pile them high.
“This will be a great deal of work,” says Henry, blowing air from his cheeks. “We can’t achieve it all in one visit.”
“We’ll see,” I say, drawing the spirit clock from my pocket.
As if anticipating my plan, the butterfly, which for some reason has refused to leave my shoulder, flutters down to my hand.
“What are you doing?” Henry asks.
With my finger I touch the glass above the fetal sparrow leg. I close my eyes, focusing my mind’s energy into a column of power, as dark and thick as ink.
Slower…
I lift the clock to my ear.
Tick . . . tick . . . . . . tick.
. . . and yet slower still . . .
Tiiickkk . . . . . . . . . Tiiiiiickkkkkk . . . . . . . . .
And then a long silence in which I count many beats of my own heart before the clock gives another languorous tick.
“Hah!” I cry exultantly, holding it out to Elizabeth. “I’ve slowed it even more than last time. It scarcely moves now!”
“How is this possible?” Henry demands, taking the clock from Elizabeth and listening.
“It’s possible,” I tell him.
I feel suddenly bereft as the butterfly lifts from my hand and circles about the room.
“Is it safe, though?” Henry says. “Our bodies are waiting for us, and they need—”
“Our bodies will be fine!” I say dismissively. “I did it last time. Elizabeth saw it.”
“You were a second longer than the first,” Henry says. “I timed it exactly.”
“A second!” I scoff. “What does it matter? Time is completelydifferent here, and I have mastered it! As long as we stay only one full revolution, we’re safe!”
Henry glances at Elizabeth.
“If you’re worried, Henry Clerval,” I say, “you can always go back.”
“No,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s make use of all this time you’ve bought us.”
“Excellent!” I say.
Konrad catches the books I toss to him, and he sets to work as well, searching like us for any writings about raising the dead.
“There are many accounts of revenants,” says Henry, paging through a volume, “but they aren’t promising stories.”
“What’s a revenant?” Elizabeth asks.
“A mindless corpse that rises from its grave, stalks about town, eats livestock and people, and then gets hacked to pieces by the townsfolk.”
“Don’t waste your time on that,” I tell him. “That’s not what we want.”
“No,” he replies, “but we’ll not find what we want unless we read everything carefully.”
He’s right, and it irks me that he’s moving through the texts faster than I am, but this spirit world makes us more of what we are, and Henry has always been very clever with languages. I return to my own book, struggling with the Latin and the crude Gothic lettering.
A butterfly—is it the same one as earlier, or different?—suddenly alights on my hand. I look at its rainbow-hued wings and then past them to the text beneath my fingertips, and—
I feel a coursing of language through my head, the Latin translating itself with such speed that my breath catches and I cough, as though I’ve swallowed too much water.
The butterfly does not flutter away but remains poised upon my hand, wings folding and opening serenely.
I touch my hand to the page again, and once more a torrent of knowledge fills me. Hurriedly I turn the pages, sweeping my fingers across entire paragraphs at a time, my eyes scarcely focused on the book but rather on the chamber of my own mind, where all this arcane knowledge is presenting itself to me.
“You’re going too fast, Victor,” I hear Elizabeth say, as from another room. “You’ll miss something.”
“There’s nothing of use here,” I say, shoving the book from me and grabbing another. Greek, Latin, Aramaic, lost dialects, I surge through all of them one after another.
I look up briefly. Henry and Elizabeth are both watching me strangely.
“It’s the butterfly, isn’t it?” Henry says.
I nod in amazement. “It’s
“This will be a great deal of work,” says Henry, blowing air from his cheeks. “We can’t achieve it all in one visit.”
“We’ll see,” I say, drawing the spirit clock from my pocket.
As if anticipating my plan, the butterfly, which for some reason has refused to leave my shoulder, flutters down to my hand.
“What are you doing?” Henry asks.
With my finger I touch the glass above the fetal sparrow leg. I close my eyes, focusing my mind’s energy into a column of power, as dark and thick as ink.
Slower…
I lift the clock to my ear.
Tick . . . tick . . . . . . tick.
. . . and yet slower still . . .
Tiiickkk . . . . . . . . . Tiiiiiickkkkkk . . . . . . . . .
And then a long silence in which I count many beats of my own heart before the clock gives another languorous tick.
“Hah!” I cry exultantly, holding it out to Elizabeth. “I’ve slowed it even more than last time. It scarcely moves now!”
“How is this possible?” Henry demands, taking the clock from Elizabeth and listening.
“It’s possible,” I tell him.
I feel suddenly bereft as the butterfly lifts from my hand and circles about the room.
“Is it safe, though?” Henry says. “Our bodies are waiting for us, and they need—”
“Our bodies will be fine!” I say dismissively. “I did it last time. Elizabeth saw it.”
“You were a second longer than the first,” Henry says. “I timed it exactly.”
“A second!” I scoff. “What does it matter? Time is completelydifferent here, and I have mastered it! As long as we stay only one full revolution, we’re safe!”
Henry glances at Elizabeth.
“If you’re worried, Henry Clerval,” I say, “you can always go back.”
“No,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s make use of all this time you’ve bought us.”
“Excellent!” I say.
Konrad catches the books I toss to him, and he sets to work as well, searching like us for any writings about raising the dead.
“There are many accounts of revenants,” says Henry, paging through a volume, “but they aren’t promising stories.”
“What’s a revenant?” Elizabeth asks.
“A mindless corpse that rises from its grave, stalks about town, eats livestock and people, and then gets hacked to pieces by the townsfolk.”
“Don’t waste your time on that,” I tell him. “That’s not what we want.”
“No,” he replies, “but we’ll not find what we want unless we read everything carefully.”
He’s right, and it irks me that he’s moving through the texts faster than I am, but this spirit world makes us more of what we are, and Henry has always been very clever with languages. I return to my own book, struggling with the Latin and the crude Gothic lettering.
A butterfly—is it the same one as earlier, or different?—suddenly alights on my hand. I look at its rainbow-hued wings and then past them to the text beneath my fingertips, and—
I feel a coursing of language through my head, the Latin translating itself with such speed that my breath catches and I cough, as though I’ve swallowed too much water.
The butterfly does not flutter away but remains poised upon my hand, wings folding and opening serenely.
I touch my hand to the page again, and once more a torrent of knowledge fills me. Hurriedly I turn the pages, sweeping my fingers across entire paragraphs at a time, my eyes scarcely focused on the book but rather on the chamber of my own mind, where all this arcane knowledge is presenting itself to me.
“You’re going too fast, Victor,” I hear Elizabeth say, as from another room. “You’ll miss something.”
“There’s nothing of use here,” I say, shoving the book from me and grabbing another. Greek, Latin, Aramaic, lost dialects, I surge through all of them one after another.
I look up briefly. Henry and Elizabeth are both watching me strangely.
“It’s the butterfly, isn’t it?” Henry says.
I nod in amazement. “It’s
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