PEMBROOK
Pembrook huddled high in the tree. Sweat trickled down his spine, beaded on his forehead. Yes, his forehead was beneath his spine. Was he safe from his pursuer? Time would tell. Or would it? Time couldn’t be trusted, Pembrook thought bitterly. His survival depended on his remaining perfectly silent. So naturally his throat tickled and his nose itched. He focused with savage agony his entire being on suppressing a sneezing cough fighting to explode from his rancid imperfect body. But what of Maurice and the dancing mice? Would Wanda get true value for her many stone hen sculptures? Pembrook was nearly torn asunder by the desire to know the answers to these and other questions. Were there enough figs for the high step competition? How many hats would the Donaldson twins wear? What was the importance of Hermione’s vat filled with beads? Pembrook huddled high in the tree.
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