exasperation, “it was a cat. Brown, long tail, whiskers, perky ears.”
“It was both,” Sebastian interrupted. “The mouse itself did not change. It was a mouse all the while. What altered was your perception of it.”
“Look,” Tim said, “I might be as thick as an elephant omelette, but I think I know the difference between a cat and a rat.”
“Of course,” Sebastian agreed, “but you saw what you wanted or expected to see. Thus it is with shape-shifting.”
“So,” Pip said, “shape-shifting is not a matter of actual transformation, but . . .” she sought for a way to explain her thoughts “. . . of somehow making us think we see something. Like hypnotizing us.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Sebastian replied. “It is more a method of manipulating your emotions and thoughts.”
“So,” Tim reasoned, “what you’re saying is that when Pip was dive-bombed by a blackbird, it was really de Loudéac who made her think he was a blackbird.”
“Precisely!” Sebastian declared. “He makes you see something else so that he may draw near to you unobserved — or, rather, unrecognized. It is but a way of being invisible.”
All that evening, the rain lashed against the windows. After supper, the family sat in the living room. Tim and his father were watching highlights from the previous weekend’s motor racing on TV while Pip read and her mother did some sewing.
Despite herself, Pip could not concentrate on her book. Her mind kept wandering and she found herself repeatedly thinking of Sebastian’s father’s trial, which had been held in this very room. Every time she looked over at her mother, sitting in an armchair by the huge inglenook fireplace, Pip thought of Sebastian’s father seated in exactly the same place, facing his accusers, who occupied chairs where the Sony digital television now stood. And de Loudéac, she thought, had he been where she was now, watching his enemy beginning his inexorable descent into the flames of the execution pyre? The panels around the walls, the heavy, carved oak beams holding up the ceiling, the frame of the door, the stone mantelshelf over the fireplace: they had all witnessed the trial. She wondered if, in the deepest atoms of the stone and wood, there still lingered the slightest sound wave of the words spoken and if, one day far into the future, someone would develop the technology to pick up those words and replay them.
At ten-thirty, the lights in the living room were extinguished and the family went up to bed. Mr. Ledger had to leave before breakfast the following morning for a business meeting and wanted to get an early night. Pip went up to her room and, after a shower, got into bed and went to sleep.
Tim, not feeling tired, sat at his computer desk, went into his ISP and read an e-mail from a friend at his last school. He replied to it, logged off, booted up Flight Simulator and prepared to fly a Boeing 777 from London Heathrow to Rome Leonardo da Vinci, in real time. He chose the Delta Airlines livery, plotted his route and lined up at the end of runway 27L. Lightly holding his joystick, he throttled up the engines, released the brakes and began to roll. In twenty minutes, he was over the French coast near Caen, at his initial cruising altitude of nine-thousand meters. The way-points set, he put the jet into auto pilot and sat back watching the virtual French countryside sliding by, the clouds far below but some high-altitude cover coming up. If, he thought, he was a real pilot, he would now be putting on the seat-belt warning light and instructing the cabin director to tell the passengers to return to their seats because they were in for a little turbulence.
With no necessity to be in the cockpit for another thirty-five minutes, when he would need to fly over the Alps near Grenoble and enter Italian airspace, Tim stood up, undressed, put on his pajamas and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Returning to his room, he checked the flight
“It was both,” Sebastian interrupted. “The mouse itself did not change. It was a mouse all the while. What altered was your perception of it.”
“Look,” Tim said, “I might be as thick as an elephant omelette, but I think I know the difference between a cat and a rat.”
“Of course,” Sebastian agreed, “but you saw what you wanted or expected to see. Thus it is with shape-shifting.”
“So,” Pip said, “shape-shifting is not a matter of actual transformation, but . . .” she sought for a way to explain her thoughts “. . . of somehow making us think we see something. Like hypnotizing us.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Sebastian replied. “It is more a method of manipulating your emotions and thoughts.”
“So,” Tim reasoned, “what you’re saying is that when Pip was dive-bombed by a blackbird, it was really de Loudéac who made her think he was a blackbird.”
“Precisely!” Sebastian declared. “He makes you see something else so that he may draw near to you unobserved — or, rather, unrecognized. It is but a way of being invisible.”
All that evening, the rain lashed against the windows. After supper, the family sat in the living room. Tim and his father were watching highlights from the previous weekend’s motor racing on TV while Pip read and her mother did some sewing.
Despite herself, Pip could not concentrate on her book. Her mind kept wandering and she found herself repeatedly thinking of Sebastian’s father’s trial, which had been held in this very room. Every time she looked over at her mother, sitting in an armchair by the huge inglenook fireplace, Pip thought of Sebastian’s father seated in exactly the same place, facing his accusers, who occupied chairs where the Sony digital television now stood. And de Loudéac, she thought, had he been where she was now, watching his enemy beginning his inexorable descent into the flames of the execution pyre? The panels around the walls, the heavy, carved oak beams holding up the ceiling, the frame of the door, the stone mantelshelf over the fireplace: they had all witnessed the trial. She wondered if, in the deepest atoms of the stone and wood, there still lingered the slightest sound wave of the words spoken and if, one day far into the future, someone would develop the technology to pick up those words and replay them.
At ten-thirty, the lights in the living room were extinguished and the family went up to bed. Mr. Ledger had to leave before breakfast the following morning for a business meeting and wanted to get an early night. Pip went up to her room and, after a shower, got into bed and went to sleep.
Tim, not feeling tired, sat at his computer desk, went into his ISP and read an e-mail from a friend at his last school. He replied to it, logged off, booted up Flight Simulator and prepared to fly a Boeing 777 from London Heathrow to Rome Leonardo da Vinci, in real time. He chose the Delta Airlines livery, plotted his route and lined up at the end of runway 27L. Lightly holding his joystick, he throttled up the engines, released the brakes and began to roll. In twenty minutes, he was over the French coast near Caen, at his initial cruising altitude of nine-thousand meters. The way-points set, he put the jet into auto pilot and sat back watching the virtual French countryside sliding by, the clouds far below but some high-altitude cover coming up. If, he thought, he was a real pilot, he would now be putting on the seat-belt warning light and instructing the cabin director to tell the passengers to return to their seats because they were in for a little turbulence.
With no necessity to be in the cockpit for another thirty-five minutes, when he would need to fly over the Alps near Grenoble and enter Italian airspace, Tim stood up, undressed, put on his pajamas and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Returning to his room, he checked the flight
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