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make herself see them objectively, give them all fair and equal consideration, but she couldn't get over the fact that Wanda was the only one who came into the house and cried. Cried! Nor did any of the others express an interest in plumbing—or in any of the other unseen workings of the house for that matter. No one else had asked the kinds of questions she'd asked. And—Margaret was certain she hadn't imagined it—there was an unusual curiosity radiating from her things when Wanda was in the house. Something about her had intrigued them. The young woman might be a bit emotionally unbalanced, but she had been tuned to the house and its occupants in a way the others hadn't. Yes, she was the one.
    Margaret called and left a message at the YWCA switchboard. Wanda called back ten minutes later.
    "The room is yours if you want it," Margaret said.
    "Oh, that's wonderful!" Wanda exclaimed. "I'm thrilled, Mrs. Hughes, just thrilled! Thank you so much! I'll be there as soon as I can get my stuff together and catch a bus."
    The girl's voice was brassier in tone and more exigent than Margaret remembered. It induced in her a sudden nervousness. "Please," Margaret said evenly, "call me Margaret."
    "Margaret." Wanda rushed on. "I got a job today too, so everything is going just great! The power of affirmations, you know? Well, bye now! See you soon!"
    Margaret hung up and closed her eyes, letting the residual buzz of Wanda's voice fade, waiting until its unsettling effect diminished. What have I done? she thought wryly. I may live to regret this. Or not.
    The house hummed and creaked in its quiet, familiar way; it was like a crewless freighter, far out on a placid, pristine sea, carrying all the cargo of Margaret's life. Very little of this cargo was lawful. Ma k ing it more li k e a pirate ship, I suppose, Margaret thought, and then she recalled Daniel's pirate phase— All children probably have them —when, for days on end, he'd donned a huge bushy black beard, tricorn hat, and eye patch and hobbled about the house doing his impression of Long John Silver in Treasure Island: "Them that die'll be the lucky ones!"
    In her mind, Margaret floated from room to room through the entire house—all fifteen thousand square feet of it. Everything was in its place. Nothing was undusted, or untended, or unremarked upon, or without meaning. Every piece sat quietly for once, as if in agreement with Margaret's choice—all secure in their places of honor throughout the house. They sat, knowing their own stories and trusting that Margaret would keep those stories for them—as she had for years and years, at no little cost.
    Soon, she would have to make a decision about the fate of these things. Not yet, but soon. She trusted them to make their wishes known when the time was right.
    Three
    Wanda
    Wanda hung up the pay phone in the YWCA lounge. It was decorated in acrimonious shades of pink, orange, and brown, and smelled of ammonia and acetone. Not surprisingly, no one ever seemed to do any lounging there.
    Hearing from Mrs. Hughes should have lifted her spirits, but she felt suddenly deflated. She trudged up three flights of dingy linoleum-covered stairs to her room. She retrieved a city map and several Metro bus pamphlets from her backpack. After unfolding the maps and pamphlets on her bed, she knelt, surrendering to the compression of cartilage and bone against bare floor. Nearby, on a wobbly table, was the morning Post-Intelligencer and a paper cup containing the lukewarm remnants of a triple espresso. Wanda sipped the coffee—pleasantly bitter and sludgy with cinnamon. Peter had taught her to put cinnamon in her coffee. She imagined the heavy brown liquid leaching into her teeth, saturating them with something far more preservative and strengthening than fluoride.
    "Here we go," she said quietly. The words echoed against the room's hard, chilly surfaces.
    The space had the anonymity of an uninhabited college dormitory. In addition to the bed