The things, she thought: the cars and house and stuff, all that to deal with. No marriage could be over till that was done. Hm.

She thought that probably Mike would find the stuff a big problem, but Mike was a Capricorn, a holder-on to things, and their disposition would always strike him as requiring a lot of thought. Rosie, however much of her soul she might hide in a pair of dangle earrings or a box made of inlaid woods, only and always avoided stuff: life, it sometimes seemed to her, was an obstacle race, full of stuff to be leaped, skirted, lost and left behind. In her own natal chart (still in its manila envelope, now somewhat crushed, on the seat beside her), the second house-Lucrum, "like lucrative," Val said, "money, possessions, jobs, stuff like that"-was empty of compelling planets.

The sun set, leaving a glassy lavender and peach twilight in the cloudless West. In the mountains above Rosie's station wagon, deer walked, fattening on the apples of old orchards; down on the river, fallen leaves floated south, gathering in colored rugs at eddies and backwaters and on the shore of the little pleasure-ground that Spofford owned. At nightfall, a flock of migrating starlings returning to the towers of Butterman's made a banner in the air above the castle that snapped, as though in the wind, before the birds settled to rest.

By lamplight Rosie read A Passage at Arms, about buccaneers on the Spanish Main. That magician character who took Shakespeare's picture in Bitten Apples, the one whose crystal ball Boney had shown her, appeared in it, lending maps to Sir Francis Drake, plotting with the Queen against the Spanish. Rosie wondered whether really all of Kraft's books were sections out of the one story, cut out and offered individually, as a landscape painter might cut up a big view into little ones framed separately. The English won out over the Spanish, but the Spanish king, brooding spiderlike in his magic palace, planned revenge. Rosie took it back (late and foxed with autumn rain, Sam had left it outdoors) and chose another.

She would read them all, in the end; she would read them in Allan Butterman's waiting room and in waiting rooms at the courthouse and the accountant's office (the affairs of her dissolving family were an impenetrable mess). She would read them standing on lines at the bank and the Registry of Motor Vehicles. She would read Sam to sleep with them, who at bedtime cared more to hear the peaceful sound of her mother's voice making grown-up sense than any story Sam herself would be required to grasp. She would put them down when her eyelids trembled to close, often past midnight, and pick them up when she woke, way too early to rise, before Mrs. Pisky or even Sam was afoot.

Yet Rosie was not, actually, a great reader. Cumulatively, she had not read a lot in her life; in normal times a thick book, a long tale, held no special attraction. Only at certain times, as though it were an old fever contracted in childhood and breaking out periodically, did she fall into books; and when she fell in she fell all in. It was escape: she was quite clear about that. Often she had known just what it was she was escaping from-though during her first year married to Mike, the year of John Galsworthy, she hadn't known; and she hadn't at all understood the first outbreak, in some ways the severest, the year her family moved to the Midwest and Rosie worked her way steadily and blurrily through not only the collected Nancy Drew but all of Mr. Moto and the Biography shelf of a branch library too, reading lives that did not strike her as materially different from fictions, learning facts she would never altogether forget or ever remember exactly about Amelia Earhart, W. C. Handy, Edward Payson Terhune, Pearl Mesta, Woodrow Wilson, and a host of others. That year she walked continually in her life carrying another life, the one inside books, the one that engaged her the more intimately; her living was divided in two, reading and not reading, as completely and necessarily as it was divided into sleeping and being awake.

No more than about waking life did it occur to Rosie to pass critical judgments on what she read. It engaged her or it didn't; when it engaged her she could not have said why. Never, in her intense period of reading mystery stories, did it occur to her to try to figure out what the author was up to, what the solution was; she thought once, looking back, that she hadn't really grasped initially that these stories which she liked were mysteries, that each one would have a solution; if she had read one that didn't, she would not necessarily have felt cheated. What she really liked about them, she thought, was the same thing she liked about biographies: they went only one way.

There was a kind of novel that didn't, and made Rosie feel uneasy: a kind of novel that it seemed you could only go about halfway or two-thirds into before you somehow started coming back out. All the incidents and characters that appeared in the first half of the book, the ones that created the story, would reappear (sometimes even in approximately reverse order) to complete the story, as though the book's second half or last third were a mirror image of the first, with the ending exactly like the beginning except that it was an ending. It wasn't that such books didn't resemble life; Rosie didn't know if they did or didn't; but if they did, then it might be that life too had a mirror half, that its direction all one way was illusory, and Rosie didn't know this to be so only because she hadn't entered on the later, the cursory wrap-up part of her own life.

