Jacrys Marseth was the best espionage specialist Malakasia had, and he considered it his greatest accomplishment that he had succeeded in remaining away from Welstar Palace for so long. It was safe out here. He was in control. He took lives when he needed to, but otherwise he kept a low profile. Gilmour and Kantu were among the most dangerous men in the world, and he would kill them both. In the interim, however, if Prince Malagon were to pass away, or fall victim to a plot against his life, Jacrys would not mourn him long.

He soon passed Greentree Tavern but continued riding further into Estrad. He hoped to get a closer look at the terrain surrounding the long-abandoned Riverend Palace. He was sure that was where the Ronan resistance had their hideaway, where they stored silver, weapons, perhaps even horses. Any half-wit could memorise Bronfio and Riskett's patrol schedule along the river: the fact that the Ronan resistance crossed into the forbidden forest to meet, stash weapons and plan their terrorist activities did not surprise Jacrys for a moment.

Continuing his reverie, the spy thought again of Malagon. There was something wrong with the prince, just as there had been something wrong with his father, and apparently as Jacrys had heard from older members of the Malakasian armed forces with his grandfather as well. Some virus or disease took them, one generation after another. One day they were young, strong and eager to lead, and the next they were paranoid and homicidal. Locals called it the Malakasian curse: the leaders and heirs of Eldarn had been mysteriously killed off in a matter of days those many Twinmoons ago, and Prince Draven's Malakasian family had been left to lead, but only and always in madness.

Jacrys feared it was something worse, something profoundly evil.

Young Lieutenant Bronfio was correct as well. Rumours were flying around the Eastlands that Malagon had developed the ability to summon demonic creatures of unimaginable power to aid in his mission to find and kill his enemies. It did not surprise Jacrys; the spy knew that his services were rapidly becoming obsolete. Were he ordered back to Malakasia now, it would be to his death. He grinned slyly to himself: perhaps, for self-preservation, he would make his way west and kill Malagon himself.

MEYERS ANTIQUES.

Meyers Antiques had a floor plan that looked like a Biedermeier salon after a thorough cannonade. A seemingly random collection was strewn about the large front room in a way that would make even the most liberal decorator uneasy. Walnut, oak and mahogany furniture was piled together against one wall while bookcases, china closets and credenzas crowded another. Across the centre were lone chairs and tables, orphans from broken sets. Included in this mix were tables, chairs, sofas and recliners, paired according to Meyers' best guess at what would work together in a customer's living room or kitchen, stepchildren organised by matching wood or colours. Among these were several juxtapositions that caught Steven Taylor's eye: a juke-box from the 1940s with a large cigarette ad pasted across the front panel was draped with cables from three gas lamps that would have provided just enough dim light for Jack the Ripper to gut an unsuspecting East End prostitute. Also odd was the uniform from a Union Army lieutenant adorning a headless mannequin. Across one shoulder the soldier wore his sheathed sabre; across the other he carried four brightly coloured Hula Hoops, artefacts from the future he had fought so bravely to preserve.

Hanging from the ceiling of the enormous showroom was a banner: GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE, EVERYTHING MUST GO, in large red letters. In one corner someone had written in black marker 50%+ off all marked prices. off all marked prices.

'This is the place,' Steven thought as he watched several dozen customers working their way through crowded aisles. He could hear Viennese waltzes piped in from above; Strauss, he guessed, played in awkward jangly strums on an autoharp or a zither. It reminded him of a Joseph Cotten film he had seen in college; he couldn't remember the plot, something convoluted about the post-war black market, but he did recall the autoharp, because the annoying refrain had been so prevalent throughout the movie. To him it sounded like the Tyrolean version of a circus calliope.

Steven joined the fray, working his way towards the back of the showroom where a group of china cabinets had been corralled together. As he spotted several mahogany cases that looked in excellent condition, his hopes rose: he was bound to find the perfect gift for his sister here.

'Can I help you find anything?' Steven turned to find a saleswoman smiling at him warmly. She wore glasses on a long cord around her neck and carried a clipboard with a yellow legal pad filled with item numbers and price figures. She was tall, and dressed in a long skirt and tennis shoes with white socks. Greying blonde hair fell about her shoulders and her eyes sparkled. She was strikingly attractive; Steven estimated her to be in her late fifties.

'No thanks, I'm just looking right now,' he answered.

'Take your time; either Hannah or I can help you if you need anything at all.'

