- Chapter 2: The Mail Clerk -
It was cold and vaguely musty in my flat when I awoke just before noon, feeling as though I had just floated to the surface of a dark soup of runny shadows. Several minutes passed during which I could only stare up at the ceiling and watch it spin, a haze of grogginess lingering like a tunnel just outside my peripheral vision.
I was beginning to drift off again when my alarm clock began ringing from my bedside table. Cursing, I hit the snooze button and flopped back onto my pillow.
Mailroom duty in half an hour. Fuck.
With a sigh, I pushed back my covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed.
I arrived in the mailroom twenty-three minutes later. It was in its usual state, with two or three dozen owls perched on the windowsills, in the rafters, and on the furniture, hooting, preening, and nipping at the letters tied to their legs. All the windows were open to allow the owls to come and go, as usual, and today we had a chilly draft to show for it. There were envelopes flying about here and there where the wind had leaked in around our insulation charms and lifted the mail off the desks, and the room smelled faintly of parchment and owl feathers.
"Not the most efficient system they could've come up with, eh?" said a voice as I picked up a disordered pile of letters and tapped them against the desk. "A couple charms here, a little black magic there, that'd fix things up."
I looked up; it was a whiskered, ginger-haired man in his early twenties, grinning toothily from behind several foot-high stacks of parchment and envelopes. I blinked. I recognized that face from my trips to the Leaky Cauldron with Alice; this was the face that opened the bar drunk and closed it drunk. "Mundungus Fletcher. What are you doing here?"
"Filling in for one of your colleagues," Mundungus winked. "He was feeling a bit under the weather, if y'know what I mean."
What were they thinking, letting him in here? I thought. "Well, I'm here now, did they say you could leave when another staff member arrived?"
"Yes, they did, in fact," someone replied. I turned and saw Hestia Jones-a round-faced, pink-cheeked brunette who had graduated two years ahead of me, and who had been known at Hogwarts being able to cook and bake as well as the kitchen elves-sealing and addressing envelopes at a desk near the windows. "Your work here is done, Mundungus. Lily and I can handle the rest of this."
Mundungus looked up, still grinning. The ratty gray cap he wore was drooping over his left eye, reminding me of a screever I'd recently seen bickering with a homeless man over chalk near Parliament.
"That means you're free to go," I said flatly.
Mundungus pushed his chair back and stood up, his grin widening. "Your wish is my command," he said as he stumbled towards the door, swaying slightly, the sash of his coat dragging on the floor. With a drunken flourish he straightened his cap and disappeared into the hall, whistling the tune of London Bridge. When he was out of earshot, I turned to Hestia.
"Which crackpot decided to let him touch the Ministry's mail?" I asked bluntly. "Last I saw him, he was taking his twelfth shot at the pub."
"Haven't the faintest," Hestia replied, folding a letter into thirds and sliding it into an envelope. "All I know is that Benjy Fenwick is heading out into the field and isn't going to be working here anymore. Trouble is, we've no one to replace him-apparently someone saw Mundungus slouching about outside the Ministry this morning and decided he was sober enough to at least tie strings for the mail."
"Real jack-of-all-trades, that one," I said dryly.
"He does know the black markets. He's useful in tracking dark objects."
"If he's ever sober enough to see straight."
Hestia snorted. "Life's a compromise." She leaned over her desk and reached towards the owl perched there, holding out a letter. "All right, pal, give me your leg. That's the ticket."
I watched her silently for a moment. My eyes hurt. "Do we have coffee? If not, I think I'll go find some."
"Oh, yes, I made a pot this morning. It's over by the door. Help yourself, but it's probably cold now; I forgot to refresh the warming charm."
"That's alright, I just need the caffeine. Thanks." I tripped over the leg of a chair on my way to the coffee table. "So, um. Where are we now, workload-wise?"
"We're somewhat behind," Hestia replied, giving me a sidelong look as I fumbled with the coffee pot. I squinted at the lid and tried to unscrew it.
"You might try flipping the top open," she said after a moment.
I blinked. "Ah. That's right. I'd forgotten about that." I picked up one of the spare mugs set out on the table and filled it. "Sorry. I'm fading in and out today, apparently."
"You need more sleep, Lily."
"I'm fine. I'm functional."
