the rest of my life with half strangers, never seeing Mina Ma again? And Sean . . .
I close my eyes and try to sleep.
By three o’ clock the next afternoon, Ophelia has arrived. Mina Ma is keeping herself busy, making everybody a drink and somewhat ferociously offering food. I sit quietly. I can’t eat or drink anything. Sean isn’t here yet. Erik will be bringing Matthew soon. I can hear the second hand on the clock on the wall, ticking so loudly it hurts my brain each time. Mina Ma keeps looking at me as though she wants to tell me something but doesn’t know how. This worries me, but I can’t focus on it. My attention flits from one thing to the next. Ophelia is sniffing into a tissue, wiping tears away. I want to comfort her and tell her I’ll miss her, but I can’t move. Tick, tock, tick, tock , the clock is relentless.
Where is Sean?
After I’ve looked hopefully at the front door for the hundredth time in about half an hour, Mina Ma seems unable to stand it any longer. “He’s not coming,” she says.
“The Weaver’s not coming?” I ask, puzzled but pleased.
She’s struggling, then says very quickly, “Sean. He’s not coming.”
I can’t quite digest this. “Why not?”
“He’s ill.”
This is a lie. Ophelia can’t even look at me. I have no idea what to do or say. So I turn back to the clock, squinting to keep it in focus because my eyes have begun to water. Unbidden, an image of Sean creeps into my head. I picture him under his slanting roof, at the window. I imagine him saying “Just go, Eva. I don’t care.”
Tick, tock, tick, tock , and then the sound of Erik’s car pulling up outside the cottage. I stand. It’s time.
Mina Ma goes to open the door. Erik comes in first. I look past him, into the eyes of the man who wove me.
He is about as tall as Erik, and probably as thin, and about the same age. He reminds me of a polished predator, immense brilliance hidden beneath an urbane smile and shrewd dark blue eyes. His beard stubble is short and rough, salt-and-pepper like his cropped hair. Dressed in shirt and trousers, he has the strangest vest on over his shirt. It looks like thin chain mail, glittering silver like that of a knight from a forgotten time.
I’ve seen him before. I’ve dreamed him before.
“I know you,” I say.
“You have a good memory, even for an echo,” he says, teeth showing in a smooth, feral smile. “You must remember your early months.”
If Sean’s voice is layers of wood, and Mina Ma’s is a copper pot, then Matthew Mercer’s is the voice of a wild animal. I suddenly think of a movie Amarra and I loved when we were little, and I think of Scar, the lion who murdered his brother to become king. That kind of voice.
“How like your mother you look,” he remarks.
I shrink back, but say defiantly, “Alisha is not my mother.”
Mina Ma gasps. It’s not a good start, but I can’t help it. He sets my teeth on edge. He scares the living daylights out of me.
“Now, now,” he says. “Claws are unattractive on kittens. You have a latent temper, I see. I suppose I’m to blame. I did make you.”
Erik frowns. “Don’t be flippant, Matthew. She’s having a difficult time.”
“Aren’t we all?” the Weaver demands in indignation. “Are we or are we not recovering from a global recession? Difficult economic times, you know. We’re all suffering.”
I look at him in disbelief.
“Sir Matthew,” he says, sweeping me an elaborate bow, “at your service. But I wouldn’t take that literally if I were you. I’m notorious for only being of service if I feel like it, and I don’t usually feel like it.” He studies me a moment longer, and the strangest look crosses his face. His drawl fades. He becomes curt, an irritable stranger instead of the flippant one. “Shall we set off? We have a flight to catch in seven hours.”
“I’ll get my things,” I mutter.
“Sullen, too,” he says as I turn away. “I think we’ll get along
I close my eyes and try to sleep.
By three o’ clock the next afternoon, Ophelia has arrived. Mina Ma is keeping herself busy, making everybody a drink and somewhat ferociously offering food. I sit quietly. I can’t eat or drink anything. Sean isn’t here yet. Erik will be bringing Matthew soon. I can hear the second hand on the clock on the wall, ticking so loudly it hurts my brain each time. Mina Ma keeps looking at me as though she wants to tell me something but doesn’t know how. This worries me, but I can’t focus on it. My attention flits from one thing to the next. Ophelia is sniffing into a tissue, wiping tears away. I want to comfort her and tell her I’ll miss her, but I can’t move. Tick, tock, tick, tock , the clock is relentless.
Where is Sean?
After I’ve looked hopefully at the front door for the hundredth time in about half an hour, Mina Ma seems unable to stand it any longer. “He’s not coming,” she says.
“The Weaver’s not coming?” I ask, puzzled but pleased.
She’s struggling, then says very quickly, “Sean. He’s not coming.”
I can’t quite digest this. “Why not?”
“He’s ill.”
This is a lie. Ophelia can’t even look at me. I have no idea what to do or say. So I turn back to the clock, squinting to keep it in focus because my eyes have begun to water. Unbidden, an image of Sean creeps into my head. I picture him under his slanting roof, at the window. I imagine him saying “Just go, Eva. I don’t care.”
Tick, tock, tick, tock , and then the sound of Erik’s car pulling up outside the cottage. I stand. It’s time.
Mina Ma goes to open the door. Erik comes in first. I look past him, into the eyes of the man who wove me.
He is about as tall as Erik, and probably as thin, and about the same age. He reminds me of a polished predator, immense brilliance hidden beneath an urbane smile and shrewd dark blue eyes. His beard stubble is short and rough, salt-and-pepper like his cropped hair. Dressed in shirt and trousers, he has the strangest vest on over his shirt. It looks like thin chain mail, glittering silver like that of a knight from a forgotten time.
I’ve seen him before. I’ve dreamed him before.
“I know you,” I say.
“You have a good memory, even for an echo,” he says, teeth showing in a smooth, feral smile. “You must remember your early months.”
If Sean’s voice is layers of wood, and Mina Ma’s is a copper pot, then Matthew Mercer’s is the voice of a wild animal. I suddenly think of a movie Amarra and I loved when we were little, and I think of Scar, the lion who murdered his brother to become king. That kind of voice.
“How like your mother you look,” he remarks.
I shrink back, but say defiantly, “Alisha is not my mother.”
Mina Ma gasps. It’s not a good start, but I can’t help it. He sets my teeth on edge. He scares the living daylights out of me.
“Now, now,” he says. “Claws are unattractive on kittens. You have a latent temper, I see. I suppose I’m to blame. I did make you.”
Erik frowns. “Don’t be flippant, Matthew. She’s having a difficult time.”
“Aren’t we all?” the Weaver demands in indignation. “Are we or are we not recovering from a global recession? Difficult economic times, you know. We’re all suffering.”
I look at him in disbelief.
“Sir Matthew,” he says, sweeping me an elaborate bow, “at your service. But I wouldn’t take that literally if I were you. I’m notorious for only being of service if I feel like it, and I don’t usually feel like it.” He studies me a moment longer, and the strangest look crosses his face. His drawl fades. He becomes curt, an irritable stranger instead of the flippant one. “Shall we set off? We have a flight to catch in seven hours.”
“I’ll get my things,” I mutter.
“Sullen, too,” he says as I turn away. “I think we’ll get along
Similar Books
