ot a single red bow or a sprig of holly decorated the interior of her trailer on Christmas morning. Honey had planned to endure the holiday rather than celebrate it, but when she got out of bed, she couldn't make herself climb into her work clothes for another day of solitary labor.

As she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, some small shred of vanity poked at her. Dash used to tell her how pretty she was, but the small face that looked back at her was gaunt and haunted, a street urchin grown old too quickly. She turned away in disgust, but instead of walking out of the bathroom, she found herself kneeling down to search the tiny storage space below the sink for the hot rollers she had stuck there when she had moved in, along with her makeup.

An hour later, dressed in a silky turtleneck and pleated trousers of antique rose wool, she finished brushing out her hair. It fell in loose waves to her shoulders and shone like warm honey from the conditioner she had used. Makeup camouflaged the circles under her eyes while mascara thickened her lashes and emphasized her light blue irises. She dusted her cheekbones with blush, slicked on a soft pink lipstick, and fastened the gold crescent moons Dash had given her into her lobes. Her eyes began to sting as she watched one of the moons tangle with a tendril of hair, and she quickly turned away from her reflection in the mirror.

When she reached the trailer's living area, she poured herself a cup of coffee and went to the table next to the couch for the brown envelope she had put there several days earlier. It had a message scrawled across the front in Chantal's childish handwriting. "Do Not Open Until December 25. This Means You!" She tore apart the envelope flap and pulled out a lumpy package wrapped in white tissue paper with a note affixed to the top.!!!Dear Honey,!!!Hope you have a Merry Xmas. Me and Gordon like Winston-Salem. We found a place to stay in a real nice trailer park. Gordon likes his job. He said to tell you he's got a present for you, but you won't get it for a while. I made a friend. Her name is Gloria and she taught me how to croshay.!!!I'm still thinking you should go back to L.A. I don't think Dash would like what your doing to yourself. I miss you. I hope you like your present.!!!Love,!!!Chantal (and Gordon)!!!P.S. Don't worry. If you go back to L.A., me and Gordon won't come with you.

Honey blinked her eyes and unwrapped the tissue paper. With a shaky smile she drew out the first real present she had received from Chantal since they were children, a hand-crocheted cover for a roll of toilet paper. It was made of neon-blue yarn and ornamented with misshapen yellow loops to represent flowers. She carried it to the bathroom, where she stuffed it with a spare roll and set it in a place of honor on the back of her toilet.

That done, she tried to think of something else to occupy her time. Impulsively, she snatched up a gray wool jacket, grabbed her purse, and headed for her Blazer. She would turn the radio up and take a long drive.

Only Christmas carols were playing on the local stations, so she snapped the radio off before she reached the town limits. The weather was in the high fifties and clear, and she had just decided to drive over to Myrtle Beach to watch the ocean when she spotted Eric's van stopped at a traffic light several blocks ahead of her. She remembered his mysterious disappearances and wondered if he were on his way to meet a woman. The idea made her feel sick.

She wasn't planning to follow him, but when he turned off Palmetto Street, she found herself turning, too. A number of holiday travelers were on the road, and she didn't have any trouble keeping several car lengths between them. To her surprise, he pulled into the parking lot of Paxawatchie County's major hospital.

She parked her car a few rows over from the van and waited. Several minutes ticked by. Her mind drifted to Dash, and because that was too painful, she thought about the work that lay ahead before Black Thunder could once again fly over the tracks.

She returned her attention to the van as the back doors swung open. And a clown stepped out.

He was dressed in a purple shirt tucked into baggy polka-dotted trousers, and his hair was covered by a frizzy red wig tied with a pirate's scarf. In one hand he held a bundle of multicolored helium balloons, in the other a plastic trash bag that looked as if it might be stuffed with presents. Just as she decided she had followed the wrong van, the clown tilted his head and she caught a glimpse of a purple star-shaped eye patch. For a moment she felt disoriented.

Eric Dillon had still another face.

Who was he? How many identities did he have? First Dev. Now this. She wanted to drive away, but she couldn't. Without stopping to think about what she was doing, she followed him inside.

