The Birth of a new moon

wait until Ana came to town again to retrieve her new bridge.

She began telling him, an amiable stranger, interesting things about the Change community, including that Dulcie was with her today because the child's big brother was away for a couple of days. He could tell from the faces of both of his table companions that there was more to it than that, he did not give vent to his questions. Ana looked relieved. Dulcie went back to her pictures.

Glen studied Ana over his coffee cup. She looked as banged-about as he had expected, having had Rayne Steinberg's report of all that had happened at the Heard Museum. Her hand was ugly and obviously giving her pain, but he had seen her in worse shape. She would recover.

Only at the very end of the meal did he manage to have an unobserved minute with Ana, when Dulcie was in using the toilet.

'Are you bugging the phones?' Ana asked him as soon as Dulcie was safely on the other side of the door.

'We just started. The branch in Japan is acting strangely and there's an uproar brewing in England over their kids, with Social Services sticking their noses in and Change resenting it. I thought the combination justified a greater degree of concern, and I found a judge here who agreed with me, that the presence of children here made it urgent enough to justify a tap.' One bleak consolation after the Waco affair, Glen reflected, was the way the name made judges want to reach for their pens. 'What's this about alchemy?'

'It's too complicated to go into it now. Did you get me the books?'

'I planted them in the used-book store, just down the street. Pick them up when you leave. Look, are you all right?'

'I'm fine. A little sore, that's all.'

'I meant… you're sure?' Truth to tell, Glen thought, she did look fine beneath the bruises, healthy and strong and considerably more alive than she usually did when she was immersed in one of these operations. Change obviously agreed with her. Which was, somehow, worrying. Still, there was no time to dig into it now, because the door to the ladies' room was opening. 'And there's the young lady now. Dulcie, it was a real treat to meet you, and I hope I come across you again someday. Good-bye, and good-bye, friend Ana.'

He waved and strode out whistling, Agent Glen McCarthy in his full Uncle Abner mode, the talkative, ever- genial Southerner. Ana suppressed a smile and looked down at Dulcie. 'I've got another idea that might be an even bigger treat for you than ice cream,' she said.

It turned out Dulcie liked bookstores just as much as she liked ice cream, and while Ana searched out the books on alchemy that Glen had arranged there for her, Dulcie studied the riches of the children's corner, where she chose the three books Ana had said she could have, and then a fourth one, asking tentatively, 'For Jason?'

Ana laughed and said she could have four, and she put them with her own three choices (Glen had left six or seven, but these were closest to what she wanted) and paid for them with her virginal credit card. It was accepted without hesitation. As she was picking up the bag, a thought occurred to her.

'Do you by any chance have a copy of The Hunting of the Snark by Lewis Carroll?'

'Let me see,' said the cheery young woman. She went to the shelves and returned with a copy of Alice. 'This is all we have at the moment.'

'Can you order me one?'

'Picture book or text?' she asked, already calling up the title on her computer.

'Picture would be nice, if there is one.' Ana glanced at Dulcie, who was immersed in a book and not paying any attention to the conversation. 'And hardback, if there's a choice.'

'I can have it day after tomorrow.'

'Great,' said Ana, and told her she'd be in on Monday.

Back in Rocinante's passenger seat, Dulcie buried her nose in her picture books, spelling out words for Ana to translate, until the light failed and she had to put them away. She fell asleep, and did not even stir when Ana stopped the bus to retrieve a thick blanket from the back to wrap around her. Ana drove on with the window open, battering herself with fresh air to keep the weariness at bay. The child was still asleep when they bumped into the compound parking lot, but she woke and gathered up her books to carry them to Ana's room.

They were halfway to the central buildings, when Dulcie gave a loud cry, let her precious books fall to the ground, and flew into Jason's embrace. The boy wrapped his arms around his sister and buried his face in her hair, clinging to the child as if she were the last living thing on earth.

Chapter Nineteen

From the journal of Anne Waverly (aka Ana Wakefield)

Ana slept very well that night. At dawn she continued her habit and, putting one of the books she had bought the day before into her pocket, she climbed the red rocks and watched the sun come up over the compound.

Steven did not turn up.

She went down to breakfast and read the book while she carefully chewed her cut-rate cornflakes, banana, and yogurt. No one commented on it, although she was certain that at least two of the higher initiates saw it. Both of them glanced at her quickly and then moved away.

She conducted her classes, talked about the essays the students were writing about the museum, reviewed for a test she was giving the next week, and handed back the essays they had already done. During lunch and while she was in class she left the book on her desk, its title facing up for all to see, but Steven did not come to see her, and no one seemed to take notice of the topic.

Saturday morning came and went atop the red rocks, and Steven did not approach her, and the day passed as Saturdays did around Change, with hard physical work that included the schoolchildren and a night of relaxation, with basketball and communal music in the dining hall.

Sunday morning came, and Steven was there at the red rocks when she arrived, watching the light creep over the compound and, she knew, waiting for her. She smiled a very quiet smile, put the book down next to her knee, crossed her legs, and surrendered herself to the moment.

The sun rose and grew in warmth, and half an hour later, Steven was the first to stir. 'Your hand is healing,' he said, his eyes still closed, his face raised to the sun. It was not a question, but a statement from an all-knowing observer of human frailty.

'It's much better, thank you.'

'You have some interesting reading material, Ana Wakefield.' His eyes were still shut.

'This?' She stretched out her legs and picked up the battered volume, which looked as if Glen had rescued it from a Dumpster before selling it to the woman in Vortex Books for fifty cents. The inside was in better condition, and to her relief had barely been written in by the previous owner: Volume 12 of the collected works of Carl Jung, a group of related essays entitled Psychology and Alchemy.

'Have you read any of Jung's writings?' she asked him innocently, very sure that he had.

He stirred, and she felt him looking at her. 'Some of them.'

'Well, I was thinking about the things you were talking about the other day before meditation, about the need for pressure in striving for personal transformation. Somewhere Jung says something along the lines of enlightenment being found at the point of greatest stress. That got me thinking about Jungian psychology in general and the goal of transformation, and I remembered that he wrote a couple of things about the symbolism of alchemy as a paradigm for change. When I was in Sedona the day before yesterday I found this book of essays in the used- book store. I'll have to see if I can hunt down the other ones.' She stopped leafing through the book and made herself meet his eyes, making absolutely certain that she gave him only the face of Ana Wakefield, earnest Seeker Ana with no challenge or knowledge or academic superiority in it. She was in luck, because the sun was rising behind her, and whatever it was he saw in her face, it was not Professor Anne Waverly.

'I have it. You may borrow it if you like,' he said. 'You might find volume fourteen of interest.'

'That's the one with the Latin title, isn't it? Mysterium Coniunctionis? Am I right, then, in thinking that Change—the Change movement—incorporates some of the ideas and symbolic processes of the alchemical tradition?'

He said something under his breath.

'I'm sorry?' she said. He rose fluidly to his feet, although he had been twisted up on the hard, cold rock in full