Hitomi waited on the sidewalk, uncomfortably aware of the police dirigibles hovering overhead. Their hulking mass was made even more ominous by the glare of their searchlights, fueled by kerosene, panning back and forth along the streets. A constant hiss of steam emanated from their engines, softer now that they were idling, but all the more menacing for that.

It was a chill autumn morning, and Hitomi's breath misted in the air, colored orange by the sun peeking over the Minneapolis cityscape to the east. Likewise colored orange were the smoke and steam rising from the bookstore across the street—the bookstore where Hitomi worked. The store had been broken into last night and set afire. As far as anyone could tell, no money or merchandise had been stolen.

Though Hitomi had dressed warmly—as would any Minnesotan, native or émigré—her inactivity allowed the chill to seep through the fabric of her dress, high-necked, with an ivory brooch at the throat, the thick yarn of her mittens, the fur of her cap. Close by, the horses hitched to the bright red fire wagons of the Minneapolis Fire Department stamped and strained at their bits.

Presently, a man dressed in blacks and browns strode past, wolfing down a meat pie he had purchased from a street vendor several blocks down. As he finished off the last of the pie, the square of wax paper in which he had held it floated down to the cobblestones, forgotten.

It was reasonably free of gravy. Hitomi picked it up, smoothing it out as best she could, folding it this way and that in her mind. She had read that when Michelangelo, that eminent artist, approached a block of marble for sculpture, he saw the finished work as being imprisoned within the rock, and he used his hammer and chisel to set the image free. Not so with origami. As her grandfather in Japan once told her, a blank, unfolded sheet of paper could become anything, a dragon or a crane, a poem or a portrait, a tragedy or a comedy. The task of the origamist—or any other artist—was not to set the image free, but to give it shape, definition.

She had learned the art from her grandfather, in her old home in Japan when she was small. He did not teach her so much as show her how to teach herself. To begin with he constructed a few simple figures—a bird, a horse—then watched her duplicate them with a fresh piece of paper, smiling as her face wrinkled in concentration. But after a while, he would show her a finished work, each a bit more complex than the one before, present her with a virgin sheet of paper, and ask her how the work might have been made. She would make mistakes, learn from them, and take new courses of action, until finally she had a duplicate of the original work before her. And through all of this, her grandfather would never instruct, only ask questions—Is that fold at the right angle? Is the edge the right length?—and soon Hitomi grew wise enough to ask those questions herself. In time, she was making her own creations instead of duplicating others.

Hitomi took pride in her talent. Anyone could do origami by following instructions in a book. Such people were no more artists than if they used a paint-by-numbers kit, or wrote those penny dreadfuls that vendors sold alongside their meat pies. The true artist was a creator, not a follower.

Someone approached, and she looked up to see Mr. Raymond, the owner of the bookstore.

"It was Burners, sure enough," he said. Mr. Raymond was a rail-thin man with a shaggy mustache that hid his mouth. Despite the black winter coat that hung down to his knees, he also shivered from the cold. "It would have been a big fire if it hadn't been caught in time. But the cash register wasn't even touched."

"Were any symbols left behind?" Hitomi asked.

Mr. Raymond nodded. "The usual," he said. This meant a plumed feather, representing a quill pen, with an X drawn over it to represent eradication.

"That confirms it, then," Hitomi said. "Was anything … essential destroyed?"

Mr. Raymond knew what she referred to, and winked. "It's safe to go back inside now," he said.

And he led her beneath the black-painted awning-skeleton adorning the bookstore's magenta façade.

Mr. Raymond did not greet this with much enthusiasm. "And the books?" he asked.

"Not to worry, sir! They will be replaced by brand new books fresh off the presses of Tobias N. N. Hornby Incorporated!"

Mr. Raymond, expecting this, nodded. "Thank you," he said, and sent the Assessor on his way.

"Well," he said to Hitomi when the Assessor was out of earshot. "At least we won't be running out of kindling for a while. Or toilet paper."

That afternoon, Mr. Raymond rolled up his sleeves and set to his own assessment of the damage. Hitomi was there to help and he notified his other two employees by p-mail, informing them of last night's events. When the metal canisters were returned through the pneumatic tube system, they contained messages saying Mr. James and Miss Stacey would both be there shortly.

In the meantime, Mr. Raymond retrieved three garbage cans from the alley, placing them in the middle of the store. Then, Hitomi following him with a clipboard, he walked among the bookshelves, reading the titles aloud, and stating whether they would be sold at a reduced price, given a new cover, or simply thrown into the trash.

His hands and wrists were covered with soot by the time Miss Stacey and Mr. James arrived. Miss Stacey was a soft-spoken woman with sandy blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Mr. James was a son of escaped slaves who could quote literary works from memory, and had taught Hitomi English soon after her arrival from Japan. Miss Stacey picked up another clipboard, Mr. James started at the opposite end of the store from Mr. Raymond, and the work went twice as fast.

By the time the inventory was taken, night had fallen and the nine o'clock curfew was in force. The four of them would have to spend the night at the store. But in any event, their work was not yet finished. The books were not the only things that needed assessment.

"Miss Stacey," said Mr. Raymond, "keep a lookout for the police."

Toward the rear of the bookstore, behind one of the shelves, was a trapdoor known only to the four of them. First removing the books, then the shelf, they opened the trapdoor and passed through it into the hidden basement, while Miss Stacey kept vigil.

At the bottom of the ladder, Mr. Raymond fumbled around until he found the matches, then lit a candle.

In the dim glow of that flame, they saw the metallic, oiled shininess of the printing press.

"The fire didn't touch it," Mr. James remarked.

"Even if the fire had reached this room, it would have only done superficial damage to the press," said Mr. Raymond. "But if the Burners knew of it, they'd come down here and rip it apart. So we'd best keep them ignorant."

