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unless some new sect, like the Sensorians, struck the public’s fancy. Then everybody talked about it, as if it were an explorer’s journey to a distant land, or a life-changing invention.
    “Self-righteousness more than religion,” Fan said. “Rigidity of belief. Delight in condemnation.” He made another swipe at the kettle. “Hypocrisy.”
    “Why would she talk about things like that?”
    Fan’s expression was somber, tinged with sadness. “Because she suffered a private hurt she never got over.” He didn’t explain.
    And Will didn’t badger him. Instead, he took the damp towel from Fan’s hand and draped it over the edge of the sink. The dishwater could stay in the graniteware wash pan until they went to bed, for they might be able to use it again.
    Their chore concluded, Will turned to the right for his kiss.
    Usually, they merely leaned forward without embracing, and the light press of their lips carried more affection than passion. Tonight, Fan held Will and kissed not only his mouth but his hair, forehead, cheek, and throat.
    How I love him! Will thought. “Well, we can’t change the past, but at least we can shape the future.”
    He felt Fan smile against the side of his face. “Did your Uncle Penrose say that?”
    Pulling back, Will blushed. He did have the most annoying habit of spouting his uncle’s platitudes. Whenever another one slid from his tongue, he felt as incapable of self-censorship as Simon Bentcross.
    “Yes,” he confessed. “I’m sorry. You must get so tired of—”
    “Nothing, when it comes to you.” Fan delivered another kiss. Tender as it was, Will was stirred by it. He wanted to extinguish every lamp and pull Fan into the bedroom. “Besides,” Fan said with a smile, “your uncle was always right. Now, shall we have a game of chess or écarté?”
    “I think,” Will said, grasping Fan’s wrist, “we should have a game of Crown and Ring or Break the Baton.”
     
     
    T HE NEXT morning, after Fan went off to work on the fieldstone wall he was building for a Taintwellian couple, Will lazed about in bed. Yesterday had pummeled all the energy out of him—the miles of travel, the hectic pace of business at the circus, his tension over the baffling Spiritorium man, two vigorous rounds of lovemaking. Remembering in detail the last of these activities, he hummed in contentment, one hand curled around his half-erect shaft and the other arm hugging Fan’s pillow. Too lethargic even to pleasure himself, he burrowed deeper into the bedding.
    Soon he’d have to find winter work. But before that, he’d have to return one last time to the Mechanical Circus to secure his caravan, cover his cart with a tarpaulin, and bring all his sales stock and personal items back to Taintwell. Perhaps he and Fan could make a day of it—hitch Cloudburst to the small wagon and, after leaving the circus, stop at a Purinton restaurant for lunch….
    Will’s eyes flew open as he was shaken awake. He struggled to focus. What time was it?
    “Wake up! Clancy’s gone!”
    “Huh?” Will rolled toward the voice and squinted. “Simon?”
    “Yes, yes.” He looked like a man standing in a circle of fire. “Get up, would you?”
    Awkwardly, Will pushed to a sit. The duvet slid down his torso and bunched around his hips. Bentcross didn’t seem to notice—and for him, that was very peculiar indeed.
    “Why don’t you sit in the parlor while I get dressed?”
    Mouth set, Bentcross flung the duvet aside. After a stunned moment, Will jerked his legs up to his chest. “What are you—?”
    “Oh for hell’s sake, Marchman, I’ve seen you naked a dozen times!”
    “More like a half dozen.”
    “I wasn’t counting. Now get up and get dressed.” Hand to forehead, Simon walked in tight circles. “Where’s Perfidor?”
    Will dropped his legs over the side of the bed. Where were his clothes? Strewn about the room, probably. “Working. Just like he was yesterday.”
    “Where?”
    “I… damn it, I