top!
Youâre a Coolidge dollar
.
Now was the peak time of butterfliesâthe time of emerging and seeking. The estate was vast but he knew it intimately, every inch. He caught the butterflies in a net and pinned them to boards. When they crumbled, he replaced them. And he made drawings, like the drawings in
Waltonâs Field Guide to Butterflies
. Sometimes, too, he drew beetles, grasshoppers, bees, wasps, and spiders. He killed them with poison, then sketched their dead bodies. But he liked butterflies best.
Youâre a Waldorf salad!
(He liked that one because it made him laugh, though tonight he didnât laugh.)
The lamp cast its light on the book in the shape of a circle,
a hole
. The boys were in a hole.
Hermit, Wall Brown, Apollo⦠.
He stood.
I must!
Youâre the boats that glide
On the sleepy Zuider Zee,
Youâre an old Dutch master,
Youâre Lady Astor,
Youâre broccoli!
Heâd seen the crows eat Willâs eyes.
The words surged within his mind, like a wave that was not really something so singular as a wave at all, but the merest edge of an ocean, of all the oceans in the world.
At that same moment, Emily Fordham sat at the desk in her bedroom and thought of what she must write to Lord Pembroke.
She wanted to be fair to Peter. But she understood that she could not put stock in anything Peter had tried to communicate to her. The spider and the rest of it probably was nonsense. Still, Peterâs recent behavior had concerned her enough that, two days earlier, sheâd written to Donald. Peterâs flights of fancyâhis fears and aspirations and dreamsâwere so unlike those of a normal boy.
She wished that Donald were there. He would know what to do. Donald had been Thomasâs leader on the estate the previous summer, when Thomas had run away. Donald had been glad that Lord Pembroke had forbade Thomas from returning to the estate once Thomas had surfaced. Donald had said that Thomas was a liar and schemer. But Peter had seemed to like Thomas.
She withdrew a sheet of paper from the drawer and began to write. When she was finished, she put the note in an envelope, addressed and sealed it.
She would post it tomorrow, on her way to see Charles.
Lamb pushed the starter on the Wolseley. Again, the thing responded on the first try.
He thought of how, a few hours before, heâd liked his luck. Now Harry Rivers was sitting next to him, quietly staring out the window at the dark environs of Quimby. Seeing Rivers emerge from the rear seat of Hardingâs car had been like watching a specter rise from the grave.
Neither of them spoke as the Wolseley crossed the stone bridge over Mills Run and left the village. Thanks to the blackout, Lamb had to maneuver the old machine in near darkness along the narrow road, as the dim beam from his hooded headlights illuminated only the portion of the road directly ahead.
Twenty-two years earlier, nearly to the day, he and Rivers had sat next to each other in a forward trench preparing to head out, in the black of night, on a reconnaissance of the German positions thatlay less than two hundred yards distant. Both had performed such raids several times before and, indeed, Lamb had developed a reputation for being quite skillful at the job, which required stealth and a sharp mind, and depended on Rivers to back and second him. Even then, Lamb entertained no idea that Rivers liked him, though he felt certain that Rivers at least respected him. Riversâs enmity seemed to be grounded in the fact that Lamb wasnât Martin Wells, the man whom heâd replaced as second lieutenant, commanding the squad of south London men that Wells had commanded. But Wells had had the unfortunate luck of getting himself killed in a raid very much like the one that Rivers and Lamb and a half dozen other hand-picked men were about to launch. Lamb often felt as if Rivers blamed him for Wellsâs deathâas if his place in the
Youâre a Coolidge dollar
.
Now was the peak time of butterfliesâthe time of emerging and seeking. The estate was vast but he knew it intimately, every inch. He caught the butterflies in a net and pinned them to boards. When they crumbled, he replaced them. And he made drawings, like the drawings in
Waltonâs Field Guide to Butterflies
. Sometimes, too, he drew beetles, grasshoppers, bees, wasps, and spiders. He killed them with poison, then sketched their dead bodies. But he liked butterflies best.
Youâre a Waldorf salad!
(He liked that one because it made him laugh, though tonight he didnât laugh.)
The lamp cast its light on the book in the shape of a circle,
a hole
. The boys were in a hole.
Hermit, Wall Brown, Apollo⦠.
He stood.
I must!
Youâre the boats that glide
On the sleepy Zuider Zee,
Youâre an old Dutch master,
Youâre Lady Astor,
Youâre broccoli!
Heâd seen the crows eat Willâs eyes.
The words surged within his mind, like a wave that was not really something so singular as a wave at all, but the merest edge of an ocean, of all the oceans in the world.
At that same moment, Emily Fordham sat at the desk in her bedroom and thought of what she must write to Lord Pembroke.
She wanted to be fair to Peter. But she understood that she could not put stock in anything Peter had tried to communicate to her. The spider and the rest of it probably was nonsense. Still, Peterâs recent behavior had concerned her enough that, two days earlier, sheâd written to Donald. Peterâs flights of fancyâhis fears and aspirations and dreamsâwere so unlike those of a normal boy.
She wished that Donald were there. He would know what to do. Donald had been Thomasâs leader on the estate the previous summer, when Thomas had run away. Donald had been glad that Lord Pembroke had forbade Thomas from returning to the estate once Thomas had surfaced. Donald had said that Thomas was a liar and schemer. But Peter had seemed to like Thomas.
She withdrew a sheet of paper from the drawer and began to write. When she was finished, she put the note in an envelope, addressed and sealed it.
She would post it tomorrow, on her way to see Charles.
Lamb pushed the starter on the Wolseley. Again, the thing responded on the first try.
He thought of how, a few hours before, heâd liked his luck. Now Harry Rivers was sitting next to him, quietly staring out the window at the dark environs of Quimby. Seeing Rivers emerge from the rear seat of Hardingâs car had been like watching a specter rise from the grave.
Neither of them spoke as the Wolseley crossed the stone bridge over Mills Run and left the village. Thanks to the blackout, Lamb had to maneuver the old machine in near darkness along the narrow road, as the dim beam from his hooded headlights illuminated only the portion of the road directly ahead.
Twenty-two years earlier, nearly to the day, he and Rivers had sat next to each other in a forward trench preparing to head out, in the black of night, on a reconnaissance of the German positions thatlay less than two hundred yards distant. Both had performed such raids several times before and, indeed, Lamb had developed a reputation for being quite skillful at the job, which required stealth and a sharp mind, and depended on Rivers to back and second him. Even then, Lamb entertained no idea that Rivers liked him, though he felt certain that Rivers at least respected him. Riversâs enmity seemed to be grounded in the fact that Lamb wasnât Martin Wells, the man whom heâd replaced as second lieutenant, commanding the squad of south London men that Wells had commanded. But Wells had had the unfortunate luck of getting himself killed in a raid very much like the one that Rivers and Lamb and a half dozen other hand-picked men were about to launch. Lamb often felt as if Rivers blamed him for Wellsâs deathâas if his place in the
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