Kepler’s Dream by Juliet Bell

entrance to her bedroom, and into another long, dim room, divided in two: the first half was a kitchen, the second half tables and clutter. There was one small round table in there, set for dinner, near a large raised fireplace with a fire roaring away inside it. (Evenings came on fast and cool there.) Along the side wall was another surface completely covered—I was getting used to this—with letters, magazines, photographs, money, stamps, marbles in a silver dish, glasses, pens, a few books, and a long cylinder that was either a spyglass or a stick of dynamite.
    â€œYou sure have a lot of—” I started, but she cut me off.
    â€œI have a lot of things, I know.” My grandmother’s voice was brisk. “I implore you, never call it
stuff
. I can’t bear it when people come into my house and say, ‘Goodness, Mrs. Von Stern, what a lot of stuff you have!’”
    Another thing to remember. I’d have to make a list.
    â€œI collect. I am a collector, and I travel, and so after a time”—she shrugged—“objects accumulate.”
    This was what Ms. Nelson would have called an understatement. She made us write a whole page of understatements once.I enjoyed that.
I have a slight dislike for anchovies. My dog isn’t very clean after a walk in the rain. I might prefer it if my mother spent less time in the hospital.
    Dinner that first night was edible. No anchovies, at least. Hildy sat right at my grandmother’s knee and got bites of roast beef handed to her from the table, though we had fed both dogs before we sat down. The best thing about the meal was dessert: a delicious chocolate cake with raspberry cream frosting. My grandmother apparently had a sweet tooth—something we had in common. Maybe it was genetic.
    Most of our awkward chat was about how I was possibly going to fill up the days of my endlessly long stay. The question seemed to worry her, too. She told me I would have chores, like walking the dogs and helping Miguel feed the birds. A friend of hers named Joan ran a bookstore, where she’d be happy to buy me books. The local high school had a swimming pool. If I liked drawing, she would get me art supplies. (I said no, politely; the world is a better place when I’m not somewhere in it doing art.)
    It wasn’t wilderness camp—there was no mention of kayaking or making lanyards—but that was the program. Take it or leave it.
    I was bold enough to ask one question. “Uh …” The GM glared. How the (expletive deleted) was I going to make it through a month and a half without
uh
? “Doesn’t Miguel have a daughter around my age?” I tried not to sound as desperate as I felt.
    â€œYou mean Rosie.” Grandmother seemed surprised. “I supposeshe is close to you in age, yes. I believe she’s eleven. How old are you, Ella?”
    â€œEleven.”
    â€œAh.” She looked like someone who has just been told a poodle is the same species as a terrier: she had to think about it for a minute. “What an amusing coincidence.” Her face was anything but amused, though. Alarmed or uneasy, maybe—not amused. “But her parents are living separately at the moment, so she is here only some of the time. And besides, given the history …” She shook her head slightly.
    â€œWhat history?” I asked.
    The GM stood up abruptly, scraping the floor with her chair. “Perhaps another time, Ella.” I didn’t think that was, strictly speaking, the politest way of ending a conversation. Wasn’t she breaking one of her own rules? “For now, I must do some reading. And I’m sure you’re tired after your long day.”
    I wasn’t tired at all, I was wide awake, especially after all that chocolate and the new spark of curiosity she had just lit in my mind.
What about Rosie?
I wanted to ask.
She’s my only hope here!
But something in my grandmother’s face