The most merciless thing in the world is love. When love flees, all that remains is memory to compensate. Our friends were either going or gone, their ghosts the best our poor minds could conjure to fill love's absence. I am haunted to this day by all those who are missing. Losing Kivi, Blomma, Ragno, and Zanzara proved heartbreaking for Speck, too. She went about her tasks grim and determined, as if by staying busy she could keep phantoms at bay.
　　After the disaster in the mine, we deposed Béka with his consent, and the diminished clan elected Smaolach our new leader. We lived above ground for the first time in years, bound to one small clearing in the forest by Chavisory's immobility. The impulse to go back home ate at us all. Five years had passed since we had left our camp, and we thought it might be safe to return. The last time anyone had seen our former home, the grounds had been denuded, but surely new growth had begun—where black ash had been, saplings should be inching up amid the wildflowers and fresh grass. Just as nature reclaims its ruins, the people, too, would have forgotten about that boy lost in the river and the two faeries found in the market. They'd want life to remain as they thought it had been.
　　With it safe to travel again, Luchóg, Smaolach, and I set out, leaving the other three behind at our makeshift camp to watch over Chavisory. Although the wind blew cold that day, our spirits quickened at the prospect of seeing our old haunts again. We raced like deer along the trails, laughing as one passed the other. The old camp shimmered in our　imaginations as a promise of bright redemption.
　　Climbing the western ridge, I heard distant laughter. We slowed our puce, and as we reached the lip, the sounds below piqued our curiosity. The valley came into view through the broken veil of tree limbs and branches Rows of houses and open lawns snaked and curled along ribbons of neat roadways. On the exact spot where our camp had been, five new houses faced an open circle. Another six sat on either side of a wide road cut through the trees. Branching off from that trail, more streets and houses flowed down the sloping hill to the main road into town.
　　"Be it ever so humble," Luchóg said.
　　I looked far ahead and saw bustling activity. From the back of a station wagon, a woman unloaded packages tied up with bows. Two boys tossed a football. A yellow car, shaped like a bug, chugged up a winding road. We could hear a radio talking about the Army-Navy game, and a man muttering curses as he nailed a string of lights beneath the eaves of his roof. Mesmerized by all I saw, I failed to notice as day gave way to night. Lights went on in the homes, as if on sudden signal.
　　"Shall we see who lives on the ring?" Luchóg asked.
　　We crept down to the circle of asphalt. Two of the homes appeared empty. The other three showed signs of life: cars in the driveways, lamplit figures crossing behind the windows as if rushing off on vital tasks. Glancing in each window, we saw the same story unfolding. A woman in a kitchen stirred something in a pot. Another lifted a huge bird from the oven, while in an adjoining room a man stared at minuscule figures playing games in a glowing box, his face flushed in excitement or anger. His next-door neighbor slept in an easy chair, oblivious to the noise and flickering images.
　　"He looks familiar," I whispered.
　　Covered to his toes in blue terrycloth, a young child sat in a small cage in the corner of the room. He played distractedly with brightly colored plastic toys. For a moment, I thought the sleeping man resembled my father, but I could not understand how he could have another son. A woman walked from one room into the other, and her long blonde hair trailed behind like a tail. She scrunched up her mouth into a bow before bending down and whispering something to the man, a name perhaps, and he looked startled and slightly embarrassed to be caught sleeping. When his eyes popped open, he looked even more like my father, but she was definitely not my mother. She flashed a crooked smile and lifted her baby over the bars, and the child cooed and laughed and threw his arms around his mother's neck. I had heard that sound before. The man switched off the console, but before joining the others, he came to the window, cleared a circle with his two hands against the damp panes, and peered out into the darkness. I do not think he saw us, but I surely had seen him before.
　　We circled back into the woods and waited until the moon was high in the night sky and most of the lights popped off goodnight. The houses in the ring were dark and quiet.
　　"I don't like this," I said, my breath visible in the violet light.
　　"You worry your own life away like a kitten worries a string," Smaolach said.
　　He barked, and we followed him down to the cul-de-sac. Smaolach chose a house with no car in the driveway, where we were not likely to encounter any humans. Careful not to wake anyone, we slipped inside easily through the unlocked front door. A neat row of shoes stood off to the side of the foyer, and Luchóg immediately tried on pairs until he found a fit. Their boy would be dismayed in the morning. The kitchen lay in sight of the foyer, through a smallish dining room. Each of us loaded a rucksack with canned fruits and vegetables, flour, salt, and sugar. Luchóg jammed fistfuls of tea bags into his trouser pockets and on the way out copped a package of cigarettes and a box of matches from the sideboard. In and out in minutes, disturbing no one.
