Tanya Huff - Gate of Darkness, Circle of Light

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Chapter ONE
"Rebecca!"
Rebecca paused, one hand on the kitchen door.
"Did you put your tins away neatly?"
"Yes, Lena."
"Have you got your uniform to wash?"
Rebecca smiled but otherwise remained frozen in the motion of
leaving. Her food services uniform was folded neatly in the bottom of
her bright red tote bag. "Yes, Lena."
"Do you have your muffins for the weekend?"
"Yes, Lena." The muffins, carefully wrapped, were packed safely on
top of her soiled uniform. She waited for the next line of the
litany.
"Now, don't forget to eat while you're home."
Rebecca nodded so vigorously her brown curls danced. "I'll remember,
Lena." One more.
"I'll see you Monday, puss."
"See you Monday, Lena." Freed by the speaking of the last words,
Rebecca pushed open the door and bounded out and up the stairs.
Lena watched her go, then turned and went back into her office.
"And you go through this every Friday, Mrs. Pementel?"
"Every Friday," Lena agreed, settling down into her chair with a
sigh. "For almost a year now."
Her visitor shook his head. "I'm surprised she's allowed to wander
around unsupervised."
Lena snorted and dug around in her desk for her cigarettes. "Oh,
she's safe enough. The Lord protects
his own. Damn lighter." She shook it, slammed it against the desk,
and was rewarded by a feeble flame. "I know what you're thinking,"
she said, as she sucked in smoke. "But she does her job better than
some with a lot more on the ball. You're not going to save any of the
taxpayers' money by getting rid of her."
The man from accounting frowned. "Actually, I was wondering how
anyone could continue smoking given the evidence. Those things'll
kill you, you know."
"Well that's my choice, isn't it? Come on," she rested her elbows on
the desk and exhaled slowly through her nose, waving the glowing end
of the cigarette at his closed briefcase. "Let's get on with it. . ."
"They cut emeralds from the heart of summer."
The grubby young man, who'd been approaching with the intention of
begging a couple of bucks, hesitated.
"And sapphires drop out of the sky, just before it gets dark."
Rebecca lifted her forehead from the pawnshop window and turned to
smile at him. "I know the names of all the jewels," she said proudly.
"And I make my own diamonds in the refrigerator at home."
Ducking his head away from her smile, the young man decided he had
enough on his plate, he didn't need a crazy, too. He kept moving,
both hands shoved deep in the torn pockets of his jean jacket.
Rebecca shrugged, and went back to studying the trays of rings. She
loved pretty things and every afternoon on the way home from the
government building where she worked, she lingered in front of the
window displays.
Behind her, the bells of Saint James Cathedral began to call the
hour.
"Time to go," she told her reflection in the glass and smiled when it
nodded in agreement. As she walked north, Saint James handed her over
to Saint Michael's. The bells, like the cathedrals, had frightened
her when she'd first heard them, but now they were old friends. The
bells, that is, not the cathedrals.
Such huge imposing buildings, so solemn and so brooding, she felt
couldn't be friends with anyone. Mostly, they made her sad.
Rebecca hurried along the east side of Church Street, carefully not
seeing or hearing the crowds and the traffic. Mrs. Ruth had taught
her that, how to go inside herself where it was quiet, so all the
bits and pieces swirling around didn't make her into bits and pieces,
too. She wished she could feel something besides sidewalk through the
rubber soles of her thongs.
At Dundas Street, while waiting for the light, a bit of black,
fluttering along a windowsill on the third floor of the Sears
building, caught her eye.
"No, careful wait!" she yelled, scrambling the sentence in her
excitement.
Most of the other people at the intersection ignored her. A few
looked up, following her gaze, but seeing only what appeared to be a
piece of carbon paper blowing in the wind, they lost interest. One or
two tapped their heads knowingly.
When the light changed, Rebecca bounded forward, ignoring the horn of
a low-slung, red car that was running the end of the yellow light.
"Don't!"
