The Silenced Tale, стр. 124
The library is off the foyer, to the left as it always has been, my private study behind it. To the right is the morning parlor, which leads to the salon. There is no grand hall further back, though, no ballroom-cum-gymnasium, because none of Kintyre’s scripted adventures are meant to happen in what were once the most important rooms of the house for me. Kintyre’s suite of rooms exists on another part of the sound stage. Mine do not exist at all.
Kintyre’s life did not happen in the same places mine did.
I set Alis down on the freshly swept floor—even the pattern of the marble mosaic is perfect, eerily and exactly as I recall it—and she immediately makes a break for the staircase.
Alis is now so confident in her walking that she rarely wants her parents at all. She has tumbled headlong into her “just so” phase, and Bevel has become a horrible enabler. Stairs must always be climbed.
“Ah, ah!” I say, and direct her toward the library instead.
“Want—” she starts, and then cuts herself off mulishly when I shake my head.
“Don’t let her wreck anything,” Pip says, grabbing up her satchel and following after us. “I promised we wouldn’t wreck anything.”
“Me good!” Alis protests.
“I am watching her,” I tell my wife, and Pip pinches my arm when she catches me rolling my eyes.
The library, too, is exactly as I recall it. Alis’s penchant for climbing seems to be satisfied by one of the chairs by the fireplace, so I take a moment to peek into the set of the study. Here again, everything is eerily right, and just that little bit wrong. A crystal whiskey decanter set sits on the credenza, but it is not my set. The blotter is green, but not Carvel-green. Everything is close, but not correct, and it is enough to make the whole place feel flesh-shiveringly eerie. Though perhaps that might also be the chill from the air-conditioners and the high ceilings.
Newfoundland in January is bleak, and gray, salty and snowy and gorgeous. Air-conditioning wouldn’t be needed in the studio at all, save for the fact that the professional-grade stage lights are apparently extremely intense.
Pip has been teaching me a lot about the film industry these past few months, since she has taken a hiatus from her position at the University of Victoria. This past half year has been a crash course for Pip on how television is made. She’s diving into readers and textbooks like the education enthusiast that she is, as well as the behind-the-scenes videos on DVDs. She approaches her task with all the fervor that has, in the past, gone into her academic studies. Thus, she was fully prepared when we relocated to St. John’s just after the start of the Overrealm’s new year. Our house in Victoria is currently being looked after by my in-laws, and occasionally rented by short-term stay travelers, while we ourselves have taken a very charming set of rooms in a flat on Jellybean Row.
“This is uncanny,” I say.
“I thought so, too,” Pip says.
“Mama, book!” Alis demands once she’s properly seated in the wingback chair that is at once mine, and formerly mine, and not mine at all. We have trained our daughter well.
“Be gentle,” Pip says, and pulls a much-annotated and post-it note-ed The Serpent of the Sleeping Vale from her satchel, handing it to Alis. As if our daughter is ever anything but utterly gentle with books.
Content with just one of the eight be-flagged books Pip jokingly refers to as her “Neo-Excels,” Alis opens it up—upside down—and starts quietly flicking through the pages, pausing to run her fingers along each of the illustrations she comes upon.
“Bevel did a good job describing the rooms in the scrolls,” Pip says, patting her satchel. “The art department said it was nearly as good as having a blueprint.”
“Yes, and I see that he’s been very good at sticking his nose into the artistic designer’s work, too,” I say, pointing to a sheaf of illustrations and photos that have been left on an out-of-place director’s chair against a wall. They have Bevel’s telltale chicken scratch all over them. His writing of the Overrealm alphabet has improved, but his penmanship has not. “They must have been making the changes over the holiday break.”
Pip nods. “They haven’t filmed any of the interiors yet. Gil says they wanted to do all the locations stuff outside while the weather was nice in the fall. It gave them time to tweak. I guess Kintyre got a bit vocal about a few things, too.”
I snort. “Why does that not surprise me? Bevel’s prediction has rung true.”
“Juan says he’s on set as often as he can be,” Pip agrees. “And Kin said the other day that ‘heroes don’t just quietly retire.’” She snorts.
“Ah yes, Bevel said something similar,” I reply. “Let me see if I can remember the exact wording . . . ah, he said that ‘being a lord was a nice break, but I like adventures. It’s nice to tell stories again. But we’re not actually in danger, so it’s really the best of both worlds.’”
“At least they’re staying out of trouble,” Pip says. “More or less.”
“Agreed. At least until their surrogate gives birth. And then, I think, the trouble will be all theirs.”
“Or doubled,” Pip laughs. “God, twins. I don’t know if I should point my finger and laugh at them, or just start crying. Two babies that are a mix of Kin and Bevel. God help the Overrealm.”
“Cousins!” Alis shrills delightedly, as she does every time someone mentions the forthcoming addition to the Turn family tree.
“And what do