Child of a Rainless Year (50 page)
Read Child of a Rainless Year Online
Authors: Jane Lindskold
“Thank you,” I replied, “but no. I’d like to go outside. It looks like a lovely afternoon.”
“Very good,” the silent woman said. “We’re pleased you are feeling stronger.”
She exited the room by the door, but I had a feeling that if I were to hurry and peek out, she wouldn’t be there. It was disquieting in a way, but even more disquieting was the fact that I was coming to take such things for granted.
I am all the daughters of my father’s house, And all the brothers too.
—William Shakespeare,
Twelfth Night
Mikey and Domingo turned as one when I emerged from the kitchen door into the garden. Blanco, stick in his mouth, came bounding across to greet me. I bent and tossed the stick toward my friends, then followed it.
“Feeling better?” Mikey asked. “You look it.”
“Thank you,” I said, dipping a shallow curtsey that wasn’t quite mocking. “I appreciate hearing that.”
There was an almost full pitcher of hand-squeezed lemonade on the garden table. Two of the glasses on the accompanying tray showed use, but a third sitting rim down was clean. I noticed that the glassware wasn’t anything I recognized and looked at Domingo.
“Is the lemonade your handiwork?”
He nodded. “Please, help yourself. Are you hungry? I can get something for you to eat.”
After pouring a glass of the lemonade, I settled myself in my usual chair.
“No thanks. I grabbed a cheese sandwich on my way out. That’s filled the crevices. Amazing how using those kaleidoscopes burns everything right out of me. I’d make a fortune if I could market this as a diet plan.”
Mikey patted his own ample girth. “I fear using liminal space is not always a weight-loss plan, my dear. As I have said before, I think something is blocking you, making this harder than it should be.”
I shrugged. “I have no idea what that could be, but I do have a bit more information. I know what Colette went back in time for, and why she got angry enough that she lost her way home. What I don’t know is why she did what she did.”
I told them then, and though Mikey had a few questions, mostly they listened in intent silence.
When I finished, Mikey said, “What immediately comes to mind is what you overheard Colette saying in yesterday’s vision. How did it go exactly?”
I recited, “‘I suppose I’ll need to return the one before I can have another. What a bother! I’ve made the trip twice now, and hoped never to risk a third.’”
We stared at each other, then Domingo spoke very slowly, very carefully, as if he feared to give offense.
“You said it seemed Colette was trying to steal not the baby, but the baby’s reflection.”
I nodded.
“And from what you overheard,” Domingo continued, “it sounds as if she had been successful before.”
“You mean that she had already stolen the baby’s reflection,” I said, feeling very strange. “And that she intended to do so again, but that for some reason she couldn’t.”
“Not for some reason,” Mikey said firmly, “for the precise reason that she had already done so. You said the baby’s image looked paler than the nurse’s. It seems that on this last trip Colette discovered she could not take away the baby’s image because she had already done so—and that she planned to return the first image in order to steal it afresh.”
“That doesn’t make sense!” I protested, though somewhere in my gut it did. “Why steal what she already had? Why take the risk again?”
“Why,” Mikey said reasonably, “do we ever redo an action? One reason is because we enjoyed it the first time. Another is because we hoped to better our first attempt—like when people keep running the same marathon or playing the same golf course. Another reason is because we made some mistake the first time and want to rectify that error.”
“Or,” I said, with the insight of an artist, “you’re just fascinated with a particular technique or view or whatever and can’t help doing it again.”
“I think,” Mikey replied, “that we can leave out the last. Colette did say that this was something she had hoped not to need to do again—presumably, she didn’t want to make the second trip either.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling oddly grumpy. “We’ll discount that last. I think we can reject her doing it again because she enjoyed it. That also makes it unlikely she was trying to better some past attempt—unless there’s some prize offered for what she did.”
“Not that I’ve ever heard,” Mikey said.