Too late. The black bit dove off the window ledge, twisted once in
the air, became a very small squirrel, and just managed to get its
legs under it before it hit the ground. It remained still for only a
second, then darted to the curb. A truck roared by. It flipped over
and started back to the building, was almost stepped on and turned
again to the curb, blind panic obvious in every motion. It tried to
climb a hydro pole, but its claws could get no purchase on the smooth
cement.
"Hey." Rebecca knelt and held out her hand.
The squirrel, cowering up against the base of the pole, sniffed the
offered fingers.
"It's okay." She winced as the tiny animal swarmed up her bare arm,
scrambled through her hair, and perched trembling on the top of her
head. Gently she scooped it off. "Silly baby," she said, stroking one
finger down its back. The trembling stopped, but she
could still feel its heart beating against her palm. Continuing to
soothe it, Rebecca stood and moved slowly back to the intersection.
As the squirrel was too young to find its way home, she'd have to
find a home for it, and the Ryerson Quad was the closest sanctuary.
The Quad was one of Rebecca's favorite places. Completely enclosed by
Kerr Hall, it was quiet and green; a private little park in the midst
of the city. Very few people outside the Ryerson student body knew it
existed, which, Rebecca felt, was for the best. She knew where all
the green growing places hid. This afternoon, with classes finished
for the summer, the Quad was deserted.
She reached up and gently placed the squirrel on the lowest branch of
a maple. It paused, one tiny front paw lifted, then it whisked out of
sight.
"You're welcome," she told it, gave the maple a friendly pat, and
continued home.
A huge chestnut tree dominated the small patch of ground between the
sidewalk and Rebecca's building, towering over the three stories of
red brick. Rebecca often wondered if the front apartments got any
light at all but supposed the illusion of living in a tree would make
up for it if they didn't. Stepping onto the path, she tipped back her
head and peered into the leaves for a glimpse of the tree's one
permanent inhabitant. She spotted him at last, tucked up high on a
sturdy branch, legs swinging and head bent over the work in his
hands; which, as usual, she couldn't identify. All she could see of
his face were his eyebrows which stuck out a full, bushy, red inch
under the front edge of his bright red cap. "Good evening, Orten."
" 'Tain't evening yet, still afternoon. And my name ain't Orten,
neither."
Rebecca sighed and crossed another name off her mental list.
Rumplestiltskin had been the first name she'd tried, but the little
man had merely laughed so hard he'd had to grab onto a branch.
"Well, hello, Becca." The large-blonde-lady-from-
down-the-hall stepped through the front door, thighs rubbing in
polyester pants.
Rebecca sighed. Nobody called her Becca but she couldn't get the
large-blonde-lady-from-down-the-hall to stop. "My name is Rebecca."
"That's right, dear, and you live here at 55 Carlton Street." Her
voice was loud and she pronounced each word deliberately, a verbal
pat on the head. "Who were you talking to?"
"Norman," Rebecca ventured, pointing up into the tree.
"Not likely," snorted the little man.
The large-blonde-lady-from-down-the-hall pursed fuchsia lips. "How
sweet, you've named the birds, I don't know how you can tell them
apart."
"I don't talk to birds," Rebecca protested. "Birds never listen."
Neither did the large-blonde-lady-from-down-the-hall.
"I'm going out now, Becca, but if you need anything later don't you
hesitate to come and get me." She brushed past the girl, beaming at
this opportunity to show herself a good neighbor. That Becca may not
be right in the head, she'd often told her sister, but she's so much
better mannered than most young people. Why, she never takes her eyes
off me when I speak.
For almost a year now, Rebecca had been trying to decide if the white
slabs of teeth between heavily painted lips were real. She still
couldn't make up her mind, the volume of the words kept distracting
her.
"Maybe she thinks I can't hear?" she'd asked the little man once.
His answer had been typical.
"Maybe she doesn't think."
She fished her keys out of her pocket—her keys always went in the
right front pocket of her jeans, so she always knew where they were—
and put them in the lock. Then she thought of a new name and, leaving
the keys dangling, went back to the tree.
"Percy?" she asked.
