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Meredith needed a full and proper breakfast immediately, as well as a pan of lasagna to take home later, and proceeded off to the kitchen to prepare everything.
    By that point they had moved the group to one of the Kawaminami’s elaborate sitting rooms, decorated in brown velvet and hung with originals by William Morris Hunt and Frank Millet; Meredith was sitting up in a chair, and everyone had become far less fawning. June still looked concerned, and Shingo looked merely uncomfortable—he seemed to have some serious issues with death and killing, and hated even the thought of devouring flesh (he was a devout vegetarian, as were his parents, and he used the criteria that he wouldn’t eat anything that had a face. It’s probably for the best that he didn’t drop by the previous morning for breakfast, although if one wants to be technical about it, by the time Meredith was finished Kevin didn’t really have a face). Fuji had gone back into the kitchen to assist Delna, and Hjerald was fidgeting. Now that the apparent crisis had passed, he was anxious to see if June’s offer of access to the closed stacks was still on the table.
    “Weird Harold,” said June, a stern note in his voice, “stop tapping. I understand your eagerness to gain access to the library, but Meredith must be our first concern.”
    “Yeah,” said Shingo. “Hold your horses.”
    “June, I’m fine,” Meredith admonished gently, “really.”
    “That’s okay,” said Hjerald. “I have to go anyway—I promised my editor that I’d come in around noon and run an outline past him.”
    “I’m going, too,” Meredith said.
    “Now, Meredith,” June admonished, “don’t you think it might be wiser to get some rest, then pursue this matter tomorrow?”
    “Honestly, I feel much better now,” Meredith replied. “It’ll do me good to get some air.”
    Turning to her, Shingo put a comforting hand on her knee. “Do you want to talk about Michael, Meredith? It seems to be important to you.”
    “I’d like to, actually,” she said. “And maybe it’s a little off-tangent to consider, but I have a strong feeling that it may have a lot to do with this wild goose chase …”
    “Hey, now,” said Hjerald, sounding hurt.
    “Sorry—this story of Hjerald’s about this Hagen guy, and the Nibelung treasure.”
    “Why do you think that?” asked Fuji, coming back into the room with a fresh pot of tea. “Do you think it was more than just being in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
    “Maybe,” said Meredith. “This is more Hjerald’s turf than mine, and as far as that goes I’m inclined to trust his instincts; but I’d like to think on it a bit more before I talk about it. Going over to Ottawa with Hjerald will let me collect my thoughts before I lay everything out.”
    “Actually, I’d appreciate the moral support,” said Hjerald, “especially after the incident in Cleveland.”
    “That works for me, too,” said Shingo. “I’ve got to finish up some drawings and get them to Fed Ex by three—then my afternoon and evening is clear, and I’m really interested in hearing about this.”
    “It’s settled then,” said June. “Let’s meet back here after the Beecrofts have closed, and we’ll have dinner, and talk.”
    “And go to the library,” said Hjerald.
    “Yes, Weird Harold. And go to the library.”
    “Hot dog,” said Hjerald.
    O O O
    “What in the Sam hill is this garbage ?”
    Nestor Janes was the Editor-in-Chief of the Ontario Daily Sun , and the perfect picture of a 1950’s we’ve-gotten-past-the-big-one-now-there’s-this-cursed-cold-war-magilla-going-on style editor. Rumor had it that an intern once jokingly referred to him as Perry White, the editor of The Daily Planet from Superman comic books; according to legend, Mr. Janes was supposed to have gripped the poor guy by the throat then dropped him down an elevator shaft. Meredith was pretty sure that bit was a fabrication. Mostly. At any rate, since then no