By Peter S. Beagle
Even lifelong friendships cannot out live death...or can they?
Award-winning writer Peter S. Beagle offers a deeply own tale of goals deserted and recovered, associates enjoyed and misplaced, and the power it takes to allow go....
Praise for Peter S. Beagle's novels:
"Peter S. Beagle has either opulence of mind's eye and mastery of style."-New York Times
"Stunning...Fantasy hardly ever dances throughout the mind's eye in additional radiant clothing than this." -Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"Peter S. Beagle illuminates along with his personal specific magic."-Ursula ok. LeGuin
"Beagle is the category act of myth writing."-Booklist
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When she didn't, I finally mumbled—just as lamely as it reads—"We needed to talk about you. " "If not for Jake," Emilia said. "Sam, if it weren't for Jake, if he hadn't known me at your funeral—" she caught her breath only momentarily on the word "—Sam, I would have disappeared. " Millamant hardly seemed to be listening. She said thoughtfully, "I'll be damned. " "I'll make you a quesadilla," I said, eager to be doing something practical. "Cheese and scallions and Ortega diced chilies—I've still got a can from the last time you were here.
Wanting to dance wasn't something boys admitted to easily then—certainly not in our Brooklyn high school, where being interested in anything besides football, fighting, and very large breasts could get you called a faggot. I was the one person who knew about those classes; and we were seniors, with a lot of operas, Dodgers games, and old Universal horror movies behind us, before I actually saw him dance. There was a program at the shabby East Village studio where he was taking classes three times a week by then.
But her eyes were bright, and when she smiled to recognize me I saw her meeting my friend, her lover, in Penn Station to embark on one more Adventure. It wasn't entirely meant for me, that smile. Millamant herself had apparently been quite docile on the flight from New York—even banging around on the luggage conveyor belt didn't seem to have fazed her. Uncaged in my house, she didn't exhibit any of the usual edginess of a cat in strange surroundings: she stretched here, strolled there, leisurely investigated this and that, as though getting reacquainted, and finally curled herself in the one good chair, plainly waiting for the floor show to begin.
A Dance for Emilia by Peter S. Beagle