Once when she had picked up a novel at a tag sale she had found pasted on the fly leaf a yellowed newspaper review of it. The review seemed to like the book but complained of its somewhat mechanical plot. When Rosie read it she found it to be one of those with a mirror final third. So what she had been perceiving all along (she realized with surprise) was plot -a thing she might have said novels have and biographies do not, without knowing just what she meant by saying that. And now she knew.

And still she didn't know to what extent lives resembled novels by having plots, by having symmetries, falling into two parts, the long way in, the quicker way back out again. Certainly there was something mechanical about this picture; but there was no way-yet-to know whether life was in fact mechanical and symmetrical, or not. For sure when she sat with a Kraft novel in her lap, waiting in offices to further her divorce from Mike, it didn't seem an academic question; she thought she might very well be just halfway through her own story (if it had a halfway mark) and that so far from ditching her husband she was only establishing the conditions of his later and ineluctable appearances in the story. Which was his story too after all.

Kraft wasn't much help. Despite the forward tumble of history always proceeding in his books, proceeding (with an almost audible roar and mutter) from far past toward nearer past, all one way, the stories themselves which he told often had the mirror-shape of a plot. Bitten Apples had such a shape: right in the center of it that magician or scientist drew the diagram of young Will's horoscope, and put his planets in, and told him that he would not, unless he chose to fly in the heavens' face, make his living as a player upon the stage. And from there, scene by scene, the book walked back out through itself with great neatness. Rosie guessed that it would (saying "Oh no" aloud in comic dismay at breakfast so that Boney raised his bent head to see what she groaned at) as soon as Simon Hunt-Will's old teacher in Stratford, who snuck off to be a priest-appeared again before Will in London.

Now it was Hunt who was at bay, Hunt hunted, a Jesuit, a price on his head. Will, though tempted (only for a shameful second) to turn him in, saves the frightened priest, hiding him at one critical moment in full view of Walsingham's patrol: on stage, playing a farcical monk in an anti-Papist play, dragged down to hell by devils.

Good scene for a movie, Rosie thought.

And at the end Will was on tour of the provinces, and coming once again to Stratford by the Avon; at seventeen feeling old, and worldly-wise, and done with playing. The last long scene with his chastened father-as exactly distant, almost to the number of pages, from the end of the book as the very first interview was from the beginning. Come home, Will. Forgive me: forgive me.

And yet-Rosie wondered how it was done-there was not in this perfect symmetry of scenes the oppression she had felt in other books; it was all somehow encouraging. Maybe it was only her own knowledge, acquired outside these pages, of the further history which none of them who were inside the book could know: not John Shakespeare, not James Burbage (saying goodbye to Will by the property-wagon in a Stratford innyard, brushing away a kindly tear but thinking himself well rid of the tall young man), not Will Shakespeare himself, turning back up the High Street for home.

It was time to settle down; time to take up his father's trade: a clean trade, however unexciting, that could support a man's age.

That could support-Will felt his heart rise, though his big sober feet fell in good order in the High Street-that could support a wife, and sons. A dark-eyed wife of Stratford town.

And if he worked steadily, he might one day erase from the town's long memory his adventure in London, and earn for himself the name of good citizen, credit to the town of Stratford-even, maybe, Gentleman.

Will went up to his father's door, his hand on the butt of an imaginary Gentleman's sword, slung at his side. In the innyard, Burbage's players set up the stage for the old play of Caesar, stabbed in the Capitol.

Oh, corny, corny, Rosie thought almost laughing with pleasure, for there at the bottom of the last page, in large capitals, was not "The End" butTHE BEGINNING .

Six.

One lamb had died; it lay, a wet lump, near its mother, who nuzzled it dazedly. Farther down the shed, a ewe had died delivering: beside her, a living lamb attempted to suck. Spofford lifted his lantern, in whose light his breath clouded, and carefully numbered them, so weary he almost could not keep count. The rest were all right. So: one dead lamb, its mother full of milk; and one motherless lamb. But the living ewe wouldn't give suck to the orphan; some instinct, smell, something, prevented it. So the orphan lamb would starve, unless Spofford began now to feed it by hand.

Or he could try an older method, that he had heard of from someone, who, he forgot who; he had in his mind the dim image of an old shepherd who had learned it from an older, and so on back through the years. Well all right.

