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gladly bit a royal princess when she asked for death? Was her ancient history class part of some great master plan over the centuries?
    Dove had forgotten to keep these thoughts low.
    “Don’t be silly,” said Wing. “There is no conspiracy.”
    “What is there, then?” said Dove, trying to understand. She felt less spacious than she had before; the brain was becoming crowded. She elbowed against the gray matter.
    “Just venom,” said Wing sweetly. “Just poison. Some of us are created evil. The maternal body tries not to birth evil, and usually succeeds.” Wing smiled joyfully. “But not always.”
    Dove tried to hide in the back of the mind. But there was no escape from Wing’s venom. It found her out, and hauled her forward, cowering and whimpering, and laughed at her.
    “My turn,” whispered Wing. “Just wait, little Dove. Just wait and see what I do to your life.”
    Wing caressed the bottle of Venom .

Chapter 7
    “I WAS VERY VERY VERY excited by your Egyptian projects, class,” said Mr. Phinney, the ancient history teacher.
    When people said very very very , Dove was suspicious. Truly excited people did not need a row of very’s to prove it. So probably what Mr. Phinney really was, was very very very not excited.
    Mr. Phinney set down the stack of ancient history term papers and patted them. Neatly, he aligned the edges of each project. They were nothing now but a pile of past words. Words that would rest peacefully in the tombs of their pages.
    Dove was as distant as a camera: as if she were just a frame, and the outside world were snapshots, not people, not real.
    Dove was very still, trying to determine whether she had a body, or was merely a mind—a person without flesh. She wanted to whack the side of her skull with the bottom of her palm, and knock out the queer thoughts circulating in her mind … or Wing’s mind.
    But her hand did not obey her.
    If she had a hand.
    Dove could not see her hands. No matter how hard she looked, she could not see any of her body at all.
    I am in the back of the mind, thought Dove. It is Wing who has the body and I who am invisible. I have no hands. I cannot protect myself, or fend things off, or write things down, or wave, or eat—
    What would Wing think of to do with Dove’s hands?
    If Dove were part somebody else, had she lost part of herself? Which part? Where had it gone? Would she get it back?
    Wake up, Dove! she thought desperately. There’s nothing on that desk but typing and handwriting. There is no tomb. There is no Wing. There is no problem. Except the problem that we have spent too much of the semester on pyramids and the Nile. It’s made me a little crazy. Come on, let’s move up in time, Mr. Phinney. I’m ready for Greece and Rome.
    “And now,” said Mr. Phinney, “let’s talk about the next class project! Oh, my! I’m very very very excited about our next project.”
    Dove had been wrong; he truly was that thrilled with history; he was shivering with the pleasure of new projects about ancient times.
    “Together, we will research something that extends over the ages ! Put your thinking caps on, class!”
    He really said this: Put your thinking caps on, class. The mean kids in the room imitated him in an ugly way, while the nice kids in the room were gentle with Mr. Phinney and tried to look as if they were putting on their thinking caps.
    Which one is Wing? thought Dove. Is she being nice or mean? I can’t see her. Or me. Or whoever it is.
    “I want you to come up,” said Mr. Phinney, out of breath from his excitement, “with one single aspect of life that we as a group may study, research, and follow from the ancient days right up to the present!”
    Nobody was able to think of anything that could be followed from 5000 B.C. to the present.
    Nobody seemed deeply interested in trying, either.
    “A topic which every one of us can research!” prompted Mr. Phinney. “The same subject, don’t you see—but each of us studies it at a