It was that time of year when leaves are dying; the branches of deciduous trees becoming starkly bare revealing long narrowing extensions of themselves which stab into the dull red sunset like varicose veins of melancholy thoughts which gnarl and twist their way through the hopeless empty appendages of disenchanted human souls. The balmy vespers of summer were yielding to the creeping autumn chill that reaches out from the Arctic like the ghoulish clawed hands of a frosty ghost from an icy haunted house at the top of the world.

Doors and windows were closed tightly. Top blankets were being dragged out from musty closet stowage and placed unceremoniously at the foots of beds. Somber gray gloom brooded on the darkening horizon of shortening daylight hours, seeping into the pedestrian subconscious like swamp hags crawling closer to thumping beating hearts along the crooked edges of lengthening shadows.

The slight rapping on the outer door of the reception room might have been Poe's raven pecking. Reclined in the worn executive chair that I had picked up at a second hand store on Fourth and Main, I somehow wasn't entirely motivated to leap up and dive for the door-handle in spite of the fact that, after coughing up the security deposit and first month's rent for this new office, I desperately needed a client. The soothing rhythm of the freezing afternoon rain was lulling me to repose beside the flickering blaze crackling warmly in the small red brick fireplace, so I shouted, "Door's open! Come on in!"

The squeaky knob turned. The old door creaked. Then silence.

"I'm in my office! Come on back!"

Soft soled shoes don't make much noise and the whisper of thighs in a skirt is even less audible. A moment later her slight figure stood before me. The shaded lamp on the corner of my desk cast a subdued yellow glow on her right side. Her left was in shadow. Ruddy reflections from the fireplace danced weirdly on her shadowed side.

How it could be that she wasn't drenched from the cold rain is a mystery that would be solved later. At the moment my attention was heavily occupied by her rare mien. I hadn't seen one like her since being tortured in vacation bible school at the Pentecostal Holiness church way down south in the little farm-town backwater of Chipley, Florida. She was covered from chin to wrists to ankles in a drab denim dress. Her hair must have been very long because it made a huge bundle where it was tightly bound at the back of her petite head. No doubt that luxurious auburn hair had been lengthening since birth because those zealously faithful fundamentalists in the Old South don't believe in cutting the hair of females.

I had never seen such pale skin. The blood coursing through the delicate network of her circulatory system appeared hazy blue. Due to a prominent lack of mascara, her translucent eyelashes didn't seem very long, and without lipstick, her thin flat lips were something less than appealing.

Barely an A-cup, the softness of her exquisite features is the only thing that prevented me misidentifying her as an adolescent boy - only feminine flesh can be that angelically gossamer. This young lady could have been a ballerina, except that the slow burn of Celtic independence emanating from her medieval aura would have obviated participation in any such regimented choreography as flitting about the stage in a tutu.

At the time I didn't know much about witches, nor had I any idea that I was about to find out more about practitioners of the ancient craft than I consider healthy for a person to know; but, it was obvious to a trained observer like myself that the purity of her clannish bloodline had been carefully preserved through selective breeding since long before Hadrian started building a wall to delineate the northern boundary of Britannia.

I removed my patent leathers from my cluttered desk, sat up straight, and motioned the dainty dame to one of the two cheap metal folding chairs that temporarily served as a place for clients to sit. She seated herself without a word, placing her modestly large Faux leather tote on her lap, then turned her Prussian blue eyes on me and blinked through the clean lenses of her tortoiseshell horn-rimmed glasses.

During a moment of uncomfortable silence, I waited for her to speak. We listened to each other breathing. I decided to break the ice.

"You shop at Warby Parker, I see."

She stopped blinking and, in an eerily harmonic voice that hauntingly bespoke heavenly choirs, replied, "What's that?"

"Your eyeglasses," I returned with a gentle nod of my head, "the vintage look is sensible and economic. You're obviously a woman of discretion. I admire your unpretentious style."

It may have been wishful thinking on my part, but at the sound of my masculine voice boldly speaking the word 'woman' I thought I saw a rush of warmth flush her pale cheeks in faint pink patches. She glanced bashfully aside, then back at me. The ghostly complexion had returned.

"Thank you, I think, but," she unfolded a small sheet of paper that had been hidden in her exquisite palm, consulted it, then, "are you Mr. Frost? Mr. Bryn Frost, the private detective?"