"What of the government workers who'll be doing repairs?" Hitomi asked. "What if they discover this by chance?"

Though the Burners were the reason the press was kept hidden, the government was the reason it existed. There had to be something to preserve true literature, with all its ugliness and darkness, against the derivative triteness of those penny dreadfuls sanctioned by the Hornby Administration.

Mr. Raymond considered. "The fire didn't come anywhere near this area," he said. "So the workers shouldn't have to, either. But you're right, it's something we should look out for. We might have to take turns watching them."

"They'll be working around the clock," said Mr. James. "If the press were working, they'd probably hear it. We might not be able to print anything for some time."

"Right again," Mr. Raymond acknowledged. Addressing both his companions, he asked, "Would you like to get some done tonight?"

Both Hitomi and Mr. James nodded. Mr. James volunteered for the first shift, allowing Hitomi to get some sleep, if only on the hard floor upstairs.

"Is there anything you'd like to start with?" Mr. Raymond asked.

Mr. James smiled. "One of my favorite authors," he said, "and a title I find somehow appropriate for the occasion: The Three Musketeers, by Alexandre Dumas."

Hitomi smiled in turn. "You think of Miss Stacey as D'Artagnan?"

Mr. James laughed. "Don't you?"

"I'll be sure to tell her that."

As Mr. Raymond and Mr. James went down the tunnel that housed the plates they used to print their books, Hitomi walked back to the ladder to climb back—

—and saw a canister in the pneumatic tube that stood next to the ladder.

This was not part of the official p-mail system installed by the government nine years ago in 1878. It was from an earlier system, which was still more than sufficient to carry messages quickly over great distances. Abandoned by the Hornby Administration, it was taken over by a coalition of millionaires in Chicago, people who, like Mr. Raymond, wanted to preserve true literature.

Hitomi retrieved the canister. It was very light. Not a manuscript, like those that came frequently through the underground p-mail system for underground publication, but a message.

The tunnel down which Hitomi ran felt like a wine cellar, cool and dry. Keeping her eyes focused on the candle flame up ahead, she steered herself by how the hem of her dress brushed against the crates lining either wall, from which wafted the metallic scent of thousands upon thousands of printing plates.

"Miss Hitomi, what's wrong?"

"P-mail," she panted, handing Mr. Raymond the canister.

Mr. Raymond took it, his eyes widening when he felt how light it was. He took out a single sheet of paper, and read it in silence.

"Poe's coming to Minneapolis," he said at last.

"Edgar Allan Poe?" Mr. James queried.

"The same," Mr. Raymond replied. "He'll be arriving in the Cities exactly four weeks from tomorrow."

Mr. James leaned back against a crate, with a look of resigned chagrin. "You know, I can understand people's admiration for him." Waging a one-man war of words against the Hornby Administration was a Sisyphian task for anyone, let alone a man in his old age. "Even I admire him in that regard. I'll even admit that he's done some good writing. But the things he did during the war are not easily forgotten."

Poe had fled to Richmond when the South seceded, and become a fiery essayist for the Confederate cause. When Lee surrendered at Appomattox, Poe went into hiding and stayed there for almost a decade. Then newspaper magnate Tobias N. N. Hornby, who had bought all the nation's news publications and printing houses (many of them during the war's aftermath, when such things could be bought with food and blankets), ran successfully for president in 1876. He declared all of his printing houses and newspapers to be weapons in his war against "the festering plague of negativism." That was when Poe came out of oblivion, if not out of hiding, and attacked the Hornby Administration more vehemently than he had ever assailed Lincoln or Grant.

"And I'll never forgive him for writing 'The Gold-Bug,'" Mr. James declared. "That story is like fingernails on a chalkboard to me."

"Four weeks from tomorrow," Hitomi remarked. "Isn't that when Hornby is scheduled to speak at the Capitol Rotunda?"

Mr. Raymond nodded. "The timing is probably deliberate," he said. "Poe always draws big crowds wherever he goes. It would be a stinging blow to Hornby and his publicity machine if they lost a head-to-head popularity contest with one of Poe's recitals."

"A battle of banners and pamphlets against word of mouth, no less," Mr. James pointed out.

"Will Poe do the recital here at the store, then?" Hitomi asked.

"That's what he's asking for," said Mr. Raymond. "Of course, he won't have heard of the fire. But we should be able to do it," he added upon reflection. "Knowing the quality of government repair work, a lot of the floorboards will be twisted beyond redemption, and there might be a mob outside the door pushing to get in … but it will be worth it just to see Poe."

Mr. Raymond replied to Poe's p-mail, informing him of the fire, but assuring that they would be able to accommodate him. Then he and Mr. James set to work printing out a new edition of The Three Musketeers, while Hitomi went back through the trap door.

"Any sign of activity?" Hitomi asked Miss Stacey.

"The dirigibles are on the prowl," came the reply. "But I haven't seen anybody on the street." She looked at Hitomi. "So what did you see down there?"

Hitomi told Miss Stacey about the message from Poe. Predictably, Miss Stacey was excited. "It's nice to hear some good news," she said. "What are they printing downstairs?"

Indeed, the workings of the press could be heard through the floor—but not, thankfully, through the pavement outside.

"The Three Musketeers," Hitomi replied. "We'll print what we want in four hours."

When the workers arrived, precisely at 8am, Mr. Raymond directed them to the damaged part of the store and gave them strict instructions to stay within that area. The workers nodded readily. It made no difference to them.

