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saucer as the filament unwound itself from its embrace. The strand lifted itself into the air glowing with the luminescence of the snow outside, climbing to the ceiling as it stretched itself in length, dipping down to twist and loop itself into the outline of a woman raising to Crossett her adumbrated arms.

Chapter 2
     
    “Then Anne came in with a light and there was nothing there.”
    Crossett was slouched down in one of the two hunter green corduroy Queen Anne wing chairs in Twynne’s library where a crackling fire periodically spit sparks at the metal scrolled screen tucked inside the highly-polished S-shaped brass fender. Twynne insisted on spending his currentless days up here in the library with a fire, even though the fifteen-foot ceiling was the only warm part of the room. Crossett himself never kept enough firewood on hand for such a luxury as a fire every day; he was too lazy. There was not enough to keep the basement with its low ceilings warm and still bask in the glow of a fire in any of the upstairs rooms—including the three of the five bedrooms that had fireplaces.
    “Why were you walking around in the dark?” his friend asked with incredulity in his voice.
    “Because I enjoy it. I do it all the time.”
    Twynne bellowed with laughter until he had to set the two highballs on a Sheraton drum table whose finish glistened in the yellow light of the fire.
    “You hate it. You always did!” he man aged to choke out between his fits of laughter.
    Crossett propped his fiv e-o’clock shadowed chin on his darkly forested hand.
    “Where are the children?” he asked with little interest,  trying to change the subject.
    “Oh, downstairs with Maragret. They’re not allowed in here when I have company. They should be seen but not heard, don’t you think?”
    Crossett decided not to touch that one; he was not sure whether he agreed or disagreed. He raised his eyes as Twynne picked up the two frosty drinks and headed toward him, the smell of bourbon preceding his arrival. The cocktail hour came a little earlier on these dreary, snowy days.
    “Thank you,” he muttered as Twynne returned with a crystal coaster with a star design. Gingerly, Crossett placed his glass into it as he fiddled distractedly with the small paper napkin that had accompanied it.
    “That’s a double, but I don’t think you need it. You’re already confused enough. Enjoy it ?” and he resumed his paroxysms of laughter. Crossett leaned forward to rest his arms on his knees. His cigarette on the other drum table of the pair sent up a white strip of smoke that at its extremity curled and undulated frantically as if there alone a great wind blew. Twynne finally took the pipe out of his mouth after struggling to keep it lodged there as he laughed. Crossett heard it tap the bubbled brown glass of another ashtray. Twynne was attired in his smoking jacket, as was his custom when he was at home, even though Crossett knew full well it was not warm enough today despite the frantic fire in the hearth. It was all part of the image of himself Twynne was always busy carving, even when he was alone and there was no one present to appreciate his workmanship. Crossett accepted this eccentricity in his friend in as much as Twynne accepted Crossett’s brooding moody side. They had both always been like that, even when they were children and a little more so when they were at Williams and so more so with each passing year. As for Twynne, his graying hair, abundant enough with his gray mustache and the ever-present pipe, gave him the air of distinction he sought for appearance’s sake. His enveloping knowledge of the area served to distinguish him socially.
    Crossett passed his hand over his head, a characteristic gesture. He had lost most of his hair before he was thirty but what was left had not yet turned gray, although it was overdue, an enviable family trait genetics had rendered void as few Mainwaring men escaped baldness. Just another of