"It's fabulous! And so affordable! I'll take it."

Tom Connolly could count on one hand the number of real-estate clients he'd had from outside of Taubolt during the past ten years, so he'd been caught somewhat off guard when Agnes Hamilton had shown up at his home, steered by someone in town, to ask about houses for sale in "this simply exquisite little village of yours!" He knew the drill of course. Occasionally, one of Taubolt's visitors got it into their heads to stay. If Taubolt really wanted them, no amount of discouragement could dissuade them. If not, almost none was more than enough.

There were only two houses available within the village proper-the same two that had been available for years. He'd shown Hamilton the more decrepit one first, and he quoted an outrageously high price, hoping to get this over with quickly. To his surprise, she had happily examined the leaking roof upstairs, the loose and blistering gingerbread trim, the cracked windowpanes and crumbling glazing, the sloping back porch covered in now barren wild rose vines, chattering all the while about the deplorable state of the urban world and its distressing disinterest in her solutions to its problems.

So, he'd moved to phase two: casual banter about how depressed realestate values were at present in these parts.

"Glad to hear it," she'd replied. "I'd hate to see this place go suburban."

"No worry there," he'd jovially assured her, jumping to phase three. "Lots of people talk about moving here, but most find it's just too big an adjustment."

"What kind of adjustment?" she'd asked.

"Poor roads," he'd mused. "Hard on your car, and takes forever to get anywhere. Social isolation-our nightlife here is all on four legs. Having to chop wood and light a fire every morning. Electricity's twice as costly up here as everywhere else, and it goes out practically every week in winter, which means you've got no running water at all unless you've got a generator to run the pump. There's no water system, you realize. Got to maintain your own well, truck water in if it goes dry in summer. No, this life wears most people out in a hurry."

"Well, aren't you the salesman, Mr. Connolly," she'd scoffed, seeming more offended at his lack of showmanship than put off. "You needn't worry though. I'm a woman of exceptionally strong character, and quietude is precisely what I'm seeking."

So it seemed she was actually going to buy. Wouldn't Stan Weston be surprised!

"Well, that's great," Tom said, trying to sound enthusiastic. "Guess we should go back to my office and start on the paperwork."

"I'm so thrilled to have discovered all this!" Ms. Hamilton said. "You know, I had a sort of premonition at breakfast this morning and just drove right up here! It's all so beautiful! Taubolt must be California's best kept secret."

"Oh, that it is." Tom nodded.

"Well, I hope it stays that way," she said. "Though I suppose there might be one or two people I wouldn't mind importing once I'm settled. Particular friends of mine. But don't you worry, Mr. Connolly, they're all people who see things precisely as I do."

No, Tom decided, this could not possibly be anyone Taubolt wanted. She'd undoubtedly go home and reconsider, or just forget completely, like so many before her. He wasn't going to bother Stan about it yet, whatever papers she might sign today.

"That's one launched," Kallaystra said, "and the fire's being lit under a number of other useful minds as we speak. What amazes me, now that we're looking, is how many little fragments of this place already litter the world. I've found photos, letters, newspaper clippings, even postcards! How could we possibly have overlooked all that before?" she asked breezily.

Lucifer didn't answer, suspecting her question of being a veiled barb. But he couldn't help contemplating the kind of power it had taken to keep them blind for so many years to an entire domain and all its myriad little traces, even one as small as Taubolt must be.

"How long before they're all placed?" he asked.

"It's hard to say for sure," Kallaystra answered. "By fall, I hope."

"I had expected greater efficiency from you, Kallaystra."

"Well, I can't push them much harder," she protested. "Most of them would be far less cooperative if they knew who was pulling their strings or that we existed at all."

"The instant you have them settled," Lucifer said wearily, "I want every detail you glean on my desk without delay." He allowed himself a small sigh of resignation. No doubt years of their best work with Joby were being washed away in Taubolt like so much monsoon mud.

As Joby approached the school that morning, there was no one to be seen outside, nor any ruckus as he walked inside to find the students standing hand in hand in a large ring around the perimeter of the room. Their heads were bowed, their eyes closed, as if he'd walked in on the middle of a prayer. Joby stood by the entrance, pale sunlight streaming through the doors and glass-block wall behind him, and waited uncertainly.

Glinting moats of dust drifted through shafts of light descending on the silent circle of kids from various windows and skylights, lending the scene a radiant serenity both beautiful and surreal. Whatever Joby had expected, this wasn't it. Were these teenagers, or Tibetan monks? A moment later, at some cue Joby didn't discern, the students all looked up at once, smiling across the circle at one another, and chorused, "Good morning." Then their buoyant silence dissolved into the kind of conversational babble he'd expected.