He had disappeared by the time she got to the lobby, but it wasn't difficult to find his trail. An elderly woman sat in a wheelchair holding a red balloon. A child with an arm cast held a green one. Further on, she came upon a patient lying on a gurney with an orange balloon floating overhead. But the trail ran out in a back hallway.

She tried to talk herself into leaving, but instead she approached a nurses' station. "Excuse me. Did you happen to see a clown go by earlier?" The question sounded ridiculous.

The young nurse behind the desk had a sprig of artificial holly stuck in her plastic name tag. "You mean Patches?"

Honey nodded uncertainly. This must not be Eric's first visit to the hospital. Was this where he came when he disappeared?

"He's probably doing a show for the kids today. Hold on." She picked up her phone, asked a few questions of the person on the other end, then hung up. "Pediatrics on three. They're starting now."

Honey thanked her and headed for the elevators. As soon as she stepped out onto the third floor, she heard squeals of laughter. She followed the sounds to a lounge at the end of the corridor and stopped. It took all of her courage to look inside.

A dozen very young children, probably between four and eight years old, were gathered in the cheerfully decorated room. Some wore hospital gowns, others robes. They were black, Asian and white. Several sat in wheelchairs and a few were hooked up to IVs.

Beneath his curly red wig, Eric's face was disguised in clown white. He had one large eyebrow drawn on his forehead, a scarlet mouth, a red circle at the end of his nose, and the purple star-shaped eye patch. He was concentrating on the children and didn't see her. Fascinated, she watched.

"You are not Santa Claus!" one of the children called out, a small boy in a blue robe.

"Now that's where yer wrong," Eric retorted belligerently. "I got a beard, don't I?" He stroked his smoothly shaven chin.

The children greeted this observation with vigorous shakes of their head and shouts of denial.

He patted his flat waist. "And I got a big fat stomach?"

"No, you don't!"

"And I got a red Santy Claus suit." He plucked at his purple shirt.

"No!"

A long pause fell. Eric looked bewildered. His face puckered as if he were about to cry, and the children laughed harder.

"Then who am I?" he wailed.

"You're Patches!" several of them squealed. "Patches the Pirate!"

His face cracked open in a smile. "That I am!" He pulled at the waistband of his baggy red and purple polka-dot trousers and half a dozen small balloons floated up and out. Then he broke into "Popeye the Sailor Man," substituting the name Patches and performing something close to an Irish jig.

Honey watched in bewilderment. How could a person who was driven by so many private devils set them aside to perform like this? His accent was a comic mixture of Cockney, Long John Silver, and Popeye's nemesis Bluto. The children were clapping with delight, completely caught up in the enchanted spell he was so effortlessly weaving about them.

As he wound up for his finish, he pulled three rubber balls from his pants pocket and began juggling them. He was a clumsy juggler, but he was so enthusiastic that the children loved it. And then he saw her.

She froze.

One of the balls slipped from his grasp and bounced across the lounge. Several seconds ticked by as he stared at her, and then he immediately returned his attention to the children.

"I missed it on purpose," he growled, planting his hands on his hips, glaring at them, daring them to contradict him.

"You did not!" a few of them countered. "You dropped it!"

"You all think yer so smart," he glowered. "I'll 'ave you know I was trained in the arts of juggling by Corny the Magnificent 'imself!"

"Who's that?" one of the children asked.

"You never 'eard of Corny the Magnificent?"

They shook their heads.

"Well, then...." He began spinning a magical yarn of jugglers and dragons and a beautiful princess with

a wicked spell cast upon her that had made her forget her name and left her cursed to wander the globe trying to find her home. With facial expression and gesture, he created imaginary pictures so vivid they could have been real.

She had seen what she'd come for, but she couldn't make herself leave. Strands of the snare he had woven about the children entrapped her, and as she listened, it became impossible to remember who existed behind that clown's face. Eric Dillon was dark and damned; this pirate clown exuded a joyous, enchanting charm.

Patches shook his head dolefully. "So beautiful the princess is, and so sad. 'Ow would you like it if you couldn't remember yer name or where you lived?"

"I know my name," one of the bolder little boys called out. "Jeremy Frederick Cooper the third. And I live in Lamar."

