“So, what are you plotting today?” he said merrily. He felt exceptional after an uneasy week. Donald had encouraged him to go on a fast where he drank nothing but water and ate only a kind of clay, and he felt exhilarated if somewhat weak. The black scorpioid toxins that had appeared in the toilet bowl were—well he didn’t want to dwell on them, but they were damn impressive. Appalling, of course, but now he could understand the quiet pride people could take in the purification of their intestinal tract. He felt wonderful and was quite unaware that he looked haggard and unwell. Alice looked up at him, startled. Her face was mobile and expressive, and what he saw on it now was dismay and random guilt. She would not do well in a police lineup. “Mr. Vineyard,” she said. “Hi,” Carter said, thinking he should start over. They all were looking at him in astonishment. Madness is flight, he always thought when he saw Corvus, such a curious name, though lovely. He’d never understood why Ginger had insisted on the awkward name, Annabel, for their bundle of issue.
