve years I've been waiting for this, and I am happy enough to be generous."

Hours later, the coffee urn had finally been run dry, and a fresh batch was percolating when Zeke finally left his beloved cameras for a cup of coffee. Marisa had refrained from filling the coffee maker until he came over, and had two minutes until he got his coffee and went back to restricted areas. "Zeke. You have access to the editing equipment and the tape players. Could you put titles onto a tape?" "I already do that, Ms. Hawkins. Seelvergh's too cheap to hire a real editor, so he edits and I title," Zeke answered, then narrowed his eyes at Marisa, "while he watches. No, I can't give Benjamin a frame to himself, so don't ask." The coffee maker bubbled while Marisa spoke, "No. I can't tell you what sort of titles I want, but I could show you. I'm not supposed to be near the editing equipment while Seelvergh is still here. Will you work late tonight?" She opened her purse and extracted a round tin of violet breath fresheners. Zeke raised his eyebrows at the dainty item and poured coffee into a plain white melamine mug. "They're not paying me enough to work full days! It's a shame you can't look at the tape players now. I've got some tape which I recorded overnight--" "So you do work nights," Marisa mused, then placed a breath freshener on her tongue and held out the tin to Zeke. "--and Emmett's on there plain as. . ." He trailed off. Underneath the tin, a pair of folded bills peeked out, and they were not small bills. Zeke sipped his black coffee. "Yeah. I can work nights. I can start tonight," he added, and moved to take a breath freshener from the tin, but Marisa pulled it back and returned it to her purse. "Save it for tonight," she explained, violet-scented. OOC: Accusing Emmett.

"CUT!" Seelvergh barked, and the weary stagehands moved in with their brooms to push the confetti "snow" back over to the hopper. Make-up artists and hairstylists poised to remove confetti from the astronauts' costumes. "You're not supposed to look worried, it's just a snowstorm outside, you are supposed to look happy! Take five. You've got three minutes!" He made hair-tearing motions as the actors dispersed--why couldn't they act like nothing was wrong?!?! Marisa waved to Benjamin from the edge of the exclusion radius, and she pointed him at Debra, who was standing in her feathered Snow Beast costume in front of a table fan and sprinkling water into the airstream. Benjamin approached from upwind as Debra fanned herself. "Miss Thompson? Mother said you wanted to talk to me." With a sigh, she yielded the fan and the glass of water to another sweating Snow Beast. "Yes, I did," replied Debra. "Did you know that the accidents. . .aren't accidental?" "Yes, ma'am. The people causing the accidents get five hundred dollars to start, and a new job if this show gets canceled because of accidents," Benjamin explained. Debra gasped theatrically. The Snow Beast in front of the fan lost her grip on the glass and it smashed on the sidewalk. Snow Beast extras, all waiting their turn at the fan, crowded around to listen. Benjamin looked up at the circle of yetis and smiled. "I told the agent that he was being underhanded and that liars never win. He said that 'Detective Tracer' went off the air years ago, and he left." The young actress thought for a moment, and then asked, "Why didn't you tell anyone earlier?" "I did. I told Mother," he countered, and several yetis looked over their shoulders. Marisa, standing at the unmarked periphery, tucked her purse under one arm and waved a lightbulb-twisting wave to the group. He dropped his voice to a whisper, and the Snow Beasts leaned in close, blocking out the gaps between them with their headdresses. "Mother said that anyone who wrecked the show would be a fool for thinking they would get rewarded for it afterwards. She said that it would be evidence. But she said the agent was a bigger fool for saying a price before I agreed--" "--It meant he was desperate." Marisa rolled the R and was gratified when the circle of Snow Beasts sprang apart from surprise and stared at her. "And if he was willing to pay before receiving services, he was desperate and foolish! I told Benjamin, someone who is desperate and foolish does not last long in this town. So I gave him a lesson. He approached me, and I nodded, and I took his money--and I did nothing!" She laughed with delight, and Debra glared at her. "Go on, all of you! Go tell everyone that Marisa has been paid by Mendacious Studios for thwarting their plans! They pay well for not getting what they want!" Still laughing, she walked over to the coffee maker, leaving a pack of bemused Snow Beasts and a demoralized Debra. She had been so certain. . .