I was so enchanted by her melodic voice that I was incapacitated for immediate reply. This served to provide me with deeper insight into her unique personality because she squirmed ever so slightly on the metal chair, blinked again and spoke more music to my ears.

"I told the ladies at the front office that I was looking for Mr. Frost. They indicated that I should walk up the hill to bungalow 13. There's nothing on the door to identify this as a business location. I don't see a name plaque on your desk. I want to make sure I'm in the right place. Is this the office of Frost Investigative Services?"

Her fairy voice was the sonic equivalent of milk and honey. The elusive hint of her Gaelic accent transported me hundreds of years back through time to a secret mystical garden of earthly delights. With a monumental effort I dragged myself from the soothing spell of her intonations thereby returning to the present moment and the subject about which she was addressing me. I cleared my throat, " Uh, yeah, well, I just signed the lease agreement day before yesterday. The lettering artist hasn't been round to paint my name on the door, yet. As for a name plaque for my desk, that's something I'll relegate to my secretary....that is, as soon as I hire one. I'm currently interviewing for a secretary. I thought you might have been my four O'clock."

I wasn't interviewing for a secretary. I didn't have the money to afford a secretary, but I wanted things to look good to this potential client. You know what they say about first impressions.

It was now my elegant visitor's turn to seem bewildered, so I answered her question directly.

"Yes, I am Bryn Frost of Frost Investigative Services. You are in the right place. Private detective Frost, the selfsame, entirely at your disposal, ma'am. How may I be of assistance to you?"

She was mute for another moment or two, so I gently prompted, "You want to employ the professional skills of a private eye, but the subject of your inquiry is a delicate matter? No need to be embarrassed. I assure you my integrity and discretion are worthy of your trust. You want me to check out your new boyfriend, make sure he's not hiding a licentious past? Or is it that you suspect your husband of being unfaithful?"

I didn't labor vainly under the plebeian misconception that my fair visitor was the type of woman to permit herself to suffer from either one of these inconveniences, but I wanted to get her started talking, help her relax and lay it on the table for me. Some think this type of provocation approach is a devious underhanded tactic. They call it reverse psychology. I myself consider this method a subtle form of mind probing, entirely ethical and worthy of the modern shamus.

"Nothing so tawdry, Mr. Frost. I'm not married, nor am I vulgar enough to have a so-called boyfriend. Please forgive my lack of focus. I'm not used to being alone in a bungalow with a strange man, and I have never before consulted a private detective. I'm not entirely sure how to begin."

"Why don't we start with your name. You know mine. How about telling me yours?"

"Yes, of course, I'm Tamsyn McBane."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss McBane. How may I help you?"

She gripped the straps of her tote and squirmed again, "I, well, the truth is, Mr. Frost, this is very difficult for me. I've been driven to desperate measures, otherwise I wouldn't be here. Meaning no offense, of course. I'm sure your profession has its merits and I'm sure you're very good at what you do."

"No offense taken, Miss McBane. However, the fact that you wouldn't be here consulting a private detective unless you thought it absolutely necessary naturally leads me to be interested in knowing how you found out about me. I won't get my feelings hurt if you simply picked my name out of the Yellow Pages."

She smiled a little. This, I deduced, was a good sign in my favor.

"No, Mr. Frost, I didn't pick your name from a phone book. A friend of mine, a member of our cov--, uh, our social group, yes, well, she, Narcissus Ravenwing, told me about you. She knows something of my difficulty and she recommended I bring my problem to you. She had known of you through another friend, I don't know him, who would have been wrongfully prosecuted for a crime he did not commit had it not been for your keen detective skills uncovering the truth and vindicating him. His name is Michael Hammond."

"Ah yes, I remember the case, from about two years ago. One of this town's most prominent matrons called the police to report a break-in. Some of her jewelry had been stolen and Michael, due to a petty theft on his record from a few years prior, had come under suspicion because he was employed as a groundskeeper at the matron's mansion which is located in the well-to-do Tiara Park neighborhood on the north side of town."

She was paying attention, I was touting my formidable investigative skills. Smoothly, I prattled on like steam rising from a boiling pot of sirloin stew.

"Michael had only himself to vouch for his whereabouts at the time of the crime, yet when questioning him, I was able to ascertain that, though he had been home alone on the night in question, he had also been doing some online shopping. Upon further investigation, I discovered that he had made a couple of credit card purchases during the same time frame that the jewels were stolen. This helped get Michael off the hook.