He opened his knife, and working swiftly and almost automatically as though he had done this many times before, he took the thin wet skin from the dead lamb, pulling and cutting it free. When he had it, he took up the orphaned lamb, and after bundling it in the pitiful rag of its cousin's skin, he laid it by the dead lamb's mother.

The mother examined it, insofar as she could; she nuzzled it, and found it to be her own. At the disguised lamb's insistence, she let it suck: let it live.

How do you like that, Spofford marveled, bloody to the wrists of his sheepskin coat. Now how do you "like that," he said aloud, waking.

It wasn't night in February, lambing time, but morning in December. It had snowed in the night, the first snowfall of the year; a white light filled the loft of his cabin, so that he knew without raising his head that it had snowed.

Boy (he thought, stirring), sometimes they can be so convincing. So convincing.

He sat up, and scratched his head with both hands. His sheepskin coat hung, clean, on a peg. He laughed aloud: that was a great trick with the lamb. He wondered if it would work. He hadn't-as far as he remembered-ever heard of it, though as a boy he had once hand-fed an orphaned lamb. For sure the aged shepherd whom, in the dream, he had remembered telling about it (apple-cheeked, with stump of pipe and lamb's-wool hair) was nobody he knew in waking life, a complete fiction.

Over breakfast he decided he would ask one or two sheepmen he knew in the county whether that switcheroo was a possibility. Whether it was a well-known old trick.

And if it was?

Washing up, he made a further decision. This seemed a day charged with significance: that dream, this snow-light, certain deeps seeming just for today to be open and plumbable within him. So when his chores were done he would go over to the Lodge to visit Val, a thing he had been intending to do for a long time. While he picked his teeth with a trout's bone he kept just for that purpose, he outlined in his mind what questions he would ask: what advice it was he was after, and on what matters.

Val's Faraway Lodge, in Shadowland, was closed for the winter season. Val always described this closing as though it were she herself who was being shut up for three months: "I'm closing on Thanksgiving," she would say. "I'll be closed till Easter." And in a sense Val too was closed. As soon as snow of any consequence began to fall, she stopped driving; her Beetle (into which big Val fit neatly, like a big clown into a tiny car in the circus) became a shapeless white hummock in her driveway, and only when it had lost its snowman suit in spring did she start it up again. Meanwhile she (and her old mother, who lived at the Lodge as well) depended on the phone, on the thoughtfulness of those passing her way, and on a certain talent for hibernation, a trick of living on the summer's pleasures, occupations, gossip, and news as on a store of accumulated fat. Even her store of physical fat seemed somewhat to shrink as the days grew longer toward the equinox.

The Lodge is a white frame low two-story building on the Shadow River, almost unfindable down two dirt roads, its sign and its furnishings pretty well unchanged for thirty years. What Spofford often wondered, what he had never thought of a tactful way of finding out, was how long it was since the Lodge had ceased to be a whorehouse. That it had been one in living memory he had deduced from several hints dropped by local folk, from the general layout of the place (the bar and restaurant in front, connecting to the sitting room of the apartment behind, and several small rooms now unrented upstairs and in a wing shadowed by pines), and also from the character of Val's mother, Nanna, whom, now in retirement and functioning chiefly (according to Val) as Val's cross to bear, Spofford could easily imagine as a country madam: even though he had never known (not in this country) a country madam. She was nowadays given over to special communications with God and telling whoppers about her past that caused Val to snort and speak rudely to her. The two of them had never lived apart.

"It'll melt by tomorrow," Spofford said. "But I brought this stuff anyway. Put it in the larder." There were staples and delicacies and the carton of Kents she had asked for and a string bag of oranges.

"Was anything plowed?" Val said. She had only a vague idea of the realities of winter, but she liked to talk about it. "No? And you came out here with this stuff? Oh god you big brave brute!" Spofford laughed. "It's not enough snow to fill the tire treads, Val." She grinned at him, seeing through this piece of modesty, and showed the stuff to her mother. "Look, Ma. What do you think."

"He's a good boy," said her mother, beside her on the bed. "God will give him something special."

"Get God to do that," Val said. "Get God to fix a ticket for him."

"Don't you mock."

The two of them were sharing Val's bed before the big TV, which was on, showing a soap Val followed; she and her mother, wrapped in a quilt against the cold, pillows propped behind them and a coffeepot nearby, weren't exactly still in bed, or exactly up either; they were late and long risers. On the bed, with the TV Guide and the Faraway Crier and some gossip magazines, was a tray of dog's breakfast, and a dog, a little Pekingese with exactly the hair and the winning expression of the cartoon kid for whom he was named. He yapped and panted at Spofford.