Other children called out their names, and Patches congratulated them on their excellent memories. Then his shoulders hunched forward and he looked doleful. "Poor princess. If only we could 'elp her." He snapped his fingers. "I got me an idea. Maybe all together we can break that wicked spell."

There was a chorus of agreement from the children, and one little girl wearing eyeglasses with clear plastic frames lifted her hand.

"Patches? How can we help the princess if she's not here?"

"Did I say she wasn't 'ere?" Patches looked befuddled. "Naw, I didn't say that, mate. She's 'ere, all right."

The children began to look around, and Honey felt the first twinge of alarm.

" 'Course she's not wearin' 'er princess clothes," Patches said.

Her palms began to sweat. Surely he wouldn't...

"On accounta the fact that she doesn't remember who she is. But she's beautiful just like a princess should be, so it's not 'ard to pick 'er out, now is it?"

A dozen sets of eyes landed on her. She felt as if she had been pinned to the wall like a dead butterfly. She spun toward the door.

"She's leaving!" one of the children called out.

Before she could clear the doorway, a rope dropped over her head and tightened around her waist, pinioning her arms to her side. Stunned, she stared down.

She'd been lassoed.

The children shrieked with laughter while she stared at the lariat, unable to believe what she was seeing. He began to reel her in. The children cheered. She stumbled backward, embarrassment making her even more awkward. How could he do this to her? He knew that she wasn't ready for anything like this. Her body bumped against his.

"She's shy around strangers," Patches said, beginning to untangle her from his lariat. As soon as he freed her, he threw his arm around her shoulder, ostensibly to give her a hug but, in reality, to pin her to his side. "Don't worry, Princess. None of these blokes'll 'urt you."

She looked out at the children and then back at him, her expression beseeching.

"Poor princess. Looks like she's lost 'er voice, too." He actually seemed to be teasing her. She wanted to push herself away in outrage, but she couldn't do it with the children watching.

"Where's your crown?" one skeptical little boy with an IV in his arm asked.

She waited for Eric to respond, but he kept silent.

The seconds ticked by.

He looked down at the fingernails on his free hand, then began an elaborate show of inspecting and buffing them while he waited for her to speak.

"Tell us, Princess," the little girl with the eyeglasses said softly.

"I—uh—I don't remember," she finally managed.

"See wot I told you?" Patches snapped one suspender with the hand he'd been buffing. "Memory like a piece a Swiss cheese. Full of 'oles." He sounded smug, and it irritated her.

"Did you leave it under your bed?" the little girl asked. "I left my Lite Brite under my bed."

"Uh—no, I don't think so."

"In the closet?" another child offered.

She shook her head, conscious of the clown's arm clamped around her shoulders.

"In the bathroom?" said a little boy with a lisp.

She realized they weren't going to let up on her, and she blurted out, "I—uh—I think I left it at the Dairy Queen." Now where had that ridiculous notion come from?

Patches's arm dropped from her shoulders, but instead of helping her out, he sounded distinctly skeptical. "You left yer princess crown at the Dairy Queen?"

He clearly wasn't going to make this easy. "It—It was giving me a headache," she said. And then, a bit more firmly as her sense of pride poked through, "Crowns do that."

"I wouldn't know. I only wear me pirate's scarf." She waited for him to give her a way out, but instead he said, "I 'card a rumor about princesses and wicked spells."

"You did?"

"It came to me on good authority."

"Is that so?" She had begun to relax a little.

"I 'eard that a wicked spell on a princess can be broken if the princess in question..." He winked at the children. "... kisses a 'andsome man."

The boys groaned and the girls giggled.

"Kisses a handsome man?"

"Works every time." He began to preen for the children, tidying his wig and smoothing his painted eyebrow with his little finger. The children, anticipating what was coming, laughed harder.

His mischief was contagious, and she concealed a smile. "Is that so?"

"Bein' a charitable person and all..." He dusted the seat of his pants. "... I've decided to offer meself fer the job."

With comic lechery, he leaned toward her, his mouth outrageously puckered.

She almost laughed. Instead, she studied his pursed lips for several beats. Then she looked at the children and rolled her eyes. They giggled, and the sound filled her with a glow of pleasure.