'Are you the owner?' Steven asked. 'I mean, are you Ms Meyers?'

'Sorenson. Jennifer Sorenson. Dietrich Meyers was my father. He opened this place when he moved here in the late forties. He died a couple of months ago.'

'Oh, I'm sorry.' Steven could think of nothing else to say.

'Please, don't be. He was ninety and had a very happy life. I'm just sorry I don't have the time to keep this place open. Anyway, let us know if we can help.'

Steven watched as she moved, graceful despite her obvious fatigue, towards the front of the store.

It was nearly 6.00 p.m. and most of the customers had left when Steven finally decided on a Duncan Phyfe cabinet from the turn of the twentieth century; undamaged save for a small crack in the rear panel. He had been in the shop for three hours and was tired, hungry and hot from moving various pieces to get a better look. Steven felt better now he'd found an almost perfect match for his mother's cabinet, and he thought of his sister and her reaction to such a wedding gift. He was glad he had taken the time.

Starting suddenly, he walked around the piece, then laughed. 'Sonofabitch ... how am I going to get this in my car?' He looked over the large wood and glass case and continued, 'Jesus, how am I going to get this to California?'

'Well, I can help you get it to the car, but getting it to California, you're on your own with that one.' The unexpected voice made Steven jump.

He turned quickly, backing himself against a large bookcase. 'Damnit, you scared me,' he admitted.

'I'm sorry. It's just that we're getting ready to close for the night and I wanted to see if I could help with anything. You've been so hard at work. I apologise, I haven't been able to get back here sooner. We've been busy today.'

Steven only half-heard what she was saying. He was amazed. It was as if Jennifer Sorenson had travelled back in time, thirty years in the past three hours. The young woman standing before him was staggeringly beautiful. She wore her hair in a long ponytail pulled over her left shoulder, a utilitarian hairstyle for working all day in such a hot and crowded setting, but it displayed the perfect line of her thin features. Her light brown skin glistened slightly from the heat and she smelled faintly of lilacs. Her smile brightened her face, and caused three tiny lines to pull at the corners of her brown eyes, a detail that even the world's greatest sculptors would never be able to duplicate. She wore a long skirt, similar to her mother's, and a blouse with the cuffs rolled up her forearms. She had the narrow hips and slight figure of an athlete, a runner or a cyclist. Steven's head swam as he looked at her.

For the second time in one afternoon, Steven Taylor found himself at a loss for words. 'Uh,' he muttered, his breath catching in his throat, 'what's this music?'

The young woman laughed. 'Oh, that was my grandfather's doing. He loved this stuff. It makes me a bit crazy in the mornings, but after a while, I manage to ignore it. Do you like it? I think it's Lawrence Welk after a triple helping of spatzle spatzle.' She made a quick adjustment to her glasses and looked questioningly at Steven. 'Are you okay?'

'Uh, yeah, I'm fine ... It's just that it's hot in here and I ... uh ... I've been moving all these cases.' Steven wiped several beads of sweat from his forehead as his mind raced for something interesting to say. 'Actually, I really like this cabinet. It's for my sister's wedding. She's marrying some guy I don't know very well and I wanted to get her something special.'

Why was he telling her all this? He couldn't stop himself. 'She moved away several years ago and not having her around has helped me see that I could've been nicer to her when we were younger.' Now he really was was rambling. 'I'm afraid I don't have room for it in my car. I'll need to come back, maybe tomorrow, to pick it up. Is there any way you can keep from selling it until tomorrow?' rambling. 'I'm afraid I don't have room for it in my car. I'll need to come back, maybe tomorrow, to pick it up. Is there any way you can keep from selling it until tomorrow?'

He wished for a massive, exploding aneurysm to haemorrhage and kill him on the spot.

'Well, I do plan to lock the door behind me, and you are the last customer here. So I don't think that will be a problem.'

'Oh, great, thank you. My roommate has a pick-up and I don't have to work most Saturdays, so if that's okay, I'll be back in the morning.'

'I hope so.' She smiled again and Steven's heart pounded in his chest. He was certain she could have seen it moving his shirt from across a stadium parking lot. She went on, 'A lot of people say they'll be back tomorrow, but they don't come back. It's okay if you don't, but I hope you do. My mother and I are hoping to have everything sold off in the next couple of weeks-' she gave a quick glance around the storefront '-it's a lot of stuff, though.'

'No. I really will be back. I have a bit of a drive from up the canyon, so it may be later in the morning before I can get down here.'

