marvelously , don’t you?”
We pack the car in record time. My legs begin to drag and I try to draw it out as long as I can. The good-byes become a blur, an exercise in trying not to cry. Ophelia sobs openly as she hugs me. Erik is driving us to the train station, so I go, finally, to Mina Ma, blinking away tears. She grips me very tightly and whispers in my ear, “Be good. Be happy.”
She is the last thing I see before the car turns the corner. I catch Matthew’s dark, amused eyes in the passenger mirror and I look away, hating him.
At the train station, letting go of Erik is unbearably difficult. He is the last one left. The only trace remaining of this world that I so railed and stormed against and loved in spite of it all. Matthew hums as he watches a seagull above us, but I watch Erik as he walks back to the car and gets in, lifting a hand to wave to me. I wave back like a small child. As he goes, I think of the way Jonathan used to spend hours in the garden with me, pushing me back and forth on that swing, how Ophelia kept my secrets for me, and Erik kept secrets from me because he would have stopped at nothing to shield me—and Mina Ma, who loved the baby the doctors loathed, who scolded and teased and protected and loved me, no matter what I did. I was so lucky to have them.
2
Creation
E rik’s car vanishes. I follow Matthew into the train station. My mind trudges away, back to the cottage by the lake, but I keep my eyes on him. Warily.
On the train, we don’t speak for the first quarter of an hour, apart from Matthew telling me we’re changing at Preston. I look out the window, watching the now-familiar English countryside pass us by. We’re taking the usual train to London and one of the stops is Lancaster. I allow myself the indulgence of wallowing in self-pity for a minute and wonder if it’s possible to feel more miserable than I do right now.
“Yes, it is,” says Sir Matthew, yawning, “Try childbirth. I hear it’s far more painful.”
I jerk my head in his direction. There are any number of things I’d like to say to him, but I bite them down. “You can read minds, can you?”
“Just faces.”
“In other words, a lucky guess.”
“I am never lucky. I am always right. I,” says Sir Matthew, “know everything.”
Under any other circumstances, I might have laughed at him. But considering how horrible this day has been, and how unwise it seems to laugh at a Weaver, I settle for being skeptical.
“I doubt that.”
“Well, that settles things, doesn’t it? I see I shall need all my wits about me to counter your ruthless intellect.”
I glare at him. Matthew’s expression is a testament to complete boredom. But his eyes are watchful, watching me, relentlessly. I watch him back.
“You can’t possibly know everything.”
“I think you’ll find I can.”
“So you know, say, ancient Greek?”
“Indeed I do, especially as I am a renowned scholar of ancient languages.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Clearly you know best,” he drawls, pulling a magazine out of the seat pocket in front of him. He yawns elaborately again. “Now I expect you will embark on a quest to prove me wrong by asking questions. Do. I’ll play along. Being clever is, to me, like stealing sweets from an infant. I do it very well.”
On principle, I want to refuse, to tell him I’m not interested and I’ll be reading my book for the rest of our trip, thank you very much. Unfortunately, I can’t do it.
“Do you know the capital of Turkey?”
“You’ll have to do better than that ,” scoffs Matthew. “That would be Ankara.”
“Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”
“The egg,” he says with a yawn.
“You can’t possibly know that, no one does.”
“That is a transparent lie. Haven’t I made it clear that I know it? Now don’t be insufferably imbecilic. It’s quite clear the egg came first, as anyone with the slightest grain of intelligence would know.”
“What is
We pack the car in record time. My legs begin to drag and I try to draw it out as long as I can. The good-byes become a blur, an exercise in trying not to cry. Ophelia sobs openly as she hugs me. Erik is driving us to the train station, so I go, finally, to Mina Ma, blinking away tears. She grips me very tightly and whispers in my ear, “Be good. Be happy.”
She is the last thing I see before the car turns the corner. I catch Matthew’s dark, amused eyes in the passenger mirror and I look away, hating him.
At the train station, letting go of Erik is unbearably difficult. He is the last one left. The only trace remaining of this world that I so railed and stormed against and loved in spite of it all. Matthew hums as he watches a seagull above us, but I watch Erik as he walks back to the car and gets in, lifting a hand to wave to me. I wave back like a small child. As he goes, I think of the way Jonathan used to spend hours in the garden with me, pushing me back and forth on that swing, how Ophelia kept my secrets for me, and Erik kept secrets from me because he would have stopped at nothing to shield me—and Mina Ma, who loved the baby the doctors loathed, who scolded and teased and protected and loved me, no matter what I did. I was so lucky to have them.
2
Creation
E rik’s car vanishes. I follow Matthew into the train station. My mind trudges away, back to the cottage by the lake, but I keep my eyes on him. Warily.
On the train, we don’t speak for the first quarter of an hour, apart from Matthew telling me we’re changing at Preston. I look out the window, watching the now-familiar English countryside pass us by. We’re taking the usual train to London and one of the stops is Lancaster. I allow myself the indulgence of wallowing in self-pity for a minute and wonder if it’s possible to feel more miserable than I do right now.
“Yes, it is,” says Sir Matthew, yawning, “Try childbirth. I hear it’s far more painful.”
I jerk my head in his direction. There are any number of things I’d like to say to him, but I bite them down. “You can read minds, can you?”
“Just faces.”
“In other words, a lucky guess.”
“I am never lucky. I am always right. I,” says Sir Matthew, “know everything.”
Under any other circumstances, I might have laughed at him. But considering how horrible this day has been, and how unwise it seems to laugh at a Weaver, I settle for being skeptical.
“I doubt that.”
“Well, that settles things, doesn’t it? I see I shall need all my wits about me to counter your ruthless intellect.”
I glare at him. Matthew’s expression is a testament to complete boredom. But his eyes are watchful, watching me, relentlessly. I watch him back.
“You can’t possibly know everything.”
“I think you’ll find I can.”
“So you know, say, ancient Greek?”
“Indeed I do, especially as I am a renowned scholar of ancient languages.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Clearly you know best,” he drawls, pulling a magazine out of the seat pocket in front of him. He yawns elaborately again. “Now I expect you will embark on a quest to prove me wrong by asking questions. Do. I’ll play along. Being clever is, to me, like stealing sweets from an infant. I do it very well.”
On principle, I want to refuse, to tell him I’m not interested and I’ll be reading my book for the rest of our trip, thank you very much. Unfortunately, I can’t do it.
“Do you know the capital of Turkey?”
“You’ll have to do better than that ,” scoffs Matthew. “That would be Ankara.”
“Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”
“The egg,” he says with a yawn.
“You can’t possibly know that, no one does.”
“That is a transparent lie. Haven’t I made it clear that I know it? Now don’t be insufferably imbecilic. It’s quite clear the egg came first, as anyone with the slightest grain of intelligence would know.”
“What is
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