The Silenced Tale, стр. 16
“We have tested everything—” I repeat, meaning to reassure her. To reassure us both.
“How recently?” Pip interrupts. Her dark eyes are wide, pleading.
“Shall I try now?”
“Yes!”
I take a moment to think, and then decide to attempt a Word. Not wanting to cause any kind of commotion on a busy Saturday afternoon sidewalk in downtown Victoria if it is successful—and I have my doubts that it will be—I decide upon a Word of Sleeping. Alis is over-stimulated, and would benefit from a nap, anyway.
I take a deep, calming breath, and Speak.
Though the fog of my breath rises in the evening air, the Word strangles in the open, as do all Words in this realm. It is dead before the breath used to form it has truly left me.
Except . . .
I gasp, a hand flying to my lips. For just before it puffed out of existence, the Word spluttered and sparked, and left a very mild tingling against my flesh.
Pip freezes. Below me, Alis yawns dramatically, showing off her few pearly teeth. She rubs her hands against her eyes. Then she blinks, and frowns up at me, as if she is entirely aware that her newfound sleepiness is my fault and that she does not approve of it in the least.
“No,” I breathe, and say the Word again, staring hard at Alis. My child just blinks back up at me, annoyed now.
“Da,” she says reproachfully, and then looks away, back down to Library to babble to the stuffie about how exasperating her parents are.
“That had to be a coincidence,” I say. “A coincidence and static shock.”
“The universe is rarely so lazy,” Pip says cautiously. She reaches out and touches my bottom lip, but no electricity arcs between our flesh.
When the cab arrives, we bundle Alis and ourselves into it slowly. We move like creaking, gouty old warriors who are in no fit condition for yet another war. Warriors who know that, despite that, we may very well be called upon again, very soon.
Chapter 3 Elgar
Elgar sleeps poorly, his stomach empty and his ears open for any creaks or thumps that don’t belong in the normal nighttime symphony of his house. When he finally drifts off, Linux wakes him almost immediately with a pitiful request for the breakfast Elgar doesn’t usually feed him for another few hours. The cat is so insistent that Elgar gives up and gets out of bed. He feels silly for fearing his own cupboards and appliances, but fear them he does. So he creeps into the kitchen slowly, eyes wide, watching every shadow and corner for motion.
The only living creatures seem to be him and his cat, though. So Linux gets his breakfast, but Elgar can’t bring himself to open his fridge. Breakfast out it will be, then. He hasn’t been to the diner up the street in months, and it’s about time he popped back in for those incredible eggs Benny, anyway. On his way past his office, he grabs a notepad and pen, just in case he’s struck with an idea to . . .
Oh. No.
He places them back on the desk slowly, carefully.
No. No writing. He isn’t . . . it isn’t a good idea. Not . . . yet. Not now.
It’s drizzling when he steps outside, the sort of cold, gray stuff that isn’t completely snow, but isn’t completely rain, either. He scrunches into his coat, chin buried in his beard to ward against the chill. The grocery store is between his house and the diner, and it isn’t until he’s just passing the empty bench outside the entrance that he vividly recalls the stranger in black. The man’s glare could have rivaled a basilisk.
And yet, beyond that, Elgar can barely remember what he looks like.
Elgar’s head whips around as he searches the sparse early-morning commuter crowd shuffling for the bus stop, his heart hammering suddenly against the back of his ribs. But the man in black is nowhere in sight.
Elgar swallows hard, feeling like a big fat fool, and shuffles along with the rest of the sleep-deprived zombies to the diner. He scopes the place out from the entryway, trying to be as casual about it as possible. Clear. He takes a seat at a table that gives him a good view of both the room and the door. It isn’t his usual booth—he prefers the one nearest the warmth and genial noise of the kitchen, with the outlet under the table—but he feels safer here, less exposed.
Maddie, the morning waitress, gives him a funny look, but bustles over with a fresh cup and the pot of coffee all the same.
“You’re up early,” she says, pouring out the liquid heaven. Elgar flashes her his most winning, most flirtatious smile, the one that all the young readers like Maddie love, and the corners of her lips tighten back in response. “No laptop today?”
“No,” he says, taking a gulp of the steaming coffee to keep from having to say more.
He’s lucky that he has Lucy and Forsyth, because now he has someone to discuss his news with who isn’t just Juan. He isn’t as tempted to drop as many hints to Maddie as he used to, when she was the only other person who saw him writing.
He wonders if she misses those hints. Obviously, she’s read his books—he’s never met anyone who hasn’t—and perhaps she even has one of those websites where she shares everything he’s said to her. Another author told him about that; that there were fans who would eavesdrop and try to recreate conversations from their favorite authors on message boards so they could get the scoop on new projects or leak spoilers. It’s both weirdly stalkery and, at the same time, actually kind of flattering.
“Same order?” Maddie asks, already half-turned away.
Elgar just nods, his mouth scorched from the coffee. He swallows again to try to get some saliva running over the burns.
Maddie leaves him to his solitude, and he realizes he