By M. B. MCCLATCHEY

It was a gold-seal ruse. A double- 
dealing so sublime the gods ordained 
it. Settled into their stadium seats, 
they wagered on their favorites. Helen,  
the imposter bride, circling and circling  
the gifted horse. Her Central Casting  
lines to the shadows inside. The numbing  
non-reply. War-weary, she fastened her  
hair in gold and dressed for a city  
ablaze. Nothing to do but wait.