Date: Fri, 14 Feb 1997 08:50:16 -0500 From: "S. Moskowitz" Subject: Int: HHR (Izzy's Cave) Izzy sat up and looked around sleepily, but happily. It had been a good long hibernation. She yawned and noted, to her surprise, that her early-spring-breath was minty fresh and not, as usual, reminiscent of green fuzzy things left too long in refrigerator crisper drawers. She threw back the soft down comforter, swung her legs over the edge of the four poster bed's high mattress, and . . . WAIT JUST A DARNED MINUTE! Hadn't she snuggled down into her old sleeping bag right on the rockiest part of the cave floor last fall? Wasn't it supposed to be dank and gloomy in here? And COLD, it was supposed to be cold. Damp, too--she'd had to argue long and hard with Barbara on that point. Now the place was warm and cheery. Bright flames danced in the stone fireplace. (How had . . . whoever it was pushed a chimney through the solid rock ceiling?) Plush Persian rugs covered every inch of the rocky floor, and full-to-bursting cherry wood bookshelves every wall. A lovely antique roll-top desk stood in one corner, well stocked with paper, a large selection of fountain pens, and tiny bottles of ink in colors Izzy had never imagined before. The desk also held in one corner a photograph in a silver frame. The portrait--somebody from a dream, a very good dream. Dark curly hair, laughing brown eyes, wide grin beaming over a neatly-trimmed beard, a dimple in the left cheek . . . Somebody had been busy while Izzy was sleeping. Somehow, she didn't mind a bit. Izzy heard a rustling and looked down. Someone had safety-pinned a note to the lapel of her blue and white striped satin pajamas. (And where had *those* come from?) It read, in Barbara's even, feminine script, "Hope you like the changes--we had some outside help. See you at the ball!" "The ball?" Izzy said aloud, wonderingly. Her skin tingled. She caught a glimpse of herself in a previously-unnoticed full-length mirror. (How could she have missed it with all that gilt on the carved frame?) Her pajamas had somehow been transformed; she was now wearing a perfectly tailored black silk tuxedo over a crisp tucked white shirt, open at the neck. A top hat perched at an angle on top of her miraculously unmussed long dark hair. "What the-?" Izzy shook her head and shrugged. Her hair remained neat, her suit, unrumpled. There was nothing for it but to head to the big house and find out what was going on. In a blink, she was there. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sharon Moskowitz, Monographic Cataloging Unit, FSU Library Technical Services http://mailer.fsu.edu/~slmoskow has absolutely nothing of interest on it.