“That’s not how it was,” Annie said after taking her hands away from her ears and composing herself. “I mean, I blamed myself for a long time, it’s true. I told myself that, yeah, I had killed that child, but in my wildest dreams I could never have imagined such a thing happening. There was never any intent to harm that boy.”

Nabler gave her a smile that bordered on the sympathetic. “It must have been very hard for you.”

“Not as hard as it was for Evan’s parents.”

“Anyway, your intent is irrelevant,” he said, his look of empathy fading. “It is a distinction without a difference. That incident showed what a book could do. But to me it was, if not proof, then evidence of potential.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You have an untapped power.”

“I can draw, and I can write. That’s it.”

“Now you’re just being modest. Or maybe you really aren’t cognizant of what you can do. There are a great many books designed to inspire youngsters to reach for that higher rung, to be more than they believed themselves capable. But how many of those books inspired any child to do what Evan Corcoran did? None. But yours, yours was special.”

“I hate you.”

Oblivious to her loathing, Nabler was already engaged in how they would move forward. He gazed about the room, imagining its transformation, as the trains continued to circle with their incessant din.

“What we’ll have to do is convert everything over from trains to a printing operation. Or, you could continue to have your books printed in their current location, but before distribution we bring them here and put them through the process. We’ll need fresh material, and given that there are no longer people here in Lucknow we’ll have to do some scouting in Bennington or Montpelier, or we’ll head west to Albany. Lots to choose from there, no question.”

“Fresh material?”

“I’m sure you already noticed some of the scenic elements on the little town there are not what you would find in a more traditional hobby shop. The bones, the teeth, the hair, that kind of thing. Your husband’s watch. It’s what gives the project its zing. With books, I’m thinking we might take a different, more direct approach. Did you know that around 150 BC, in Pergamon in West Asia, parchment was made from animal skin? So there’s no reason to think it can’t be made from human skin. Just a page or two, that’s all we’d need. Slip it in somewhere, and—”

He cut himself off and laughed. “Those loonie politicians trying to ban books in schools and libraries? They might be on to something without even knowing it.”

“I won’t do it,” Annie said.

“Yes, you will.”

“No, I won’t have any part of it.”