"I'm ready to go," he said to Rictus. "Lead the way."

Millsap, the town in which Harvey had lived all his life, wasn't very big, and he thought he'd seen just about all of it over the years. But the streets he knew were soon behind them, and though Rictus was setting a fair speed Harvey made sure he kept a mental list of landmarks along the way, in case he had to find his way home on his own. A butcher's shop with two pigs' heads hanging from hooks; a church with a yard full of old tombs beside it; the statue of some dead general, covered from hat to stirrups in pigeon dung: All these sights and more he noted and filed away.

And while they walked, Rictus kept up a stream of idle chatter.

"I hate the fog! Just hate it!" he said. "And there'll be rain by noon. We'll be out of it, of course..." He went on from talk of rain to the state of the streets. "Look at this trash, all over the sidewalk! It's shameful! And the mud! It's making a fine old mess of my shoes!"

He had plenty more to say, but none of it was very enlightening, so after a while Harvey gave up listening. How far was this Holiday House, he began to wonder. The fog was chilling him, and his legs were aching. If they didn't get there soon, he was going to turn back.

"I know what you're thinking," said Rictus.

"I bet you don't."

"You're thinking this is all a trick. You're thinking Rictus is leading you on a mystery tour and there's nothing at the end of it. Isn't that true?"

"Maybe a little."

"Well, my boy, I've got news for you. Look up ahead."

He pointed, and there-not very far from where they stood-was a high wall, which was so long that it disappeared into the fog to right and left.

"What do you see?" Rictus asked him.

"A wall," Harvey replied, though the more he stared at it the less certain of this he was. The stones, which had seemed solid enough at first sight, now looked to be shifting and wavering, as though they'd been chiseled from the fog itself, and piled up here to keep out prying eyes.