form.
  
  She wanted her mind like a scythe.
  
  He laughed suddenly. "Like a scythe!" he whispered.
  
  Ah, so he'd caught it. She had to stop herself from acknowledging this, because he 
didn't realize that she hadn't spoken. She smiled. She wanted to kiss him again, but 
didn't think it would do any good.  Probably do harm. He'd be dead asleep again in a few 
minutes. Then maybe, after a nice long bath, she'd search for the Victrola upstairs.
  
  He surprised her by throwing back the covers and climbing out of the bed. He walked 
ahead of her, unsteady, but obviously chivalric.
  
  "Come on, I'll show you where everything is," he said. Another yawn and a deep breath 
as he led her out the door.
  
  The front bedroom was as beautiful as it had been on the day of the wedding. There was 
even a bouquet of yellow and white roses on the marble mantel, somewhat like the bouquet 
which had been there on that day. And Rowan's white silk robe was laid out, as if she 
really were coming home again, on the pale damask coverlet of the four-poster bed.
  
  He stopped for a moment, looking about as if he had forgotten what he meant to do. He 
wasn't remembering. She would have felt it if he'd been remembering. He was struggling 
for the context. That's what drugs did to you, they took the context of familiar things 
away.
  
  "The nightgowns," he said. He made a halfhearted little gesture towards the open 
bathroom door.
  
  "I'll find them, Uncle Michael. Go back to bed."
  
  "You're not really scared, are you, honey?" Too innocent.
  
  "No, Uncle Michael," she said, "you go back to sleep."
  
  He stared at her for a long moment, as if he could not even concentrate on the words 
she spoke. But he was determined to be protective, determined to worry appropriately. "If 
you get scared..." he said.
  
  "I won't, Uncle Michael. I was teasing you." She couldn't help smiling. "I'm the thing 
to be afraid of, most of the time."
  
  He couldn't repress a smile at that either. He shook his head and went out, throwing 
her one last very blue-eyed and adorable glance in which fire burned up the drugs for a 
moment, and then he closed the door.
  
  The bathroom had a small pretty gas heater. She turned it on immediately, There were 
dozens of thick white towels on the wicker shelf.  Then she found the flannel nightgowns, 
in rows on the top shelf of the closet - thick, old-fashioned gowns, in gay flowered 
patterns. She chose the most outrageous - a pink gown, with red roses on it, and she 
turned on the water in the long deep tub.
  
  Carefully she removed the pink taffeta bow from the back of her hair, and laid it on 
the dressing table beside the brush and comb.
  
  Ah, what a dream house, she thought. So unlike Amelia Street with its clawfoot tubs, 
and damp rotted floorboards; where the few remaining towels were chewed and worn, and 
would be until Aunt Bea brought by a new load of hand-me-downs. Mona was the only one who 
ever laundered them; she was the only one who ever laundered anything, though Ancient 
Evelyn swept the banquette, as she called the sidewalk, every day.
  
  This house showed you what could be done with love. Old white tile, yes, but new and 
thick plum-colored carpet. Brass fixtures that really worked, and parchment shades over 
the sconces beside the mirror. A chair with a pink cushion; a small chandelier descending 
from the tiny medallion above, with four candle-shaped bulbs of pink glass.
  
  "And money, don't forget money," Alicia had said to her not long ago, when she had 
wished aloud that Amelia could be beautiful again.
  
  "Why don't we ask Uncle Ryan for the money? We're Mayfairs.  There's the legacy! Hell, 
I'm old enough to hire a contractor, to bring in a plumber. Why is everything always 
falling apart?"
  
  Alicia had waved that away with disgust. Asking people for money meant inviting them to 
interfere. Nobody at Amelia Street wanted the Mayfair Police on the premises, did they? 
Ancient Evelyn did not like noise, or strange men. Mona's father didn't want anybody 
asking him questions. On and on it went. The excuses.
  
  So things rusted, and rotted and broke, and no one did anything about them. And two of 
the rear bathrooms hadn't worked now in years. Window sashes were broken, or painted 
shut. Ah, the list was endless.
  
  An evil little thought crept into Mona's head. It had almost crept into her head 
before, when Michael had said her house was Italianate.
  
  What would he think of the present state of affairs at Amelia Street?  Maybe he could 
suggest a few things, like whether or not the plaster in her room would start falling 
again? At least he would know. That was his thing, of course, restoring houses. So bring 
him home to see the house, she thought.
  
  But then the inevitable would happen. He was bound to see Alicia and Patrick drinking 
all the time, and then to call Uncle Ryan, the way everybody did sooner or later. There 
would be the usual row. Aunt Bea might come again and once more suggest a hospital.
  
  But what nobody understood was that these hospitalizations did more harm than good. 
Alicia came back crazier, more eager to drown her misery. The tirade last time had been 
the worst ever. She'd tried to smash everything in Mona's room. Mona had stood with her 
back to the computer.