"A tip from one of my informants revealed that a ring of burglars from out of town had been working Tiara Park that week, so I immediately checked with a local car rental business where I found that a Cadillac Escalade had been rented to Newt Thompson which is an alias of Norton Thomas who has a number of first-degree larceny arrests, though none resulted in convictions.

"The rented SUV containing a pearl necklace belonging to the Tiara Park matron was discovered in an alley in a seedy part of town, but the jewel thieves have yet to be apprehended. Most likely they were out of the Cadillac fencing the jewels when police swarmed around the rented automobile. From a lookout position, a fire escape or window perhaps, the culprits saw what was happening and made their escape. At any rate, yes, I was able to fully vindicate Michael Hammond of the crime."

"Which is why you came so highly recommended to me, Mr. Frost. It is my hope that you will be as successful with my dilemma as you were with Mr. Hammond's."

"I shall do my very best for you, Miss McBane."

"Please, Mr. Frost, call me Tamsyn."

"Delighted, and you may call me Bryn."

She smiled, I beamed.

"Now, Tamsyn, in order to empower me with the information I need to help you, it is of the utmost importance that you be completely honest with me in every particular. Hold nothing back. Tell me everything you know, for instance, were you about to say 'coven' a moment ago when you caught yourself and replaced that word with 'social group'? Friends with names like Narcissus Ravenwing are often members of witch covens."

This time I knew for certain I saw her pale cheeks flush with faint pink patches for the primary reason that this time they weren't so faint.

She seemed reluctant for about twenty seconds, but then her admirable strength of character prevailed. With a deep breath which she sighed out with a relaxing of her tense dainty shoulders, Tamsyn McBane began an eerie narrative in which she stated the facts of her agony as she knew them at the time.

"Yes, Bryn Frost, I am in a witch coven. I wasn't going to tell you about that, but you caught my little slip of the tongue. Which, when I think about it, is encouraging to me because it demonstrates how alertly observant you are."

"Thank you, Tamsyn, but why weren't you going to tell me about you being in a coven?"

"I want you to take me seriously, Bryn. I didn't want you thinking I'm some sort of flighty eccentric, because I really do need your help and I want you to do your very best for me."

"I can assure you I will. What exactly is it that you want me to do?"

"I want you to find my grandfather. He's gone missing, you see. He disappeared under very mysterious circumstances about a month ago."

"Have you reported it to the police? A month is sufficient time for someone to be officially classified as a missing person."

"Yes, I know. Of course, I went to the police, but they have very little to go on. The detective in charge of my grandfather's case was very forthright with me. He told me that in all likelihood my grandfather would not be found....not alive, that is."

"You say your grandfather disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Describe these circumstances to me, and please do tell me everything. If you really want me to find out what has happened to your grandfather, and I believe you do, then, as I've already explained, it is essential that you tell me all."

Tamsyn shrugged her shoulders looser, slouching into an exasperated posture, and gazed down at the hardwood floor with a tired look in her radiant blue eyes, "There's not much to tell, really. My grandfather is very dear to me. I've been looking after him for almost a decade now. I was upstate attending college when my grandmother died. At first my mother was going to come down, but she and my father have very serious career obligations. As wrapped up in their work as they are, even though they didn't want me to put my formal education on hold, I knew it would be a big help if I came here to look after grandfather," she shrugged her pretty shoulders again, "well, they're so wrapped up in their careers that I knew they'd soon get over the slight disruption of my grandmother's death and on they would go with their noble ambitions as if nothing ever happened.

"My grandfather's normal routine was to leave every morning at eight to open his curio shop downtown. Every evening, Monday through Saturday, he would be in from work for supper promptly at seven thirty. One evening exactly four weeks ago to the day, my grandfather failed to show. After an hour had passed, I naturally became worried. He's nearly eighty years old, but his health is such that one would hardly place him a day over sixty. Still, though, someone of such advanced years, well, who knows what might happen at any moment without warning?