In the meantime, Mr. Raymond hung a sign in the window declaring FIRE SALE in red letters to the pedestrians, horseriders, and carriage drivers on Lake Street. Soon the bang of hammers was accompanied by the hubbub of people come to gawk at the fire-damage and gossip about those lunatic Burners and what went on in their minds. They also came to get excellent books, somewhat charred at the edges but still readable, at the price of a penny dreadful—such as were even now being hawked outside by street vendors trying to capitalize on a crowd.

And into this tumult breezed the figure of Mrs. Marilyn U.H. O'Morphy.

Hitomi smiled to see her approach, carrying little Jessica, who looked somewhat daunted by the noise.

Mrs. O'Morphy smiled in turn. "Good morning, Miss Hitomi. I can see you're being kept busy."

Mrs. O'Morphy was a prolific writer, a member of the underground movement. Her work was nowhere near as macabre as Poe's but was still deemed to be "too alien to the positive, right-thinking mind for acceptance by Tobias N.N. Hornby Incorporated." So her books were frequently produced by the press downstairs.

"I can't complain, Mrs. O'Morphy." Hitomi reached out to tickle Jessica, who giggled. "I'm lucky to still have my job."

"I'm seeing many of my books among the damaged," Mrs. O'Morphy said, looking around. "I was thinking I might increase their salability by signing them?"

"I'm sure Mr. Raymond would have no problem with that. I'll find you a pen."

Soon a table was set up with piles of books for Mrs. O'Morphy to sign. Jessica, who was almost five years old, stayed behind the counter with Hitomi. There, a handful of children's books were stored—an arrangement that worked well during previous book signings by Mrs. O'Morphy—and Jessica read happily for awhile.

Nevertheless, the time came when Jessica tugged on Hitomi's sleeve and asked for pencil and paper. Hitomi gave them to her, and Jessica sat down to draw some masterwork, or pen her magnum opus.

Hitomi looked down at her, and smiled at memories of Japan.

Her grandfather had been a calligrapher as well as an origamist. He spent much time in his room, working with brush and paper. But he always did so in private, allowing no one, not even Hitomi's mother, to enter the room while he wrote. Once, when Hitomi asked why her grandfather was so secretive, her mother replied, "If he were not, he would not be your grandfather."

Only years later did Hitomi realize that this meant her mother did not know.

At the time, however, Hitomi was a little girl, and curious. Her mother's cryptic reply to her question convinced her that Mother and Grandfather were in a league of secrecy, and that piqued her curiosity beyond bearing. She wished her father was still there to somehow take her side in the matter, but he had died of a fever two years before.

So on the night Hitomi made up her mind to find out what her grandfather wrote, she willed herself to stay up late. When the rest of the house was silent, she crept out to see lantern light shining from within Grandfather's room.

Hitomi waited. Soon her grandfather opened the door, stepped outside, closed it, and left in order to relieve himself. He frequently made such excursions; Hitomi had counted on that. When he was gone, she crept forth.

She held her breath as she opened the door. It yielded grudgingly at first, then abruptly gave way, and Hitomi stumbled before catching herself, and stepped with some trepidation into the room.

She only wanted to see what Grandfather was writing. She had not yet learned the thousands of characters that made up her language, but that was not the point. The forbidden fruit was always the most desirable.

Hitomi walked over to the low table that stood flanked by a pair of burning lanterns. On the table was an ink jar, on which leaned a calligraphy brush, and a sheet of paper.

On the paper, no writing was visible.

Needless to say, Hitomi was very disappointed. All this trouble for nothing. What had Grandfather been doing all this time?

Then she noticed something odd about the brush, and the ink jar. The hairs of the brush were not blackened with ink. And the liquid in the jar—

—was water.

Hitomi did not understand this at all—but Grandfather would be returning soon, so she would have to leave.

She turned to the door—

—and saw it was closed.

Her heart skipped a beat. She did not remember closing the door. With a bit more haste than necessary, she walked to the door and tried to open it.

It would not budge.

Hitomi panicked as she began clawing at the edge—

—when it suddenly gave way, and she found herself staring at Grandfather's knees.

Looking up at his face, Hitomi saw a frown, which she mistook for one of anger. She backed away. "I am sorry, grandfather! I am sorry!"

Then his frown softened, and she saw it was a frown of thought.

"So," he said without preamble, his voice gentle. "You wish to learn what I do here?"

Hitomi simply nodded.

Grandfather nodded in turn, and stepped into the room. He sat down at the table and indicated the space to his left.

"Sit down beside me."

Hitomi did so.

Grandfather picked up the paper and held it up before her eyes.

"What do you see?" he asked.

Hitomi shook her head. "Nothing, Grandfather."

He placed the paper back on the table, and picked up the brush. "And yet, before you came in, I was writing on it. " He dipped the brush in the ink jar, then applied it to the paper. The water glistened for a moment in the light of the lanterns, then sank into the paper fibers, and was gone from sight.

"If you cannot see something," he said as he held up the paper again, "does that mean it is not there?"

Hitomi frowned. "No, Grandfather. But I do not understand."

He looked at her squarely.

"Did you know that your mother never once disobeyed my instructions to never enter this room while I was writing?"

Hitomi looked down at the floor. "I am sorry, Grandfather. I was selfish."

Grandfather laughed quietly. "You were curious," he said, "as your mother has never been. She would look at this paper, and, seeing nothing, would think that nothing was there. She sees that the door to this room is closed, hears my instructions never to enter, and that is enough for her. But not you, Granddaughter. To you, the closed door conceals wondrous things, things worth risking your grandfather's anger to see." He indicated the paper. "What do you think I have written here?"

"I do not know, Grandfather."

He considered a moment. Then: "Let me ask you differently: what might have I written here?"

Hitomi thought gravely. "A word. A name. A poem. A story."