“Then that leaves trying to rectify some error—apparently some error in her own infancy,” I said. “Do you think Colette was responsible for tuning her infant self to Phineas House? It’s always been something of a mystery why it bypassed Nikolai for his daughter.”
Domingo said in the same deliberate tones as before, “You are forgetting, Mira. Colette spoke of having to return the one before she could take the other. Take, not tune or tend. Take.”
“So maybe she took the image so she could work her tricks on it elsewhere,” I said stubbornly. “Maybe she took the image, messed up, figured she could do a correction on the original, then discovered she had to basically reset the experiment in full before she could make it right.”
“I think it was something like that,” Domingo said, “but I think that also we have no idea what her experiment was. Maybe it is, as you say, something like attunement to Phineas House. Maybe something else. How will we know unless we ask her?”
“There may be something in her papers,” Mikey said. “There have been times when you’ve been asleep, Mira, that I’ve been tempted to go through them more thoroughly, but I didn’t want to invade your privacy.”
“Thank you,” I said, my voice icy. “I appreciate that.”
Mikey looked rather surprised at my hostility. “I told you I didn’t look.”
“I’m sorry,” I relented. “I think the strain is getting to me. Let’s go back to what Domingo just said. We’re not going to find out unless we can ask Colette herself. I’ve been thinking about how we might do that.”
“Oh? Another attempt with the kaleidoscopes?” Mikey asked.
“No,” I said. “The kaleidoscopes show, sometimes in exquisite detail, but they don’t seem to allow any interaction. I need to be able to talk to her, ask her questions.”
Mikey’s eyebrows raised. “Are you thinking of trying to duplicate Colette’s trick—go back in time?”
I bit my lip. “Not in time. I don’t think that’s necessary. I think she’s still alive, at least in a way, suspended out there in probability. I think that’s the source of this block you sense. I think Phineas House doesn’t know whether Colette or I am its proper—I hate the term ‘master.’ Not only is it sexist, but it makes it sound like Phineas House is a slave.”
“Operator?” Domingo suggested. “Since Phineas House was designed as a tool?”
“That’ll do,” I said, flashing him a quick smile. “Operator. When I just muddle about the house, it’s fine, but when I try and use Colette’s things, inquire after Colette, the House gets conflicting signals—gets confused.”
“I see your point,” Mikey said, “so if you don’t plan to use the kaleidoscopes how do you intend to find her?”
“By using Phineas House,” I said with a decisiveness I didn’t feel. “I think it’s tuned both to me and to her. What I need to do is find a way to open a channel or pathway between those two points. Can you help me figure out how to do it?”
“I can try,” Mikey said, “but, Mira, even if Colette is alive, even if you can reach her, do you realize that you would still be taking an enormous risk? She’s been roaming the edges of probability for over forty years now. That’s going to have stirred up all sorts of forces. It’s also quite likely that after forty years in exile she’s not completely sane.”
“If she ever was.” I shrugged. “It’s either try or give up. I’m all for trying.”
“But not today,” Mikey said sternly. “Maybe not tomorrow either. You need to build up your reserves.”
I met his gaze squarely. “I should think you would want me to hurry. After all, I’m keeping you away from your home.”
Mikey shrugged. “I’ve taken business trips all my adult life. This isn’t much different, and it’s a lot easier than in the days when a long-distance phone call cost a king’s ransom.”
I didn’t ask why he hadn’t just used liminal space to commute home. Not only did I now have a realistic idea of the risks and costs involved, I could imagine the purely mundane complications of not being where you should be when some client came calling.
Mikey went on. “Let me have a day or two to tutor you. I’d like to promise that I could go with you, but frankly, this close to Phineas House the currents …”
He shrugged. I nodded understanding. Even if the trustees did benefit somewhat from Phineas House’s abilities, the House was not a reliable tool—and if my guess that Colette was in some way alive was correct, that reliability was going to be even more in question.
“I can’t see how taking some lessons would hurt,” I said. “As long as you don’t mind being kept away from home …”
“I can manage,” Mikey said.
