The Children(43)

Guinevere was writing a story about two children finding a map in the woods. It grew right off the branch of a dogwood tree, and she wasn’t sure yet where it would lead them. “How do I do that?”

Anne thought, eyes turning up. The least freckly part of her was right beneath her lower lashes. “Put it through the looking glass,” she said. “Make the tragic comic. Change the setting to outer space. Or Wonderland. Turn the humans into rabbits, tigers, mock turtles, make their arguments into wars fought beneath opposing queens. My parents lived at each other’s throats, just like yours; you’ve got to survive it, ignore it, use it, but don’t let it get into your bones.” She put a palm to Guinevere’s sternum. “Or your lovely heart.”

“Why do you like them?”

“Why do I like my . . . oh. Your parents. Hmm.” Again she looked up. When you were Anne, all the answers were stored in skies and ceilings. “Your dad has a wound, and I think I can help him heal it. That’s a very appealing prospect, I’m sorry to say. Wounded men have taken down better women than I.” She looked a little rueful. “So it’s a good thing for me he’s not on the market. Plus, he looks fairly excellent, and I’m a visual person. If I ever go back to portraits, I’ll book him first. As for Edith . . .”

The clouds were flat and gray. They offered Anne no immediate counsel. “Her I’m still trying to figure out. I think that’s exactly it. You look at her and you can never quite hold her, in the center of your sight. So you keep on looking.” She touched her tongue to the corner of her lip, thinking. “No matter how close you get you can’t reach her.”

Then her focus changed, back to the child in front of her. The unreachable woman’s daughter. She looked suddenly grave and pulled Guinevere into a hug.

Her skin smelled unwashed, in a nice way. Guinevere couldn’t help but ask, “Do you like them more than you like me?”

Anne hugged her tighter. “Absolutely not. You are my favorite Sharpe. And come to think of it, my favorite kid under eight. Ennis wins in the nine and up category.”

Later, watching her parents trade cuts, Guinevere thought, Use it. But she didn’t know how, and revised her directive. Don’t let it into your bones.



* * *




Later still. The floor lavish with moonlight, her bed cast in dark. As her waking thoughts unraveled into sleeper’s nonsense, there was a noise in the hall. A woman’s voice, murmuring low. A second woman spoke over her, in a tone meant to comfort. One Anne, one Edith. Which was which?

Guinevere was sleeping, she was awake. She was perched on the very divide. There was a long silence, and she fell almost entirely into unconsciousness. Then: a phrase, she could swear it, of music. Resonant, live. Shivering with vibrato. Something with bells, or not. With strings and a voice, a human voice. Or not.

It was gone before she fully registered it as music. The women, they were gone, too. The hall was empty, and Guinevere was asleep.



* * *




“Where’s Anne?”

Edith was bent over by the back door, pulling her boots on. She wore a hip-length waxed jacket and wobbled when her daughter spoke, catching herself on the doorframe. “What?”

“Anne,” Guinevere repeated. “Where is she?”

Her mother’s eyes glittered like beetle backs. Her color was high. Maybe she’d hung too long over her boots. “I’m going for a walk. To look at the . . .” She gestured, signifying what? The woods, the world. “If you want to come with me.”

“But where’s . . .”

“Her studio, probably? Her house? I can’t keep track of your dad’s girlfriend all the time. I haven’t written a word since New York, I’ve gotta get back to it. It’ll be a short walk. We can race, if you want to. I’m all full of, oh, nerves, I guess? Back to the blank page. You coming or not?”

She vibrated like a hummingbird, waiting for Guinevere’s answer. They hadn’t been alone together since her return from the city. Guinevere wanted to ask about the book, its release, the fact that it was being read by people none of them would ever meet. Why hadn’t she gotten to read it yet?

But she doubted Edith would be good company today. Her hands kept moving from her pockets to her hips to her throat, touching the gold chain that disappeared into her shirt. She wore it every day, its charm tucked out of sight.

Guinevere said, “No, thank you.”

It wasn’t until she was sat in the great room’s window seat, eating dry cereal and watching sparrows playing at Catherine wheels, that she noticed she was humming something. That little run of music she’d heard last night when she was nearly asleep.

The tune dropped as soon as she realized she was holding it. When she tried to pick the notes back up, they scattered.



* * *




Llewellyn faced an empty canvas. Hands on his hips, the muscles of his broad back showing through his T-shirt. He looked like Daniel considering a sleeping lion.

“Dad. Where’s Anne?”

He seemed glad of the interruption, turning eagerly. “Have you seen her?”

“I’m looking for her.”

He grunted irritably. “When you find her, remind her she was meant to be here an hour ago.”