"You wish," came the response.
She shrugged philosophically and went inside.
Friday night she did-the-laundry and had beef-vegetable-soup-for-
supper, just as she was supposed to according to the list Daru, her
social worker, had drawn up. Saturday, she spent at Allen Gardens
helping her friend George transplant ferns. That took all day because
the ferns didn't want to be transplanted. Saturday night, Rebecca
went to make tea and found she was out of milk. Milk was one of the
things Daru called odds and ends groceries and she was allowed to buy
it herself. Taking a dollar and a quarter out of the handleless space
shuttle mug, she let herself out of the apartment and walked down
Mutual Street to the corner store. She didn't stop to talk to the
little man, nor to even look up into the tree. Daru had said over and
over she had to be careful with money and she didn't want to hold on
to it any longer than she had to.
Hurrying back, she wondered why the evening had grown so quiet and
why the poorly lit street suddenly seemed so filled with shadows she
didn't recognize.
"Mortimer?" she called when she reached the tree, knowing he would
answer whether she guessed his name or not.
A drop of rain hit her cheek.
Warm rain.
She put up her hand and it came away red.
Another drop crinkled the paper bag around the milk.
Blood.
Rebecca recognized blood. She had bleeding once a month. And Daru had
said that any other time but then blood meant something was wrong and
she was to call her no matter when, but Daru wouldn't see the little
man and he was the one bleeding, Rebecca knew it, but she didn't know
what to do. Daru had said she must never climb trees in the city.
But her friend was bleeding and bleeding was wrong.
Rules, Mrs. Ruth had often said, exist to be broken.
Putting down the milk, she jumped for the bottom
branch of the chestnut. Bark pulled off under her hands, but she
tightened her grip—people were always surprised at how strong she
was—and swung herself up, kicking off her thongs. Men in orange vests
had tried to take that branch off earlier in the spring, but she'd
talked to them until they forgot why they were there and they'd never
come back. Rebecca didn't approve of cutting at trees with noisy
machines.
She climbed higher, heading for the little man's favorite perch. The
dusk and the shifting leaves made it hard to see, throwing unexpected
patterns of shadow in her way. When her hand closed over a wet and
sticky spot, she knew she was close. Then she saw a pair of dangling
boots, the upturned toes no longer cocky as blood dripped off first
one and then the other,
He had been wedged into the angle formed by two branches and the main
trunk. His eyes were closed, his hat was askew, and a black knife
protruded from his chest.
Carefully, Rebecca lifted him and cradled him against her. He
murmured something in a language she didn't understand but otherwise
lay completely motionless. He weighed next to nothing and she could
carry him easily in one arm as she descended, his legs kicking limply
against her hips, his head lolling in the crook of her neck.
When she reached the bottom branch, she sat, wrapped her other arm
about her wounded friend, and pushed off. The landing knocked her to
her knees. She whimpered, then got up and staggered for the safety of
her apartment.
Once inside, she went straight to the bed alcove and laid the little
man upon the double bed. Around the knife his small chest still rose
and fell so she knew he lived, but she didn't know what she should do
now. Should she call Daru? No. Daru wouldn't See so Daru couldn't
help.
"She'll think I'm slipping again," Rebecca confided to the
unconscious little man. "Like she did when I told her about you at
first." She paced up and down, chewing on the nails of her left hand.
She
needed someone who was clever, but who wouldn't refuse to See.
Someone who would know what-to-do.
Roland.
He hadn't ever actually said he could See. He'd hardly ever said
anything to her at all, but he spoke with his music and the music
said he'd help. And he was clever. Roland would know what-to-do.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled on her running shoes,
then turned and patted the little man on the knee.
"Don't worry," she told him. "I'm going for help."
Grabbing up her sweater, she stepped out into the hallway and paused.
Would he be safe in there all alone?
"Tom?"
The large gray tabby, moving with stately dignity down the hall,
stopped and turned to face her.
"The little man from the tree has been hurt."
Tom licked at the spotless white of his ruff, waiting to be told
something he didn't know.
