He drew back. She thought she should say something but couldn’t think of words to match the moment. Too many were questions, and could wait. The roof creaked. She grabbed his shoulder. The firmness of her grip surprised her. “Let’s go,” she said.

They lifted each other to their feet and, leaning, limped from the tower.

*   *   *

By the time Ellen emerged from Peter’s room, Hannah had beaten Jake three times at checkers—their détente involved Jake not minding when Hannah won, and Hannah not minding when Jake marched his toy thunder lizard through the victorious checkers, devouring errant disks in a frenzy of dagger-toothed revenge. Matt hadn’t expected his youngest to get on with the Rafferty girl, but perhaps he wasn’t threatening—or maybe Hannah just liked lizards.

The apartment settled as they all prepared for sleep. Through the wall his bedroom shared with Peter’s, Matt heard Hannah and Ellen talking in low voices like the bubbling of a fountain. Donna held him, and he held her back.

“You’re right,” he said.

She pressed her face into the side of his head and hummed satisfaction. “Call for a mason. Set this occasion down in stone.”

“I say that a lot.”

“Not out loud.”

“The girls need space. Seeing Corbin in the hospital like that—he’s sick, has been the last three years, since June left.”

“Sleep, Matt. There will still be problems in the morning.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said, but kissed her, said he loved her, and heard her say she loved him back. He waited on his back. His wife’s breathing slowed. The ceiling was an unmapped territory.

Soft ghostlight glowed in the crack beneath the bedroom door: Claire, reading, in the living room.

“Claire, go to sleep!”

Ellen’s voice.

The light shut off with a click, and they slept.

36

36

The next morning’s dawn found Matt and Claire returning from their rounds. Their golem cart plodded up the long low ridge, beyond which Alt Coulumb’s towers peaked. A flash of color cut across the road from tree to tree, and somewhere, something sang a sweet song.

“Beautiful bird,” Claire said.

“The singer or the flier?”

“Both.”

“The singer’s not a bird. It’s a gracklet.”

She turned to Matt. “What?”

“Spider-lizard kind of thing. Mimics birdsong. You can tell because of the hiss before it sings.”

“Do I want to know why it mimics birdsong?”

“Guess.”

“Gross.”

“Circle of life,” he said, and hummed a few bars of a mystery play song. “Gracklets are good for the forest. They keep the bird-mind from eating people.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me.”