'Well, don't worry. I won't sell this piece.' She reached over and gave his forearm an amiable squeeze. 'I'm Hannah.'

Steven watched as she removed her hand from his arm. His breath came in short gasps and he thought how embarrassed he would be if he passed out at her feet. He struggled for composure and introduced himself: 'I'm Steven Taylor.'

'Well, I'll see you tomorrow, Steven Taylor,' Hannah said as she turned and began walking him out.

Meyers Antiques opened at 8.00 a.m. the following morning. Steven was parked out front by 7.15. 'So much for getting here late,' he said to himself as he walked along South Broadway Avenue looking for a place to get coffee. He had thought about Hannah all night, remembering that moment when she reached out to touch his arm. He was so excited about seeing her again that he had found it impossible to sleep, and was on his way in Mark's truck by 6.20. Was she married? Engaged? He had seen no ring on her finger yesterday. Was she involved with someone? Would it be too soon to ask her to dinner that evening?

Steven was determined to linger over breakfast for at least an hour so he didn't appear too eager to see her. She was so beautiful: he found it hard to think straight when she was there. He was a little afraid he would look like Quasimodo begging for a glimpse of her through the windows if he showed up right on the dot of 8.00 a.m.

Steven walked through the door of Meyers Antiques at 9.15 a.m., inordinately proud of himself for holding off that long. He had eaten pancakes, followed by an omelette with hash browns, two rounds of toast and about six cups of coffee as he waited for 9.00 to roll around on his geologically slow wristwatch. He laughed at himself: if the anxiety failed to kill him in the next hour, the cholesterol certainly would.

The store was already bustling with activity as two dozen customers moved items, tried out chairs, examined first-edition books and pored over china sets for cracks or imperfections. Looking towards the rear of the store, he saw his sister's china cabinet was still there, leaning up against the far wall.

He started when he heard someone calling his name.

'Excuse me, Mr Taylor.' It was Jennifer Sorenson. He saw no sign of Hannah.

'Yes, ma'am,' he answered, navigating through a mismatched bedroom set to where she stood waving.

'I'll help you get the Duncan Phyfe out to your truck. Hannah's making a delivery and stopping off at the post office for me this morning, but she told me to expect you.'

'That's right, ma'am,' Steven answered, furiously thinking of some way to delay his departure until Hannah returned. 'Uh ... do you know if the keys are available?' The cabinet had two sets of double doors, and both had locks but no keys.

'If they aren't taped inside, you may be out of luck. There's one place you can look if you feel like taking the time.'

'Where is that?' Steven felt his hope rising.

'In the keys to the known world,' the older woman responded, adding nostalgically, 'my father kept a jar of keys. Most of them don't fit anything, but he liked to let children drop keys inside and make a wish. It was a fun way to keep them occupied while their parents browsed around. Sometimes children would come in by themselves just to drop off keys.'

The idea of picking through sixty years of discarded keys did not sound very appealing, but it was a sure-fire way to ensure he'd be around when Hannah returned from her morning errands.

'Terrific,' he said. 'Point me to them and I'll get started.'

The jar was actually an enormous glass container the size of a small barrel. It took him and Jennifer working together to lift it over to where he could sit and try out possible matches in the cabinet's locks. He estimated there were some two or three thousand keys in the container; the task would take hours but the longer he stayed at Meyers Antiques, the more courage he would summon to ask Hannah to dinner that evening.

By 11.00 a.m. Steven's four-course breakfast was sitting in his stomach like a bag of wet cement, and he was now certain these were were the keys to the known world. He had seen every imaginable size and style: skeleton keys, house keys, boat keys, even keys to an Edsel he'd never seen an Edsel outside the movies, yet here he had found the keys for one. He tossed them into a pile at his feet. the keys to the known world. He had seen every imaginable size and style: skeleton keys, house keys, boat keys, even keys to an Edsel he'd never seen an Edsel outside the movies, yet here he had found the keys for one. He tossed them into a pile at his feet.

He had a rough idea what he was looking for a type of skeleton key with teeth on one side of a short barrel and a small hole in the end which at least made searching a little easier.

