"Dear Foldingstory, please stop. Each new

"Dear Foldingstory, please stop. Each new fold becomes another turn in my nightmares every night. Sincerely, G.B." He hit send. Would the support staff

understand his predicament? Gloriano Blok of Dune dared not sleep. He had bolted his Tarot deck together and stuck it in the freezer. But now reckless clowns were combining words

in a language primavera better suited for the streets of Babel than for this troubling situation. The Spice. The answer to the unconquered riddle lay in

the mountains of Switzerland where a caravan of saffron smugglers was making their way over a treacherous pass. But Rosetta had much more dangerous contraband -

of drudgery. How could she explain without them detesting her that she stayed up all night to the brink of insomnia on purpose, waiting for the day to fulfill before sleep? Alone,

she found she could think in the still of the night. Sometimes she'd look out the window at the fox cubs playing on the riverbank or the grazing geese in dawn's grey light. As the

sun came up through the slits of the blinds, she rose feeling deeply invigorated. As per usual, the foxes had come and left their fingerprints on her rubbish bins which were tipped

over, spoiling the pastoral view from her window. Because she was feeling so invigorated, she let out a mighty scream, which brought her manservant, Pierre, running. "MY GOD!"

He said, "What on earth was all that noise about?" She told Pierre to stand on all fours and she promptly rested her feet on his back. "I'm just so invigorated today, Pierre!"