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grandmother home soon?”
    Henry is Gran’s lawyer—and mine—this by way of saying that his question was reasonable on both a professional and personal basis. To the best of his knowledge, Gran had been out of town for a good nine months. Since Henry’s also one of those mundane folk who can see the trenvay for what they are, and not only hears, but contributes to the making of, fey music at the big Midsummer Eve party, he also knows that Gran is a dryad. And that a dryad can’t leave town, unless she wants to kill herself and her tree.
    The full story of where she was at present, and where she’d been before was complicated, so I opted for the next best answer that would ease an old friend’s worry.
    “I hope to see her soon,” I said, “but I don’t have a date.”
    There was a longish silence while Henry studied my face, his normally soft blue eyes ice-sharp.
    I must’ve looked convincing, because he nodded and sort of smiled.
    “I’m looking forward to seeing her again,” he said. “Bonny’s an old friend.” He turned to Peggy.
    “Ms. Marr, it’s been a pleasure. I hope we’ll meet again during the summer.”
    Peggy smiled. “I’m happy to have met you, Mr. Emerson.”
    I got up and showed him to the door, thanking him again. Then I watched him walk, carefully, down the steps, gray head slightly bent.
    Henry , I thought, with a sudden clarity that made my chest ache. Henry’s getting old .
    I watched him safely to the end of the block before I went back inside, and shut the door.

CHAPTER FOUR
    MONDAY, JUNE 26
    HIGH TIDE 12:36 P.M. EDT

    It was too early for Vassily to be at the carousel, so, after I left Peggy at the Mango, I walked across Fountain Circle to Fun Country, down Baxter Avenue, across the service alley, and deep into Kiddie Ride Land. There I found Jess Robald, not, as I had expected, with her head inside Tom Thumb’s temperamental engine, but sitting on the operator’s stool, coffee cup propped on the control panel. Her head was bent over a newspaper.
    “Morning, Jess,” I called, bracing a foot against the lowest rung of the guardrail, and crossing my elbows on the top.
    “Hey, Kate! Pretty one, ain’t it?”
    Jess grinned like she was actually glad to see me—which she probably was, Jess being the kind of person who manages to combine thinking the best of people with being a realist. She got up from her perch on the stool and came over to the rail, folding the paper into thirds as she walked.
    “You see the Trib?” she asked, shaking the paper at me. “Moving a buncha wild cats is front page news?”
    “They’re townies,” I said. “How’d you like it if one of the summer people decided carnies were bringing down his property values and petitioned the town manager to have us moved out?”
    “Manager couldn’t be on the phone to the bus company fast enough, I’m thinkin’,” she said with a half grin. “But, c’mon Kate—what’s the fuss? Councilors say they’re gonna set ’em up nice in the country—barn, mice, birds, plenty of sunshine and good farm air . . .”
    I sighed. “The Dummy Cats are an established feral cat colony. Camp Ellis is their home. Relocate them, no matter how nice the location, or how far away, and half’ll try to find their way back to the Camp. Some’ll make it; some’ll die. In the meantime, while the cats are away, the rats are going to throw themselves one hell of a party.”
    “There’s that.” Jess frowned thoughtfully, and crossed her arms on the top rail. “Best to leave the workin’ system in place.”
    “That’s it,” I agreed, and pulled the folded letter out of my back pocket.
    “Henry Emerson asked me to bring this down to you. I looked it over, like I said I would, and I asked Peggy, over at the midway, to take a look, too. I think it’s a good letter that addresses all the points the committee talked about.”
    Jess cocked a sapient eye. “What’s Peggy Marr, who works direct for Management,