"A story." Grandfather nodded, smiling. "You know this paper could be any of those things, or the characters I wrote on the door to guard this room, or a thousand other things. That wisdom makes you one of the few people on this earth who are fit to learn my secrets."

Hitomi's eyes widened.

Now Grandfather began folding the paper, creasing it. "But you must be patient, Granddaughter," he cautioned. "One cannot learn all my secrets in one night. And before you learn the greater secrets, you must first learn the lesser ones. And, at present, you are still a little girl who is up past her bedtime." His fingers worked nimbly, folding and creasing, folding and creasing. "But for now, it is enough for you to know this: as I have said, a blank sheet of paper can be anything you wish it to be. But if it can be anything, that means that it is not yet anything. Without form, without definition, it is powerless, meaningless. To gain power, or meaning, it must be folded, or written upon. This can be done using any art, or any language."

He finished, and a little bird now lay in his hands. He presented the bird to Hitomi. "Take this with you," he told her, "and keep it beside your bed. Tomorrow, I will begin teaching you to read and write."

She looked up to see Mr. James addressing her, his face alert, intent on some purpose.

"Yes?"

"Without being too obvious," Mr. James murmured, "look over my right shoulder. Am I wrong, or have we seen that man before?"

Hitomi looked, moving only her eyes. She had seen him before: a gaunt, somehow ominous figure clad in rags, his bald head gleaming even in the indirect light. Something in his eyes spoke of intensity—and of extreme patience. He seemed utterly alone, even in that crowded room, because he stood out so much from the others.

"I saw him looking at the fire-damage," Mr. James went on, still murmuring. "And just now, I saw him pretending to read a book. I know he was pretending because he was holding the book upside down."

Hitomi resisted the impulse to glance again. "Do you think he is a Burner?"

"Would a man seek to obliterate the written word if he were literate?"

"Illiteracy does not make him a Burner, Mr. James."

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"But if he were illiterate," Hitomi thought further, "Then it would be odd for him to be at a bookstore."

Mr. James smiled. "Exactly. I'll bring this matter up with Mr. Raymond. In the meantime, just keep an eye on him."

As Mr. James left, Hitomi felt a tug at her elbow and looked down to see Jessica proudly displaying her finished artwork.

It looked like a Japanese character.

Just then, Mrs. O'Morphy came back to retrieve Jessica, having signed all of her books. She saw what her daughter had drawn. "She didn't swear in Japanese, did she?" she asked with a grin.

Hitomi smiled in turn. "Only if she had put a stroke here," she said, pointing. "As it is, she merely wrote the name of my mother's favorite goldfish."

She was only joking, and they both knew it. They laughed.

"I suppose one stroke can make all the difference," Mrs. O'Morphy reflected. "It reminds me of an old Jewish legend."

"Really?"

Mrs. O'Morphy nodded. "When the Jews of Prague were persecuted, their rabbi made a creature called a golem to defend them. He sculpted a man-like figure out of clay and brought it to life by—among other things—inscribing the Hebrew word 'emet,' meaning 'truth,' on its forehead. And with this golem, the rabbi defended the Jews of Prague. And when its work was done, the rabbi turned the golem back to clay by striking out the first letter in the word 'emet,' which left 'met,' meaning 'death.'"

As Mrs. O'Morphy finished, she noticed Hitomi had become slack-jawed, her eyes focused inward.

"Miss Hitomi? Is something wrong?"

Hitomi blinked, startled. "I—I am sorry, Mrs. O'Morphy. That story … it reminded me of something my grandfather once said to me. I never really understood it before."

"What was it?"

Hitomi hesitated before saying. "I think it best not to say just yet. I'm not sure I understand it even now."

At the top of the stairs, she met Mr. Hugo, the jolly old soul who owned the house. "Good evening, Miss Hitomi," Mr. Hugo said in his usual avuncular tones. "Will you be joining us for supper?"

"With regret, I must decline, Mr. Hugo." Hitomi had bought a meat pie from a vendor and eaten it on the trolley so she could act on her hunch the moment she got home. "I have some things that need doing."

Mr. Hugo's smile faded. "Is something wrong, Miss Hitomi?"

"No, Mr. Hugo," she reassured him. "There is merely something I wish to understand more fully. But I thank you for your concern."

And she went on to her room.

Once her door was locked, she took off her mittens and went straight to her bedroom, retrieving a wooden box from the closet.

It was the box in which her grandfather kept the ink jar and the calligraphy brush. The box had been willed to Hitomi upon his death.

She had kept it in the closet all these years since emigrating to the United States, first to San Francisco, then to Minnesota. She only took it out once in a while, for the sake of remembrance. She had never once used the brush.

But now …

Opening the box, she saw the jar, the brush—and the little origami bird Grandfather had made all those years ago.

She picked it up, gingerly, for the paper had become fragile. She looked at it for some moments, wondering what to do, how to confirm her suspicions.

Years ago, when she had first slept with it beside her bed, she had been awakened in the darkest hours by … something. She could not tell what made the noise. In fact, she could not honestly say she had heard it. But something had alerted her. She looked around, but since the only window faced away from the moon, there was no light to see by. She listened, but there was nothing to be heard now. Finally, she gave up, lay back down, and slept peacefully for the rest of the night.

The next night she heard the noise again. A strong breeze blew into the room through the window, but Hitomi was sure she heard something else: a sound like the flapping of a bird's wings.

But it also sounded … like the fluttering of paper.

She screamed for Grandfather.

A few seconds later, the door opened, and Grandfather was there. The opening of the door gave the wind an avenue of escape, and it rushed past him, causing the lantern he carried to gutter.

Calmly, he raised his hand and caught the paper bird between his thumb and forefinger.

Then he set the lantern down and went to Hitomi's side, gathering her into his arms.

