Desmond reads, "and danced, and pleased Herod and them that sat with him, the king said unto the damsel, Ask of me whatsoever thou wilt, and I will give it thee. And he sware unto her, Whatsoever thou shalt ask of me, I will give it thee, unto the half of my kingdom.

"And she went forth, and said unto her mother, What shall I ask? And she said, The head of John the Baptist. And Salomé came in straightway with haste unto the king, and asked, saying, I will that thou give me by and by in a charger the head of John the Baptist. And the king was exceeding sorry; yet for his oath's sake, and for their sakes which sat with him, he would not reject her."

Closing the great book, Desmond lightly kisses my forehead and pulls my quilt up over my shoulders. "Sweet dreams, Salomé," he whispers softly.

"Desmond," I say, as he starts out to dim the lights. "Are you my mother?"

He chuckles in his curious way. There have been things that Desmond has said or done that have made me feel tall enough to touch the stars. At other times, he has said and done things to make me very cross, indeed. And still other times I am left in confusion. After some consideration, "Yes, you might say that I am your mother, Sally," is his answer.

"And would you like me to dance for Herod and bring you John the Baptist's head?"

My question is simple enough. I am not book-learned, nor can I read, for that matter. Still, my query seems to have taken Mother-Desmond off-guard. The last of the flames he turns down very low so that it illuminates only the glass case around it and the profile of his face. "Yes, Salomé. That is precisely what I would like you to do."

I smile proudly, having championed such a difficult concept. I trust tomorrow morning Mother-Desmond will tell me where I might find Herod. When he leaves the room, I close my eyes and open them again, listening to the clicks and whirring sounds made by the brilliant motors throughout my body. I believe I really am as special as Mother-Desmond says. And if he's right, I must not sleep in a bed so close to the window! From under the stairs, I've heard the other maids chattering about how werewolves may burst through windows, without provocation, and cause great mischief in homes. I've never seen them, myself, but they do sound something fierce!

Slipping out of bed, my wobbly legs take only a moment to remember how to carry me. I sway a little, as gears and valves help them along. With one hand taking hold the lengthwise side of the bed's wooden frame and the other hand taking hold of adjacent side, I lift the great bed from the floor and lean back so that I do not fall forward. It is a bit heavier than my broom and Grandmother Godwinson's cameo brooch, but I can manage. Taking several steps toward the door, I return the bed gently to the floor. "Werewolves may use the door, too," it occurs to me suddenly. I push the bed up against the bedroom door. That ought to keep them out, I think to myself, clapping my hands together with satisfaction.

And now, to sleep.