few people saw Theo dashing down the street without his coat. So much for his privacy.” She sighed. “I’d wait for you, but —”
“It’s okay.”
Rosemary’s mother followed Theo out of the library.
Rosemary stared through the front window as her mother and Dr. Abrams got Theo into the car and drove off. She sighed, then blinked to feel a hand pat her shoulder. She looked up in time to see Peter hurriedly pull it back.
“What are you doing here?” she said.
He started. “I ... what?”
“What are you doing here?” She turned on him. “I’m here every weekend and I never see you about. Then the day all” — she waved her hands at the stacks where the books lay scattered — “all this happens, you show up. Why?”
He gaped at her. “Why shouldn’t I be here? What else is there to do?”
Mrs. McDougall came shuffling out from the back. “Could you two keep that door closed? There’s a draft!” She frowned at their stares of disbelief. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” said Rosemary. “I’ve just been talking to my mother. Let’s close the library early.”
“Good idea! I’ll get my coat.” Mrs. McDougall shuffled to the closet, pulled on her coat, and stepped outside. Peter and Rosemary watched her go.
Peter glanced at her. “Look, I just thought ...”
“I’m sorry.” Rosemary took a deep breath. “You’ve only ever seen me angry or scared. I’m not always like this.”
He shrugged and gave her a small smile. “I’ve seen worse.”
She turned to the stacks. “Let’s clean up this mess and get out of here.”
They put the books back on the shelves, shut down the computers, and turned off the lights. Five minutes later, Peter held Rosemary’s skis as she locked the door.
A shape separated from the stacks, a tall figure dressed in green. Through the front windows, it watched Rosemary and Peter walk down the street.
Sunday was also bright and cold. The world was black, blue, and white as Rosemary stepped from the front door of her home. Her breath fogged in the air.
The snow squeaked underfoot as she walked to the mailbox. On days like this, she didn’t mind that the newspaper delivery boy didn’t bring the paper directly to the front door, even if she had to pull on boots and a coat to get it. She pulled the paper from the mailbox.
A snowball hit her in the back.
Rosemary scowled. Just call me the snowball magnet, she thought. She turned around. “Trish, how many times do I have to tell you —”
There was nobody at the front door.
“Ow!” said a voice higher up. Rosemary’s gaze shifted to the roof of the house.
A lanky man was perched on the gable above the front door, shaking out a wet hand. “How do you throw these balls of ice?”
Everything about him was odd. His ears were a little too pointed, his arms and legs were a little too long, and his eyes were far too wild. He was dressed like Robin Hood, with a long tunic and hose of green leather.
Oddest of all, he looked familiar.
“Sage Rosemary,” he said. “You caught me off my guard. I was asleep, tired from my ordeal. You locked me in the library last night.”
Rosemary kept on staring.
“Fortune found me a hatchway to the roof,” the man continued. “From there I had no trouble getting down.” As if to illustrate, he jumped from the pitched roof, landing nimbly on his feet in front of Rosemary. She kept staring.
He frowned at her silence. “Come, come, Sage Rosemary, surely you do remember me?” He thrust out a long-boned hand. “Robin Goodfellow. You may call me Puck.”
Rosemary wheeled around and walked out the front gate and up the country road.
“Rosemary?” Puck called. He followed her.
“Go away!” she shouted over her shoulder.
Two steps behind, Puck matched her pace, his pointy shoes skidding on the snow. “Rosemary, will you not speak with me?”
“You’re a figment of my imagination!”
“Do you order all such figments to fly away?”
Rosemary’s fists clenched tighter. “A hallucination, then! I’m going crazy at last!”
“Do hallucinations leave footprints?”
She stopped and looked at the road behind Puck. “You don’t.” She turned again.
Puck looked back at the snow behind him. Only Rosemary’s footprints showed. “Oh! How very odd! I wonder why that would be ...” He scratched his chin, and then snapped his fingers. “Of course!” Rosemary was now several paces ahead of him and he bounded after her.
“There is a good reason why I do not leave footprints in your world,” he said, matching her pace. “You see, Sage Rosemary, I am not real.”
“Is there an echo somewhere?” asked Rosemary.
Puck stopped. “Hallooo!” he shouted. He listened for a moment and then loped after her. “No.”
“I already said you weren’t real. Now, go away!”
He kept his pace. “Hallucination I am not. They are real after a fashion. Neither am I a sprightly ghost. Figments are as real as a person believes. Wise one, I am not real. I am fiction.”
Rosemary stopped. She stared at Puck.
“I am well developed, as you can see.” He gave her a smile and twirled around like a ballet dancer. “A three-dimensional character.”
Rosemary backed away. She dropped her newspaper. Then she turned and ran.
“Sage Rosemary, come back!” shouted Puck. “I did not mean to frighten you!”
Rosemary ran as fast as her heavy boots would let her, oblivious to her surroundings and any sounds of pursuit. At the McAllister mailbox, Peter was getting his own newspaper. He looked up. “Hey, Rosemary. Where are you go—”
Rosemary ploughed into him. They went down in a scramble of arms, legs, and newsprint.
Peter grabbed her shoulders. “Rosemary!”
She was trembling. “I want my mind back! I want it back, now!”
“Rosemary! What is it?”
She pointed. He looked. The road was empty.
Then,
