“But he loved his food.”
“He loved everything,” said her mother bitterly. “He loved food, he loved people, he loved his daughter. He loved cooking. He loved me. What did it get him? Just an early grave. You mustn’t go loving things like that. I’ve told you.”
“Yes,” said Rosie. “I suppose you have.”
She walked toward the sound of her mother’s voice, hand in front of her face to stop it banging into one of the metal chains that hung in the middle of the room. She found her mother’s bony shoulder, put an arm around her.
“I’m not scared,” said Rosie, in the darkness.
“You’re crazy, then,” said her mother.
Rosie let go of her mother, moved back into the middle of the room. There was a sudden creaking noise. Dust and powdered plaster fell from the ceiling.
“Rosie? What are you doing?” asked Rosie’s mother.
“Swinging on the chain.”
“You be careful. If that chain gives way, you’ll be on the floor with a broken head before you can say Jack Robinson.” There was no answer from her daughter. Mrs. Noah said, “I told you. You’re crazy.”
“No,” said Rosie. “I’m not. I’m just not scared anymore.”
Above them, in the house, the front door slammed.
“Bluebeard’s home,” said Rosie’s mother.
“I know. I heard,” said Rosie. “I’m still not scared.”
PEOPLE KEPT CLAPPING FAT CHARLIE ON THE BACK, AND buying him drinks with umbrellas in them; in addition to which, he had now collected five business cards from people in the music world on the island for the festival.
All around the room, people were smiling at him. He had an arm around Daisy: he could feel her trembling. She put her lips to his ear. “You’re a complete loony, you know that?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
She looked at him. “You’re full of surprises.”
“Come on,” he said. “We’re not done yet.”
He made for the ma?tre d‘. “Excuse me… There was a lady. While I was singing. She came in, refilled her coffee mug from the pot back there, by the bar. Where did she go?”
The ma?tre d‘ blinked and shrugged. She said, “I don’t know…”
“Yes, you do,” said Fat Charlie. He felt certain, and smart. Soon enough, he knew, he would feel like himself again, but he had sung a song to an audience, and he had enjoyed it. He had done it to save Daisy’s life, and his own, and he had done both these things. “Let’s talk out there.” It was the song. While he had been singing, everything had become perfectly clear. It was still clear. He headed for the hallway, and Daisy and the ma?tre d‘ followed.
“What’s your name?” he asked the ma?tre d‘.
“I’m Clarissa.”
“Hello, Clarissa. What’s your last name?”
Daisy said, “Charlie, shouldn’t we call the police?”
“In a minute. Clarissa what?”
“Higgler.”
“And what’s your relationship to Benjamin? The concierge?”
“He’s my brother.”
“And how exactly are you two related to Mrs. Higgler. To Callyanne Higgler?”
“They’re my niece and nephew, Fat Charlie,” said Mrs. Higgler, from the doorway. “Now, I think you better listen to your fiancée, and talk to the police. Don’t you?”
SPIDER WAS SITTING BY THE STREAM ON THE CLIFF TOP, WITH his back to the cliff and a heap of throwing stones in front of him, when a man came loping out of the long grass. The man was naked, save for a pelt of sandy fur around his waist, behind which a tail hung down; he wore a necklace of teeth, sharp and white and pointed. His hair was long and black. He walked casually toward Spider as if he were merely out for an early-morning constitutional, and Spider’s appearance there was a pleasant surprise.
Spider picked up a rock the size of a grapefruit, hefted it in his hand.
“Heya, Anansi’s child,” said the stranger. “I was just passing, and I noticed you, and wondered if there was anything I could do to help.” His nose looked crooked and bruised.
Spider shook his head. He missed his tongue.
“Seeing you there, I find myself thinking, poor Anansi’s child, he must be so hungry.” The stranger smiled too widely. “Here. I’ve got food enough to share with you.” He had a sack over his shoulder, and now he opened the sack and reached his right hand into it, producing a freshly killed black-tailed lamb. He held it by the neck. Its head lolled. “Your father and I ate together on many an occasion. Is there any reason that you and I cannot do likewise? You can make the fire and I will clean the lamb and make a spit to turn it. Can you not taste it already?”
Spider was so hungry he was light-headed. Had he still been in possession of his tongue, perhaps he would have said yes, confident of his ability to talk himself out of trouble; but he had no tongue. He picked up a second rock in his left hand.
“So let us feast and be friends; and let there be no more misunderstandings,” said the stranger.