Marisa came to the set that day without an ankle bandage but with lower, sturdier high-heeled shoes; Benjamin looked a bit taller as he walked alongside her. The box had been hidden in Benjamin's dressing room alongside the leather case, after she promised to let her son see what was inside the box tonight. She sent him onto the set and immediately turned towards the nearest access ladder but Debra--I know that look, she's going to ask me for something, Marisa thought--stepped diffidently from the set and waited by the base of the ladder. "Marisa?" said Debra, and her voice did not rise. What is this? She's not going to ask me for something-- Marisa started negotiations on the offensive. "Do you trust me, Debra?" The young actress stalled. "If you don't trust me, there's no use in us speaking," Marisa frowned. "Do you trust Benjamin?" This time, Debra nodded. "Wait until they finish filming this scene, and I'll have him talk to you, Miss Thompson." She waited with her arms crossed until Debra melted away, then glanced at the sign and ignored it. Once up on the catwalks, she looked down at the set until she saw a subtle change, then scanned the lighting displays for the gaffer. "Kaz!" she stage-whispered. "Didn't you read the sign!" he snapped without turning his head. "Get down from there!" "I am not personnel! We need to change plans!" Marisa stepped to a cross-catwalk and worked her way closer to him. "The plans are off!" He slipped the gel into place and stood up as fast as his old body would allow. "You haven't paid me for those spotlights yet! You haven't gotten recognition for those spotlights either! Do you think Seelvergh will get you a title-screen credit?" She jabbed a finger downwards towards the director as he stalked around the operating snow-blower and shouted to a deafened technician. That stung Kaz. The gaffer held his ground as Marisa crossed the catwalk, watching her warily. "Don't touch anything," he muttered. "I never do," she replied. Good, we are negotiating again. "Doug is dead, but I have five recordings of his. Mr. Cornelius is dead, but Mr. Thessalonian can fill in for him. . .but I don't think the saboteur is done. We will live through tonight, you and I, because I will record tonight. Twelve years I've waited for this, and accidents or no accidents, I will finish my debut tape! And you will have title-screen credit!" She snapped open her purse and extracted a pack of Parliaments. "A smoke to secure the deal?"

"da da da, dadadada--" thump, thump, thump, "da da da, dadadada. . ." Tzimfemme slid out into the silent center of the lab a la Mrs. Doubtfire, almost knocking over a bucket with the tail end of her guitar. "Just take those old records off the shelf," She lowered the end to the floor and swished it around in apathetic circles "I'll sit and listen to 'em by myself," which may or may not have been in time with the actual song "Today's music ain't got the same soul," but had no relation whatsoever to the beat of what she was singing. "I like that old time rock and roll." She sprinted to the bucket, dunked her guitar, and ran back to center stage while holding it over her head. Droplets of dirty water flew everywhere, even on the clean glassware on the counters. "Don't try and take me to a disco, You'll never even get me out on the floor," Tzimfemme gave up all pretense of synchronization "In ten minutes I'll be late for the door, I like that old time rock and roll." and left great wet streaks upon the floor while swishing her behind in a manner better suited to a Motown backup singer. "Still like that old time rock and roll!" On the chorus, she picked her guitar off the floor and started playing to the audience. "That kind of music just soothes my soul, I reminisce about the days of old, With that old time rock and roll." During the guitar solo, she strode around the stage, whipping the neck of her guitar around every time she hummed a different chord (which was, in truth, every fifth note or so, and had no relation with the actual tune) and flinging arcs of dirty water. Two minutes later, she sprinted back to center stage and put her foot squarely down upon a streak of water-- WHAM --and landed on her instrument. Tzimfemme rolled over with a curse and checked her right side. Nothing yet but pain, but there would be a solid band of bruise from her ribcage to her knee in a few days.

