vocabulary—abutting, mar dhea! "
"Well, James thinks this place could be three hundred years old."
She peered up at the cobwebs. "I suppose it takes a few centuries for something to fall apart as thoroughly as this."
"Say what you like, I'm going to be blissful here," said Marcus, taking another of his homemade lemon biscuits. "Now come out and look at the best thing."
"It's raining again."
"Barely a drop." He led her across the nettle-choked yard, around several hedges, into a field that sloped away down the mountain.
Síle could see nothing but gray cloud. "The sheep?"
"No, you twit, the stones."
She stared at the nearest rock, which had a few tufts of wool caught on it. Marcus pointed to another, and then to a grass-covered lump, and another behind a blackthorn ... and suddenly she could see it. "A circle!"
"I know they're not literally standing stones anymore, because half are lying down and the other half have been carted away by the locals to build pigsties. But it's still magic, isn't it?"
She slid her arm around her friend's waist. His gray Aran cardigan smelled of wood smoke. "Colonist! You Brits swan over here with your fortunes and your fancy vans, you buy up our timeless Celtic heritage—"
He let out a rip of laughter and pointed down. "On a clear day, you can see all the way to Lough Allen."
They headed back to the house with dripping fistfuls of coltsfoot, barren strawberry, and herb robert (or so Marcus claimed; it was all greenery to Síle). "So I've been e-mailing this Canadian," she said out of nowhere.
"Which Canadian?"
"The one I'm about to tell you about." She produced a stiff little summary of Jude Turner.
"Is she gorgeous?"
She gave him a hard look. Then, "Yes, actually." She let herself picture the narrow shoulders, the chaste face. "But she lives five time zones away, so that's irrelevant."
"It's always relevant."
"She writes interesting e-mails," Síle snapped. They walked on, skirting a huge stretch of nettles. "Forget I said anything," she said, to keep the conversation from ending.
Marcus tucked his arm into hers. "What's going on, Síle?"
"Nothing, virtually. I don't know," she added after a minute.
"Are you and Kathleen having trouble?"
"No," she said bleakly. "Everything's fine. As always."
"Are you bored, or what?"
Síle dropped his arm. "Kathleen's not boring. I know you and Jael have never quite clicked with her, but that's partly because she doesn't want to intrude—"
"I didn't say she was boring," he cut in gently. "I asked if you were bored."
Síle didn't answer. She could have said "no," or "yes," or "no more than I've been for years." She kicked a tree branch out of her path. She spoke under her breath: "It's not about boredom. It's not about ... I wasn't out looking for anything, you know."
"I know you weren't." He waited. "Is it getting serious, with this Jude character?"
"It can't be," said Síle through her teeth. "And if you look at it objectively, she and I have feck-all in common. She's so young, she's ensconced over there in Nowhere, Ontario, and her idea of a wild night out is a slide show on Ojibway arrowheads." She felt like a traitor for giving this example.
Marcus said nothing.
"And while it's great fun sending dispatches between our two planets, it'll fizzle out in the end. It's in the nature of things."
Purge
Your nearest exit may be behind you.
—passenger briefing
As Jude walked back from the museum on Sunday, the pink light drained out of the western sky. The ice shifted and slid under her boots; trees dripped loudly; squirrels hurried about their business. It was only a temporary thaw, of course, but still.
Every time she came home, these days, she had to steel herself. Not so much against the ache of grief as a sense of disorientation. When she read at the dining room table or played her guitar on the living room rug, her ears kept pricking for the front door opening, her mother's step in the hall. To be living alone in Number
"Well, James thinks this place could be three hundred years old."
She peered up at the cobwebs. "I suppose it takes a few centuries for something to fall apart as thoroughly as this."
"Say what you like, I'm going to be blissful here," said Marcus, taking another of his homemade lemon biscuits. "Now come out and look at the best thing."
"It's raining again."
"Barely a drop." He led her across the nettle-choked yard, around several hedges, into a field that sloped away down the mountain.
Síle could see nothing but gray cloud. "The sheep?"
"No, you twit, the stones."
She stared at the nearest rock, which had a few tufts of wool caught on it. Marcus pointed to another, and then to a grass-covered lump, and another behind a blackthorn ... and suddenly she could see it. "A circle!"
"I know they're not literally standing stones anymore, because half are lying down and the other half have been carted away by the locals to build pigsties. But it's still magic, isn't it?"
She slid her arm around her friend's waist. His gray Aran cardigan smelled of wood smoke. "Colonist! You Brits swan over here with your fortunes and your fancy vans, you buy up our timeless Celtic heritage—"
He let out a rip of laughter and pointed down. "On a clear day, you can see all the way to Lough Allen."
They headed back to the house with dripping fistfuls of coltsfoot, barren strawberry, and herb robert (or so Marcus claimed; it was all greenery to Síle). "So I've been e-mailing this Canadian," she said out of nowhere.
"Which Canadian?"
"The one I'm about to tell you about." She produced a stiff little summary of Jude Turner.
"Is she gorgeous?"
She gave him a hard look. Then, "Yes, actually." She let herself picture the narrow shoulders, the chaste face. "But she lives five time zones away, so that's irrelevant."
"It's always relevant."
"She writes interesting e-mails," Síle snapped. They walked on, skirting a huge stretch of nettles. "Forget I said anything," she said, to keep the conversation from ending.
Marcus tucked his arm into hers. "What's going on, Síle?"
"Nothing, virtually. I don't know," she added after a minute.
"Are you and Kathleen having trouble?"
"No," she said bleakly. "Everything's fine. As always."
"Are you bored, or what?"
Síle dropped his arm. "Kathleen's not boring. I know you and Jael have never quite clicked with her, but that's partly because she doesn't want to intrude—"
"I didn't say she was boring," he cut in gently. "I asked if you were bored."
Síle didn't answer. She could have said "no," or "yes," or "no more than I've been for years." She kicked a tree branch out of her path. She spoke under her breath: "It's not about boredom. It's not about ... I wasn't out looking for anything, you know."
"I know you weren't." He waited. "Is it getting serious, with this Jude character?"
"It can't be," said Síle through her teeth. "And if you look at it objectively, she and I have feck-all in common. She's so young, she's ensconced over there in Nowhere, Ontario, and her idea of a wild night out is a slide show on Ojibway arrowheads." She felt like a traitor for giving this example.
Marcus said nothing.
"And while it's great fun sending dispatches between our two planets, it'll fizzle out in the end. It's in the nature of things."
Purge
Your nearest exit may be behind you.
—passenger briefing
As Jude walked back from the museum on Sunday, the pink light drained out of the western sky. The ice shifted and slid under her boots; trees dripped loudly; squirrels hurried about their business. It was only a temporary thaw, of course, but still.
Every time she came home, these days, she had to steel herself. Not so much against the ache of grief as a sense of disorientation. When she read at the dining room table or played her guitar on the living room rug, her ears kept pricking for the front door opening, her mother's step in the hall. To be living alone in Number
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