"I called the curio shop to find out what was the cause of his unusual delay. There was no answer and apparently his cell phone had been turned off because when I dialed that number, it didn't even ring. By now I was becoming very worried and in my growing concern, I called the home number of his assistant, Mr. Hartley, who explained that he hadn't seen my grandfather since just before three that afternoon. It seems that grandfather had gone to meet a client at 3 o'clock about a specific curio commission. The meeting was to be held downtown at the Station House, which is a 24 hour diner on Main Street. You probably know the place."

I nodded confirmation. Tamsyn continued her story.

"My grandfather eats lunch at the Station House everyday. His curio shop is two blocks from the little restaurant and he walks there and back which helps maintain his surprisingly good physical condition. I called the Station House, but the day-shift crew had already gone home, so I couldn't talk to Milly, the waitress who, being my grandfather's favorite, always serves him his lunch in his favorite booth. The owner of the Station House, Mrs. Sheridan, thoughtfully gave me Milly's home phone number. When I called Milly, she said that my grandfather had not been to the Station House for lunch that day, nor had he been there for the three o'clock appointment that Mr. Hartley had spoken of.

"At this point I was on the verge of panic, so I called the police. I told them everything that had happened. A patrol unit was dispatched to take my statement officially and have a look around the house, after which I was told that my grandfather's whereabouts would be investigated. It was late the following afternoon when I finally heard from the officer who had taken my statement the night before. He said that my grandfather had not been located. Then the officer put me on the line with the chief of the Rune City police department, a Mr. Dirk Hollenbeck, you probably know him?"

"Yeah, I know Chief Hollenbeck. He's dedicated to his job, but he's a bit of a scrooge. Doesn't like me nosing around in official police business, yet is always happy for any leads which I can provide as a result of my nosiness."

Tamsyn nodded her agreement, "Yes, I know the type. He didn't seem very polite on the phone, but this Chief Hollenbeck told me that he was a casual acquaintance of my grandfather's. The Chief said he was as concerned as I. He told me he was putting his best man on the case, a Detective Coombs, but I got the feeling I was just being brushed off. Why the Chief bothered to speak to me at all, I don't know. Here it is a month later and the police are no closer to knowing what has become of my grandfather than they were the night I reported him missing. As I said, the official in charge of the investigation, Detective Coombs, has as much as told me that I may as well give up on ever seeing my dear missing grandfather again."

Tamsyn pulled a tissue from her tote, daubed at her eyes and nose, then looked to me as if for guidance with her emotionally painful hardship. The rain outside was very icy, now. Thousands of pellets were clattering on the roof of the bungalow. I had been making notes while Tamsyn was talking. I flipped to a new page, then offered words which I hoped would be of some consolation to her, yet without intimating any false hopes about the plausible reality of her grim conundrum.

"Tamsyn, I'm going to do the best I can for you. I realize you love your grandfather very much and I have some idea of how traumatic this must be for you. Detective Coombs is a conscientious professional. We can be assured he's doing all he can. You have made a wise decision in coming to me, because the higher the number of trained investigators searching for your grandfather, the better the odds are that he will be found. I don't want to build your hopes up too much, though."

The fair maiden cringed at this blunt statement. The awful hurt that showed on her fair features made me deeply regret my insensitivity.

"As crude as it may sound, the fact is that statistically speaking when someone has been missing this long, odds are they won't be seen or heard from again. I hate to say it, Tamsyn, but there is a possibility that your grandfather is...."

I hesitated for a moment. I was only making a bad situation worse, really jamming my foot in my face - me and my big fat mouth. I gazed sympathetically at the charming damsel for a long moment during which I saw the brutal reality surge meanly through her.

In merciful empathy I didn't complete that last horrid sentence. Tamsyn was an intelligent and mature woman. She understood the hard facts, which was very helpful of her because I wasn't in the mood for dealing with any emotional outbursts. I stood up, put another log on the fire, then returned to my desk.

I took up my pen again to scrawl another note for future reference, then I spoke very gently, "Tamsyn, please tell me about your grandfather's milieu. Tell me about his coworkers, friends, people like that Mr. Hartley you mentioned, or any family you have living with you or who live in the area. I want to know everything about your grandfather's social circle, his daily routine, and his past. Tell me all about him, including as much about his background as you possibly can. I want to find out what has happened to your grandfather. Honestly, I really do. The more I know, the better the chances for a favorable outcome of my investigation. Now then, what is your grandfather's name and is he your maternal or paternal grandfather?"