When she calmed down, he held up the origami bird. Hitomi looked at it fearfully.

"I am sorry, granddaughter," he said. "I made this bird to be your guardian, and I may have made it too zealous. It only sought to protect you from the wind."

"Father," said Hitomi's mother, as she appeared at the door. "Would you please not fill my daughter's mind with such childish notions?" She strode to the window, and closed it. "Hitomi, it is just the wind blowing your little bird around."

And for years, that was what Hitomi believed.

Now, Hitomi looked at the old paper bird, remembering Grandfather's words, remembering Mrs. O'Morphy's story of the golem.

How to confirm her suspicions?

Finally, she placed the bird back in the box … but did not close the box. She took a bath, luxuriating in hot water for half an hour. When she finished, and returned to her bedroom, the bird was still in the box, exactly as she had left it.

She stood there, thinking. Then her face lit up, and she turned to the bedroom window.

She opened it, leaving four inches for the wind to blow through. Then she adjusted her lantern on the nightstand, so the flame would not quite go out, but would still leave the room in darkness. Then she got beneath the covers, and closed her eyes.

It was some minutes before it happened. Hitomi kept her eyes closed, but listened intently, until a sizable gust of wind blew in from outside. Then she heard it: the sound of a bird's wings flapping.

She opened her eyes, but could see nothing. With a fluid motion practiced over several years, she reached for the lantern, and turned up the wick.

The origami bird stood on the nightstand.

Hitomi looked at it warily, though she expected no harm from it. She left the bed, went to the window, and closed it.

Going back to her bed, she resumed her scrutiny of the origami bird. Her suspicions were correct, but what did that mean?

In the years after the encounter in the calligraphy room, Hitomi's grandfather had taught her to read and write. But that was all he had done, though she was grateful to learn the characters and the secrets they unlocked, secrets that were wondrous to a child. She never learned why her grandfather did his calligraphy in secret, why he used water instead of ink. She always thought he would tell her in due time, once she had mastered the characters. Then her grandfather had died of a stroke.

Hitomi had never used the calligraphy box. She thought it somehow disrespectful of Grandfather's memory, and the strokes of the brush were too broad for practical writing anyway. So it remained in the bedroom closet, opened every once in a while during moods of nostalgia.

Now, sitting on the bed, staring at the paper bird on the nightstand, Hitomi realized this was what Grandfather had been hiding all that time.

She knew the secret. But what could she do with it?

Would this paper bird obey her?

Bracing herself, Hitomi said to the bird: "Look at me."

The bird did nothing.

Hitomi sat there at a loss. Then, on impulse, she repeated the words in her native language.

Slowly, the bird's head turned until it faced Hitomi.

Her eyes widened, and a laugh escaped her as a slight frisson of fear of the unusual mixed with a child's sense of wonder within her. She held up her hand and said, in Japanese: "Come to me."

A few flaps of its wings, and the bird perched on her index finger.

She laughed again, the laugh of discovery. Then she looked at the calligraphy box lying open in the closet. Telling the bird to go back to the nightstand, she retrieved the box and brought it back to her bed.

She looked at the calligraphy brush, and the empty jar. There was so much she still did not know. If she did something wrong, how could she undo it—if at all?

Memories of Grandfather gave only clues, hints: this paper could be any of those things, or the characters I wrote on the door to guard this room …

The only option was cautious, methodical experimentation.

Soon after, the books from Tobias N. N. Hornby Inc. arrived. Mr. Raymond took these—works such as Eleanor Porter's Pollyanna, or Hornby's own Thirteen Steps to Positive Fulfillment—and displayed them right along with the books frowned upon by Hornby's policy—or rather, "discouraged," because Hornby and his ilk always prided themselves on never frowning.

The Hornby Administration never sought to abolish the First Amendment, nor did they violate it directly. The printing of "negative literature" was not forbidden per se. But since all of the nation's major printing companies were owned by Hornby (monopoly laws were frequently ignored in view of his generous contributions to post-Civil War recovery), it was in large part determined by the employees in his printing companies what literature would get wide circulation. The government itself never participated in the decision-making process.

President Hornby's reasoning was that he would not have to forbid the printing of negative literature. That once the American people read the works distributed by T.N.N. Hornby Inc., and saw how positive and life-affirming they were in relation to the works of Poe, or the latter works of Twain, they would embrace the new positive literature, and America would enter a new Golden Age.

Of course independent presses almost never made a profit, due in no small part to the taxes levied by the Hornby Administration on paper products (which T.N.N. Hornby, Inc. circumvented by making their own paper). But somehow, this was never mentioned in the president's speeches and pamphlets.

Nevertheless, in Mr. Raymond's bookstore, negative literature outsold the positive ten to one.

Now that it was safe to operate the underground press again, Hitomi volunteered for the first shift—in fact, she asked Mr. Raymond if she could take Miss Stacey's place.

"I have no problem with that," Mr. Raymond replied. "But why do you want to do it tonight? Your normal shift is tomorrow."

Hitomi hesitated. "You should know this, Mr. Raymond. It's your bookstore …"

At that moment, Miss Stacey approached. "That bald man is here again," she whispered. "The one Mr. James pointed out to us."

And so he was. He was not doing anything out of the ordinary, just standing among the shelves with an open book in his hand (held right-side-up this time, if only by chance).

Hitomi mouthed the words, Wait until he leaves.

Closing time was near, so Mr. Raymond approached the man and said as much to him.

"Would you like to purchase that book, sir?" Mr. Raymond asked.

"No, thank you," the bald man replied, gave Mr. Raymond the book and left.

Mr. Raymond shut and locked the door. Mr. James, who had been arranging books on a shelf, joined the others at the counter.