"Hi, Joby!" Bridget said. "Come join us." The kids all sat down on the floor where they'd been standing, turning to watch as Joby came and sat beside her. "We take a minute every morning to get focused," Bridget told him, as if perceiving his unasked question. "Everyone, this is Joby Peterson. I've been talking with him about filling in for Charlie until he's better." She turned to Joby. "Want to tell us a little about yourself?"

Gathering his thoughts, Joby noticed that not all of the circle's attentive faces were young. A woman with sharp, bird-like features and long, dark hair streaked in silver wore layered, green silk skirts, knee-high boots, and a black lace shawl. A silver stud pierced one of her nostrils-which he found surprising, given her age. Directly across the ring sat a snow-haired man, his wide, toothy smile bright in a well-tanned, lined-leather face. He wore jeans, tennis shoes, and a woolen crew-neck sweater. Surmising that these were his fellow teachers, Joby was glad he hadn't worn a coat and tie.

"Well, you know my name," Joby said, and launched into the well-rehearsed remarks he'd been practicing all morning. "I studied English in college . . . but my interest in language goes a lot further back than that. When I was a kid my grandfather gave me a book about King Arthur and the Roundtable: knights, dragons, magic, wizards, witches, all that stuff. I pretty much lived inside that book for years, but only later on did I begin to realize how powerful language really is. We take words for granted; talking, writing, reading, but we're the only animal on this whole planet who can do it. It's made everything we are, everything we make and do, possible. In ancient Europe, men called bards sometimes had even more power than kings. Their ability to use the language was considered magical."

A hand shot up across the circle, it's owner a lean boy with straight, shiny dark hair, liquid brown eyes, and a shy, quicksilver smile. Joby nodded at him.

"Do you still have that book?" the boy asked.

"Actually, I do."

"Charlie brings books for us to read out loud in class," said a small girl with wide doe eyes and a cloud of wavy brown hair. "Could we read yours?"

"I suppose so," he said, wondering at the way everyone kept referring to Mr. Luff as Charlie. Teachers had never been called by their first names when he'd been in school.

Joby was immediately barraged with more questions having nothing whatsoever to do with English. Where was he from? What had his high school been like? What were his favorite movies, music, sports? Was he married? Did he have a girlfriend? So much for his prepared statements. Some of their questions, like why had he come to Taubolt, required carefully incomplete answers, of course, but soon Joby began to relax and enjoy the banter of his soon-to-be students.

"What about you guys?" he said at last. He looked at the boy who'd first asked about his book. "What's your name?"

"Ander."

Ah, Joby thought. So this was Ander of the secret conversation he'd overheard on the headlands. "And what's your favorite subject, Ander?"

"Surfing." Ander grinned. "But I like writing stories and poetry a lot too."

"That makes two of us," Joby said. "Writing, I mean; I've never surfed." He turned to the doe-eyed girl who'd asked if they could read his book. "And you?"

"My name's Autumn. I like botany and music." She smiled shyly. "I play flute."

He remembered her name as well from the headlands tryst.

Joby recognized the strawberry-haired girl next to Autumn. "I think we met," he said bashfully.

"Rose told me how freaked you were," she smiled, "but it was no big deal. We get spied on by strange men all the time, don't we, Rose." Judging by the giggles this elicited, the story had clearly circulated. "I'm Bellindi," she said, "if you don't remember."

"Hey, I really didn't hear a thing!" Joby fibbed. "I swear!" Turning quickly to a butter-haired boy beside Bellindi, Joby asked, "What about you?"

"I didn't hear a thing either," he said with exaggerated innocence. "Honest!"

Everybody laughed again, as Joby honored his quick wit with a wry smile.

"I'm Jupiter," said the boy. "My best subject's ornithology." A new round of giggling left Joby sure he'd missed some inside joke.

"You like birds then?" Joby pressed, hoping for a clue.

"Some of them are my best friends," the boy said brightly, drawing more suppressed mirth from the others.

"Uh-huh," said Joby, deciding to cut his losses and move on. "And who are you?" he asked a short, fire-haired boy with devilish eyebrows next to Jupiter.

"Nacho," the boy answered with a taunting grin.

"Interesting nicknames you guys have," Joby said. "Is anyone here just named Bob?" With surprised expressions, three boys sitting in a row across from him raised their hands in unison, eliciting the loudest burst of laughter yet. "Ooookay," said Joby, "we'll get to you guys in a minute, but back to Nacho, first. Got a real name, Nacho?"

"That's it!" Nacho protested. "What my mama gave me."

"Oh," Joby said, unconvinced. "Got a last name then, or is it just Nacho?"

"Mama," said the boy, clenching laughter behind his grin, "Nacho Mama."

The back of Nacho's head was immediately slapped by a tall, freckled scarecrow of a boy with tousled black hair sitting next to him.

"Hey! Watch it, Sky!" Nacho snapped, whirling to frown at the boy.

"You behave then, monkey boy." Sky grinned. "Can't you see we got company?"