"He is my maternal grandfather. His name is Nolan Fitzgerald. We don't have any family here in Rune City. My parents live upstate in Portland which is where I was studying for my bachelor's degree in anthropology. My father's sister also lives in Portland, but as for relations on my mother's side of the family, well, most of our kin are in Ireland with a few permanently residing in Scandinavia.

"In regard to my grandfather's social circle, I suppose I have pretty much described it to you. There's his assistant at the curio shop, Mr. Hartley, Milly the Station House waitress, and the casual acquaintances whom my grandfather sees when dining at the eatery - Chief Hollenbeck, for example."

"What about his customers, his clientele? You say your grandfather owns and operates a curio shop? What sort of curios are we talking about?"

Tamsyn tensed again for a moment, then relaxed into the disagreeable resignation that it would be better for her to tell me what she obviously didn't relish telling me than it would for her to hold anything back.

"My grandfather is Nolan Fitzgerald....the forger."

I looked up from my notepad with charged excitement emblazoning the animated features of my face, "You mean the Nolan Fitzgerald? I knew his name sounded familiar! I can't believe this! Your maternal grandfather is the famous counterfeiter who sold an unpublished Emily Dickinson poem to a European collector for one million dollars! Then after his arrest involving another forgery it was discovered that Fitzgerald himself had actually written the poem and passed it off as an original Emily!"

"Yes, Bryn, that is my grandfather."

"This is incredible! I followed his trial! It was a national sensation! His legendary exploits were headline news for four solid months!"

I paused briefly, "uh, but something happened to me, a situation came up. I didn't get to watch the jury deliver their verdict. I didn't get to witness the sentencing. The judge banned cameras from the courtroom, but they have those sketch artists, you know. I missed the very end of your grandfather's sensational trial."

"That was a long time ago, Bryn. My grandfather completed his prison sentence at Raiford making use of the Law Library Program while there. Upon his release he returned here to Rune City and, oddly enough, with the assistance of that very same client to whom he sold the counterfeit Emily Dickinson poem, opened the curio shop where he specializes in creating replicas of artifacts and relics from ancient civilizations."

"You mean the person your grandfather duped for a cool million actually helped Nolan Fitzgerald set up in business when he got out of prison?"

"That forged poem is now worth two million dollars. The European client who was duped, as you say, by my grandfather, is actually one of his biggest fans and most prominent clients. As a matter of fact, Monsieur Favreaux was instrumental in getting my grandfather's sentence reduced to the absolute minimum allowed by law."

"Tamsyn, I apologize for using the word 'duped'. It was thoughtless and impolite of me. Believe me when I say that I am a very staunch admirer of your grandfather's work."

"Then how can you be a private detective and not even know that you live in the same town as a notorious convicted forger?"

Now my face grew hot with pink patches.

"It's a long story. I've recently returned from an experience involving missing time. Have you ever heard of missing time?"

She shook her head in the negative.

"It's similar to an alien abduction, so you see, there's no need to worry about me thinking you're crazy, because most people think I'm the craziest person in this town. My incident happened a year and a half ago. I wound up in the lollipop factory out in northern Oregon, but I'm back now and believe me, my detective skills are as efficient and as potent as ever, possibly even more so. Chief Hollenbeck was a captain when I went away. He was glad for me to be gone, but whenever I'm around his success rate at solving crimes always goes up, so even though he detests the very ground I walk on, he has to bite the bullet because I've got a second sight that he knows will never be his."

"You went away a year and a half ago?"

"Well, I didn't go of my own accord, and I still haven't figured out how I ended up all the way across the country in Oregon. The truth is, I don't really know what happened to me. The whole year and half is a blur - seemed to fly by in only a few hours. Most of it I don't remember. I have flashbacks, though. I'm putting it all together in bits and pieces. Flashbacks, recurring nightmares, but hey, enough about me. We're here to find out what has happened to your grandfather."

"A year and half ago is when my grandfather got out of prison and opened the curio shop."

"Well, then, that explains why I didn't know," I scratched my head with my ballpoint pen, "but I thought his trial was a year and a half ago? How could he have gotten out of prison a year and a half ago?"

"His trial was four years ago."

I was dumbfounded. The missing time was still haunting me. I should have kept my big fat mouth shut. This potential client may come to doubt my aptitude. She may get up and walk out the door. I wouldn't blame her if she did.