Miss Stacey spoke up: "He was holding that book for a good fifteen minutes, and he never flipped a page."

Mr. Raymond turned to Hitomi. "You were saying?"

Hitomi went to her winter coat where it hung on a peg, and brought out the calligraphy box. Setting it before the others, she opened it, and removed the origami bird.

"Our lips are sealed," Mr. Raymond assured her. "But why are you telling us?"

"As I said, it is your bookstore. And if I may, I would like to use this to keep the store safe."

"From the Burners?"

"Other things as well. But mainly that."

"All right," said Mr. Raymond. "What can be done with this?"

"I'm not certain. I've been doing a lot of experimenting." She brought out another bird, identical to the first, but made newer. It hopped off her fingers to the counter. "And not only that," Hitomi asserted. "Mr. James, would you please bring me some paper?"

While Mr. James complied, Hitomi uncorked a bottle she had withdrawn from the box, and poured water into the ink jar. When the paper was procured, she tore it into halves. Dipping the brush into the water, she drew an invisible character on the right-hand half.

"Mr. Raymond, may I use your lighter?"

She held the flame to the unmarked piece of paper. It caught fire, and was half burned before Hitomi blew it out.

"Now watch this."

She held the flame to the paper with the invisible mark.

It would not ignite. Would not so much as blacken.

Mr. Raymond nodded, impressed. "Now would one of those marks do for an entire book, or would you have to mark every page?"

Hitomi smiled. "Only one mark for each book. I experimented with Hornby's Thirteen Steps."

"A book no one would miss," said Mr. Raymond, smirking.

"One question," said Miss Stacey. "Must you always use water for the ink?"

Hitomi shrugged. "I do not know. There's nothing special about the water. I got this from the spigot back home."

"So the power lies in the brush?"

"Or, possibly, the ink jar. Or both."

"The use of water may simply be a means of concealment," Mr. Raymond said. "If your grandfather wanted this secret kept, then it would stand to reason for him to keep his brush-strokes hidden."

Hitomi nodded. "It might very well be."

"In any event," Mr. Raymond went on, "you certainly have my leave to mark these books with your brush. How many can you do in one night?"

"Let us find out, shall we?"

Meanwhile, Mr. Raymond exchanged p-mails with Edgar Allan Poe. Poe sent a check (signed "Arthur G. Pym") to help with repairs, which Mr. Raymond cashed with no problem whatsoever. Poe also sent p-mails explaining the circumstances under which he would be arriving in Minneapolis. These Mr. Raymond destroyed, not revealing their contents even to his employees.

At last, the day of October seventeenth rolled around, and anticipation was high. The Hornby banners and posters increased exponentially as the week wore on, but the true anticipation—in the bookstore, at least—was for Poe.

As the day waned, the excitement mounted. Normally, people would depart at this time to be home by the 9 P.M. curfew. But today nobody was leaving.

Hitomi saw the bald man around eight. As before, he held a book and completely ignored it, staring about him with a quiet, intense gaze.

Just then, both Mr. James and Miss Stacey approached. Mr. James' face was grim, while Miss Stacey's was alarmed.

"The bald man," Hitomi said. "I know."

"Not just that," said Mr. James, jerking his head over his shoulder.

Looking, Hitomi saw another bald man, much younger than the first, his head shaven.

Then she saw another. And a shaven-headed woman.

"How many?' she asked.

"Eight of them, as far as we can tell," said Miss Stacey. "What do we do?"

When Mr. Raymond was notified, he said, "If we ask any of them to leave, they'll know we're on to them, and they might try something desperate."

"Might they try to kill Poe?" Mr. James asked.

"They've never taken a life before," said Miss Stacey. "Their only target has been the written word. Newspaper publishers, halls of records, archives, bookstores, that sort of thing."

"Well, they're definitely here because of Poe," said Mr. Raymond, "which means they're going to try something big." He turned to Hitomi. "Are we prepared?"

"Against fire," Hitomi replied. "I don't know what else they might try."

Mr. Raymond sighed. "I'd better talk to Poe. We'll see what he says about this."

Walking away from the counter, he stopped and spoke with a thin figure wearing a shabby tweed coat, a wide-brimmed hat, and suspiciously well-polished shoes.

When their conversation was over, Mr. Raymond, making sure his back was to the bald man, mouthed the words "We go on with it."

At last, the hour of nine struck, and the door was locked. Now no one in the store would be able to leave until morning.

Mr. James and Miss Stacey drew the drapes over the storefront windows, drapes thick enough to block all light to the outside. Mr. Raymond and Hitomi lit a pair of lanterns and placed them on either side of a table placed in the middle of the store.

And the man in the floppy hat and tweed coat removed these garments to reveal the white-haired, well-tailored visage of Edgar Allan Poe.

Applause erupted, most loudly from Mrs. O'Morphy, who smiled at Hitomi from across the room. Jessica was not with her. The child would, of course, be in bed at this late hour. Hitomi felt a little better for that.

Poe acknowledged the applause with a grave nod. Stepping behind the table, he said, "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for coming here. I will begin by reading to you a story called 'The Black Cat.'

"For the most wild yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief …"

This was one of Poe's early stories, written decades before the war, but it was clear why he had chosen it for his reading. It flew directly in the face of President Hornby's ideas of "positive literature" with its tale of murder, mental and moral decay, and above all, to use the story's own word, "perverseness." As Poe read the story, the skin of his forehead beaded with sweat, his eyes blazed with a light that seemed more than the reflected rays of the lanterns, his pepper-grey mustache quivered, his voice rose in volume and pitch—whether because the story called for it, or because Poe was caught up in his own narrative, there was no telling. The audience was certainly caught up: they stood entranced, breathless, living heart and soul for this brief moment, in Poe's world. It was a macabre world, certainly. Morbid, twisted, perverted, horrific—but it was alive.