Domingo had sat silently listening to this rather esoteric discussion. Now he cleared his throat. “Not to change the subject, but I have something that might amuse Mira.”
Something in the tone of his voice made me wonder if “amuse” might not be the best word to describe what Domingo meant.
“What?” I replied guardedly.
“I did some more family research,” he said. “Your friend Chilton O’Reilly, the reporter, was a help to me with this.”
“Research?”
Domingo indicated a large manila envelope resting on the table. “I thought you might like to see pictures of your family—my family, too, which is why I was curious. Like Mikey, I didn’t wish to go through your library, and the one thing Phineas House seems to lack is the usual solemn portraits of ancestors gone by. Then I thought that such a prominent family in Las Vegas’s history might well have appeared in the newspapers. Chilton was a great deal of help in finding what I wanted. I think he now dreams of doing a story … .”
I thought of how the reporter kept spinning new story ideas from prior ones and laughed. “That sounds like Chilton. So you two dug up some old pictures?”
“A fair number,” Domingo said, his face lighting in response to my laughter. “Take a look.”
The envelope was filled with photocopied news-clippings. Where the captions did not make clear who was pictured, identification had been written at the bottom.
“So that’s Aldo Pincas,” I said, looking at the first. “He’s a determined-looking fellow—severe.”
“Part of that may have been the photography of the time,” Mikey said, looking over my shoulder with interest. “Fast films like we have today weren’t known, and photographers usually asked their victims to hold a pose or expression.”
“This the only picture you’ve seen of old Aldo?” I asked.
“Not the first,” Mikey said. “I think I’ve even seen this one. I do have to admit, he never looks much friendlier.”
As I methodically worked my way through the stack, I noted that Domingo had included collateral members as well as the main line. He’d even found one of his line’s founder, Aldo’s son, Fernando. Few of the photos were candid, but members of Aldo Pincas’s family seemed well-represented in various civic organizations, charitable institutions, and benevolent clubs. I wondered if they’d really been so public spirited, or if this was merely a way for a family with an odd reputation and peculiar habits to stay in good with the community in which it lived.
I was shuffling through the stack, enjoying myself greatly, when in the midst of a crowd scene I spotted a familiar face. The caption at the bottom noted that the men in the photo had been the organizing committee for a fund-raiser to benefit the local fire department. In blue ballpoint pen was written below: Nikolai Bogatyr, middle row, third from right.
I counted. That was the familiar face. I stared, disbelieving.
“Mira?” Mikey said.
When I’d started going through the pictures, he’d taken a seat on the chair to my right and I’d been sliding each copy over to him as I finished. I’d held on to this one, and was looking at the next one, my heart beating so fast I thought I’d choke. It was a solo shot of the same man, the same face depicted even more clearly. This time the newspaper’s own caption identified him as Nikolai Bogatyr.
“Mira?” Mikey said. “What’s wrong?”
I ignored him, looking directly at Domingo.
“This man, this photo,” I said, pointing to the group shot, “how did you identify him?”
“The text of the article did so, quite plainly,” Domingo said. “I suppose there were too many names to put in a caption.”
I sagged, confusion replacing that heart-thumping moment of panic and fear.
“Mira,” Mikey said, pulling the pictures out of my hand. “What’s wrong? This is Nikolai Bogatyr, Colette’s father, your grandfather.”
“You don’t understand,” I said, my voice coming out choked and hoarse. “That’s the face of the man the kaleidoscope showed me when I asked who my father was. I think that second picture is even one of the same pictures. How could my father be Nikolai Bogatyr?”
Mikey looked as astonished as I felt, but Domingo only looked troubled—and sad.
“I have been wondering,” Domingo said slowly, “ever since you told us that the man in the picture was dressed in old-fashioned clothing, and that the images seemed to only last nine or ten years. I kept thinking about how Colette’s father died when she was nine or so … It seemed a great coincidence that your father, too, would die that many years after his daughter’s birth. I asked Mikey questions about how long family members tended to live, about size of families, number of children … .”
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