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Dex didn't think anyone had died, but maybe he was wrong. Probably though, what with all the ribbing the nurse took, she had simply snapped.

On his left, Jenna stirred.

Tweed cuddled against him, almost hiding her head beneath his arm. Perhaps she was reliving those awful moments at the prom, and the death of her father. Dex would have to soothe her tonight, to assure her that she was safe in his arms and adored to the max.

But Tweed's kid sister squirmed in a most delightful fashion at his thigh. As he watched her take in each speaker in the room, Dex could feel the tension in her body.

Jenna was a pert thing, a little more compact than Tweed but otherwise a knock-off of her.

And a knock-out.

Dex mused.

Sister-wives were not unheard of.

Jenna was currently nursing a crush on the sprightly Pish Balthasar and on Bo Meacham, a hot-shot quarterback with nothing but brawn and looks to recommend him.

Maybe after her prom, she would wise up and gaze upon her brother-in-law in a new way.

Dex hoped so.

But he thought it best to let that unfold on its own. It was inconceivable to bring it up with her. Maybe he could plant a seed in Tweed's ear, letting sisterly magic weave its gossamer web.

Shame on him!

With all the upset and outrage sweeping through Mr. Versailles' living room, here he was firmly focused on lust.

Maybe Tweed would chastise him tonight.

He loved their Private Flogger.

And he was glad it made such a racket, the buzz-build, the thwap!

Jenna, down the hall from their bedroom, was most likely listening, lying there stroking her lovelobe. Most likely, she had Pish and Bo on her mind as she stroked, but maybe not, maybe not.

He could dream, couldn't he?

*****

Tweed clung to Dex.

She missed her father's melodious voice.

At first, her house had seemed empty without him. But Dex's love for her had so filled it, and so filled her heart, that the ache of her father's death had lost its edge in recent months.

Jenna's presence helped too.

Their sisterly rivalry, always minor, had vanished completely in the sudden maturity prom night had brought on.

Jenna had recently taken up with Bo Meacham, whose outsized nose and dorkish grins were more than offset by his dropdead looks and a stellar career this year as lead quarterback. She had dropped hints to Tweed, snickering over popcorn while Dex was off hitting the bars with his work buddies, that noselength, at least in Bo's case, did indeed nicely correspond to genlength.

But more important to Tweed was her sister's near-certain crowning as prom queen. Next spring, the designated slasher's victim would come as usual from the pool of the non-exempt, a pool which would not include Jenna.

Proper protocol would be observed at Corundum High. Mr. Buttweiler would see to it. No doubt, the entire Demented States of America would tune in that night to witness the restoration of order in Corundum, Kansas.

Pillowed on Dex's thigh on the floor, Jenna was following intensely the how-shall-we-kill-her debate which filled the living room.

Tweed watched a lightbulb struggle to go on in her sister's head. Later, she swore she heard the tinny tinsel clink of the pullchain as Jenna's eyes lit up.

"Wait! I've got it!" she said, interrupting a savage suggestion from Jonquil Brindisi. Jenna had always been bold with adults. "We mustn't rip her apart. Not quickly. Not slowly. Not with drops of acid steaming pain into her wounds. Not with starved, rabid rats dangling within a jaw's bite of her flesh. Nope! We've got to keep her skin intact!"

A razor stropped in Miss Brindisi's voice. "The woman deserves slow dismemberment." End of argument.

Had Jenna already taken her course in the greater vices? Yes. Tweed remembered the B+ on her sister's report card the winter before. No reprisals were possible from that quarter.

"Jonquil," said Mr. Buttweiler, "let's hear what Jenna has to say, shall we?"

"She's a real pistol," whispered Tweed to Dex, who nodded and squeezed her hand.

Jenna's prodigious zest, her zeal when she latched onto the meat of an idea, was a favorite topic of conversation between them. That, even more than Jenna's beauty, explained her popularity.

" Here's how we'll kill her!"

Tweed observed the others as Jenna talked.

Trilby and Brest, torn by warring emotions, nodded with enthusiasm as her plan unfolded. Miss Phipps' eyes saucered behind her gold wire rims. Futzy Buttweiler's eyebrows looked like a couple of fat caterpillars working overtime at pushups. Claude Versailles and his formerly homeless lovers were utterly enthralled by Jenna's words.

Even Jonquil Brindisi's defiance softened to neutrality there in that armchair. Her sips grew more deliberate, her body shifting in what Tweed suspected was growing arousal.