He was waiting where Meggie had found him that afternoon. The music came from a cassette recorder on the grass beside the wooden deck chair. Dustfinger had placed a garden bench on the edge of the lawn for his audience. Lighted torches were stuck into the ground to the right and left of it, and two more were burning on the lawn, casting quivering shadows in the night. The shadows danced across the grass like servants conjured by Dustfinger from some dark world for this occasion. He himself stood there bare-chested, his skin as pale as the moon, which was hanging in the sky right above Elinor’s house as if it, too, had tuned up especially for Dusfinger’s show.