When in doubt, call your attorney.
I didn’t think I’d sounded urgent, but I’d barely had time to pick up my basket of gardening tools and start weeding the flower beds that bordered the screened porch when Ilya Sanguinati walked up behind me, startling me enough that I squeaked and would have fallen on my butt if he hadn’t grabbed one of my arms and hauled me to my feet.
“I didn’t hear the car.” I had to stop squeaking and develop the full-bodied scream that actors in scary movies managed to achieve. Then again, they weren’t really scared breathless, which I’m sure helped with scream volume.
“I came across the lake,” Ilya said.
“You have a boat?” I couldn’t imagine him rowing a boat or paddling a canoe, so maybe it was a little sailboat?
He laughed. “The Sanguinati’s smoke form can travel over water as easily as land, and the direct route across the lake was faster than using the car.” He waited a beat. “You had a question.”
“Every terra indigene settlement has a Reader.”
“That is a statement, not a question.”
“Aggie and the boys are excited about me being the Reader here, but I’d like to know exactly what that means.”
“Because of the sacrifice usually required to achieve it, being the Reader is a position of respect in a settlement.”
Sacrifice? What kind of sacrifice?
“Would you like to work while we talk?” he asked. “I don’t want to disrupt your schedule of chores.”
I noticed he didn’t offer to help. Then again, when the Sanguinati turned into smoke, their clothes also turned into smoke, which just added to their mystique. I had heard that the whole turning-into-smoke thing was the reason the Sanguinati always dressed in black or shades of gray. That might be something someone made up. Or it could be cultural, like Simple Life men wearing dark trousers, white shirts, and suspenders. But seeing Ilya crouch beside me as I weeded the flower bed, I really wanted to ask if it was as hard to get grass stains out of Sanguinati clothing as it was regular old human clothes.
“Every form of terra indigene has its own teaching stories, the lessons one generation passes on to the next,” Ilya said. “And there are stories that are told as entertainment that appeal to many different forms. It’s only in the past few decades that some of our stories have been written down and put into books that many can enjoy.”
“Like the Wolf Team stories and the books by Alan Wolfgard?”
He smiled. “Exactly. But reading printed words is a human skill, and to most forms of terra indigene, acquiring human skills is considered a necessary contamination—a sacrifice a small percentage of us make in order to keep watch over the two-legged predators who are also prey.”
Well, hearing that sure made me feel special. It also made me realize how The Jumble was different from other terra indigene settlements. “The Readers aren’t usually human, are they? They’re terra indigene who have learned to read well in order to share the stories with the rest of the . . . residents.”
“Yes. Here, with you, the reading hour can be a point of interaction as well as entertainment.”
And a lot of responsibility. “Every day?”
“Oh no. Perhaps one evening a week—and not on your cop and crime TV night—you could read a chapter from a book like the Wolf Team. On another evening, a folktale or one of your human teaching stories. On the third evening, you could read an article or two from a magazine like Nature!—something nonfiction.”
I stopped weeding and looked at him. “I would think you would know more about the natural world than the humans writing about it.”
“But knowing how humans view the world is valuable,” Ilya countered.
Three evenings a week didn’t sound too demanding. And most human social life finished up soon after sundown since everyone who didn’t want to be eaten stayed home after dark, so I would still have plenty of time for my own reading and personal chores.
“Julian Farrow might have books of human folktales or short stories that The Jumble’s residents would find appealing, and he could stand in as a second Reader,” Ilya said casually.
Too casually? No. Uh-uh. I could not have heard what I thought I’d heard.
“Is there anything else?” Ilya asked.
“No, I just wanted to be clear about the duties of the Reader before tonight’s story time.”
“Then I’ll wish you a good evening, Victoria.”
I watched him walk away, kind of hoping I would see him do the smoke thing. But he still looked human when he walked down the grassy slope that led to the beach, and my thoughts circled back to what he’d said.
I sat back on my heels and stared at the flower bed. If Ineke had suggested that Julian could help me be the designated Reader, I would have said she was playing matchmaker. But Ilya Sanguinati?
Nah.
Conan fetched a chair from the kitchen and Cougar fetched a floor lamp from the social room along with a small table where I could set a glass of water. After they conferred with Aggie about potential locations for story time, the three of them had decided that I would stay in the screened porch so that biting insects wouldn’t distract me from reading the story, and by using an extension cord to plug in the lamp, I could be positioned as close to the porch door as possible so that my voice would carry across at least part of the back lawn.
By the time I opened the kitchen door, ready for my first attempt at being The Jumble’s Reader, I’d convinced myself that just because Aggie had spread the word, that didn’t mean anyone would show up.
I’d had no idea that many Crows lived in The Jumble. I’d had no idea that many Crows could fit on my porch. I didn’t know what to say about the large Hawk that was perched on the back of the chair I was supposed to use. I was pretty sure asking him—her?—to move was not a good idea. I was pretty sure having that beak a few inches above my head wasn’t going to help my reading skills. I didn’t know this story. What if there was a Hawk who worked with the villains instead of the good guys? And if this was the same Hawk who had gouged the paint on the roof of Detective Swinn’s car, I didn’t want to think about what those talons could do to me.
Breathe, Vicki. Breathe. And believe that no harm comes to the Reader.
Aggie, in human form, sat on the porch floor beside my chair. Conan and Cougar also sat on the porch floor.
“We’re almost ready,” Aggie said. “The Owlgard . . . Oh, there they are.”
I watched two Owls glide in from somewhere and perch on a branch of the nearest tree. And I felt a gentle tug on my hair, as if someone was trying to figure out how to comb it. But the only being . . .
Oh gods. The Hawk was trying to preen my hair. I didn’t want to imagine what would happen if one of his feet got tangled up in it, so I leaned forward a little, grabbed the book, and said with manic brightness, “Why don’t we start?”
I couldn’t see what was out there just beyond the porch. I caught a glimpse of tufted ears before something settled on the porch steps.
Breathe, Vicki, and make a note to schedule anxiety attacks after reading time.
“Today we’ll start the first book about the Wolf Team,” I said, raising my voice, although I wasn’t sure that was necessary considering my listeners. “It’s called Sharp Justice.” I took a sip of water, then set the glass on the table. “Chapter One.”
CHAPTER 21
Grimshaw
Thaisday, Juin 15
Grimshaw locked the door of his room and headed downstairs for breakfast. He’d been in charge of the Sproing Police Station for two full days and had three dead bodies. Four if he counted Franklin Cartwright, who was the reason he’d ended up in Sproing in the first place.