“Oh, come on.”
The High Priest shrugged, and removed his High Priesting hat.
“It’s very depressing, this kind of thing” he said, glancing up at the ravaged statue. “Some people just don’t know how to behave in a house of religion.”
Death sped across the world, landing once again in the farmyard. The sun was on the horizon when he knocked on the kitchen door.
Miss Flitworth opened it, wiping her hands on her apron. She grimaced short-sightedly at the visitor, and then took a step back.
“Bill Door? You gave me quite a start—”
I HAVE BROUGHT YOU SOME FLOWERS.
She stared at the dry, dead stems.
ALSO SOME CHOCOLATE ASSORTMENT, THE SORT LADIES LIKE.
She stared at the black box.
ALSO HERE IS A DIAMOND TO BE FRIENDS WITH YOU.
It caught the last rays of the setting sun.
Miss Flitworth finally found her voice.
“Bill Door, what are you thinking of?”
I HAVE COME TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ALL THIS.
“You have? Where to?”
Death hadn’t thought this far.
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE?
“I ain’t proposing to go anywhere tonight except to the dance,” said Miss Flitworth firmly.
Death hadn’t planned for this, either.
WHAT IS THIS DANCE?
“Harvest dance. You know? It’s tradition. When the harvest is in. It’s a sort of celebration, and like a thanksgiving.”
THANKSGIVING TO WHO?
“Dunno. No one in particular, I reckon. Just general thankfulness, I suppose.”
I HAD PLANNED TO SHOW YOU MARVELS. FINE CITIES. ANYTHING YOU WANTED. “Anything?”
YES. “Then we’re going to the dance, Bill Door. I always go every year. They rely on me. You know how it is.”
YES, MISS FLITWORTH.
He reached out and took her hand.
“What, you mean now?” she said, “I’m not ready—”
LOOK.