The night before filming the next episode would begin, Marisa tucked her son into bed. "Goodnight, Benjamin," she smiled, and reached out for the light switch. "Mother?" he asked, "What's in that box you hid under the sewing machine?" Marisa turned back to the bed and laughed. "That package is for me! 'Stop being such a private eye and go to sleep!' " "Mother, 'Detective Tracer' went off the air years ago!" Benjamin rolled his eyes at the old tagline. "I was five. I was little back then!" Still chuckling, Marisa turned off the lights. ***** A few minutes later, Marisa set the box in question, bound with twine and exotic mailing labels, on the coffee table and carefully snipped the twine. She pulled out some handwritten pages and set them aside for later, except for the last: Hubert came home last weekend, he rode with a truck from the cooperative farm, they made that farm from all the little fields on the foothills, they sell tomatoes in the city all week long. Hubert says he misses you very much too, the record store still does not carry your album, the store says it is expensive to import. Mamma says Marisa what is so hard about recording one here instead? Many new phonograph recorders in the city now, we could survive without your money orders for awhile, we would happily take care of your boy while you sing, we have never even seen your boy! Marco and the family. She leaned her head against the sofa-back and sighed. Benjamin couldn't even read this letter. He barely speaks the language. How could I bring a half-American home to you? Marisa kept her head tilted back while the tears pooled and dried up again so her mascara would not run. When she could, she leaned forward again and took fabric from the box. One piece of fabric unfolded into a black bolero jacket shimmering with tiny silver beads. The next unfolded as a matching full black skirt fluffed out with many layers of tulle and hemmed in silver beads. She laid them together on the couch to study the effect and smiled a wavery smile. Next out of the box was a cookie tin. Marisa checked the dates on the box's wrapper, then nodded and lifted the lid of the tin; she didn't expect cookies, and was pleased to find the family's homemade throat drops. She touched the false bottom of the box, then lifted that aside and sighed with relief to find it undisturbed, and quickly transferred the cigars and commercial pills to their places in her leather case. Marisa glanced at the clock. Too late to try the outfit on tonight, let alone go to the studio, she sighed. But now I am ready.

The next morning, mother and son came to the studio as usual, except that Marisa had concealed her ankle bandage with a pair of short boots. For today, the catwalks were out of reach. Benjamin trotted over to the set and joined in the filming of an astronauts' scene while makeup applied layers of orange net to Debra's and Peggy Ann's bouffants. Carrot-colored Buzz got up from Terry's chair with only one half of his facial extensions in place and approached Marisa--odd time to ask for a favor, she thought, with all the chaos--and whispered in her ear. She looked at him for a moment, then shook her head. "Meet me," she told him, "at Mr. Thessalonian's office in five minutes. Be careful he doesn't drop something on your head!" She met them inside the soundproof room and waved to Don Cornelious at the other end of the room. "Stop!" he yelped, and pressed a button. "The theremin is VERY sensitive to fluctuations and I MUST have the aliens' entry themes done by noon!" He pointed at Buzz, then held his hands at right angles like a ridiculous martial-arts pose and twisted his left hand slowly from the elbow while running his right hand out to the side of his body and back. "That's his theme! But I just recorded that one! Be quick, PLEASE!" He bent over a score sheet and put a small tick against Buzz's name. "What's this have to do with Doug?" Buzz asked, scratching at a gob of glue which leaked from under a facial extension. "He's got all the explosive equipment he needs out there, and he works late--" "Ah, but he was in here last night!" Marisa retorted. "Mr. Thessalonian, would you do the honors?" She opened an envelope and settled a used 45 RPM blank onto the turntable, then stepped back and let John fiddle with some settings before lowering the needle. The record scratched for half a minute and gave off only the faintest of high-pitched sounds before John reached for yet another dial and slowly twirled it. An arpeggio burst out of the woofer and bubbled every so often from the tweeter--guitar music, a rich Spanish tune. Marisa closed her eyes and hummed the song until the record ended in a brief burst of scratches. "Doug has talent, don't you think?" she asked Buzz, softly. "I heard him playing one day and decided I wanted a recording of my own. So I asked Mr. Thessalonian here if he would help record the music. That is why he stays late every night. Not to sabotage." Don gaped at them from across the room. "You're wasting recording time to discuss THAT?! Debra is doing it. Now PLEASE get out of the studio and let me finish those themes!!" ooc: Accusing Debra Thompson.