"Can you stay with him? I'm going for help."
He considered it while inspecting one forepaw. Rebecca bounced as she
waited, but she knew there was no use in trying to hurry a cat.
Finally he stood and came forward to brush against her legs, his head
bumping into the hollows of her knees.
"Thank you." She reached behind her and pushed open the door. Tom
went in, snapping his tail out of the way as she closed it behind
him.
Heading for the stairs, she broke into a run.
Roland scowled at the scattering of money in his open guitar case. It
hadn't been a good evening. In fact, for a Saturday at Yonge and
Queen, it had been pitiful. A breeze lifted one of the few bills and
he grabbed for it. His uncle was pretty understanding about waiting
for the rent on his basement room but point-blank refused to feed
him. A twenty-eight year old man, his uncle often said, should have a
real job.
A teen-age girl, almost wearing a pair of pale blue shorts, came up
from the subway and Roland watched
appreciatively as she passed by him and stood waiting for the light.
He'd had real jobs, off and on, but he always came back to music and
music always brought him back to the street where he could play what
he liked when he liked. Occasionally, he filled in when local groups
needed a guitarist at the last minute. He was supposed to be filling
in tonight, but this afternoon he'd gotten a call saying both the
drummer and the keyboard player had picked up the same bug as the man
he was to replace and the gig had been called off. He checked his
watch. Eight forty-five. Both Simpsons and the Eaton Centre would be
closing in fifteen minutes and business might pick up on the street.
Drifting up from the passage that ran under Queen Street, connecting
Simpsons to both the Centre and the subway, came something Roland
thought he recognized as a Beatles song. The Beatles probably
wouldn't have recognized it, but in the six days this guy had been
down there Roland had gotten used to his peculiar interpretations.
The guys who sang in the subway made more money, but they had to pay
a hundred bucks a year to the Toronto Transit Commission for a
licensing fee and move from station to station according to a
schedule that came down from the head office. Roland refused to even
consider it; licensing busking was an obscenity as far as he was
concerned.
He checked his watch again. Eight forty-seven. Time flies. He scanned
the few people on the street and from slogans on T-shirts—the right
to arm bears?— assumed they were American tourists. Probably from
Buffalo or Rochester. Sometimes it seemed like half of upper New York
State came into Toronto on the weekends. He sighed and flipped a
mental coin. John Denver came up and he launched into "Rocky Mountain
High." So much for artistic integrity.
By the second verse, the satisfyingly solid thunk of the new dollar
coins hitting his case had put him in a better frame of mind and he
was able to smile at Rebecca when he noticed her standing in front of
him. The part of his mind not occupied with going home to
a place he'd never been before wondered what she was doing out so
late. He usually saw her in the early afternoon when she spent her
lunch break sitting listening to him play and he never saw her on the
weekends. He suspected she wasn't allowed out at this hour but didn't
take it for granted; he'd learned not to take much about Rebecca for
granted.
"I'm not retarded, " she'd told him that first afternoon, prompted by
his condescending voice and manner. "I'm mentally disadvantaged. "
Her pronunciation of the long words was slow, but perfect.
"Oh?" he'd said. "Who told you that?"
"Daru, my social worker. But I like what Mrs. Ruth says I am better."
"And what's that?"
"Simple. "
"Uh, do you know what that means?"
"Yes. It means I have less pieces than most people. "
"Oh. " There wasn't much else he could think of to reply.
She'd grinned at him. "And that means I'm solider than most people."
And the funny thing, Roland mused, was that while undeniably
retarded, in a number of ways Rebecca was solider than most people.
She knew who and what she was. Which puts her two up on me, he added
with a mental snort. And sometimes she'd say the damnedest things,
right out of the blue, that made perfect sense. With some surprise,
he realized he actually enjoyed talking to her and looked forward to
spotting her smile amidst the harried lunch hour scowls.
