Excerpt from Stone Mattress by Margaret Atwood, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Oh," says Constance. "No salt. Bad luck for me."

"You shouldn't be out in this, dear," the woman says. "It's treacherous!" Although she has dyed red hair shaved up the back of her neck in an edgy style, she's only about ten years younger than Constance by the look of her, and quite a lot fatter. At least I don't wheeze, thinks Constance. Still, she likes being called dear. She was called that when very much younger, then not called it for a long time. Now it's a word she hears frequently.

"It's all right," she says. "I only live a couple of blocks away."

"Couple of blocks is a long way to go in this weather," says the woman, who despite her age has a tattoo peeking up above her collar. It looks like a dragon, or a version of one. Spikes, horns, bulgy eyes. "You could freeze your ass off."

Constance agrees with her, and asks if she can park her shopping bag and umbrella beside the counter. Then she wanders up and down the aisles, pushing a wire store cart. There are no other customers, though in one aisle she encounters a weedy young man transferring cans of tomato juice to a shelf. She picks up one of the barbecued chickens that revolve on spits inside a glass case, day in and day out like a vision from the Inferno, and a package of frozen peas.

"Kitty litter," says Ewan's voice. Is this a comment on her purchases? He disapproved of those chickens – he said they were probably full of chemicals – though he'd eat one readily enough if she brought it home, back in his eating days.

"What do you mean?" she says. "We don't have a cat any more." She's discovered that she has to talk out loud to Ewan because most of the time he can't read her mind. Though sometimes he can. His powers are intermittent.

Ewan doesn't expand – he's such a tease, he often makes her figure out the answers by herself – and then it comes to her: the kitty litter is for the front steps, instead of salt. It won't work as well, it won't melt anything, but at least it will provide some traction. She wrestles a bag of the stuff into the cart and adds two candles and a box of wooden matches. There. She's prepared.

Back at the counter she exchanges pleasantries with the woman about the excellence of the chicken – it's an item
the woman likes herself, because who can be bothered with cooking when there's only one, or even only two – and stows her purchases in her wheeled shopper, resisting the temptation to get into a conversation about the dragon tattoo. This topic might swiftly veer into complexities, as she's learned from experience over the years. There are dragons in Alphinland, and they have numerous fans with many bright ideas they are eager to share with Constance. How she ought to have done the dragons differently. How they would do the dragons if it was them. Subspecies of dragons. Errors she has made about the care and feeding of dragons, and so on. It's astonishing how folks can get
so worked up over something that doesn't exist.

Has the woman overheard her talking to Ewan? Most likely, and most likely it didn't bother her. Any store that's open 24/7 must get its share of people who talk to invisible companions. In Alphinland, such behaviour would call for a different interpretation: some of its inhabitants have spirit familiars.

"Where exactly do you live, dear?" the woman calls after her when Constance is halfway out the door. "I could text a friend, get you a walk home." What sort of friend? Maybe she's a biker's girl, thinks Constance. Maybe she's younger than Constance thought; maybe she's just very weathered.

Constance pretends she didn't hear. It could be a ruse, and next thing you know there will be a gang member bent on home invasion standing outside the door with the duct tape ready in his pocket. They say their car has broken down and can they use your phone, and out of the goodness of your heart you let them in, and before you know it you're duct?taped to the banister and they're inserting push?pins under your fingernails to make you cough up your passwords. Constance is well informed about that sort of thing: she doesn't watch the television news for nothing.

Excerpted from Stone Mattress by Margaret Atwood. Copyright © 2014 by Margaret Atwood. Excerpted by permission of Nan A. Talese, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.