They were arguing again. Dave was grateful for the noise of running water as it filled the bathtub where he sat: it helped to drown out their words, if not the anger behind them. He would have let it continue, but a brief silence and then a sudden shout from the other side of the door commanded, "David! Turn off that water!"

Dave sighed. Mom yelled at him a lot lately. She suspected him of blabbing to Mrs. Shaw, his second-grade teacher, who called in CYS to cause his family trouble. He hadn't blabbed, though. It wasn't fair to blame him, he thought.

He reached forward and turned the handle until the flow stopped, then sat back and swished the warm water with arms and legs. The argument outside continued. He covered his ears, but it didn't help much.

A stroke of inspiration hit him. Scooting closer to the faucet, he lay on his back, holding his breath under water. Yes, that was better. He came up for air, then quickly went back under.

In this way, he would simply wait out the quarrel until they made him get out and go to bed.

He was submerged again when a strong hand grabbed his arm and yanked him upright. His father's face was flushed, his eyes slightly unfocused. He reeked of alcohol. He snarled at his son, "Your mother told you to get out of the tub. Now do it!" He shoved the small body in his grip.

Dave lost his footing. He fell with a loud splash, back into the lukewarm water, flailing. Looking up, he beheld the furious, drenched face of his father, and he cowered.

"You disobey me?" the man hissed. "I'll teach you to disobey me. I'll teach you a lesson you'll never forget." He reached with both hands, reached and clasped his child's head in an unyielding vice. Downward they pulled, down beneath the water's surface, down and shaking him to keep the air from his lungs.

The boy struggled for his life. He twisted and kicked to no avail. Seven-year-old hands balled into fists and beat ineffectually against the strong arms that held him down. He felt his panic rise as the need for air became desperate. Dimly, he heard a roar, or maybe a scream, and he knew he was going to die.

Abruptly, the deadly hold was gone. Dave burst up, gasping. Mom was leaning against the sink, crying and holding one hand over the cheek where Father had hit her.

Mom's efforts hadn't been what stopped the attack, though. A bundle of growling, curly black fur had attached itself to Father's ankle. The man swore. He gave a vicious kick, and the animal flew into the far wall. She yelped in pain.

"Mitzi!" Dave's pet terrier was his best friend. She had come to his defense as best she could. Right now, though, he just wanted her to get away from here, away from his father's wrath.

Mitzi wasn't one to flee, however. Tenacious terrier that she was, she wasn't about to let her master go undefended. Baring her teeth, she growled at Mr. Stutler again.

She paid for her courage. The man used his heavy booted feet against the little dog. When her broken legs would no longer carry her, he grabbed one paw and swung, over and over, into the wall, heedless of her cries or the screams of his wife and son. He let the limp body fall at last.

Father walked out of the room, out of the house, and out of his family's life. Dave held Mitzi in his arms, his fear and his sobs mingling in a nightmare blur, while Mom gave what comfort she could.

More than a hundred miles away, a woman walked alone down a little-used street in Greenwich Village. She was petite in her business attire, middle-aged with light brown hair turning gray, and appeared to be defenseless against the predators who haunted this section of town. She buttoned up her long coat to protect her from the chill on this October night.

Chandra Kolinsky had just finished another lesson with her apprentice. Drake was promising, she thought, as far as students went, though he still needed to learn the value of teamwork. She would teach him that, in time. For now, it was enough that she had found him. She couldn't hope to challenge the Merlinian Blake on her own.

She'd been careful to keep clear of Blake these last six years, when she'd come to his home base of New York City. He mustn't know about her, or her apprentice, until she was ready. He rarely left his shop, the Arcana Cabana, for more than a few hours–as if he were afraid of missing an appointment with an unexpected visitor.

That would be the Prime Merlinian. Chandra shook her head and laughed to herself. The Prime Merlinian, indeed! Maxim Horvath had told his fellow Morganians about the quest when he had first joined them, before he himself had disappeared almost seventy years ago. Blake was a fool to keep hoping.

Fool or not, though, he was a formidable foe. She needed Drake's help if she wanted to get the Grimhold away from its guardian and release those it held inside. That was still years in the future. She sighed: patience was not one of her virtues.

Ahead, a streetlight flickered and went out. In the sudden darkness, Chandra thought she saw a disturbance, almost a ripple in the air. She stopped. It must be some of the local hoodlums, she decided, taking advantage of the outage to ambush a helpless woman. Well, they would have a nasty surprise if they tried it. She smiled in anticipation.

Her smile faded quickly, however. The disturbance grew, slowly becoming visible as a swirling maw of darkness and shooting points of light like distant stars. She felt its pull even from where she stood fifty feet away. She stepped back.

This was no creation of mere humans, hoodlums or otherwise. This was sorcery at work.

Blake! It had to be him. How had he found her? She turned to run, but the maw grew in an instant, grew a hundredfold in size and power. A white light, strong as the noonday sun, surrounded the darkness and blinded its only witness. It pulled her inside. She screamed, but there was no one to hear her, no one to see the swirling mass collapse in on itself, swallowing the light and its victim, vanishing as if it had never been.

The night air continued to ripple for a few seconds more. A ghostly image of the sorcerer woman lingered where she had stood, then faded into nothingness. The streetlight flickered on and off, on and off, sputtering, until at last it settled to a dim glow that remained steady. Ever after, no light would shine brighter in that haunted, lonely place.