As Hitomi looked at the audience, her gaze fell upon the bald man. In the dim lantern light, she saw his eyes were closed, and his lips were moving.

He was mouthing the words of the story as Poe said them.

Mr. James whispered in Hitomi's ear: "You see what he's doing?"

She looked at him. "He's memorizing the story?"

"Indeed. Before I escaped north, I spent many a night sneaking out and hiding beneath a certain bedroom window, listening to a mother read aloud to her children. Mostly it was Scott's Ivanhoe. Not the story I would have chosen, but there is always something desirable about forbidden fruit. I can still quote entire chapters from memory. And when I memorized those chapters, I moved my lips—" He nodded at the bald man. "—just like that."

Meanwhile, Poe finished his story: "…I had walled the monster up within the tomb!"

The crowd burst into raucous clapping as Poe mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Thank you," he said. "It is accolades such as yours that convince me the cause for which I fight is a worthy one." He paused for effect, then said, "And now, if I may, I would like to address a subject that concerns all of us—indeed, it concerns all who value the written word and the powers we wield with it. To be specific, there is a question I wish to ask. And it seems we are presented with a unique and rare opportunity in which to ask it. For it is my understanding that there is at least one, and most likely more than one Burner among us."

Dead silence fell. The bald man's eyes were closed as he memorized the last of Poe's story, and it was a moment before he noticed the quiet.

"Now everyone remain calm," said Poe. "The Burners have never done harm to people, only to property, and I am placing my faith in them that they will not change their tactics now. My question to the Burners is simply: why? Why do they seek the eradication of the written word that has been my most useful, and at times my only weapon in my war against that imbecile Hornby?"

For a while, it looked as if Poe's question would go unanswered. But then, with an air of decision, the bald man stepped forward.

"Mr. Poe," he said clearly, as a man accustomed to speaking in public. "You are correct: there are Burners among you. And I am one of them." Addressing the audience, he said, "You all have my assurance that none of you will come to harm. You are not the targets here.

"As to your question, Mr. Poe, the answer is quite simple: the Burners seek the complete and total eradication of the written word to set us free—not just the Burners, all of us—to make us all equal."

Poe's frown was full of questions.

"Allow me to explain," the bald man went on. "Since before we were born, this country has been governed—or perhaps a better word would be 'controlled'—by means of a bureaucracy. At the moment of our birth, we are given a name, and that name is written on a piece of paper that says this is your father, this is your mother. It also determines, by implication, your social status, your wealth. It determines whether you will be rich or poor, powerful or powerless." He picked up a book, and held it up for all to see. "These symbols, these scratchings that are emblazoned upon our lives—these are the chains by which the powerful keep us down. The powerful can write them. We cannot. The powerful can change them. We cannot. But we can destroy them. It is this that the Burners seek to do. And in so doing, we will set the people free."

"Sir," Poe spoke up in a level voice. "While I sympathize with your plight, traumatic as it must be, and laud your general cause, I must object strongly to your means of serving it. I myself have lived in poverty for years on end during my lifetime, but I endured those times, survived them—" He held up the papers from which he had read his story. "—by subsisting on words I put down on paper."

"You are a storyteller," the bald man acknowledged, "who wishes to make a living. I have no quarrel with that. Your crusade against Hornby is one I have followed with much interest, and I wish you well in that battle. I am working toward the same end, and this is how I choose to achieve it. It is not your stories I seek to destroy, only your chosen means of relating them." He paused, then asked, "Would it surprise you Mr. Poe, to learn that I have just committed your story to memory?"

"No it would not," Poe replied, "since I saw your lips moving along with the story as I read it. Oh, it's an impressive feat, don't mistake me, and I am flattered you consider my story worth memorizing. But that does not change my objection to your goal of abolishing literacy."

The bald man held up his hands, begging for understanding. "Please, Mr. Poe. I only seek to destroy the means by which the affluent, President Hornby and his kind, keep the poor in the gutter." He placed an index finger on his temple. "In memorizing your story, I have given you a gift! You have my solemn word that I will pass this story down, this and any other story you care to recite to me, to the generations that come after, and they will pass it down to their descendants, downward through the ages! Brother Leon here—" He indicated one of his shaven-headed comrades. "—has performed the onerous task of reading stories to me from vile pages such as these, and each of those stories are whole and intact in my mind, waiting to be related to others! Your stories will live forever through me and those who follow me!"

He held out his hands to the literary giant before him. "We share a common

cause, Mr. Poe! Refusing to join me only serves the enemy!"

At that point, Mr. James spoke up.

"Sir," he said. "Before the war, I lived south of the Mason-Dixon line. Like you, I, and my family along with me, were kept down by those who were more affluent, and like you—" His voice became quiet, gentle. "—we did not know how to read."

"Yes!" The bald man trembled with gratitude. "Yes! You understand!"

"I understand," said Mr. James, "but I disagree. Literacy was denied to us. And it was by means of that denial, among other things, that the affluent kept us down. When I escaped north, one of the first things I did was teach myself letters. Instead of taking weapons away from people, it is better to give weapons to those who don't have them. Judging from your speech, sir, you seem to be an intelligent person. And I've taught others to read." He indicated Hitomi. "If you want, I'll teach you as well."

At this, the bald man's face reddened. Holding the book with a white-knuckled grip, he hissed: "They will not reveal themselves to me. These marks, these blots refuse to convey anything to my mind! I have been to any number of teachers, instructors, tutors, and none of them were able to unlock the secrets these damned things hide from me! Very well!" He threw the book down. "If you will not join me, then at least you will not interfere with my work! All who do not wish to burn with this store would be wise to leave now!"