In Benjamin's dressing room hours after the explosion, Marisa soaked her feet in a tub of warm water; she'd twisted an ankle racing down the ladder and over to Benjamin (violating the restriction, but would Seelvergh dare to complain, if it meant telling a judge about the explosion?) and her street shoes had been burnt beyond saving. "You're certain?" she said, and wrung out a makeup cloth before leaning over to her son. "I didn't see anyone out of place, mother," he replied, holding still as Marisa removed his makeup. "I checked the fire exits like you told me to, and they're still welded shut. Nobody from outside got in." "We do have a saboteur, then," she grumbled, upset enough to let the R roll. She stabbed the cloth at his face a few more times, then flung it away and embraced Benjamin fiercely. "Explosions! Killings! I thought this town could go no lower, and for what! For the viewers of a dead time-slot! Someone is risking the rest of their life in prison," the Rs rumbled, "and ruining their career for a single payment! It's amateurish!" [EDIT: Changing a verb I did write to the verb I thought I had written.]

I'm quite happy with how Benjamin Hawkins has been handled in posts so far, but realized I never wrote this down. He is a Hollywood rarity: a genuinely pleasant person to work with, whose steady flow of work comes from being the only child star in his age group who isn't prone to tantrums or hypochondria. He is strongly impressed with his role as head of household and his mother's guardian, and during contract negotiations, they form a good cop/bad cop duet which is disarming. Benjamin resembles his father, blond-haired and blue-eyed, but has his mother's skin tone and a permanent California tan. He will inherit from his father but they have not met since Benjamin was two years old--with the prevailing attitudes in courts of the time, if Marisa had not cut off all contact, she would have lost custody by now. If Marisa dies, he goes back to Luke.

At the end of the meeting, Marisa snapped open her alligator-skin handbag. She'd replenished its contents from the leather case this morning, just after hearing advance notice of the meeting from one of the financiers' daughters. They were committed, and Benjamin and the others would be paid for completed episodes, regardless of whether the network aired the shows or not. God bless those book-loving fools, she thought, bringing an antacid tablet to her perfect mouth on one gloved fingertip. They would let themselves be run bankrupt to see their precious pulp fictions on film. No sense at all! ***** She sauntered through the set in a dangerously short, narrow skirt and medium heels, both polished cream vinyl; the bolero jacket and the piles of dark curls all on the back of her head were a bit out of mode, but everyone's attention was focused on her sheer tights. Benjamin walked obediently at her side, man of the household, already wearing the bottom half of his astronaut suit. Precisely 50 feet away from the cameras, Marisa swiveled and, while Benjamin kept going forward towards the set, walked a strict circuit around the camera assembly, cutting in between Seelvergh and the object of his rant with neither pause nor detour. As the director balked and grasped for the forgotten thread of his rant, she stepped behind a set wall, out of his sight, and traded her high heels for a set of leather slippers from her purse. The high heels were hidden inside a fake rock, and she ascended a ladder as quickly as she could (a goggle-eyed grip noticed, but he would never be able to identify her later) and stepped onto the catwalk. Up here she was invisible to most people on ground level, yet could voice her opinion on a moment's notice--and fifty feet away from the cameras even when she stood over the edge of the set, watching Benjamin.

A topic this epheremal is custom-made for the Shoutbox--it even provides the timestamp.

I was going to write some PMs tonight searching for Truth, but forget that, there are much better truths sparring around this thread. (Tzimfemme grabs a seat at thread-side and, while munching on chocolate-covered unbuttered popcorn, swivels her head back and forth to watch the advice fly.)

I had come back to this thread to comment on the unclear role of the woman, as abductor or as distracted mother, but settled on the second interpretation, uneasily; the page from father to mother is the only detail which decided that. Was that what you had intended? The physical details of the story, and the image they form, are clear enough; it's the moral which fades in and out of focus and which should give this story its memorable character. Left as is, with the details in precise chronological but imprecise descriptive order, this reads like a rough eyewitness account--except for the introspection. The core of the story could be refined: either faceted for greater unity of composition by juggling the order of details and sanding away a few excess adverbs, or polished for more realism by removing the introspection of "she didn't know" yet leaving the explanation of Code Adam intact. I will continue to like the story no matter which direction it takes on either split path, but I can't recommend too much more without understanding your intent.