As Roland moved into the last chorus, he saw she was bouncing, rising
up on her toes and back, up on her toes and back, the way she did
when she had something important to tell him. The last something
important had been the hideous orange sweater she now had tied around
her waist. ("I bought it myself at Goodwill for only two dollars. ")
He thought she'd been overcharged, but she'd been so proud of her
purchase he couldn't say anything. It looked worse than usual tonight
against her purple tank top and her jeans.
He finished the song, smiled his thanks as a fortyish man in a loud
Hawaiian shirt dropped a handful of loose change into the case, and
turned to Rebecca.
"Hey, kiddo, what's up?"
Rebecca stopped bouncing and stepped toward him. "You have to help,
Roland. I got him in my bed, but I don't know what to do now. Or how
to make the bleeding stop."
"WHAT!"
She took a startled step back. There were too many built things
around, too many cars, too many people; she could feel all the pieces
pushing in at her. She could feel the outside nibbling at her edges
but she knew she couldn't go to the quiet inside place if she wanted
to save her friend. Moving forward she clutched at Roland's arm.
"Help. Please," she pleaded.
Roland considered himself a good judge of emotions—a necessary skill
for survival on the street—and Rebecca was definitely frightened.
Awkwardly, he patted her hand. "Yeah, don't worry. I'll come. Just
let me pack up."
Rebecca nodded, a jerky motion which Roland knew meant she wasn't far
from panic for her movements were normally slow and deliberate. Where
the hell is her social worker? he asked himself, scooping change into
a small leather bag. She's supposed to be riding to the rescue, not
me. He laid the guitar down, tucked the bag along the neck, and
closed the lid. And what the hell happened? Can't stop what bleeding?
Oh, Jesus, just what I need; Simple Simon stabs a pieman, film at
eleven.
He straightened up, shrugged into his corduroy jacket—wearing it was
easier than carrying it, even if it was still hotter than blazes out—
picked up the guitar case, and held out his hand.
"Okay," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, "let's go."
She grabbed the offered hand and pulled him forward, across Yonge and
east along Queen.
The light was green; fortunately, because Rebecca didn't look and
Roland didn't think he could stop her.
He suspected that if he tried to pull his hand free she'd crush his
fingers without even noticing it. He hadn't realized she was so
strong.
Wait a minute! She got him in her bed?
"Rebecca, did a man attack you?"
"Not me." She continued to pull.
He had a feeling she didn't understand the question and with no idea
whether she knew what rape meant, he didn't know how to rephrase it.
Trouble was, while her mind might be no more than twelve at best, her
body was that of a young woman; a well padded young woman, pretty in
a comfortable sort of a way. Roland could remember being disappointed
himself when he caught sight of the expression that went with the
curves but he knew that wouldn't discourage a lot of men and would,
in fact, encourage a few. The world, he sighed silently, has a fuck
of a lot of shitheads in it and a distressingly large number of them
are men. It wasn't that Rebecca was innocent, she had too much
unconscious sensuality for the word to apply, it was more that she
had an innocence—though, impressed, Roland knew he couldn't define
the difference. He twisted away from the subject. The whole concept
made him sweat.
One thing Roland had come to know about Rebecca: she never told lies.
Occasionally her version of the truth was a little skewed, but if she
said that someone was bleeding in her bed, she truly believed someone
was. Of course, he watched the curls bob on the back of her neck, she
also believes that a troll lives under the Bloor Viaduct. He couldn't
decide whether he should get upset or wait until he was sure that
there was something to get upset about.
At Church Street, Rebecca began to calm down. She walked this route
every day and the familiarity of it soothed her.
It's nine o'clock, Saint Michael's told her as they passed. Nine,
nine, nine. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Late, late, late.
She let go of Roland's hand and ran a little ahead, unable to keep
herself to his pace any longer.
Roland flexed his fingers, feeling circulation return. He couldn't
help but smile as he watched her run forward, then back to make sure
he still followed, then forward again. It reminded him of an old
Lassie movie. He hoped he'd have nothing more complicated to deal
with than little Timmy trapped in a flooding river. He hoped. But he
doubted it.
