"Billy Joe and I are gettin' married," she told Maragon.
"Billy Joe?" he asked, scowling at me across his desk.
"That's me," I said. "Don't ask me where the name comes from."
"I couldn't care less," Maragon grumped. "Is it true? Are you going to marry this bag of bones?"
I could feel my face getting red. "Not that I know of," I said.
He swung around in his chair to face her. "Young woman, someone has told you how much the Lodge is interested in precognition. You wouldn't walk in here claiming the power if you didn't know we want to find it, and rarely can. But you certainly came ill-prepared. Going to marry Lefty, eh? Why, you can't predict the right time!" He banged his fist on the big slab of walnut. "You're a fake!" he said.
"I ain't a fake!" Pheola protested. "We will get married!"
"Drag her out, Lefty," Maragon said wearily, with a limp wave of his hand.
"Come on, Pheola," I said, taking her arm with my right hand. I saw no point talking with him any further.
"Lefty!" Maragon exclaimed.