He breathed in the vinegary argument of the old couple, Mr. and Mrs. Gladstein, whose nightly shouting matches were something of a tradition on this street. He took a whiff of the lilac-laced telephone conversation between thirteen year old Lissen Trachtenberg and fifteen year old Zacharias Stone. Then he passed the house on the corner, routinely inhaling and expecting the usual garlic stinginess that permeated Mrs. Steiner’s house.

But his nose smelled something else. Something different. It was flower-like in its delicacy if not in its scent. It was powdery but with a certain heaviness, like the feel of lamb’s wool in your hand. Arnst Vandenburg, wunderkid extraordinaire, who thought he had cataloged every scent in town, was stumped.

“What is that smell?” he breathed aloud, wondering. The birds in the trees stopped, too, breathing in the scent along with him. A wondering wunderkid is not something you see every day, after all.

Like a drowning man, Arnst walked up to Mrs. Steiner’s door and knocked.