A vivacious sentiment-- --yet it annoys me that I cannot remember where you borrowed "friends with benefits" from (borrowed nicely, with quotation marks) and that untraceable reference does something to set the mood of the poem. Help, please!

An elf of the human-height and egregious ears variety peeked around the doorway, cautiously, so as not to topple any of the towers of unfinished paperwork. "Oh my, a storyteller," she murmured after the story had finished. "Is that story part of your stock-in-trade. . .or is that you?"

Marisa Hawkins, stage mother Benjamin Hawkins is the classic all-American kid: nine years old, serious, blond crew-cut, blue-eyed, and gosh-darn cute, he was the obvious choice for the Bright Young Sidekick. However, to get him to appear on the show, the executives had to deal with his mother. . . Dusky Marisa was working as a VaVoom girl in a private club, where men went when they didn't want to be seen, but producer Luke Hawkins astonished the community when he brought her out of seclusion. Benjamin was born on the right side of wedlock--barely--and Luke immediately tried to rid himself of his heir's mother. Once again to everyone's surprise, the court awarded custody to Marisa, and she pawned Benjamin mercilessly as a rising child star. Even the directors are afraid to cross Marisa; she is one of the best bargainers in the business, backed by rumors of what hold she had over Luke in order to do what she did to him. She trades favors with more generous terms for Little People behind the camera and fresh young starlets, the only people left in Hollywood that she hasn't already used, and roams freely throughout sets and makeup rooms cruising for fresh blood. Her favorite accessory is a shoebox-sized leather album case embossed with scenes of the Annunciation; in there she keeps Benjamin's contracts, the ranchera records which she brought to Hollywood to start her singing career, her birth control pills, diet pills, motion sickness pills, fever pills, sleeping pills, breath mints. . .she'll share, for a price.

0. Nunquam ubi sub ubi! 10. Nihil curo de ista tua stulta superstitione. I'm not interested in your dopey religious cult. 11. Si hoc signum legere potes, operis boni in rebus Latinus alacribus et fructuosis potiri potes! If you can read this sign, you can get a good job in the fast-paced high-paying world of Latin! 12. Utinam logica falsa tuam philosophiam totam suffodiant! May faulty logic undermine your entire philosophy! 13. Recedite, plebes! Gero rem imperialem! Stand aside plebians! I am on imperial business.