"Open the door," Mr. Raymond said to Miss Stacey. "Everyone please leave in an orderly fashion. He's giving us the opportunity; let's use it wisely."

As the innocent bystanders left, those with shaven heads reached inside their coats, withdrawing matches and bottles of what must have been kerosene. Neither Poe, nor Mr. Raymond, nor any of his employees moved.

Mr. Raymond glanced at Hitomi. She replied with nervous eyes, but remained where she was.

When everyone else was gone, the Burners began spilling kerosene all around them. The bald man said. "If you insist on staying here, you will burn down with the books!"

"Sir," Mr. Raymond tried to reason with him. "If you burn down this store, you will burn Mr. Poe down with it. Do you want his death on your conscience? Do you want him as a martyr against your cause?"

With wild eyes, the bald man looked at Poe, who regarded him with a dark, resolute gaze. The bald man's teeth grated as he teetered on the balance.

Then the dam burst.

"His work will live on through me and my progeny!" he shrieked. "That payment will have to be enough! Burners!" he called to his minions. "Perform your duty!"

They struck their matches—

—and the books began flying off the shelves.

Not falling—flying. Their covers and pages flapped like the wings of birds as they swooped, circled, and hovered overhead.

Miss Stacey shouted to be heard over the din: "Hitomi! What's happening?"

"I don't know!"

Hitomi stared at the flying books, confused, frightened. Would Grandfather have known this would happen?

Frantic, she called out, "Stop!"

The books did not heed her.

Then she remembered herself, and repeated the word in Japanese.

And the books obeyed. They fluttered down and settled on the floor, on the table, even on the shoulders of the Burners, who held themselves rigid.

"Do not harm them," Hitomi said, still speaking Japanese. "Only frighten." She paused, then said, "Now."

A silence ensued that was somehow contemplative. Then two books took flight and headed straight for the lamps standing on the table where Poe had done his reading. They hovered directly over the lamps—

—then suddenly clamped shut.

The gusts of air thus created snuffed out both flames, plunging the bookstore into darkness.

And then the screaming began.

Turning to Hitomi, Mr. James asked, "What just happened here?"

Hitomi took a deep breath, not quite recovered from the excitement. "It was not something I had anticipated …"

This can be done using any art, or any language.

"… but perhaps I should have."

"They still obeyed you," said Mr. James, laying a hand on her shoulder. "Remember that."

"That's not good enough." Turning to Mr. Raymond, she said, "I am sorry. I should have taken more care to understand my grandfather's art."

Mr. Raymond, visibly shaken, still found it within himself to laugh. "There's nothing to apologize for, Miss Hitomi. The store wasn't burned down, the books are safe … though I am curious why they acted of their own volition. Did the book you experimented on do anything like that?"

"No. But I think I know why."

"I think I know too," said Miss Stacey. "What book did she experiment on? Hornby's Thirteen Steps—a work completely devoid of imagination, let alone artistic merit, whereas every other book here is a product of the artist's craft."

"And that craft," said Poe, who had had everything explained to him in the last few minutes, "combined with Miss Hitomi's calligraphy, endowed those books with volition—among other things." Nobody had seen anything in the darkness, but the Burners' screams were highly audible. Some begged to be freed from a nailed coffin, while others shrieked of a razor-sharp pendulum swinging overhead.

"I wasn't quite aware my stories were that horrific," Poe murmured, half smiling.

"Good morning, Miss Hitomi!"

She turned to see Mrs. O'Morphy trotting towards her.

"Good morning," Hitomi replied. "Is all well with you after last night?"

"Actually, I was quite exhilarated." Mrs. O'Morphy grinned. "Most of the local police were busy babysitting Hornby, so most of us had no problem evading them. One or two people were arrested for violating the curfew, but what of that? After a night in jail and an 'early to bed, early to rise' lecture, they were back on the street!"

"Did the police find out anything?" Hitomi asked. "About Poe?"

"I heard some of the Burners were arrested before they could escape through the gutters." The women walked at a lazy pace, their minds intent on conversation. "They were raving incoherently about what happened, so the police sent two patrolmen to the bookstore—which was closed when they got there. She turned to look at her friend. "What exactly did happen, Hitomi?"

Mrs. O'Morphy was a trusted friend. "Can I count on your discretion?"

"Of course."

Hitomi chose her words carefully. "Do you remember the story you told me? About the golem?"

Mrs. O'Morphy nodded.

But before Hitomi could go on, she saw the bald man sitting a few feet away.

She felt no fear, for it was obvious he was now a broken man. In his white-knuckled hands he held a newspaper, and he stared at it with red, weeping, unblinking eyes, trying to force the letters and numbers to make sense. Judging from those eyes, he had not slept at all.

Hitomi approached, stopping just outside of arm's reach. Eventually, he turned to look at her.

"Gone," he whispered. "My followers. My goal. My purpose. Gone." A sob escaped him. "I am no one! Nothing!"

Softly, Hitomi spoke:

"We do not begrudge you a purpose, sir. Just that purpose. And bureaucracy is not something you can truly destroy."

The bald man looked at the newspaper again. "They won't reveal themselves to me," he said.

"There are ways around that," said Mrs. O'Morphy. "And Poe meant it when he said memorizing his story was an impressive feat."

The bald man nodded. "I only wished to make everyone equal."

"Not by destroying order," said Hitomi, "Right goal, wrong means."

"What means, then? What other means is available to me?"

Hitomi understood him. Destruction was always a last resort, an act of desperation.

The bald man had memorized Poe's story. This meant that he was passionate about literature—and, perhaps, about artistic creativity in general. Perhaps he could be taught to create as well as preserve?

In that moment, Hitomi resolved to start by teaching him origami.