"You know what I'd like? Someone who just comes in, does exactly what I want and is grateful for the work, and then leaves." If only you could pull a tasseled rope and some noiseless, naked, and infallibly erect hireling would appear, a man of silence, decorum, and solid expertise, doing his duty in an atmosphere of worship. . . .

      "I know. Preferably someone who doesn't talk. Maybe lost his tongue in an accident."

      "No, we need the tongue." Connor patted a cushion to get Simone's attention, but the cat only hoisted her butt higher.

      "How about gigolos? Some of them don't speak English."

      "But they always want money. Who needs the extra aggravation of having to do bills?" "I miss Bert." Wren's voice wavered. She had just been jilted by an art historian. "Connor, I tried to be what he wanted. I think I gave him too much freedom." "Men already have too much freedom as it is." Connor could hear her friend sniffle, trying not to cry. She felt a surge of rage: Why should men have the power to inflict such tortures?

      Out of nowhere, a thought struck her, an idea so dazzling she felt faint. The death of her astrologer hadn't been a random event, she realized. It was a sign that she was now free to invent her own fate, to soar through an open window into a lawless, godless, guideless universe. She could do anything. Even something wonderfully terrible.

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© 2004 Sarah Kernochan