"So anyway," Val said, and laughed her low infectious laugh; she had a way of laughing that way, at nothing, periodically, as though a party were always going on around her. "Your chart, right? You came for your chart."

"Kind of," Spofford said.

"It's not done."

"Well."

"It's almost done. You want to see? Dennis! Get your foot out of the food. Oh god look what he's done." She gathered up the dustmop dog, and pulled her big chenille gown around her; she rose, cocking up the cigarette in the corner of her mouth and squinting her eye against the rising smoke. "Come see." There was a card table set up in the corner of the sitting room, with a lamp beside it, where Val worked.

In between two fat Chinese sages of soapstone were her ephemerides, tables, and guides. A mug of colored pencils, red plastic ruler, compass, and protractor gave an impression of schoolchild's homework, but Val wasn't playing. She was respected in the Faraways; she made a good part of her living from the casting of horoscopes; there were those who wouldn't make a move without her encouragement. She bet that as many sought help here as in any minister's study in the county, and confessed to her their fears, and even wept in her big lap.

She put down Dennis, who shook himself carefully head to stump of tail; she drew out Spofford's chart from under a calculator and some sheets of typing paper scribbled over with figures. "The math kills me," she said. "It just kills me." She sat to study what she had done, motioning Spofford to sit too, in that chintz-covered maple chair, and drew an ashtray to her side.

Val well knew that there were a thousand ways to do what she had done, and endless further computations that could be made, if you had the patience and the skill to make them; but they were not useful to her. She worked her numbers only until she began to grasp a natal chart in the inward way or with the inward sense which was what made her good at this. And when that engagement happened her math began to be fruitful, the planets in their houses began to make sense, began to turn their faces on or away from each other, exalted, dignified, dejected, or confused; the little paper universe began to tick and tock, and Val could begin to work.

That was called "rectification of the chart." The reason for such rectification was obvious to Val: if all the babies who were born in a single hour in all the hospitals of a single city, all therefore under identical astral influences, would have fates and fortunes subtly or radically different from one another (and surely they would), then each soul on earth was subtly or radically different from every other, and that difference could not be apprehended in the mere accurate placement of planetary symbols in a scheme of houses.

And in any case, as far as Val could tell there was no end to how accurate you could be, and with every advance in accuracy everything could change, a person's planets could slip from one sign or house into another, oppositions could be negated, squares turn into meaningless rhomboids.

No, what mattered always more than accuracy, more than math, was apprehension : the growing conviction that you had it right, that it made sense. Oh look here, Mercury is inconjunct with Saturn in the seventh house, of course ; and your mother must have had her moon in Gemini, of course she did. When the twelve houses became to Val's mind's eye not wedges of an abstract pie but houses -and not anyone's houses but this soul's houses, houses that, ramshackle or sleekly marbled or grim and machicolated, could be no one else's-then, and only then, did she begin to speak.

"Houses," she said to Spofford. "There are twelve houses in a horoscope, and dwelling in them are planets. Twelve compartments of life, twelve different kinds of things life has in it, that's the houses; and seven kinds of pressures or forces or influences on those things, that's the planets. See? Now, depending on when and where you were born, and just what stars were coming up over the horizon just then, we arrange these houses one to twelve, counterclockwise from here, where you get born."

"Hm," Spofford said.

"The trick is," Val said, "that this chart is made of time, and so are these houses; and we have to turn them into places to be in.

"The first three houses, from here to here, are the first quaternary: the first fourth, see, because there are four sets of three in twelve, right? The first quaternary is dawn. And spring. And birth. Okay?" She fingered another cigarette from within her crumpled pack, and lit it. "Okay. The first house is called Vita : that's Latin, you shmoe, you wouldn't know it. Vita : Life. The House of Life. Little Spofford gets born, and begins his journey."

She went on, pointing out to Spofford where his planets lay, in which houses, and whether they were comfortable there, or even exalted, or quite the reverse, and what it all might portend for Spofford's fate, and for his happiness, and for his Growth. He listened happily, intrigued and satisfied to hear himself articulated into parts in this way, his inchoate self set up in neat geometries, and the general dun color of his soul (as he perceived it usually) broken by the prism of his chart into a spectrum of clear hues, some broad bands, some narrow ones.

"What's this?" he asked; a line from Saturn in his own house, the twelfth- Carcer, the Prison-connected to Venus, just opposite in the sixth house.

"Opposition," Val said. "Challenge. Saturn in the twelfth house can mean isolation. Self-discipline.

