But it was several days before Michael could make himself stop listening for footsteps coming toward his door. He threw himself into work as a cure for mental degeneration, and found that after a while he didn’t have to force himself; the hunt was up, and as usual it gradually gripped him. Even the inevitable frustrations were minor challenges, to be overcome. One such challenge was Randolph’s book. Michael could have sworn he owned a copy of The Smoke of Her Burning; it took two hours of disorganized search before she would admit that he no longer owned it. He kept meaning to get his books arranged in some kind of order, but they wouldn’t let themselves be arranged; every time he started the project, he ended up with piles all over the floor and himself sitting cross-legged in the middle of the debris, deep in some fascinating volume he had forgotten he owned. The bookshelves were as motley as the volumes they housed; he had always meant to have some bookcases built in…. What had he done with Randolph’s book?
