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I nod weakly and hold out my hand “Bu-bu-bu—” I falter, unable to speak

Bunny is Mary Gordon Howard

Mary Gordon Howard arranges herself on the couch like she’s a precious piece of china Physically, she’s frailer than I rehty But her persona is just as terrifying as it was four years ago when she attacked me at the library

This cannot be happening

Her hair is white and thick, swept back off her forehead into a bosoement But her eyes look weak, the irises a watery brown, as if time has leaked out their color “So, dear,” she says as she takes a sip of sherry and slyly licks the excess froe says you want to be a writer”

Oh no Not this again My hand shakes as I pick up lass

“She doesn’t want to be a writer She is a writer,” George interjects, bea with pride “I’ve read some of her stories She has potential—”

“I see,” MGH says with a sigh No doubt, she’s heard this too many times As if by rote, she launches into a lecture: “There are only two kinds of people who reat artists: those from the upper classes, who have access to the finest education—or those who have suffered greatly The ly—“can sometimes produce a simulacrum of art, but it tends to be middle-brow or slyly commercial and of no real value It’s merely meretricious entertainment”

I nod dazedly I can see ht down to the jaw, head shrunken to the size of a baby’s

“I—um—actually, I met you before” My voice is barely audible “At the library In Castlebury?”

“Goodness I do so s”

“I asked you to sign a book for ”

“And did she? Die, that is,” she demands

“Yes She did”

“Oh, Carrie” George shifts fro her book signed by Bunny”