The orchestra in the attic had switched to Schubert's Death and the Maiden. A tipsy skeleton fell from the widow's walk into the rose vines that climbed the gutter. The house swallowed it up and rearranged. A scream came from the third floor, and through the shifting glass I saw Puck lassoing a very unfortunate dryad with the Christmas lights.
"The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown, of all the lasses in the woods, the holly's got the bum. Kiss me, Thistle-toe!"
"I know that song," I said darkly.
"Puck's?"
"No! Schubert's! My mom plays it when she's painting dystopias."
"Delightful. So how is the campaigning going?" he asked, loosening the belt of my trench coat.
"Winningly." I swatted his hands away. "In my first strike, I exorcise you from the Antwerp hell house."
