s ttle c bedtime. And you, Miss inter, tell me about yourself.

    And I told. Simple little stories really, not muco t a ferands, ogetty pattern, a memorable motif tom of my ragbag. s from novels and stories, plots t never got finisillborn cers, picturesque locations I never found a use for. Odds and ends t fell out in ting. t’s just a matter of neatening titc’s done. Another brand-new biography.

    t as at ty. It o tell t Vida inter, and sold me a story.”

    Anyer, tell me trut kind of appeal is t? I’ve ratagems to trick me into telling, and I can spot t t? Laugever did ?

    A good question.  did ? ening ent fever. cer somete specific, I . ion. Perell me truth, he said.

    I felt a strange sensation inside. Like t coming to life. tery stirring of a previous life turning in my belly, creating a tide t rose in my veins and sent cool s to lap at my temples. tly excitement of it. tell me truth.

    I considered . I turned it over in my mind, h his pale face and his burning eyes.

    “All right, ” I said.

    An er , absentminded good-bye and no backward glance.

    I didn’t tell rutold ory. An impoveristle t a fecacked toget frayed. tory t looks like real life. Or o be, ’s not easy for someone of my talent to produce a story like t.

    I creet, sep a . All t energy, t. Not t I take all tter to believe me.

    I never saw him again.

    t feeling I  in my stomacemples, my fingertips—

    it remained e a ell me trut it  be still. It rac