She picked herself up off the ground. A brief self-assessment assured her that she wasn't hurt, but her relief was short-lived. As she looked around, she found to her alarm that she had no memory of this place, or of how she had come to be here. I must have hit my head when I fell, she thought. I'm sure it will all come back to me soon. I hope.

She stood in a dark alley with a wide yellow brick path running down the middle. Garbage bins sat near the back doors of the unlit buildings lining both sides of the alley, some with lids that couldn't close for the volume of refuse they covered. Boxes and old newspapers were piled in untidy heaps against many of the bins. Warm amber lights beckoned from both ends of the brick path, where the alley met the streets of this unknown city.

Where was her purse? She must have had one, she assumed, though she had no recollection of what it looked like. There was no sign of it anywhere. She came to the obvious conclusion: she'd been mugged, dragged into this alley by some despicable thugs who stole her purse and knocked her out so she couldn't call the police. Lucky for them that she didn't remember them, she fumed. Once she did, they would be going to jail for sure. She'd see to that.

She walked briskly to the nearer end of the alley, and the city opened up before her. The small hope she'd had of recognizing something familiar evaporated. Even in the relative peace of this hour, late at night or early morning, there were still businesses that were open. The cars were big and heavy, but there weren't that many of them. In the distance, she heard the sound of Big Band music from what must have been a nightclub. She wandered past rowhouses of red brick, closed shops selling books and records and art supplies, to a café with wrought-iron tables on its front patio. A newspaper had been left on one of the tables, partially scattered now by the wind still warm from the day.

It was the New York Sun, dated September 29. The year was 1946.

The woman sat at the café table and read that evening's paper by the yellow glow of a nearby streetlight. The news seemed distant somehow, as if she read history rather than the topics of the day. She left the paper where she had found it.

Her memory hadn't returned at all, and she was starting to worry that the mugging had been worse than she thought. Maybe if I talk to somebody, she considered, I'd start to remember things. Lost as she was, she headed for the nearest place that she knew was still open–the Big Band nightclub. There would be plenty of people there. She followed the music.

The nightclub had a doorman, she soon discovered.

"By yourself?" he inquired. She confirmed his impression, and he nodded. "Thirty cents cover charge." He ripped off the next ticket in the pad he held, then held out his other hand for the fee.

She searched the pockets of her long coat. One held a little book with an ornate cover but no title. From the other pocket, she pulled a simple change purse. These were her only possessions. She fished out a quarter and a nickel and handed them over.

The doorman was not amused. He studied the coins in his hands, frowning. "Is this a joke?" he asked. "I don't take play money." He handed them back to her. "Thirty cents, lady, in real American silver, or you're not getting in."

She studied the coins in dismay. What was wrong with them? Then she noticed the years they represented–1983 and 1997. She emptied the rest of the money from her change purse, looking for older specimens. There was nothing from before 1969. She looked up at the doorman. "I don't have anything," she told him. "Please, I'm lost. I don't know where else to go."

His expression softened. "There's a homeless shelter four blocks that way." He pointed. "They'll take you in there. Rough night for you, eh?"

"Yes. I don't remember anything that happened before." She walked away in the direction he'd shown her.

Pete of Pete's Pawn Shop heard the bell jingle as the front door opened on this last day of September. He hurried out of the shop's back room to greet his customer.

She stood before the central counter with a look of near desperation on her face. He'd seen that look often, and knew he had an easy mark. He smiled. "Can I help you, miss?"

"I need money," she replied.

"Okay, what've you got to show me?"

On the counter, she laid a change purse and a little book. He checked over them both. The coins were obviously nothing more than toys for children, but the book piqued his interest. It seemed to be a genuine antique, with tiny writing in many languages and gorgeous illustrations. It was nice, but he probably wouldn't be able to sell it.

"Three dollars," he offered. "Fifty cents for the fake money, two-fifty for the book. Take it or leave it."

"But I need more than that," she protested. "Surely they're worth at least ten."

Okay, so maybe she wasn't quite as ignorant as he'd thought. He considered. "Well, I'll tell you what. That's a nice ring you're wearing. It's probably worth more than these other things put together. You throw that in, and maybe I can see my way clear to...let's say, oh, fifteen? That sound good to you?"

She looked distinctly unhappy about his offer. At last, reluctantly, she pulled the ring from her finger and set it down beside the other items. "Fifteen," she said.

He swept them all behind the counter. Turning aside then to the cash register, he opened it and pulled out a few bills. He counted out fifteen and handed them over to the woman. "You've got forty-eight hours to buy back your things at the same price before I put them up for sale. That's store policy. I'll hold them for you until then. What's the name?"

She blinked. "I...I don't know. I don't remember." The desperation was increasing in her voice.

"Hmm. Well, I'll just write 'Jane Doe' on the tag, then, with a little description of you." He didn't expect to see her again in two days, anyway. "Good luck to you, miss."

"Thank you." She left the shop, and it seemed to Pete of Pete's Pawn Shop that she was more nearly hopeless than she'd been when she entered.

Strange bird, he thought. Woman her age carrying play money around as if it's worth something. At a guess, I'd say she just found out she lost her only son in the war. Drove her little choo-choo right around the bend. I hope she's all right. He yawned. It was nearly closing time and the end of his working day.