She turned back to the clown. "A kiss?" She said the word as if he'd suggested cod liver oil.

Patches nodded. And with his mouth still puckered said, "A big smacker, Princess. Right 'ere." He pointed toward his painted lips.

"From a handsome man?" she inquired.

Still puckered, he flexed his muscles and preened.

She looked back at the children, and they laughed harder. "A kiss from a handsome man, huh? Well, all right, then."

Stepping past him, she approached a little boy with chocolate-brown skin and a leg cast. Bending down, she offered him her cheek. He blushed, but dutifully planted a quick kiss there. The children hooted at his embarrassment.

She straightened. Patches's painted smile had stretched like elastic over his face. And then the noise died down as all of them waited to see if the kiss would work.

She went very still in the time-honored manner of a princess shaking off a wicked spell. Gradually, she widened her eyes until they were huge with wonder.

"I remember! I'm from..." Where? Her muse deserted her. "I'm from Paxawatchie County, South Carolina!" she exclaimed.

"That's right here, Princess," a child with a lisp said.

"Is it? Do you mean I'm home?"

The children nodded.

"Do you 'member your name?" one of them asked.

"Why, I do. My name is—Popcorn." It was the first word that came into her head, inspired, no doubt, by the smell drifting into the lounge from the small kitchenette next door.

"That's a dumb name," one of the older boys observed.

She stood her ground. "Princess Popcorn Amaryllis Brown from Paxawatchie County, South Carolina."

The clown's blue eye twinkled in the white face paint. "Well now, Princess Popcorn. Since you've remembered yer name, maybe you'd 'elp me give out some Christmas presents 'ere."

And so she helped him distribute the presents he had brought, which turned out to be expensive hand-held video games. The young patients were delighted, and as she laughed with them, she felt lighthearted for the first time in months.

Finally the nurses appeared to lead the children back to their beds. Patches promised to stop by their rooms to see each one of them before he left.

When they were alone in the lounge, he turned away from her to pack up his tricks. While he gathered up his lasso and stowed it in the bag he had brought, she waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. She bent down to pick up one of the balls he had dropped. When he turned back toward her, she held it out.

"How long have you been doing this?" she asked quietly.

She had expected him to sidestep her question, but, instead, he looked thoughtful. As soon as he began to speak, she realized why.

"Well, now, Princess. Corky musta taught me to juggle not long after we sunk the Jolly Roger."

Not only had he deliberately misinterpreted her question, but he had retained his identity as Patches. She shouldn't have been surprised. When Eric was in character, he stayed that way. She didn't stop to examine her sense of relief. She only knew that she felt safe talking with this pirate clown, and she didn't feel at all safe with Eric Dillon.

"You said his name was Corny," she corrected.

"There were two of 'em. Twins."

She smiled. "All right, Patches. Have it your way."

He had packed up his props and now he turned toward the door. "I'm gonna visit some of the older kids now, Princess. You want to come with me?"

She hesitated, and then she nodded.

And so Patches the Pirate and Princess Popcorn Amaryllis Brown spent Christmas afternoon visiting the children on the third floor of the Paxawatchie County Hospital, dispensing comfort, magic tricks, and video games. Patches told all the older boys that she was his girlfriend, and Princess Popcorn Amaryllis said that she most certainly was not. She said that princesses didn't have boyfriends; they had suitors instead. And that none of those suitors were clowns.

Patches said the only suit he owned was the one he was wearing, but he'd buy a new one if she'd give him a kiss. And so it went.

That afternoon, she heard something she had not heard in months. She heard the sound of her own laughter. There was something magical about him, a gentleness that drew in the children and made them feel free to clamber on his lap, to tug at his legs, a mischievous charm that let her set aside her grief if only for a few hours and wish that she could crawl into his lap, too. The thought brought her no pangs of guilt, no sense of disloyalty to Dash's memory. After all, there was nothing at all wrong with wanting to embrace a clown.

It was nearly dark when they left the hospital. Even then, he did not set aside the character of Patches.

