[ Her fearlessness before something akin to death incarnate arises not from total incapacity for fright but an emotional deficiency all the same; the instinct to recoil from the promise of bodily harm is dulled like flesh made numb by a persistent cold, a figurative cold that permeates her being. He's not encountered her like because what permits such a child to exist is not of this plane, save perhaps for the sanatoriums where minds untethered from reason roam and where she would surely be corralled if given over to psychiatry.

As though the numbing of certain faculties demanded a counterbalance, a sharpening of opposing instincts, she displays remarkable intuition about "his" temper. Why so? Because fury is woven throughout the games she plays, just as the playfighting of beasts is never far from the genuine article.

His preening routine draws giggles from the girl. She hasn't a modicum of tact! Yet for her viciousness her laughter is strangely free of venom. She merely finds his behaviour queer to behold. ]

You're like a plucked cockatoo! No one's stole your feathers!

[ The toy soldier's levity is arrested by his sorcerous display. Millie's weight shifts to a heel, the girl's expression equivocal. A pause, then her engine starts anew, propelling her into the chair per his invitation. ]

That was dynamite, Edward.

[ She flattens her hands upon the table. ]

He's a tough son of a bitch from winters past. Not like me, but more than others. My father dealt with the Walking Backwards Man after he picked a fight with Uncle Abe. But who's to say he's gone for good?

[ She lapses into silence, then lifts a hand and tap-taps her temple with a nail. ]

My memory... Feels like my head is full of holes... A beehive head... And the worst of it? It doesn't hurt...

[ She shakes the fog from her head. ]

Right. Your turn to answer: Who is this man that sits across from me so sullen?