Sky, Joby thought. Another name from the mysterious headlands conversation.

"Ignore junior here." Sky smiled lazily at Joby. "His last name's Carlson, not Mama, and he's our perpetual freshman. He's goin' for the school record in broken rules."

"Hey!" Nacho protested with exaggerated dignity. "I can test the limits of appropriateness without breaking the mold of propriety."

Wondering what the heck that was supposed to mean, Joby only realized their whole conflict had been a joke when the two boys performed some secret handshake and began to laugh.

As all this had been going on, Joby had noticed the trio of Bobs whispering and smirking at one another between furtive glances at himself. One of them was the swarthy kid who'd worn his shirt as a turban the day before. The second wore a backward baseball cap over wavy blond hair and the face of a mischievous cherub. The third had dark eyes, pale gnomish features, a thick lower lip, and short-cropped, curly black hair.

"How about you three?" he asked them. "Larry, Moe, and Curly, I presume?"

Seeming not to get the reference, the blond boy adopted a comically serious expression, and said, "I'm Cal Bob." He pointed to the gnomish boy on his right. "This here's Cob Bob," then to the Indian boy on his left, "and this's Swami Bob."

"Cal Bob, Cob Bob, and Swami Bob," Joby said dryly. "You're related then?"

Cal nodded soberly. "Brothers."

Joby nodded. "The family resemblance is remarkable. And what are you guys' into? School-wise, I mean."

They glanced at one another, then turned to him with uncannily identical deadpan expressions and said in perfect unison, "English."

"I'm doomed," Joby moaned theatrically.

"Hey, relax, man," said Cal. "We like you."

"How reassuring," Joby drawled.

"I hate to stop all this," Bridget said, "but I'm afraid we're out of time. Thank you so much for coming down this morning, Joby."

"My pleasure," Joby replied with a quick bob of his head. "It was fun."

"Don't forget to bring that book," said Ander as they all got up and started heading for class.

"Don't forget your lunch money," said Nacho with a leering grin.

"Don't listen to Nacho," said Sky. "There's no cafeteria."

"Richard!" Nacho retorted.

"Ognib." Sky grinned, chasing Nacho into another classroom.

"Why don't you come around at lunch," Bridget said, smiling. "I'll introduce you to Ariel and Pete, and we can talk about next week. The kids obviously like you, so unless they've managed to scare you off, you're in."

"Me? Scared?" Joby smiled. "What's to be scared of?" He grinned, hoping those weren't famous last words.

"That's all he said?" Hawk asked, brushing locks of dark auburn hair up out of his fog-colored eyes. "Just heard you and stopped to listen?"

Rose nodded, along with several others, their attentive silence broken only by the swish and gurgle of surf outside the cave, and the tinkling spatter made by tiny rivulets dripping from the algae-covered ceiling onto wet, gray stones and gravel.

The kids had all kinds of hideouts around Taubolt; different places for different times and purposes. Today they'd gathered in one of the many sea caves that riddled the headlands around Taubolt to discuss the growing swarm of mysteries surrounding their new teacher, Joby Peterson.

"How did he hear anything outside a closed ring," Bellindi insisted. "Stopped and stared like we'd put out a sign or something! How accidental can that be?"

"So, he's of the blood and doesn't know it yet," said Sophie. "Hawk didn't know it either when he first came, remember? Lots of people don't."

"He knows what he did, all right," Nacho said. "Look how tweaked he got about it when he saw Rose on Christmas. I say he's a spy."

"A spy for who?" the honey-haired girl protested.

"I don't know, Ray," Nacho complained. "Whoever we're all hiding from."

"Maybe Bellindi or I just kicked one of the stones out of place without noticing," Rose said. "It's not like we were being super careful. It was hardly dawn. We never thought there would be someone out there."

"But there was, and neither of you noticed," said Cal. "How's that work?"

"And what about the earthquake, and that storm the night he got here?" Vesper asked, as if the matter hadn't been discussed a hundred times already.

"Doesn't prove nothin'." Sky shrugged. "We've been through all that."

"Everyone knows it weren't no natural storm, though," said Cal. "It's the bad thing comin', ain't it, Swami!"

"It might be," Swami replied, tossing pebbles toward the cave mouth without looking at any of them. "But I don't think it was him either. That's not what I got."

"Do we trust him then?" asked Jupiter. "You know what Jake says."

"Yeah," Otter agreed. "Pleeboles ain't to know a thing!"

"He's not a pleebole," huffed Rose. "He lives here now. He's probably not even an ognib. Mrs. Lindsay likes him, and so does Jake, I think."

"Seemed nice enough to me," Ray concurred, prodding large green anemones closed with a wand of iridescent brown kelp.

"He's hiding something," Nacho insisted. "I can tell a snarker when I see one."

"Snarkers see snarkers wherever they look," Jupiter teased.