When they reached her apartment building, Rebecca darted up the path
and snatched up a brown paper bag leaning up against the foot of the
tree. She looked inside, nodded in satisfaction, and held it out for
Roland's inspection.
"My milk. I left it here earlier."
"It'll be warm, kiddo."
Touching the side of the cardboard carton, she shook her head. "No.
It's still cool." Then she turned the bag and pointed at a reddish-
brown stain. "See."
Roland leaned forward. It looked like ... "Oh my god, that's blood!"
Someone was bleeding in her bed . . . Jesus! And here he was, dashing
to the rescue. He should've called a cop the moment she showed up.
Handing him the milk—he held it gingerly, hardly able to take his
eyes off the stain—Rebecca unlocked the entrance and led the way
upstairs.
"I left Tom with him," she explained, pausing in front of her
apartment. She gave the door a push and it swung silently open.
Roland stared into a scene of utter chaos and felt his jaw drop. One
piece of curtain hung crazily askew, swinging in the breeze from the
open window. The other appeared to have been shredded and flung about
the room. A kitchen chair lay on its back, dripping with water and
garlanded with cut flowers, the broken vase on the floor beside it.
Plants and dirt were everywhere.
In the center of the mess, sat a large tabby cat, placidly grooming
the white tip of his tail. An ugly scratch showed red against the
pink of his nose and one ear had acquired a fresh notch.
"Tom!" Rebecca stepped over a pile of green fur
Roland assumed had been a rug before puss and his playmate had gotten
to it. "Are you all right?"
Tom curled his tail around his toes and stared up at her with gold,
unblinking eyes; then he noticed Roland and hissed.
"It's okay," Rebecca explained. "I brought him to see. He'll know
what to do."
Tom looked Roland up and down, then twisted around to wash the base
of his spine, a gesture of obvious disbelief.
"Yeah? Well, same to you, buddy," Roland growled as they headed past
him into the bed alcove. He hated cats, the sanctimonious little
hairballs. "Okay, Rebecca, where's this ..."
The question remained unfinished. Rebecca sat on the edge of her bed
holding the hand of a little man, no more than a foot high. Although
he wore trousers of green and an almost fluorescent yellow shirt, the
color red dominated the scene. His hair, eyebrows, and beard looked
almost orange beneath the bright red cap which matched the scarlet
bubbles appearing between his lips with every breath. But it was the
crimson stain beneath the handle of the black knife in his chest that
drew the eye.
His eyes opened, focused on Rebecca, and the ghost of a smile drifted
over his face. His hand tightening on hers, he tried to speak.
She leaned closer.
"Alex . . . ander," he gasped.
"Alexander? But I guessed that months ago!"
"I know." He fought for one last breath. "I lied." The ghost of the
smile returned and the little man died. Slowly, the body faded away
until only the black knife and the red stains remained.
Chapter TWO
Without the little man's body wrapped about it, the black knife
looked smaller but no less deadly. The triangular blade, no more than
three inches long, tapered down to a wicked point and the edges were
honed to razor sharpness. The grip had been wrapped in black leather
that now glistened with blood.
"I don't believe it," Roland muttered. "This isn't happening."
Rebecca looked up from the knife, her head cocked to one side. "But
you Saw," she pointed out.
"Yeah, I know I saw. But that doesn't mean anything. I've seen a lot
of things I didn't believe in."
"Like what?"
"Well, like . . . like . . ." He threw his hands up in the air and
backed out of the bed alcove. "Well, things. Get out of my way, cat!"
Tom moved free of Roland's legs, Ms expression clearly stating that
even such as Roland should know cats had the right of way. Jumping up
on the bed, he circled the knife, his bristling fur making him appear
at least twice his normal size. He growled and slapped at Rebecca's
hand as it reached into the perimeter of his pacing.
"I wasn't going to touch it," she protested.
He sat, tail wrapped around toes, just at the edge of the blood, and
stared at the dagger.
Rebecca watched him for a moment, but he neither moved nor blinked so
she went into the other room to see what Roland was doing.
