The Book of Air and Shadows

of a national chain to comment on the madness of consumerism. The original logo is a little risqué (tits), and the artist had made it more so, and it had shown up on popular posters and T-shirts and the corporation was not amused. I can do cease-and-desist orders of this type in my sleep, or on this occasion, with my mind on my coming date with the mysterious heiress of Bulstrode, whose name I now knew was Miranda Kellogg.
    Omar dropped me off at the Fifth Avenue entrance to the great beaux arts pile of the library at a quarter to four. The two stone lions, Patience and Fortitude, who according to New York lore are supposed to roar when a virgin ascends the steps, were mum. I took the elevator to the third floor and arranged admission to the locked Astor room, just off the main reading room. Memories here: I spent a significant portion of my middle-school years sitting at those long wooden tables. I would subway up from Brooklyn and stay the whole day, supposedly researching a school paper (this was before the Internet, of course, and before Mrs. Polansky struck) but mainly enjoying the anonymity, the company of strangers and scholars, and the utter un-Mishkinity of the place. My first really adult experience.
    I spotted her right away, at a long table in one corner. Apart from a gentleman manning the official desk, she was alone in the richly paneled room. Her hair was blond, worked into two miniature braids pinned up over the ears. Amalie wore her hair that way when we were courting, and absurd as it is I have always been a sucker for that style. Her neck was bared and deliciously vulnerable; women’s necks are, in my view, the most underrated secondary sexual characteristic in our culture, and one that always gets me in the vitals. I stood there for minutes just watching her turn pages. Then, in the mysterious way that has never been successfully explained to me, she became conscious of my stare and turned abruptly. Our eyes met. I nodded. She smiled dazzlingly and rose and came toward me. She didn’t really look like the young Amalie, not feature by feature, but she had that same leonine grace; somewhat shorter than average, she wore a short gray skirt and a beautiful glowing pink silk blouse. Dark stockings, elegant ankles. She held out her hand and I grasped it. She had grape green eyes, just like Amalie’s. She said You must be Mr. Mishkin. I’m Miranda Kellogg. I couldn’t speak for a moment. Electricity ran up my arm and I am afraid I held the grip a little too long. This is ridiculous, I recall thinking.

    THE BRACEGIRDLE LETTER (5)
    As I neared my house that even I hearde the noyse of womans cryes & entering therein I found my father laying harde upon my poore mothere with his sticke, which I had never seen before now nor ever thought to see. The case was this: Margaret the mayde had founde in my motheres presse a papiste crucifixe & beades & brought them straightways to my father, & hym thinkynge all these yeares he had tabeled & bedded a secrete papiste grew mad with it & stroke oute in a furie, my mothere protestynge that such kickshows were alle she hadde of her mother mere keep-sakes, yet it availed naught. And though I knew my father was in his rights I could not beare it & made to stay his arm saying have mercie she is your wyfe: but he cryed she is no wyfe to me anie more & stroke at mee too & at that I coulde not holpe but presse hym away & he felle harde upon the floor. Wee two-I mean my mother & mee then kneelt to aide him if we could: in truth he was not hurt sore but in his pryde & he cried plague take you both, you shalnot stoppe a night more in my house, I have not wyfe nor sonne no more.
    So weeping both full bitterlie I left with my mother & a few thynges of our own, me hyring a barrow to carry these fornitures, she near dieing for shame. Now by chaunce I had the gold from the Ordnance that payed for the gonnes £68 12s. so wee were not paupered & could hyre a room for the night in an inn the Iron Man in Hart Lane by the old Crutchedfriars, 3d. the night & keep. The next morn leavyng some smalle monnaie with my mother I took boat to Gravesend & then back to Titchfield as I had come up. My maistre was well-pleazed his gonnes had assaied well but frowned harde when I told hym what had come to pass at my fatheres house & harder stille when I sayde I had uzed his gold to keep us the night & my mother some daies after: & promised I would paye it back everie pennie, & pleadeth the