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think? Mirrtle, shal we?”
    “I like Mirrtle,” said Miss Murth. “One can rely on Mirrtle to keep a civil tongue to her superiors.”
    “Then I’l choose the broomgirl. Write down the broomgirl. What is her name?”
    “I’l ask her,” said Miss Murth. “Nobody ever uses it so I doubt she’l remember, but maybe she’l surprise us al. May I deliver this now? I don’t want to appear cowering but the General seems insistent.”
    “I suppose I should sign it.”
    “I have signed it for you.”
    “You’re a blessing in disguise.” Glinda looked her over. “A very capable disguise. You may consider yourself dismissed.” 4.
    She was standing at a weir. Though later she realized someone must have built it, at the time it seemed just another caprice of nature. An S-shaped curve of broad flat stones, to channel the water, slow it, creating a deep pool on the upstream edge. Along that side a fretwork of bentlebranch fronds had been twisted and laced together lateraly, further helping to slow the water that coursed through—when water coursed, that is. Today it was frozen.
    Probably she’d been wearing boots, but she didn’t remember boots, or mittens, or even a coat. What the mind chooses to colect, and what it throws away!
    She leaned from the walkway over the top of the artificial thicket. She could see that the whole affair guided the stream through a channel. Good for fishing.
    The surface of the stream was glassy, here and there dusted with snow. Beneath the surface of the ice some hardy reed stil waved underwater with the slowed-down motion of a dream. She could almost see her face there beneath al this cold, among the hints of green, of spring.
    Never one for studying herself, though, her eye had caught a flick of movement a few feet on. In a pocket in the ice of the stream, a little coppery fish was turning round and round, as if trapped. How had it gotten separated from the members of its school, who were probably al buried in the mud, lost in cold dreams til spring? Though she couldn’t have known about hibernation yet.
    One hand on the unstable balustrade, she ventured onto the ice. The trapped fish needed to be released. It would die in its little natural bowl. Die of loneliness if nothing else. She knew about loneliness.
    A stick came to her unmittened hand somehow. She must have dropped her mittens, the better to grasp the stick. Or she’d been out without protection. It didn’t matter. She bashed at the ice for some time, never thinking that the floor could capsize and she might go in the drink. Drown, or freeze, or become mighty uncomfortable some other way.
    Little by little she hacked away a channel. The fish heard the vibrations and circled more vigorously, but there was no place for it to go. Finaly she had opened a hole big enough for her finger.
    The fish came up and nestled against her, as if her forefinger were a mother fish. The scrap of briliance leaned there, at a slight tilt.
    That’s what she remembered, anyway.
    She had gone on to release the fish. What had she done with it? With the stream frozen over? The rest was lost, lost to time. Like so much.
    But she remembered the way the fish belied against her finger.
    This must be another very early memory. Was no one looking after her? Why was she always out alone?
    And where had this taken place? Where in the world did childhood happen, anyway?

    5.
    Glinda finished her morning tisane and waited, but no one came to take away the tray. Oh, right, she remembered. But where was Murth when you needed her? The woman was useless. Useless and pathetic.
    A light rain pattered, just strong enough to make the idea of Glinda’s giving an audience in the forecourt something of a mistake. She’d rather send remarks through a factotum, but that was the problem: the factotums were getting the boot. The least she could do was give her good-byes in person.
    There was nothing for it but that Glinda must poke about the wardrobe herself and locate some