Aloneness, gloomy hermit stuff. Uh-uh. Opposed to Venus in Valetudo, the sixth house, which is the house of service sort of; there, she means bringing harmony to other people's lives. Sometimes by intervention, getting your two cents in and helping out. Okay?" Spofford looked down at this tussle. "So who wins?"

"Who knows? That's the challenge." She dispersed smoke with a wave of her hand from before her. " But. There's more. See: here's Mars right next door in the seventh house, that's Uxor , the Wife; and old Mars is trine with Saturn over here, and when two planets in opposition have a third planet that's sextile to one and trine to the other, that's called an Easy Opposition. Easy because no matter how hard the opposition, it's balanced by the big weight of the third planet.

"Mars in Uxor ! Means maybe a romance started on an impulse, that you just never get out of. One of those with a lot of yelling, you know? Or it could make for real strong partners in a marriage, buddies to the end.

"That's up to you."

Done with what she knew so far, Val crossed her hands on the table before her.

"Well," said Spofford.

"Well."

"Basically," he said, tugging down his cap, "what I hoped to find out about was the future."

"Yeah?"

"About a certain woman. My chances. How it looks from here."

"What certain woman? Hey, take it easy. I don't want to know her name. But astrally. What's her sign?"

"I can never remember. I think Pisces."

"Pisces and Aries aren't all that great, first off," Val said. "But there's so many factors."

"Not all that great?"

"Fire and water," Val said. "Remember. And Aries is the youngest sign. Pisces is the oldest." Spofford regarded the chart which Val had turned toward him. He seemed to be able to discern in it anyway all that he needed for the moment to know. Saturn, the pull of melancholy, his small house; a gray sad stone, like the gray sad stone he seemed to feel so often in his own breast. Solitude.

But Venus, Saturn's soft-smiling opposite number . . . An old soul, Rosie had said to him once, a jolly old soul, in an old old water sign. He'd already intervened: he would fight for her too, if fighting could help. And Mars, fiery, his own planet, inhabited the house of taking wives (Spofford's scarred forefinger touched the sign, ); and had not he, Spofford, been a warrior? Maybe he could get some help here, if it came to it. Like the GI Bill.

Shine on, then, he thought; shine on. "It don't look bad," he said, rising. "It looks all right."

When he was gone, Val sat for a time with her hands folded before her, and then with her chin resting in the cup of one hand, and then with both hands laced behind her head.

Rosie Mucho had better be careful, she thought. That guy has set his cap for her. He's got a moon in Taurus, too, a whim of iron. Rosie had better be ready for that.

She turned in her chair. Behind her on the bookshelves were several old-fashioned letter files, the kind with orange backs and black-and-white spatterdash spines, little brass clips to close them with, and leather tabs on their sides to draw them out by. She chose one of these, opened it, and after a little search amid its contents drew out a twelve-part pie chart like the unfinished one she had been explicating for Spofford, only all different, different domiciles housing different guests differently disposed. She placed it next to Spofford's, and cradling her brow with one hand and drumming with the fingers of the other, she studied both together.

Pisces: Love and Death. That's how Val thought of the sign. Chopin was a Pisces. Only here was a commonsense ascendant, Taurus with Venus in the House of Life.

Well, she was a good girl, and probably a survivor, but a little crazy; more crazy than she probably knew. Moon in Scorpio: Scorpio is Sex and Death.

She had better be careful.

The snow continued, growing heavier, through that day and the night; the big plows came out toward morning, sailing ghostlike behind their bright lights, their blades casting aside long wakes of snow. Next day when the sun shone at last the world had been neatly packed up in it; Spofford's sheep were not so round, or so white, or so soft, as the hills and woods seen from the kitchen windows of Arcady where Rosie stood waiting.

"Pst," said the tall radiator.

"Pst," said Sam, half in and half out of her snowsuit but ready enough to go that Rosie needed only to encase her upper half and put her out the door. The snowsuit's arms and hood hung down like a pelt Sam was shedding.

"Psst," said the radiator.

"Pssst," said Sam, and laughed.

"There he is," said Rosie, gratefully, "right on time."

"I wanna see."

Rosie lifted her up to see a little red car turn in at the gate, fishtailing somewhat in the heedless snowplow's leavings piled there in the driveway.

"I hope they're careful," Rosie said to Sam, pulling up the Siamese twin of her snowsuit and tucking Sam into it.

"It's slipry."

"Yep."

"Daddy can drive."

"He can?"

"You could come too."