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consolidate her vision, yet knowing all the while that he was not only her first lover, but also her first serious mistake. And now, it seemed, this same self-deception was operating along a contrary principle: disguising the growth of strong emotion as symptoms of friendship and responsibility.

To deal with it Jocundra let the routines of Shadows carry her away from Donnell. She attended staff meetings religiously and took every opportunity to join the other therapists for conversation and coffee; but when forced to be alone with Donnell she found these measures were not sufficient to counter the development of an attachment. She began to lie awake nights, brooding over his death, counting the days left him, wishing they would pass quickly, wishing they would pass slowly, experiencing guilt at her part in the proceedings. But despite her worries, she was satisfied that she could eventually cultivate a distance between herself and Donnell by maintaining an awareness of the problem, by adherence to the routines, and she continued to be thus satisfied until May the third arrived and all routines were shattered.

'I was born in Rented Rooms Five Dollars

Down on Adjacent Boulevard,

You know that funky place got no fire escape,

No vacancies, and a dirt front yard.

My mama was Nobody's fool,

He left her for a masseuse down in New Orleans,

Take the cash and flush the credit cards

Was the best advice he ever gave to me...'

Four doctors were holding conference in the main hall, but Richmond's raucous voice and discordant piano stylings flushed them from the sofa, set them to buttoning their lab coats and clipping their pens in a stiff-necked bustle toward the door. 'Turkeys!' snarled Richmond. He hammered out the chords, screaming the words after them, elbowing Donnell, urging him to join in the chorus.

'Early one mornin' with light rain fallin'

I rode off upon my iron horse,

You seen my poster and you read my rap sheet:

Armed and dangerous, no distinguishin' marks,

Wanted for all the unnatural crimes

And for havin' too much fun,

He leads a pack of one-eyed Jacks, ,

He's known as Harley David's son!

Aw, they say hell hath no fury

Like a woman scorned,

But all them scornful women catch their hell

From Harley David's son!'

The door slammed; Richmond quit pounding and noodled the keys, a musical texture more appropriate to the peaceful morning air. Sunlight laid a diagram of golden light and shadow over the carpet, the lowest ranks of the paintings were masked in reflected glare, and ceramic figurines glistened on end tables beside the French doors. Jocundra and Audrey were sitting on a sofa, talking, at ease, and their voices were a gentle, refined constant like the chatter of pet birds. The old house seemed to be full of its original atmosphere, its gilt and marble and lacquer breathing a graciousness which not even Richmond's song could disrupt. And yet Donnell detected an ominous disturbance in the air, fading now, as if a gong had been struck and the rippling note had sunk below the audible threshold. He felt it dooming through his flesh, insisting that the peace and quiet was an illusion, that today was May the third, Magnusson's May the third, and thereafter nothing would be the same. He was being foolish, he told himself, foolish and suggestible. He did not understand half of what Magnusson spouted, and the other half was unbelievable, but when he tried to finalize his disbelief, to forget about Magnusson, he could not. The old man's arguments -though they sounded insane - were neither disassociative nor rambling, not senile.

'Hey!' Richmond nudged him and handed him a piece of paper. 'Check it out.'

Donnell was glad for the distraction. He read the lines, then used the piano bench as a table on which to scrawl changes. 'Try this.' He passed the paper back to Richmond, who frowned and fingered the chords:

'Cold iron doesn't stop me

And you ain't got no silver gun...'

Richmond clucked his tongue. 'Lemme see how it works together.' He sang the song under his breath, filling with the chords.

The song was Richmond's sole creation, and Donnell approved of it; it was, like Richmond, erratic and repetitive and formless. The choruses - there were dozens, detailing the persona of a cosmic outlaw who wore a three-horned helmet - were sung over a major chord progression; Richmond talked the verses in a minor blues key, telling disconnected stories about cheap crooks and whores and perverts he had known.

The slow vibration in the air ended, sheared off, as if a circuitbreaker had engaged, and Donnell suddenly believed it