Steven was both an avid hiker and a mountain cyclist, and he had memorised each turn and switchback of many of the routes in Rocky Mountain National Park. When work at the First National Bank of Idaho Springs began to feel like drudgery, he would drift off in quick, escapist daydreams, remembering fondly every detail of a great climb or a bike trip over the Continental Divide. He sometimes worried this escapist tendency was dangerous, part of his ongoing propensity to avoid living in the moment, but it helped him control stress, and reminded him there was an end to every boring task. Working through the keys, he found himself drifting back to a long climb he and Mark had completed several weeks earlier, along the Grey's Peak trail just below Loveland Pass. He remembered the picturesque vistas and autumn aromas, and the feel of the earth beneath his boots. Before long he was immersed in his memories, absentmindedly checking the keys, but otherwise paying them little attention.

It was then he heard the voice, as if from outside, across the street, somewhere along South Broadway.

'I said, are you having any luck?' It was Hannah. Startled from his reverie, Steven jumped to his feet and in the process kicked a pile of rejects across the faded tile floor.

'Oh, damnit, I'm sorry about that.' He moved awkwardly to his hands and knees and began gathering up the scattered keys. 'I'll have them all together in just a second.'

'Well, let me help you,' she said, laughing, and joined him on the floor. 'I take it you haven't found any that fit the cabinet.'

'No, not yet.' Steven stopped and watched Hannah. In his mind, he heard himself saying over and over again, 'I ring the bells of Notre Dame.'

She stopped as well and, on all fours between rows of mahogany and walnut china cabinets, said, 'You know, you're well over halfway through the jar. I can help you with the rest after we get these picked up.'

'That would be nice of you.' Steven allowed a long breath to escape his lungs. She was dressed similarly to the evening before, but this morning her hair hung loose about her face and across her shoulders.

'Um-' Now Hannah hesitated. 'Are you free for lunch?'

'Most days, yeah ... unless of course Howard makes me go to Owen's with him.'

Hannah giggled, then looked embarrassed. 'No, silly, I meant today. Are you free for lunch today?'

Steven was stunned. She had taken him by surprise, and despite his heart bellowing a cacophonous, white-knuckle rhythm through his ears, he almost managed to control his voice when he replied, 'I'd love to.'

As they walked to the Mexican restaurant Hannah had chosen, she did most of the talking, chatting about her grandfather and the store. Steven was happy just to listen. He had managed to put his foot in his mouth so often since meeting her that he welcomed the reprieve. The restaurant was busy with a large Saturday lunch crowd, but Hannah located a booth near the back where they could enjoy the illusion of privacy. Although Steven was far from hungry breakfast was still sitting a little heavy he made certain to order enough to make lunch last as long as possible. He soon discovered Hannah needed little convincing; she appeared in no rush to get back to the shop.

Hannah was a full-time law student at the University of Denver. She had originally studied political science, then took a job with a charitable organisation, but after three years there decided she could better serve those in need as a lawyer. 'I don't expect to make much money at it, but in the long run, I hope to have a greater impact this way,' she explained, stuffing shredded chicken and guacamole into a fajita.

When Steven tried, delicately, to broach the topic of other men, she told him she had recently broken off a long-distance relationship with a boyfriend from college who had moved to Atlanta.

'Was it the distance that created problems for you?' Steven asked, feeling encouraged.

'No, I think it was more his tendency to engage in short-distance relationships while in a long-distance relationship with me.' She took a bite of her fajita, then, with her mouth full, asked a muffled, 'How about you?'

'Me? Oh, God no. I haven't been involved with anyone for the past three years. I finished my MBA, misplayed a couple decent job offers, partly because they were risks and partly because they were ... well, mostly because they were risks. I'm not much of a risk taker,' he said, folding and unfolding a corner of his napkin.

'I know. I could tell. I mean, how many of those keys were you really going to examine before you talked to me? And your truck was outside the store before I arrived this morning. So I thought I'd take the gamble and help you out.' She looked at Steven, waiting for a response. 'Was that okay?'

'Well, you did interrupt my carefully planned schedule of seven hours' courage-building before twelve seconds of stumbling over myself and two hours of grovelling, but all things being equal, I'm glad you did.' He grinned. 'I'm really glad you did.'

'So am I,' she said as she reached across the table to take his hand. As before, Steven's heart leaped as he felt her fingers wrap around his for a moment. Then, feeling awkward, as if she were moving too fast, Hannah pulled back, waved for their server and ordered a cup of coffee.

Steven changed the subject. 'You know, I'm halfway through that jar. It'd be a shame to have those cabinet keys sitting there near the bottom, never to be reunited.'