Hestia continued to look doubtfully at me, but she raised an eyebrow and turned back to her work when I merely shrugged and took a swig of coffee. "Don't bank on keeping this up, that's all I'm trying to tell you. Anyway, there actually is something that needs to be done." She shuffled through a pile of papers on her desk. "We need an obituary written, sooner rather than later. Our main writer just left the country. Not the most pressing job, but one of the higher-ups wants it done. You know."
I gulped another mouthful of coffee without lowering my mug. "Oh. And they want me to write it, is that it?"
"Well. We shift workers in the mailroom want you to write it, since the task fell on us and you're the most literary one here." Hestia pulled a wry little smile. "We have all the research done on this bloke, anyway. All you'd have to do is go through it and write some drivel to put in the newspaper. They'd take it. He was a bit of a hotshot; everyone just wants a good, nostalgic read. Especially now," she added dryly. "Can't fault people for wanting to remember the dead when there are so many of them crowding the graveyards."
I exhaled slowly; I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath. "An obituary, hm?"
A ghost of a smile passed over her lips. "I'm not sure how much you'll like the deceased, though."
"Why, who was he?"
"A millionaire, prince of the railroad. He died a drunk. Alcohol poisoning."
I blinked again as the words registered in my mind. "Am I supposed to romanticize alcohol poisoning to make sure people get the read they want?"
"Well…I don't know. Not really. I'm not sure actually," Hestia said uncomfortably. "The thing is, this drunkard has been funneling money to us-the Order of the Phoenix-under the table for years now, not that you'd mention that anywhere in a public newspaper when we're trying to stay underground. He started years before you graduated. Totally useless in a fight, but he kept us funded."
"Oh." I wasn't sure what to make of that. "I see."
"And the general consensus is that you'd be able to spin a good yarn about this one, what with our actual obituary writer…gone," Hestia continued, fidgeting. I chewed my lip; her expression told me that 'gone' meant something along the lines of 'hiding for his life in Ireland or Finland'. "Here's his information-life history, vocation, all that; Dorcas Meadowes took care of it last night. The Daily Prophet doesn't charge by the line, either, so you shouldn't have too much of a length restriction."
"Oh," I said again. "Er. Thanks."
Hestia pursed her lips. "Sorry to put you on the spot. But you're the best writer here."
"I wouldn't have thought it's that…difficult to write an obituary, if you already have all the research done," I said hesitantly. "I mean…"
"You'd be surprised," Hestia said quickly. "Please, Lily, just do it. You can get it done in a few hours if you're quick about it; it'll take all week if we hand it off to anyone else. Anyway, I'd write it myself, but I'm really no good at this sort of thing."
"Does writing it mean I don't have to address envelopes today?"
"You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. Deal?"
I blew out a breath and picked up the pile of documents and newspaper clippings on Hestia's desk. "Fine, I'll do it. I have one request, though-put in a good word for me if the obituary sucks and anyone gets it in their head to fire me for it."
"Fair enough," Hestia said, removing the stack of unaddressed envelopes and unsealed letters from my desk and dumping it onto hers. "Not that anyone's going to fire you if you write a less than stellar obituary. In any case, they're not going to publish it under your real name; you'll have a nom de plume and whatnot. You're a mail clerk, for God's sake."
This time I laughed, the sound of it harsh and bitter in my ears. And if I want to stay alive, I thought, a mail clerk is probably all I'll ever be.
"Fine by me," I said, spreading the news clippings out before me and opening a fresh roll of parchment. "A nom de plume-I never wrote this at all. I can take that."
x.x.x.x.x.x
Name: Jonathan J. Paxton
Date of Birth: January 18, 1952
Date of Death: February 19, 1979
I stared blankly at the page. My mailroom shift was nearly over, and almost an hour had passed since my quill had last touched the parchment. Scattered about the desktop were newspaper articles, photographs, and a seemingly bottomless pile of documents on Paxton's stocks (which were bought and sold by a hired broker), numerous records of his alcoholic incidents (some of which had led to arrest or hospitalization), and publications on his few minor acts of philanthropy (for which I supposed he was going to be remembered). His father owned the railroad company, rendering Jonathan J. Paxton himself little more than the heir to a small commercial empire. He was the ornament of his father's enterprise, the pet of twittering cocktail conversation; the stories of his alcoholism never reached the newspapers, but his hospital records, obtained God only knew how by Dorcas Meadowes, told a less rosy tale. Paxton was in that unique spot where he could be both the public pride and the private shame of the world's Wizarding community, and I found myself resisting his story. Glitter, vodka, and noise, I thought. Why do I hate this man so much?
