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pinstriped suit, with a white shirt open at the neck. No tie. I slowed my steps.
    But then Aunt Kate grasped the man's arm with one hand, her emerald ring glinting in the darkness; and with her other hand grabbed mine.
    "So this is her?" The man looked at me and smiled. His dark eyes were kind, and amused. "The famous Madeline."
    "Peter, I'd like you to meet my niece. Maddy, this is my friend Peter Sullivan. He's going to be teaching you."
    "Uh, hi." We shook hands. I looked around, embarrassed and somewhat suspicious. A teacher?
    "Next month I'll be teaching at St. Brendan's," explained Mr. Sullivan. "English. Taking over for Sister Alberta. You know she has breast cancer?"
    I shook my head, as disconcerted by the realization that nuns could get cancer as that I had just heard a man utter the word breast.
    "Oh, jeez. That's terrible," I said, then hastily added, "I mean that she's sick, not that you're a teacher."
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    "Madeline is extremely talented" said Aunt Kate. I blushed, though I was pleased. I was accustomed to hearing my parents say those words in the same tone they used to describe Ookie Connell-- He's a little slow. "She and my nephew Rogan."
    Mr. Sullivan cocked his head at Fairview. "Is he the one I hear singing?"
    Aunt Kate nodded. "Yes, that's Rogan."
    I stared at the ground, then glanced uneasily at Rogan's house.
    Of course I knew people had heard Rogan sing. At night, he leaned out the window on purpose so his voice would carry. He'd sung at church.
    Yet, somehow, I'd never thought that a stranger might hear him; someone who might, however remotely, matter in the world beyond Arden Terrace.
    "He has an extraordinary voice," Mr. Sullivan went on. "Does he take lessons?"
    "No, they won't train them," said Aunt Kate. She might have been referring to dogs that weren't housebroken.
    Mr. Sullivan turned to me again. "What about you? Do you sing?"
    He looked so open and encouraging that I felt a sudden desolation. As though everything good that had happened in my life was all a mistake--Rogan, outgrowing my glasses, being smart at schoolwork. Even the memory of what we'd seen earlier in the hidden attic; even the memory of Rogan himself, his taste, his hands, and his warmth and his soft skin ... it all seemed distant and unreal. As though I'd opened a wonderful present, only to be told it was meant for one of my older, prettier sisters, and not for me.
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    "No," I said. "I can't sing."
    Mr. Sullivan shrugged. "Hey, singing isn't everything." He smiled again.
    Aunt Kate touched his arm. "You go on in. I need to talk with Maddy for a minute."
    "Nice to meet you, Maddy," he said, and went into the carriage house.
    "Come with me," my aunt said. "I left some things in the car."
    I went with her into the garage beneath the carriage house, where her red Mustang was parked. She opened the back of the car, reached in, and handed me a bag from Gristede's, then gathered her purse and another grocery bag. "Just bring that up for me, thanks. Did you have dinner yet?"
    "Yeah, with Rogan and everybody."
    Aunt Kate wrinkled her nose. "Roast chicken?"
    "It was good."
    "It's the only thing they ever eat."
    "They have turkey at Thanksgiving."
    Aunt Kate sighed. "That's just a big chicken."
    We walked out of the garage and climbed the rickety stairway up to the carriage house door. In the uppermost window shone the ghost light that my aunt kept burning, day or night. Above Fairview a full moon was just beginning to rise. Aunt Kate stopped, halfway up the steps, and looked at me.
    "Listen, Maddy. I have something to tell you. I got tickets to take you and Rogan to see Two Gentlemen of Verona"
    I looked at her blankly. "Who?"
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    "The play," she said. "By Shakespeare. A musical version; it's supposed to be very good."
    "A play?"
    "Yes. A play. On Broadway. It's at the St. James Theatre. Your birthdays are next week, I thought this would be fun."
    I had never seen a play. Neither had Rogan. Nor, as far as I know, had any of our