'Well, I look forward to helping you in your search,' she told him. Steven watched as she stirred sugar into her coffee mug. She really was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but more than that, she was beautiful without trying. He was always disillusioned by the concept of supermodels and film stars who employed teams of specialists, spackling masons and airbrush artists to achieve that look of perfection. He imagined Hannah rolling out of bed, donning a sweatshirt to read the morning paper and still looking exquisite, her skin flawless and her hair cascading down her back. He wanted desperately to reach over and touch her face, but he was afraid he would scare her off. Surely he was the only man on earth to ever feel this level of insecurity and anxiety when trying to make an impression on a lovely woman. He would have to remember to ask Mark about it later.

Without pausing to think, he blurted out, matter-of-factly, 'I have to see you again.'

Hannah stood, and Steven thought he should stand too, but he wasn't certain that his legs would heed the command.

She smiled. 'Let's go find your keys and we'll figure it out there.'

Walking back from the restaurant, Hannah held his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Steven talked this time, about living in the foothills, working at the bank and his plans to find a more rewarding career if he could just figure out what that occupation should be. Prefacing his confession with: 'No laughing,' he even revealed his love for abstract maths.

Despite his warning, Hannah did laugh out loud, then asked, more seriously, 'Why not become a mathematician?'

Steven kicked a discarded bottle-cap along the sidewalk. 'Well, because there really is no money in maths, and because I'm not sure I'm very good at it. I love it, but I think no, I'm certain I'm quite slow. I have maths problems I've been trying to figure out for months now.'

Jennifer Sorenson did not seem to mind that her daughter had taken such a long lunch; she waved from across the showroom as they walked in.

'I'll go check to see if there's anything she needs me to do,' Hannah said, 'while you get on with key-hunting.'

'I'm going to find something else to buy so she sees it wasn't time wasted,' he called after her, and began searching the room for something outlandish he could buy for Mark or Howard. He soon located a vase that looked as if it had come from a 1920s speakeasy, blown glass moulded into the shape of a nude woman holding a top hat and cane. It was an absurdly ugly piece, perfect for Howard's office.

'I think I'll call her Greta,' Steven said, holding the vase aloft. 'Howard will love her wide hips, and the way he can drink beer right from the top of her head.'

'Please don't feel obligated to buy anything else,' Hannah told him. 'My mother and I aren't expecting to sell everything off during this sale.'

'Are you kidding? Look at her: she's pure kitsch, the perfect gift for a guy who has no taste. I'm not joking; Howard will love her.'

They spent the next hour talking while they went through the key jar, building up a pile of discards so enormous it blocked a whole aisle.

Eventually Hannah sighed and said, 'Okay, that's the end. I'm sorry they weren't in there. That was a lot of work for nothing.' She began returning handfuls of keys to the jar.

'I wouldn't say it was for nothing,' he chided, and turned away, a little embarrassed.

'No. I guess I wouldn't either,' she said, then kissed him quickly on the lips. 'I'll go and write up a receipt for the cabinet. You put the rest of these back in the jar.'

Steven swallowed his astonishment and called, 'Don't forget to add Greta to my bill. She's coming with me.' Then he sat on the floor in front of his sister's china cabinet, still holding Greta. Hannah's kiss had astounded him; he needed a few moments to regain his composure. He closed his eyes and ran two fingers across his lips, exhilarated until he looked down at the floor and was reminded that a veritable mountain of orphan keys waited to be shovelled up and returned to the jar.

'All right, let's get you all back home. Keys to the known world, sure I'd have been happy with just the keys to the damned cabinet.'

Then he saw it: a glimpse of a familiar shape with a familiar insignia. BIS. Shifting Greta to his left hand, Steven reached over and picked out the key. He turned it over. 17C. Greta fell from his hand and shattered on the tile floor, the broken pieces of breasts and buttocks strewn about in a confused, connect-the-dots pattern between the china cabinets.

'Holy shit! It's Higgins's key,' he whispered to himself, oblivious to the stares of customers startled by the crash. 'How did it get here?' He gaped down at it and repeated, 'How the hell did it end up here?' After another minute staring like a voyeur, Steven remembered where he was. He slipped the key into the pocket of his jacket, murmuring nervously, 'What are are you doing, Steven?' Bending at the waist, an animated mannequin, he picked up the pieces of Howard's nude figurine and went across to apologise to Jennifer. you doing, Steven?' Bending at the waist, an animated mannequin, he picked up the pieces of Howard's nude figurine and went across to apologise to Jennifer.

THE ORCHARD.