I pinched my eyes shut for a moment. When I opened them, Hestia was shuffling through a stack of flyers, licking her finger as she flicked them apart and set them in small piles for mailing. Owls hooted from their perches on various pieces of furniture. I slumped lower over the crumpled drafts before me; I could not think of a single coherent sentence, much less a charitable one for Paxton. The Order of the Phoenix would never be able to acknowledge his contributions in public. I felt silly and trapped; I couldn't write about the only material I had to work with.
The mailroom door creaked open, and someone walked in. Cautious footfalls, coming in my direction.
"Hello, Lily?"
It was Remus Lupin, looking more tousled than usual in a frayed coat and scarf. I counted several gray hairs amongst his head of light brown ones, and a fresh scar beneath his ear; I wondered if he'd slept at all over the past few days.
"How've you been, Remus?"
"Oh, the usual," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "But I heard you were writing something dazzling." He peered over my shoulder. "Bit odd they put you up to this. Whose idea was it?"
"No clue." I massaged the corners of my eyes with my fingertips. "That seems like something I should probably start worrying about, at some point."
"I think that's a good idea," Remus agreed. He sat down on the edge of the desk. "I wanted to see some of those documents, actually, if you don't mind?"
"Help yourself." I sipped at my coffee. The stuff was cold now, bitter and stale-smelling. "If you come up with anything nostalgic or schmaltzy to say, by all means, let me in on it."
A faint smile crossed Remus's lips. "I'll let you know if I think of anything."
"Yeah. As you can see, I'm not exactly at the top of my game here." I gestured toward the piles of crumpled parchment lying on my desk.
"Well, he was a philanthropist," Remus said, rather unhelpfully. "That was something."
I sighed. "That he was. But why? That's the question, right? At least, that's the question if I'm to write an obituary, not a eulogy."
Remus pressed his lips together, so that the scar above his mouth stood out. "I think you're probably over-thinking this. I'm amazed Dorcas managed to dig up conversation transcripts, anyway. I didn't even know they kept things like that around." He gave my shoulder a light squeeze. "I've got to get back to work. Good luck writing that."
"I thought you wanted to see some of the documents?"
"I did. And I saw them. That's actually all I wanted." Remus reached for the doorknob and gave me a little smile. "I'll see you 'round, Lily. Stay safe."
I opened my mouth to reply, but the words died on my tongue at the sight of his retreating back. After a moment I noticed Hestia watching me.
"Sorry, Lily," she said hesitantly. "I didn't think it'd give you this much trouble."
I pressed my lips together and glanced at the clock. My shift in the train station was going to begin in twenty minutes. "It's an obituary," I said, marveling silently at just how strange it sounded to say that aloud. I picked up the parchment, folded it, and put it in my shirt pocket; the rest of the documents I placed in the lining of my coat. "But it's fine, I've written things like it before. I'll take care of it."
"You have? Do tell."
"It was a eulogy. When I was seventeen."
Hestia tilted her head and looked at me as if she didn't quite believe me, but didn't want to call me a liar. "A eulogy," she repeated. "When you were seventeen?"
"Mmhm. Yep."
"You're serious?"
"Yeah, surprisingly. You'd think they'd have got someone older to do it, but apparently the planets aligned in my favor. So I did it." I put my hands in my pockets and stood there for a moment. Then I realized I was going into a reverie and jolted out of it. "And for some reason that was that."
Hestia was still watching me curiously. "Odd."
"I'm not denying it. Anyway, I've got to go. Thanks for handling my envelopes."
x.x.x.x.x.x
Working the night shift at King's Cross was like hanging suspended at the portal between two worlds. The terminal was a dark, echoing cavern, sectioned off from the sky by a thin lattice of arched metal and glass; a large, pale-faced clock hung above the platforms, wrenching the minutes by, gleaming in the filtered moonlight. It was beneath this shimmer and emptiness that we ushered in the trains that vanished into the night with our refugees.
On shift with me were four others. There was Han Li, a Ravenclaw in my graduating class who kept a quiet vigil at the newspaper stand; there was Sirius Black, who tended to stay closest to me, regardless of my position or disguise; and then there were Gideon and Fabian Prewett - red-haired, freckled, both twenty-four and typically disguised as watch peddlers or students in transit. Being the most experienced of the lot of us, they escorted the refugees into the station while the rest of us stood guard.
