They walked into the house, and the little shepherdess was waiting for them. She was standing where she always stood: the lamb at her feet, the tiny globe above her head, and a look on her face that said, I know something you don’t know.

Flora’s father took off his hat and bowed to the lamp. “George Buckman,” he said. “How do you do?”

“Hello?” Flora shouted into the silence of the house.

From the kitchen came the sound of laughter.

“Mom?” said Flora.

No one answered.

Flora’s sense of foreboding deepened, expanded.

And then her mother spoke.

She said, “That’s absolutely right, William.”

William?

William?

There was only one William that Flora knew. What would he be doing in the kitchen with a known arch-nemesis?

And then came the familiar rattle of the typewriter keys being struck, the thwack of the carriage return being hit.

Ulysses’s grip on her shoulder tightened. He let out a small chirrup of excitement.

Her mother laughed again.

The laughter was followed by the truly terrifying words “Thank you so much, William.”

“Shhh,” said Flora to her father, who was standing, listening, his hat in his hands and a goofy smile on his face. There was a small, round drop of blood on his ear bandage. It looked oddly festive.

“You stay here,” Flora said to him. “Ulysses and I will go and check this out.”

“Right, right,” said her father. “You bet. I’ll stay here.” He put his hat on his head. He nodded.

Flora, superhero on her shoulder, walked quietly, stealthily through the living room and into the dining room and stood before the closed kitchen door. She held herself very still. She made herself into a Giant Ear.

She was getting extremely good at making herself into a Giant Ear.

Flora listened, and she could feel Ulysses, his body tense and expectant, listening, too.

Her mother spoke. She said, “Yes, it will go like this: ‘Frederico, I have dreamed of you for eons.’”

“No,” said another voice, a high, thin, and extremely annoying voice. “‘I’ve dreamed of you for all eternity.’”

“Ooooh,” said Flora’s mother. “‘For all eternity.’ That’s good. More poetic.”

Ulysses shifted his position on Flora’s shoulder. He nodded.

“Yes, exactly,” said William Spiver. “More poetic. ‘Eons’ sounds too geological. There’s nothing romantic about geology, I assure you.”

“Okay, okay,” said Flora’s mother. “Right. What’s next, William?”

“Actually,” said William Spiver, “if you don’t mind, I would prefer to be called William Spiver.”

“Of course,” said Flora’s mother. “I’m sorry. What’s next, William Spiver?”

“Let me see,” said William Spiver. “I suppose Frederico would say, ‘And I have dreamed of you, Angelique. My darling! I must tell you that they were dreams so vivid and beautiful that I am loath to wake to reality.’”

“Ooooh, that’s good. Hold on a sec.”

The typewriter keys came to clacking life. The carriage return dinged.

“Do you think that’s good?” Flora whispered to Ulysses. “Do you think that’s good writing?”

Ulysses shook his head. His whiskers brushed against her cheek.

“I don’t think so, either,” she said.

Actually, she thought it was terrible. It was sickly sweet nonsense. There was a word for that. What was it?

Treacle. That was it.

Having located the correct word, Flora felt a sudden need to say the word aloud. And so she did. She pushed open the kitchen door. She stepped forward.

“Treacle!” she shouted.

“Flora?” said her mother.

“Treacle?” said William Spiver.

“Yes!” said Flora.

She was pleased that with one simple word she had answered two very important questions.

Yes, she was Flora.

And yes, it was treacle.