The hired priest brought his rosary up to his lips before entering the manor and strode through the rooms with the cross shielding his mouth. No fires were lit in the first few rooms, but an odor worse than a privy hung heavy in the air. The snow on his black mantle did not melt until he found the doorway of the lesser bedroom, where shabby servants gathered under a curtained icon of Madonna and Child lit with three candles or kneeled at the sides of a blood-soaked bed, weeping. He walked over to the icon and crossed himself, right to left, before moving to the bed and pulling back the upper sheet. Under the sheet lay the empty body of a naked middle-aged woman, already gathering frost on its eyelashes. Shivering, the priest replaced the sheet and demanded, “Where is Vassily?” No one spoke, but some looked at the next doorway, the only one inside the house to be fitted with a door. Into the darkened doorway came a calm-faced woman whose orange hair escaped in all directions from her headscarf. “The master is barely alive. He is waiting for you,” she reported, and beckoned with the hand that did not hold a candlestick. She watched his hired face until he entered the grand bedroom, then knelt with the servants under the cold candles and prayed that the master would not die under his hands. “No,” Lena said softly, when one of the other young servants asked a question with his eyes. “I did not leave him alone. Better not to have the priest realize that,” she nodded, and quickly rose and crossed the threshold from the stink of birth to the smell of impending death. In the windowless room, Lena stood beside the priest and ran the fingers of her right hand in circles over the master’s wrinkled forehead, smudging the oil and creating more friction against muscles racked with tetanus. “So the Church will take care of your lands,” she cooed, “and the Church will take care of your people?” From the darkness on the other side of the bed, someone struck a flint—and legless, voiceless Fyodor, who had sat by the church door for more years than Lena had lived, while his beard crept toward the ground and assumed the duties of his rotting coat, was visible for a moment as his stump of a candle sputtered and died. Silently Lena took the taper from the bedside table, smiled into Vassily’s eyes as his pupils cringed away from the light, and changed the direction of her fingertips to ease the vise-like muscles. “I can care for your child,” she whispered. When his eyes widened again despite the light of the candle, she moved the taper away from him and put her lips to Vassily’s hairy ear; the flame darted upwards, almost setting fire to the priest’s beard as he leaned closer, while Lena confessed some secrets. The master’s eyes came briefly alive. “To my child,” he rasped, forcing the words past his locked jaw and grimacing lips; Lena turned towards the priest and thrust the taper into his face as he opened his mouth to object to the change. “To her! To her! To her!” gasped Vassily in a faint voice, fighting against the constriction of his chest, and Fyodor grinned in the darkness. The priest grasped Lena’s wrist and pulled her away from the bedside, pushing her towards the door and swooping towards the sickbed. Vassily’s feverish eyes shone and he stiffened in one last convulsion. His limbs jumped under the blankets and the room filled with whisperings like dried leaves scraping against each other in the wind. The priest cowered away from the bed, crossed himself, and stared with horror; Lena leaned into the doorway, picked out two strong young men, and directed them with her eyes to carry Fyodor’s chair swiftly out of the great bedroom. After they had left, she spared one backwards glance; the priest had noticed nothing, his eyes locked on Vassily’s face where the very bones seemed to be snapping and shifting under the wrenching muscles. Lena lifted the doorknob to take weight off of the hinges and pulled the door almost shut, then pinched the candle wick and let herself out, leaving the priest alone and fumbling for the flint in a panic. When she re-entered the lesser bedroom, Lena stepped to the opposite corner, thrust the curtain away from the cradle, loosing a shower of frost, and smiled at the bare-headed infant as it cringed away from the cold. One of the old women wedged her chin in front of Lena, snatched at the tapestry, and pulled it shut while the unnamed Vassilivich wailed. “Murderer!” she grunted, putting herself between Lena and the cradle, “he’s too young for this. We haven’t had time to sew him up yet.” As she spoke, the worn chin tugged at the scanty threads of the old woman’s headscarf—Lena thought of a puppeteer’s show that had visited her village—even when the old woman spread her chapped lips into a hateful smile. “Oh, babes die, I know it, but you’ll still hang once his corpse changes. . .” Unruffled, Lena snapped her fingers twice, and a little girl rose from the group praying under the icon, dusted off her knees, and walked to the cradle. Her face was slim and narrowed also by her frizzy hair, her forehead rose abnormally high, and her nose seemed twice as large as it should be. The cold hadn’t put any red into her complexion and her fragile voice carried like the sounds of cracking ice. “He isn’t the one,” she remarked, pushing aside the tapestry with both hands and leaning into the cradle. She reached for Vassilivich and picked him up as the cloth fell around her. The old woman leaned forward and half-lifted the tent, then recoiled and muttered a prayer to the pagans. In the semi-darkness, the little girl’s eyes glowed golden like the falcon’s over his kill, and the body of Vassilivich—still human—drooped from her arms in a parody of the icon on the wall. “I am sorry for your grandson, but only a little,” recited Lena, and the hollow words hung in the air. One of the younger servants sobbed fearfully. “He would not have survived a year if the estate had gone into the hands of the Church—and after that they would have scattered the servants and given this manor to one of their own,” she continued, raising her voice just enough to fill the room and not tickle the ears of the priest closeted with the body of Vassily. “Protect Fyodor, all of you—he witnessed the will which will keep you here and safe. I sent a messenger to the magistrate the day Vassily fell ill, and he will arrive before any other priests do. We must make him believe that the family line was never broken.” Again Lena snapped her fingers twice, and the little girl put the corpse back into the cradle and walked over to Lena with all of the servants’ eyes upon her. “This is Serafima Vassilinva, your mistress.” “Goodbye, mother,” Serafima told Lena. She turned to the old woman, who had crumpled since seeing Vassilivich die, with broken threads and hopes lying on her clothes. “Hello, grandmother,” she said, and held out her hands; the old woman’s face twisted, but she took Serafima’s pale hands in her own. “Please take me in to see my father. I don’t think he wants to be left with just a priest for company.”