The Line Between

glimmer both of hope and of humor that she had felt in approximately a century, «All right, you're a big bad witch king. What do you want?»

Marvyn turned and stared, uncomprehending.

Angie said, «Nothing for nothing, that's my bro. So let's hear it — what's your price for saving my life?»

If Marvyn's voice had gone up any higher, only bats could have heard it. «I'm rescuing you, and you think I want something for it? Julius Christmas!» which was the only swearword he was ever allowed to get away with. «You don't have anything I want, anyway. Except maybe…»

He let the thought hang in space, uncompleted. Angie said, «Except maybe what?»

Marvyn swung on the doorframe one–handed, grinning his pirate grin at her. «I hate you calling me Ex–Lax. You know I hate it, and you keep doing it.»

«Okay, I won't do it anymore, ever again. I promise.»

«Mmm. Not good enough.» The grin had grown distinctly evil. «I think you ought to call me O Mighty One for two weeks.»

«What?» Now Angie was on her feet, misery briefly forgotten. «Give it up, Ex–Lax — two weeks? No chance!» They glared at each other in silence for a long moment before she finally said, «A week. Don't push it. One week, no more. And not in front of people!»

«Ten days.» Marvyn folded his arms. «Starting right now.» Angie went on glowering. Marvyn said, «You want that letter?»

«Yes.»

Marvyn waited.

«Yes, O Mighty One.» Triumphant, Marvyn held out his hand and Angie slapped it. She said, «When?»

«Tonight. No, tomorrow — going to the movies with Sunil and his family tonight. Tomorrow.» He wandered off, and Angie took her first deep breath in what felt like a year and a half. She wished she could tell Melissa that things were going to be all right, but she didn't dare; so she spent the day trying to appear normal — just the usual Angie, aimlessly content on a Saturday afternoon. When Marvyn came home from the movies, he spent the rest of the evening reading Hellboy comics in his room, with the Milady–kitten on his stomach. He was still doing it when Angie gave up peeking in at him and went to bed.

But he was gone on Sunday morning. Angie knew it the moment she woke up. She had no idea where he could be, or why. She had rather expected him to work

whatever spell he settled on in his bedroom, under the stern gaze of his wizard mentors. But he wasn't there, and he didn't come to breakfast. Angie told their mother that they'd been up late watching television together, and that she should probably let Marvyn sleep in. And when Mrs. Luke grew worried after breakfast, Angie went to his room herself, returning with word that Marvyn was working intensely on a project for his art class, and wasn't feeling sociable. Normally she would never have gotten away with it, but her parents were on their way to brunch and a concert, leaving her with the usual instructions to feed and water the cat, use the twenty on the cabinet for something moderately healthy, and to check on Marvyn «now and then," which actually meant frequently. («The day we don't tell you that," Mr. Luke said once, when she objected to the regular duty, «will be the very day the kid steals a kayak and heads for Tahiti.» Angie found it hard to argue the point.)

Alone in the empty house — more alone than she felt she had ever been — Angie turned constantly in circles, wandering from room to room with no least notion of what to do. As the hours passed and her brother failed to return, she found herself calling out to him aloud. «Marvyn? Marvyn, I swear, if you're doing this to drive me crazy … O Mighty One, where are you? You get back here, never mind the damn letter, just get back!» She stopped doing this after a time, because the cracks and tremors in her voice embarrassed her, and made her even more afraid.

Strangely, she seemed to feel him in the house all that time. She kept whirling to look over her shoulder, thinking that he might be sneaking up on her to scare her, a favorite game since his infancy. But he was never there.

Somewhere around noon the doorbell rang, and Angie tripped over herself scrambling to answer it, even though she had no hope — almost no hope — of its being Marvyn. But it was Lidia at the door — Angie had forgotten that she usually came to clean on Sunday afternoons. She stood there, old and smiling, and Angie hugged her wildly and wailed, «Lidia, Lidia, socorro, help me, ayudame, Lidia.» She had learned Spanish from the housekeeper when she was too little to know she was learning it.

Lidia put her hands on Angie's shoulders. She put her back a little and looked into her face, saying, «Chuchi, dime que pasa contigo?» She had called Angie Chuchi since childhood, never explaining the origin or meaning of the word.

«It's Marvyn," Angie whispered. «It's Marvyn.»

She started to explain about the letter, and Marvyn's promise, but Lidia only nodded and asked no questions. She said firmly, «El Viejo puede ayudar.»