"Dead," Alféar said calmly, rubbing one of his fingers. "This business of getting just one finger through the planes into her head cuts off the circulation. There, that's better. Satisfied?" Henry dropped beside the corpse. She was dead, according to the mirror test, and there wasn't a mark on her. He stared at the puffy, relaxed features; he'd expected an expression of horror, but she seemed simply asleep. His initial feeling of pity and contrition vanished; after all, it had been quick and nearly painless. Now he was free! "Thanks, Alféar," he said. "It's fine--fine. Do I dismiss you now?" "No need this time. I'm free as soon as the job's done. Unless you'd like to talk awhile...." Henry shook his head quickly. He had to telephone a doctor. Then he could call Shirley--her mother would be gone by now. "Not now. Maybe I'll summon you sometime for a smoke or something. But not now!" "Okay," Alféar said, and vanished. Surprisingly, seeing him disappear wasn't unpleasant, after all. He just wasn't there. Waiting for the doctor was the worst part of it. All the legends Henry knew ran through his mind. Alféar could have given her a stroke and then added some violent poison that would show up in an autopsy. He could be sitting wherever he was, chuckling because Henry hadn't restricted his wish enough to be safe. Or any of a hundred things could happen. There was the first witch, who had thought she had Apalon under control, only to be turned to dust. But the doctor took it calmly enough. "Stroke, all right," he decided. "I warned her last year that she was putting on too much weight and getting high blood pressure. Too bad, Mr. Aimsworth, but there was nothing you could do. I'll turn in a certificate. Want me to contact a mortician for you?" Henry nodded, trying to appear properly grief-stricken. "I--I'd appreciate it." "Too late now," the doctor said. "But I'll be glad to send Mr. Glazier around in the morning." He pulled the sheet up over Emma's body, leaving it on the backroom couch to which they had carried it. "You'd better go to a hotel for the night. And I'll give you something that will make you sleep." "I'd rather not," Henry said quickly. "I mean, I'd feel better here. You know...." "Certainly, certainly." The doctor nodded sympathetically, but as if it were an old story to him. He left the pills with instructions, said the proper things again, and finally went out. * * * * * Shirley's voice was sleepy and cross when she answered, but it grew alert as soon as he told her about Emma's stroke. He was almost beginning to believe the simple version of the story himself. "Poor Henry," she murmured. Her voice sharpened again. "It _was_ a stroke? The doctor was sure?" "Positive," he assured her, cursing himself for having let her guess some of the thoughts that had been on his mind. "The doctor said she'd had hypertension and such before."