Shadowland

    of what happened — little things, like you remember

    dreams.'

    Tom waited.

    'Well, like, I remember Bud arguing with Uncle Cole. That's mainly it.'

    'Arguing about you?'

    'Not really. Bud wanted me to come home right away, I remember that. And Bud won. I did go home with him. But I can remember Uncle Cole sort of taunting him. He said he hoped Bud wasn't waiting to be included in my will. I know that was a terrible thing to say, but he was mad, Tom. That's about it. Except . . . well, I can remember Bud sitting on one end of the living room and Uncle Cole sitting on the other end. I must have been lying on my side of the couch. They were just staring at each other. It was like they were fighting without words. Then my uncle said, 'All right. Take him, you old woman. But he'll be back. He loves me.' And Bud went upstairs to get my stuff. When he came back down, we all went out to the car, and Bud said, 'We don't want any repeat performances, Mr. Collins.' My uncle didn't say anything.'

    ''No repeat performances.''

    'Right.' With the light falling on him in disks and shafts, Del seemed a part of the forest, camouflaged to blend in as easily as a squirrel. 'But that was silly. I was never going to break my leg again. I guess Bud was being extra careful.'

    'Okay,' Tom said. He began to walk toward the rock ledge.

    'I sure wonder if we'll see Rose today,' Del said behind him.

    You will betray Declass="underline" that had already happened. The rest of it, Tom swore, never would.

TWO

Flight

1

Shadowland's windows reflected the sun. Milky soap bubbles between the flagstones picked up the brilliant light. Del pushed open the sliding windows, and the two boys walked into the living room. Grooves in the carpet were vacuum-cleaner tracks; a smell of air freshener and furniture polish lingered. The ashtrays sparkled. Tom felt immediately that they were alone in the house. It felt empty and up for sale, open for viewing.

    'Isn't this a beautiful place?' Del said as they walked through to the hall. More furniture polish. The banister gleamed. 'I almost think . . . '

    'What?'

    'That I'd be happy here. That I could live here. Like him. And just work on magic. Go into it deeper and deeper. Never perform, just get it perfect. It's really pure.'

    'I see what you mean,' Tom said. 'You think breakfast is in the dining room?'

    'Let's see, master.'

    Del chirpily crossed the hall and opened the door to the dining room. Two places had been laid on a vast mahogany table. A senes of covered serving dishes sat on a sideboard. There and on the table, brilliant freesias lolled in vases.

    'It sure is,' Del said. 'Wow. Let's see what we have here.' He raised one cover after another. 'Ah, eggs. Bacon and sausages. Toast in the toast rack. Kidneys. Chicken livers. Hash-browns. I guess you could call that breakfast.'

    'I guess you could call it six breakfasts.'

    They piled food on their plates and sat, on Tom's part a little self-consciously, at the immense table. 'This is wonderful,' Del said, beginning to attack his food. 'Some coffee?'

    'No, thanks.'

    'It's like being a king, but better. You don't have to go out and tax the masses, or whatever kings do. But I guess he is a king, isn't he — from what he was saying yesterday?'

    'Yeah.'

    'You really don't want it, do you?' Del asked shyly.

    'No, I don't. You're welcome to it.'

    'And I wouldn't be alone, like he is. I mean, I wouldn't have to be alone.'

    'I have a headache,' Tom interrupted. 'The kidneys seem to be making it worse.'

    'Oh, I'm sorry,' Del blurted. 'Tom, I feel like I have so much to apologize for. I guess I got a little crazy. I know there was no reason to be jealous, but he was spending so much time with you. But that just means that you'll be a fantastic magician, doesn't it? I'll always want your help, Tom. I know he chose me, and all that, but . . . well, I was thinking you could have a wing of this house all your own, and we could do tours together, just like he did with Speckle John.'

    'That would be good,' Tom said. He pushed his plate away. 'Del, just be careful. Everything isn't settled yet.' He could not talk to Del about escape while Del was mentally crowning him kinglet.

    'We'll have to pick new names. Have you thought about that yet?'

    'Del, we don't know what's going to happen yet.' Del looked sulky for a moment. 'All I'm saying is, take it slow. There's a lot we have to find out yet.'

    'Well, that's true,' Del said, and went back to work on his eggs.

    Tom plunged in deeper. 'I never asked you this before. How did your parents die?'

    Del looked up, startled. 'How? Plane crash. It was a company plane. My father was flying it — he had a pilot's license. Something happened.' Del set down his fork. 'They couldn't even have a funeral because the crash was a kind of explosion — there wasn't anything left. Just some burned — up parts of the plane. And my father put in his will that there wasn't to be any kind of memorial service. They were just. . . gone. Just gone.' He rattled the fork against his plate.

    'Where were you? How old were you?'

    'I was nine. I was here. It was during the summer. I was in a boarding school in New Hampshire then, and it was a rotten hole. I knew I was going to flunk out after that. And I did. If Uncle Cole hadn't been so good to me, I probably would have . . . dropped dead. I don't know.' He looked uncertainly up at Tom, who had his chin propped in his hands. 'Uncle Cole kept me together that summer.'

    'Why didn't you live with him after that?'

    'I wanted to, but my father's will said I had to live with the Hillmans. My father didn't know Uncle Cole very well. I guess he didn't trust him. You can imagine what bankers think about magicians. Sometimes I had to really beg my father to let me come here in the summer. In the end, he always let me, though. He always gave me what I wanted.'

    'Yeah,' Tom said. 'Mine did too.'

    After a time Tom said, 'I think I'll go lie down or something. Or take a walk by myself.' 'I'm really tired too. And I want to take a bath.' 'Good idea,' Tom said, and both boys left the table.

Del went upstairs, and Tom went back into the living room. He sat on the couch; then he lay down and deliberately put his feet on it. A water pipe rattled in the wall. The big house, so flawlessly cleaned and polished, seemed vacated; waiting. If he dropped a match and burned the carpet, would the carpet instantly restore itself? It felt like that — alive. His feet would never dirty the fabric of the couch. And Del wanted to live here; in his imagination, he already ruled Shadowland.

    Tom jumped off the couch and ran up the stairs. The bed had been folded down for a nap. He threw his clothes on it and went into the bathroom to shower.

    The cold sparkling tub said: You can't.

The fresh towel said: We will beat you.

A new tube of toothpaste on the sink said: You will be ours:

After he dressed in fresh clothes, Tom dropped his stiff underpants into the wastebasket and covered them with balled-up sheets of paper from the desk. This minimal act of defiance cheered him. At least a few inches of the house were less immaculate. He left the room. Through the big windows in the hall he looked down at the boat house: Rose in her green dress and high heels. If he looked different, it was because of the astonishing thing that had happened there, not because of the magical hoops he had been put through on his way back to the clearing.