er intact and its corners unblunted, tion, one of a popular series produced to quite a andard by a publis no longer exists. A c edition, but not t you  to find among treasures. At jumble sales and village fetes, othe series sell for a few pence.

    tif of sangles  plain, one for title and auteen tales of Cion by Vida inter.

    I locked t, returned t to tairs back to bed, book in gloved hand.

    I didn’t intend to read. Not as suced. Sometrong enougo still tter t kept going around in my  fire ences, a page maybe, and to sleep.

    I removed t jacket and placed it for safety in t be too careful. Opening taste it.

    t a few words.

    But my eyes, brus line, were snared.

    All c is a universal trait. You  to knoell you about   be trut ory. And notelling tory.

    It o er.

    Peasants and princes, bailiffs and bakers’ boys, mercs and mermaids, tely familiar. I ories a imes before. tories everyone kne gradually, as I read, ty fell arange. ters  ture books, mecing out tory one more time. t fell from touc, and it left tang of metal on ongue o ears left salt burns on ories ’s desire—ter restored to life by a stranger’s kiss, t ed of  naked as a man, t only oo late did t pay for escaping tiny. Every er ainted. Fate, at first so amenable, so reasonable, so open to negotiation, ends up by exacting a cruel revenge for happiness.

    tales al and sbreaking. I loved them.

    It ale—t I began to feel stirrings of an anxiety t ed to tory itself. I ra