Tamsyn looked thoughtfully into the fire. The gloom of dusk was gathering early. It would soon be night and the freezing rain would make getting home a very treacherous hazard, indeed. I cleared my parched throat and forged ahead as if I hadn't made a complete fool of myself, "Now then, what else can you tell me about your grandfather?"

"That's pretty much it."

"What about this person he was to meet at the Station House? Who was it?"

"I don't know. I don't know if it was a man or a woman or a group of people. I'm starting not to be sure of anything."

That made two of us.

"Whoa, hey, Tamsyn, don't go falling apart on me. I'm going to help you. I guarantee I'm going to find out something for you. The police, and no offense meant to them, but, well, they have other cases, whereas I can give the search for your grandfather my full attention, and I'm going to, believe me."

She gave me a weak smile, but her red-rimmed eyes exposed the doubt in her mind. I was starting to like Tamsyn McBane. I wanted to tell her as much, but somehow it didn't seem like the time or the place.

"Now, your grandfather's assistant, Mr. Hartley - you said he told you of the meeting your grandfather was to have that afternoon, the one the Station House waitress said he didn't show up for. So, this Mr. Hartley should be able to provide us with a name for the person or persons whom your grandfather was to meet. Which means I need contact information for Mr. Hartley. Tomorrow is Friday. Will he be at the curio shop? Or wait a minute, your grandfather's been gone for a month, so, is the curio shop still open?"

"Yes, the shop is still open. Mr. Hartley has been very understanding about this nightmare misfortune. He's been very helpful and supportive. He's keeping the business going so far, but my grandfather was the master artisan, the expert creator of the replicas, so I don't know how much longer Mr. Hartley can maintain the economic health of the business."

Haydn tensed. His secret silent alarm warned him that Helen & Hortense were approaching. Quickly, he turned off the hologram machine. He knew that if he were caught, he would be taken before the Council of Moods for emotional adjustment. Should he be judged harshly enough, a Subliminal Contractor would be called in. Haydn's libido would be removed. He had seen what that had done to other men. He shuddered at the thought. There was no way Haydn was going to let that happen to himself.

Ever since women had taken control of society and all forms of authority, macho role-playing that catered to the male ego was frowned upon as juvenile and counterproductive. His male fantasy of being a slick private detective simply would not be tolerated, but Haydn knew he had nothing to worry about. His was a gifted talent for software engineering. He had covertly managed to override security protocol so that if anyone ever checked the hologram log, there would be no evidence of what he had been doing - all his sessions were automatically deleted the moment he exited the program.

In a brilliant stroke of genius, he had embedded a one terabyte biochip into the soft skin of his groin. By this clever expedient, he was able to save his fantasy worlds so as to pick up where he left off whenever he began a new session. Elaborate world-building required hundreds of programming hours. Haydn was religiously devoted to not losing any of his time-intensive work.

He left the hologram room and stepped up onto the mammoth observation deck. The interplanetary research vessel, Sagan, had entered orbit around Saturn's largest moon, Titan. Gazing out through the huge window of the gargantuan space craft, he sighed with a dismal note of languor. The incredible view of the dazzling cosmic scenery was sensational, yet Haydn was sated with mere looking. He was ready for a real physical hands-on challenge - something he could feel as well as see.

The incoming data from all spectral analysis reconnaissance probes indicated prolific microbial life in the salty subsurface ocean of the mysterious moon with the dense nitrogen-rich atmosphere. He hoped there were organisms much bigger than microbes. The long monotonous trip from Earth had Haydn aching for the hazards of life-threatening excitement, but he knew better than to let his true feelings be known.

The automated doors to the observation deck opened. Helen and Hortense entered the gallery. They were Haydn's chaperones. All chaperones were female. Karate, judo, psychology classes, study of the effects of testosterone on male behavior, an hour in the gym each morning and an hour each afternoon - the female chaperones rippled alertly with brains as acutely trained and toned as their sinewy musculature. The jerseys of their uniforms were mirrored so that the males they monitored would have to see their own expressions when they faced their strict disciplinarian masters.

Helen & Hortense confidently stepped onto the observation deck, the reflected sunlight of Titan setting their stern visages aglow with ethereal luminescence. Haydn smiled submissively, his long white robe giving him the appearance of harmless tranquility. The chaperones stood challengingly before him. Haydn bowed his shaved head in obedient supplication