will be no going back .
SLEEP WOULDN’T THROW its prickly comfort over me that night, thanks in part to Fauré’s “Sicilienne.” Like it had been in the past, music was just there , ever present. With one exception. Those old songs had been mine. Not the piano. Not even the sax. Just pure tone. And every major, minor, augmented, diminished sound had given me joy. This music just pissed me off. Mostly because the hammered keys in my forehead resisted the usual shutdown. I had a strong urge to reach below my mattress and dive right in. If you can’t beat ’em … But I knew better than to disturb the boogeyman under my bed.
Instead, I unsheathed the keris and touched it, felt energy swim through my fingertips again. I peered through the aperture, hoping for some future glimpse—
—and noticed a trickle of blood on the metal. I knew where that had come from; I looked at my hand.
My efforts at scrubbing out the stain met with failure. The line merely grew long and thin. The sweet scent of citrus disappeared. I called Garrick the following day. He could fix it, he said, and invited me to bring it by when I could.
I should’ve been reassured, and maybe I would’ve been if things hadn’t seemed so strange lately. If the music stopped, would let me stop it. If Noel would come home. If I could get a decent night’s sleep. If the stain didn’t look so much like a strand of red hair.
Out of Time
Castine, Maine
NOVEMBER 1995
Moira and Maeve are eleven
“What do you see?”
Moira lay on a golden sea of elm leaves beside her sister. She thought all of the clouds looked like birds today, but she knew Maeve would think that was Pure Boring, so she lied a little. “I see a dragon and a great big ship. I think the dragon’s at war with the people on the ship.”
“What’s the dragon’s name?”
“Alfred.”
“That’s a horrible name!” Maeve grabbed a handful of leaves and tossed it at Moira with a laugh.
“Hey, who’s telling this story?”
Maeve stifled another giggle. “Okay. What’s Alfred doing trying to be fierce, anyway?”
“Maybe he wants to try something new. Would that be bad?”
“Nope. That’s why we’re going to explore the world.”
“What if I don’t want to explore the world?” Moira asked, testing, but Maeve’s face seemed untroubled, her eyes back on the sky.
“Of course you want to,” she said.
“I do most of the time.” But Moira liked the crunch of elm leaves, too. She liked her roses. She liked Castine. She’d miss their family. “What should we name the baby if it’s a boy?”
“Alfred.”
They stopped laughing when Ian Bronya and his friend Michael burst through the clearing.
“Look, it’s the witches,” Ian said with a mocking smile. “Catching frogs for your brew?”
“Maybe we are,” said Moira.
Maeve stood when the boys stopped before them. “Hold still and we’ll cut out your tongues,” she said.
“Try it.” Ian reached into his pocket and pulled out a closed jack-knife. He tossed it toward Maeve, but she didn’t reach for it, so it fell in the grass. He sneered at her. “Which one are you anyway?”
Maeve tilted her head to the side and her face softened, just a little. “Guess.”
Moira felt her sister’s wish to fool Ian and decided to go along with it. They’d tried this game a few times before. Two years ago, Moira had pretended to be her sister for an entire day at school, but when Miss Haskell had teased her about being in control of herself for once, Moira had felt oddly dispirited. She didn’t mind fooling Ian, though. She leaned back and twirled hair around her finger, knowing it would look like her sister’s today—unbound and littered with sticks and leaves. As an added touch, she sharpened her eyes on Ian and didn’t blink when he looked hard at her. It made her a little nervous, that looking.
Finally, Ian turned to Maeve and said, “You’re Moira, but you’re not usually such a bitch.”
Michael laughed.
“You have a nasty
SLEEP WOULDN’T THROW its prickly comfort over me that night, thanks in part to Fauré’s “Sicilienne.” Like it had been in the past, music was just there , ever present. With one exception. Those old songs had been mine. Not the piano. Not even the sax. Just pure tone. And every major, minor, augmented, diminished sound had given me joy. This music just pissed me off. Mostly because the hammered keys in my forehead resisted the usual shutdown. I had a strong urge to reach below my mattress and dive right in. If you can’t beat ’em … But I knew better than to disturb the boogeyman under my bed.
Instead, I unsheathed the keris and touched it, felt energy swim through my fingertips again. I peered through the aperture, hoping for some future glimpse—
—and noticed a trickle of blood on the metal. I knew where that had come from; I looked at my hand.
My efforts at scrubbing out the stain met with failure. The line merely grew long and thin. The sweet scent of citrus disappeared. I called Garrick the following day. He could fix it, he said, and invited me to bring it by when I could.
I should’ve been reassured, and maybe I would’ve been if things hadn’t seemed so strange lately. If the music stopped, would let me stop it. If Noel would come home. If I could get a decent night’s sleep. If the stain didn’t look so much like a strand of red hair.
Out of Time
Castine, Maine
NOVEMBER 1995
Moira and Maeve are eleven
“What do you see?”
Moira lay on a golden sea of elm leaves beside her sister. She thought all of the clouds looked like birds today, but she knew Maeve would think that was Pure Boring, so she lied a little. “I see a dragon and a great big ship. I think the dragon’s at war with the people on the ship.”
“What’s the dragon’s name?”
“Alfred.”
“That’s a horrible name!” Maeve grabbed a handful of leaves and tossed it at Moira with a laugh.
“Hey, who’s telling this story?”
Maeve stifled another giggle. “Okay. What’s Alfred doing trying to be fierce, anyway?”
“Maybe he wants to try something new. Would that be bad?”
“Nope. That’s why we’re going to explore the world.”
“What if I don’t want to explore the world?” Moira asked, testing, but Maeve’s face seemed untroubled, her eyes back on the sky.
“Of course you want to,” she said.
“I do most of the time.” But Moira liked the crunch of elm leaves, too. She liked her roses. She liked Castine. She’d miss their family. “What should we name the baby if it’s a boy?”
“Alfred.”
They stopped laughing when Ian Bronya and his friend Michael burst through the clearing.
“Look, it’s the witches,” Ian said with a mocking smile. “Catching frogs for your brew?”
“Maybe we are,” said Moira.
Maeve stood when the boys stopped before them. “Hold still and we’ll cut out your tongues,” she said.
“Try it.” Ian reached into his pocket and pulled out a closed jack-knife. He tossed it toward Maeve, but she didn’t reach for it, so it fell in the grass. He sneered at her. “Which one are you anyway?”
Maeve tilted her head to the side and her face softened, just a little. “Guess.”
Moira felt her sister’s wish to fool Ian and decided to go along with it. They’d tried this game a few times before. Two years ago, Moira had pretended to be her sister for an entire day at school, but when Miss Haskell had teased her about being in control of herself for once, Moira had felt oddly dispirited. She didn’t mind fooling Ian, though. She leaned back and twirled hair around her finger, knowing it would look like her sister’s today—unbound and littered with sticks and leaves. As an added touch, she sharpened her eyes on Ian and didn’t blink when he looked hard at her. It made her a little nervous, that looking.
Finally, Ian turned to Maeve and said, “You’re Moira, but you’re not usually such a bitch.”
Michael laughed.
“You have a nasty
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