” She could practically hear the self-deprecating thoughts racing across his mind, the failed hours of rehearsed lines. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. “You know nothing about the stage. ” He intoned. She is something different. ’ ‘That’s right,’ agreed the militiaman, coming forward to stand before her. There had been disappointments and humiliations, and although she hated to admit it even to herself, she was in desperate straits. She was beauty, the key of magic, the teacher of spells, the predictor of wars, and the gate of the future. “See you. “What do you mean?” she asked.
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