The Silenced Tale, стр. 37

When I am done, I help Pip back downstairs and to the sofa, where she can lay down within easy reach of Alis.

“I’ll call the school and have your TA teach your classes today,” I say, and this final act of thoughtfulness seems to be what undoes my wife. Pip rolls over, buries her face in the sofa cushions, and begins to weep. “Pip.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” she says. “I don’t understand.”

“Shhh, rest for now,” I say, sitting on the arm of the sofa and petting her hair.

“You know what it is. You’re thinking something,” Pip accuses, looking up at me with tears forming along her lashes. “Come on.”

“I have my theories,” I admit reluctantly.

“Spill.”

I sigh, and shake my head gently to avoid any residual dizziness from my knock. “When you a-a-are re-reh-rested.”

“Now,” Pip insists, gaze hardening.

“It se-seems th-th-that th-the d-d-dates and t-tah-times of your f-fits ma-tch the day-dates and t-tuh-times of the inci-ci-ci-dents happening arou-nd Elgar-r,” I say softly. I watch, tense and waiting, as Pip digests this.

“It’s me,” she gasps, and then the waterworks begin in earnest. She twists around and lays her head on my knees, sobbing fit to shake apart. “I knew it. I knew something had to be wrong. I knew it—I just . . . fucking trilogies.”

“We d-d-don’t know th-that,” I remind her. “We ha-have no p-pro-proof.”

“Oh, god, the light, the burns,” Pip gasps, staring up at me. “Elgar. You need to—”

“In a mo-ment,” I say. “Whatever has ha-happened has h-happened, and nothing yet has happened to him p-personally. I will see to you, and then I will check on hi-him.”

“I’m fine,” Pip lies. “Call him.”

“Pip, you are my first priority. If he was still with the p-puh-police, he will already have received the best first res-ponder care. Perhaps they have caught the person th-threatening him and—”

“What if it’s not a person?” Pip asks tremulously, chin wobbling. “What if you . . . you can’t find anyone? What if there’s nothing to find because there’s no one behind it?”

A frisson of fear crawls over my flesh. “Bao bei, what are you implying? That it’s—”

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Pip sobs. “Is it me? Oh my god, is it me? Am I doing . . . ?”

“You can’t possibly. N-Not con-consciously, a-at least—”

“Maybe it’s really the magic? What if it’s tearing out of me? Going after him?” Pip looks at Alis, asleep in her playpen. “What if I—? What if it gets out and hurts—?”

“I wo-won’t l-l-let it,” I vow, as firmly as I am able.

“You can’t promise—”

“If there is enou-enough m-ma-magic in the air to harm m-me or A-Alis, then th-th-thu-there is en-nough to st-st-stop it fuh-first.”

“I hope you’re right,” Pip whispers into my thigh, pressing her forehead against my hip. I cradle her head gently. “God, bao bei, I hope you’re right.”

Elgar

Come the following Saturday, Elgar is desperate to leave. Not because it’s scary, but because he has nothing to do. Elgar has slept, watched television with a rotating cast of various stony-faced agents, kept abreast of the casting news with Riletti, let Jackson bully him into long and rambling walks around the walled-in garden, answered the panicked phone calls from his agent when she learned he was in a goddamn safe house, and tried very hard not to miss writing.

In this week alone, surrounded by neat spy stuff and with only his own thoughts to occupy him, he’s had a dozen ideas for a magical cop-procedural mystery series, and he’s jotted them down in his notebook, carefully keeping from envisioning his main protagonist too clearly, just in case . . . in case . . . aw, hell.

Elgar doesn’t think it’s possible to be so scared for such a sustained amount of time. He wonders if this is what it must feel like to be a peasant living in a castle under a siege you can do nothing about. Or, possibly, what living in the Middle East right now might be like. The constant and complete awareness of everything around you at all times, being constantly prepped and primed for fight or flight, is exhausting. He’s tired, but can’t sleep. Every creak and crack of the strange house startles him. He’s too tense to really be bored, but too bored for time to pass quickly.

He calls Juan every day, via secure satellite phone, to stay abreast of what’s going on with Flageolet and the TV series, as well as the house. Juan’s also managing his social media feeds, pretending to be Elgar and making no reference to the stalker, or the horror that has been following him, in order to keep everyone calm and not tip-off the crazies. Elgar’s been amused to note that Juan has him taking “long walks” through the park a lot recently. The dig isn’t as subtle as his assistant thinks it is.

Linux chirrups and meows in the background sometimes, which makes Elgar homesick in a way that has nothing to do with places.

Four days into Elgar’s exile, the stress of it all makes him slip up in exactly the way he feared he would. Juan asks him if he’s been in contact with his Canadian cousins, and Elgar uses Forsyth’s full name when he replies.

“Forsyth?” Juan asks. “Okay, yeah, no, that makes sense. Did you name Forsyth in the book for him? Is it his real name?”

“What? I . . . ” Elgar says, caught out and wishing he could see Juan’s face, could parse his expression so he can figure out what his assistant is getting at. Tomorrow, he’s going to insist on a video-call. “Yeah, I guess you could say so. Why are you stuck on this?”

“It’s a bit funny, is all . . .” Juan says slowly. “It’s just that, the other day, my boyfriend was asking about him. Forsyth, I mean. The character. He wanted to know what I knew about him.”

The familiar icy chill crawls up Elgar’s spine. “Why?” he asks,