　　The second house—where the baby in blue lived—proved stubborn. All of the doors and downstairs windows were locked, so we had to shimmy under the crawlspace and into a closetlike room that sheltered a maze of plumbing. By following the pipes, we eventually made our way into the interior of the house, ending up in the cellar. To make ourselves quieter, we look off our shoes and tied them around our necks before sneaking up the steps and slowly opening the door to the kitchen. The room smelled of remembered bread.
　　While Smaolach and Luchóg raided the pantry, I tiptoed through the rooms to locate the front door and an easy exit. On the walls of the living room hung a gallery of photographic portraits that read mainly as uninteresting shadows, but as I passed by one, illuminated by a white shaft of moonlight, I froze. Two figures, a young mother and her infant child, lifted to her shoulder to face the camera. The baby looked like every other baby, round and smooth as a button. The mother did not stare directly into the lens but watched her son from the corners of her eyes. Her hairstyle and clothing suggested another era, and she, with her beguiling smile and hopeful gaze, appeared hardly more than a child with a child. She lifted her chin, as if preparing to burst out laughing with joy at the babe in arms. The photograph triggered a rush of chemicals to my brain. Dizzy and disoriented, I knew, but could not place, their faces. There were other photographs—a long white dress standing next to a shadow, a man in a peaked cap—but I kept coming back to the mother and child, put my fingers on the glass, traced the contours of those figures. I wanted to remember. Foolishly, I went to the wall and turned on the lamp.
　　Someone gasped in the kitchen just as the pictures on the wall jumped into clarity. Two older people with severe eyeglasses. A fat baby. But I could see clearly the photograph that had so entranced me, and beside it another which disturbed me more. There was a boy, eyes skyward, looking up in expectation of something unseen. He could not have been more than seven at the time the picture was taken, and had the snapshot not been in black) and white, I would have sooner recognized his face. For it was mine, and me, in a jacket and cap, eyes awaiting—what? a snowfall, a tossed football, a V of geese, hands from above? What a strange thing to happen to a little boy, to end up on the wall of this unfamiliar house. The man and woman in the wedding picture offered no clues. It was my father with a different bride.
　　"Aniday, what are you doing?" Luchóg hissed. "Hush those lights."
　　A mattress creaked overhead as someone got out of bed. I snapped off the lights and scrammed. The floorboards moaned. A woman's voice muttered in a high, impatient tone.
　　"All right," the man replied. "I'll go check, but I didn't hear a thing." He headed for the upper stairway, took the steps slowly one by one. We tried the back door out of the kitchen but could not figure out the lock.
　　"The damned thing won't budge," Smaolach said.
　　The approaching figure reached the bottom landing, switched on the light. He went into the living room, which I had departed seconds earlier. Luchóg fussed with a rotating bar and unlocked the deadbolt with a soft click. We froze at the sound.
　　"Hey, who's there?" the man said from the other room. He padded our way in his bare feet.
　　"Fuck all," said Smaolach, and he turned the knob and pushed. The door opened six inches but hung fast by a small metal chain above our heads. "Let's go," he said, and we changed to squeeze through the gap one by one, scattering sugar and flour behind us. I am sure he saw the last of us, for the man called out "Hey" again, but we were gone, racing across the frosty lawn. The floodlight popped on like a flashbulb, but we had passed its circle of illumination. From the top of the ridge, we watched all his rooms light up in sequence, till the windows glowed like rows of jack-o'-lanterns. A dog began to yowl madly in the middle of the village, and we took that as a sign to retreat home. The ground chilled our bare feet, but, exhilarated as imps, we escaped our treasures, laughing under the cold stars.
　　At the top of the ridgeline, Luchóg stopped to smoke one of his purloined cigarettes, and I looked back one last time at the ordered village where our home used to be. This is the place where it had all happened—a reach for wild honey high in a tree, a stretch of roadway where the car struck a deer, a clearing where I first opened my eyes and saw eleven dark children. But someone had erased all that, like a word or a line, and in that space wrote another sentence. The neighborhood of houses appeared to have existed in this space for ages. It made one doubt one's own story.
　　"That man back there," I said, "the sleeping one. He reminded me of someone."
　　"They all look alike to me," Luchóg said. "Someone I know. Or knew."
　　"Could it be your long-lost brother?"
　　"I haven't one."
　　"Perhaps a man who wrote a book you read in the library............