Hello and welcome back to Nighty Night, bedtime stories to keep you awake.

I'm your narrator, Rabi Achadri.

And in this week's story, we learn what it really means to be hoisted by your own

petard.

The Power of Darkness by E. Nesbit. It was an enthusiastic send off. Half the students from her Atelier were there and twice as many more from other studios. She had been the bell of the artist quarter in Montparnos for three golden months. Now she was off to the Riviera to meet her people and

everyone she knew was at the Gerd d'Lion to catch the pretty last glimpse of her.

And as had been more than once said late of an evening, to see her was to love her.

She was one of those agitating blondes with the naturally rippled hair, the rounded rose leaf cheeks, the large violet blue eyes that look all things

and mean heaven alone knows how little. She held her court like a queen, leaning out of the

carriage window and receiving bouquets, books, journals, long-last words, and

last longing looks.

All eyes were on her, and her eyes were for all, and her smile.

For all but one that is, not a single glance went Edward's way, and Edward, tall, lean gaunt

with big eyes, straight nose, and mouth somewhat too small, too beautiful,

seemed to grow thinner and paler before one's eyes.

One pair of eyes at least saw the miracle worked, the paling of what had seemed absolute

polar, the revelation of the bones of the flesh that seemed already covered but by the

thinnest possible veil of flesh.

And the man whose eyes saw this rejoiced,

for he loved her like the rest,

or not like the rest.

And he had had Edward's face before him

...