It was as if all this was a special key—a coded lexicon— designed for one mind only. Ben's. It was as if Augustus knew that Ben would come. As if he had seen it clearly, as in a glass. It reminded her of the feeling she had had in the room below this one, as she stood there among the shrouded furniture; that the house was not abandoned, merely boarded up temporarily, awaiting its occupant's return.
And now he was back.
She shuddered, and the light danced momentarily across the page, making Ben look up.
He smiled and closed the journal, then stood and moved past her, leaving the big leather-bound book on the desk.
Meg stood there a moment, staring at the journal, wondering what it said, knowing Ben would tell her when he wanted to. Then she picked it up and turned, following Ben out.
Always following, she realized. But the thought pleased her. She knew he needed her to be there—a mirror for his words, his thoughts, his dark, unworded ambitions. She, with her mere nine years of experience, knew him better than anyone. Understood him as no one else could understand him. No one living, anyway.
He was standing there, at the window, looking down thoughtfully through the broad crowns of the trees.
"What is it?" she asked.
"I'm trying to work out where the garden is."
She understood at once. There had been a picture toward the back of the journal—a portrait of a walled garden. She had thought it fanciful, maybe allegorical, but Ben seemed to think it was an actuality—somewhere here, near the house.
She stared at the book-filled wall above the desk, then turned back, seeing how he was looking past her at the same spot. He smiled and moved his eyes to her face.
"Of course. There was a door at the end of the bottom corridor."
She nodded. "Let's go down."
The door was unlocked. Beyond it lay the tiny garden, the lawn neatly trimmed, delphinia and gladioli, irises and hemero-callis, in bloom in the dark earth borders. And there, beneath the back wall, the headstone, the white marble carved into the shape of an oak, its trunk exaggeratedly thick, its crown a great cumulus.
"Yes," Ben said softly. "I knew he would be here."
He bent down beside the stone and reached out to touch and trace the indented lettering.
AUGUSTUS RAEDWALD SHEPHERD Born December 7 2106 Deceased August 15 2122
Oder jener stirbt und ists.
Meg frowned. "That date is wrong, surely, Ben?"
"No." He shook his head, not looking at her. "He was fifteen when he killed himself."
"Then . . ." But she still didn't understand. He was their greatgrandfather, wasn't he? Only fifteen? Then, belatedly, she realized what he had said: the whole of what he had said. "Killed himself?"
There was a door set into the wall behind the stone. A simple wooden door, painted red, with a latch high up. Ben had stood up, facing it, andxwas staring at it in his usual intent manner.
Doors, she thought; always another door. And behind each door something new and unexpected. Augustus, for instance. She had never dreamed he would be so much like Ben. Like a twin.
"Shall we?" Ben asked, looking at her. "Before we set off back? There's time."
She looked down at the headstone, a strange feeling of unease nagging at her. She was tempted to say no, to tell him to leave it, but why not? Ben was right. There was time. Plenty of time before they'd be missed-
"Okay," she said quietly. "But then we go straight back. All right?"
He smiled at her and nodded, then went to the door, stretch-ing to reach the latch.
It was a workroom. There were shelves along one wall on which were a number of things: old-fashioned screwdrivers and hammers, saws and pliers; a box of nails and an assortment of glues; locks and handles, brackets and a tray of different keys. A spade and a pitchfork stood against the wall beneath, beside a pair of boots, the mud on them dried, flaky to the touch.
Meg looked around her. At the far end, against the wall, was a strange upright shape, covered by an old bedspread. Above it, hanging from an old iron chain, hung a beveled mirror. As she watched, Ben went across and threw the cloth back. It was a piano. An old upright piano. He lifted the lid and stared at the keys awhile.
"I wonder if it's—"
Some sense—not precognition, or even the feeling of danger—made her speak out. "No, Ben. Please. Don't touch it."
He played a note. A chord. Or what should have been a chord. Each note was flat, a harsh, cacophonic noise. The music of the house. Discordant.
She heard the chain break with a purer note than any sounded by her brother; heard the mirror slither then crash against the top of the piano; then stepped forward, her hand raised to her mouth in horror, as the glass shattered all about him.
"Ben.'.'!"
Her scream echoed out onto the water beyond the house.
Inside the room there was a moment of utter stillness. Then she was at his side, sobbing breathlessly, muttering to him again and again. "What have you done, Ben? What have you done?"
Shards of glass littered his hair arid shoulders. His cheek was cut and a faint dribble of blood ran toward the comer of his mouth. But Ben was staring down at where his left hand had been only a moment before, sounding the chord. It still lay there on the keys, the fingers extended to form the shape. But the arm now ended in a bloodied stump. Cut clean, the blood still pumping.
For a moment she did nothing, horrified, her lips drawn back from her teeth, watching how he turned the stump, observing it, his eyes filled with wonder at the thing he had accidentally done. He was gritting his teeth against the pain, keeping it at bay while he studied the stump, the severed hand.
Then, coming to herself again, she pressed the stud at her neck and sounded the alarm.
MUCH LATER Meg stood at the bottom of the slope, looking out across the water.
Night had already fallen, but in one place its darkness was breached. Across the bay flames leapt high from the burning house and she could hear the crackling of burning vegetation, the sudden sharp retorts as wood popped and split.
Smoke lay heavy on the far side of the water, laced eerily with threads of light from the blaze. She could see dark shapes moving against the brilliance; saw one of the security craft rise up sharply, its twin beams cutting the air in front of it.
"Meg? Meg! Come inside!"
She turned and looked back up the slope toward the cottage. Lights burned at several of the windows, throwing faint spills of light across the white-painted stonework. Her father stood there, a dark, familiar figure, framed in the light of the doorway.
"I'm coming, Daddy. Just a moment longer. Please."
He nodded, somewhat reluctantly, then turned away. The door closed behind him.
Meg faced the blaze again, looking out across the dark glass of the bay. She thought she could see small shapes in the uprush of flame, like insects burning, crackling furiously as their shells ignited in a sudden flare of brilliance. Books, she thought; all those books. ...
Ben was upstairs, in his bed. They had frozen the stump but they had not saved the hand. He would need a new one now.
She could still hear the chord he had sounded; still see his fingers spreading to form the shape. She looked away from the blaze. Afterimages flickered in the darkness. The eye moved on, but the image remained. For a time.
She went indoors. Went up and saw him where he lay, propped up with a mound of pillows behind his back. He was awake, fully conscious. She sat at his bedside and was silent for a time, letting him watch her.