Roland was cleaning up. Torn curtains, spilled plants, and scattered
cushions, he could deal with. Murdered figments of Rebecca's
imagination were giving him just a little more trouble. Had the
dagger and the blood disappeared with the body he could've
convinced himself, with very little effort, that nothing had
happened. But it hadn't. And he couldn't. And he didn't know what, if
anything, he should do about it.
He scooped dirt back into an empty margarine container, resettled the
geranium—one of two indoor plants he could recognize and he hoped
Rebecca wasn't growing the other—and put the whole thing back on the
wide shelf that ran under the window. Brushing them clean, he settled
the sofa cushions where they belonged and reached for a large pad of
poster paper that lay crumpled in a corner.
Crumpled. Like the little man had been against the pillows.
He'd have to think about it sometime. Later.
The poster paper had two holes punched into its narrower edge and was
obviously meant to hang on the wall opposite the window. He heaved it
onto the hooks—the two-foot by three-foot pad was heavy—and smoothed
down the top sheet.
Friday, it said, and the date. Then, supper: beef vegetable soup and
crackers. And, Do laundry: cold water, one cup of detergent, warm dry
with softener sheet. The words had been printed in block letters and
stirred vague memories in Roland of primary school activity lists. He
peered at the next sheet down.
Saturday, it said, and the date. Don't forget to eat. Wear shoes.
"Rebecca," he asked as he read the instructions for Sunday and
Monday—Be in bed by ten. Take your clean uniforms to work. "What is
this?"
"My lists. Daru and I write them on Monday after we go and get
groceries." She crawled out from under the tiny kitchen table, a
plastic saltshaker clutched in one hand. "And I do what they say.
They remember things for me so I can think of other stuff. Except I
forgot to take Friday's list down. You can if you want to."
Do laundry. Don't forget to eat. Wear shoes.
Roland wasn't sure why the lists bothered him, but they did. They
seemed so horribly binding; which was ridiculous for his mother had
often left much more
explicit lists for his father. "What would happen if you didn't
follow them?"
"They said I'd go back to the group home." She pulled on her lower
lip. "And I don't want to go back."
"Why?" he asked gently. "Were they mean to you?"
"No." Rebecca sighed, more in weariness it seemed to Roland than
anything else and just for an instant she wore an expression he
couldn't recognize. "They just never let me be alone." She set the
salt-shaker down on the table. "Now what do we do, Roland?"
"Well, we ... uh ..." He waved a vague hand around at the mess. "I,
uh, guess we report this."
Rebecca looked worried. "Report what?"
"That someone broke into your apartment ..."
"Oh. That." She smiled indulgently and shook her head. "That was just
someone trying to get to Alexander, 'cause they knew he wasn't dead
yet. Tom took care of it."
"Rebecca, Tom is a cat."
"Yes." She waited for a moment and when Roland seemed to have nothing
more to offer repeated, "Now what do we do, Roland?"
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He didn't have the
faintest idea.
"Daru would believe me if you told her, too."
Briefly, Roland considered telling Daru that he'd seen nothing at
all. If the woman had worked with Rebecca for any length of time,
she'd know the girl told the most fantastic fables believing them to
be the truth—although, given what had happened tonight, perhaps the
world held too narrow a view of just what truth was. That aside, Daru
would thank him for supporting Rebecca in her panic and his
involvement in all this dangerous weirdness would end.
Then he looked into Rebecca's eyes and discovered that, amidst all
the strange and magical things she believed in, she also believed in
him.
"Call Daru," he said, surrendering to the moment
and surprised at how good it felt. "I'll back up anything you tell
her." He couldn't remember if anyone had ever believed in him before.
摘要：

ChapterONE"Rebecca!"Rebeccapaused,onehandonthekitchendoor."Didyouputyourtinsawayneatly?""Yes,Lena.""Haveyougotyouruniformtowash?"Rebeccasmiledbutotherwiseremainedfrozeninthemotionofleaving.Herfoodservicesuniformwasfoldedneatlyinthebottomofherbrightredtotebag."Yes,Lena.""Doyouhaveyourmuffinsforthewee...

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