As they walked across the parking lot, he continued to flirt outrageously with her. And then he said, "Visit the kiddies with me later this week, Princess. We can try out this trick with daggers I been thinkin' about."

"Would it happen to involve using me as a target?"

" 'Ow'd you know?"

"Intuition."

"It's perfectly safe. I 'ardly ever miss anymore."

She burst into laughter. "No, thank you, you rascal."

But as they reached his van, her laughter faded. When he climbed inside, this pirate clown would disappear, and he would take the princess with him. She felt just like all the sick children who had called out to him not to go. She thought of her empty trailer and the harsh, grim-faced man who shared the park with her. The soft, wistful words slipped out before she could stop them.

"I wish I could take you home with me."

She heard the briefest hesitation before he set down his bag and said, "Sorry, Princess. I promised me mates I'd go on a raid with 'em."

She felt incredibly foolish. In an attempt to recover, she clucked her tongue. "Carousing on Christmas night, Patches? You don't have any shame. And I was going to fix a real dinner, for a change."

There was a short silence. For the first time that afternoon, the clown seemed to lose some of his cockiness. "Maybe I'll—I could send one of me mates over instead. To keep you company."

His reply was a dash of cold water. It also made her feel vulnerable. She looked quickly down at the toes of her shoes. "If his name is Eric, I don't want to see him."

"Don't blame you," he replied without a lost beat. "Bad piece a work, that one."

Silence fell between them. The parking lot was quiet and the night clear. As if compelled, she lifted her chin and gazed into the clown's white face. Her brain knew who resided behind the makeup, but it was Christmas, the night ahead was long, and her heart stepped across the boundary of logic.

"Tell me about him," she said softly.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and said dismissively, '"E's not a subject fit fer the tender ears of a princess."

"My ears aren't all that tender."

"Just watch out for 'im, that's all."

"Why's that?"

"Yer too pretty, doncha see? Threatens 'im if 'e thinks a woman might be as good-lookin' as 'e is. Vainest man I ever knew. Doesn't like anybody sharin' 'is mirror space. First thing you know, 'e'll be stealin' yer 'air rollers, and walkin' off with yer makeup mirror."

She smiled, suddenly glad that he wasn't being serious. But then his brow puckered beneath the red eyebrow, and she could feel him growing tense.

"The truth is, Princess..." He pulled a key from his pocket and fit it in the rear door lock. "I think yer need to stay as far away from 'im as yer can. Seems like you've 'ad enough trouble in yer life—wot with that wicked curse and everything—without addin' to it. 'E's got a ice cube for a 'eart, that one."

She thought of the children clamoring for his attention, the hugs he had given, the comfort he had offered. Some ice cube.

"I used to think that was true," she said stiffly, "but I don't believe it anymore."

"Now don't you turn soft on me, Princess, or I'll 'ave to go against me better judgment and give you some advice."

"Go ahead."

He leaned against the back of the van and met her eyes unflinchingly. "All right. You were smart to take 'is money for one. The bloke's so rich 'e won't miss a penny. And you need to do wot 'e says about yer career. 'E won't steer you wrong there, and you can trust 'im." He pushed one hand into the pockets of his baggy trousers. "But that's all yer gonna get from 'im. 'E's not good with fragile people, Princess. 'E doesn't mean to 'urt 'em, but it always 'appens."

She was the one who looked away. "I shouldn't have. That night in the bathroom—I was tired, that's all"

"It wasn't a smart thing to do, Princess." His voice grew husky. "Yer not the kind of woman can take somethin' like that lightly."

"Yes I am!" she exclaimed. "That's exactly how I took it. It didn't mean anything because I'm still in love with my husband. And he would have understood!"

"Would 'e?"

"Of course. He understood about sex. And that's all it was. Just sex. There was nothing wrong."

"That's good, Princess. Then you don't 'ave anything to regret."

It should have been true, but it wasn't, and she didn't understand why.

He gave her a gentle smile and climbed into the van. "So long, Princess."

"So long, Patches."

The engine started immediately, and he pulled out of the parking lot. She watched as the van turned the corner and disappeared. In the distance church bells softly chimed. Above her head the stars popped out one by one.

Grief settled over her in a great heavy cloud.