I was working the coffee stand this week, sitting behind the coffee counter with my feet up, a gray beret tipped over my eyes and a newspaper spread over my knees as I pretended to sleep. Chalkboards painted with the week's coffee specials hung on the back wall, almost garish in their cheeriness. There were very few travelers this morning-one or two businessmen and a few low-budget, confused-looking tourists who appeared to be backpacking through London. Barring the ticking of the clock, the only sounds in the station were the quiet murmurs of the tourists' voices and the occasional echo of footsteps over the concrete platforms.
A glance up at the clock told me it had just passed one o'clock in the morning. Gideon and Fabian were due in the station in twenty minutes with the Muggle parents of a Hogwarts third-year. I twiddled my thumbs nervously and contemplated a cup of espresso and Paxton's obituary.
A voice at the coffee counter jerked me out of my reverie. "Oh how quiet, quiet the world can be," Sirius said, propping his chin on his fist. "You look bored. Care to sell me some coffee?"
"Would you like the turpentine with sugar, or the wet paint with cream?"
Sirius grinned. I noticed that his eyes were as bloodshot as mine from lack of sleep. "Double shot espresso with cream and French vanilla. I still can't take that stuff straight."
I tutted and swung my legs off the counter. "Weakling. What are you, some Brit who only drinks tea?"
Sirius yawned. "One in the morning and quick on the draw as ever. You amaze me."
"And you're charming as always." I finished pouring his cup of coffee and began mixing in the vanilla and cream. I lowered my voice. "What did you really come here to tell me?"
Sirius snorted. "Well, believe it or not, I actually am knackered. But anyway, two things. One, James sends his regards from the Gringotts garbage bin- " he slipped me a folded piece of parchment, which I hastily pocketed to read later - "and two: Han's just started passing these around. Here's yours." Sirius pushed a silver one-pound piece across the counter with his payment for the coffee and lowered his voice to a whisper. A tiny portion of the rim was red. "Less obvious replacements for the rings we were using before, and Muggle to go with our disguises. They vibrate whenever someone's trying to send a message, so - " he stifled a yawn - "I reckon we'll be hearing from Gideon and Fabian soon." He glanced down at my buttoned shirt and gave his chin a little tap with his index finger. "And if I were you, I'd keep it right between my knockers."
I rolled my eyes. "Glad you can appreciate my cleavage even under these strained circumstances." I punched the cash register and handed Sirius his cup. "Sound advice, thanks."
Sirius grinned roguishly. "Cheers, Lily." And with that he ambled back to his post.
I sank back into my chair once he'd gone and watched the station again from behind my newspaper. I was beginning to get nervous; the Muggle night watchman had just picked up the telephone, even though a telephone call at this hour was extremely rare. The observation booth in which he held his post was perched on the end of a crosswalk one flight above the platforms, and though it was too far away to allow me to see his face clearly, I did notice him pause after hanging up. Then, to my dismay, he picked up a megaphone and stepped out onto the crosswalk.
"All present track laborers, please report to the terminal."
A sleeping businessman jolted on his bench and sat up, glancing blearily about the station; the tourists fell silent and looked up from their map. I saw Sirius turn his head in my direction. I fingered the coin in my palm.
"All present track laborers," the watchman repeated, "please report to the terminal."
A moment later there came a sound of footsteps. Squinting, I could make out the shapes of four workmen walking into the terminal, two of them carrying what looked like tool cases. In a moment they were gathered wearily beneath the watchman's post. The watchman cleared his throat and put the megaphone down, wiping his hands nervously on his trousers. "Do us a favor and check the rails here, lads," he said. "Make sure the crossties are secure."
One of the workmen gestured towards the tracks. "We replaced 'em last week, Jim. They're brand new."
The watchman was visibly squirming now. "Apparently there was a problem with them a few miles north of here, so please, just run the check. There's another team being deployed to examine the rest of the track right this moment, and the three-thirty train's still on schedule to arrive here on the dot. So kindly get on it."
"Well, what the bloody hell happened?"
"The one-thirty train's just gone off the bloody rail, that's what happened!" The watchman's voice was high. "It's probably a smoldering wreck, so stop this rubbish and check the bloody crossties, will you?"
Immediately the workmen scattered. All four of them were climbing down onto the tracks and switching on the lamps at the fronts of their hardhats. I scanned the rest of the station for my colleagues; I wasn't sure if any of them had heard the conversation. Exhaling, I gave my coin a quick scratch, held it to my lips, and whispered, "Reports of an accident on the North Line. One-thirty train is off the track, cause unknown. Prewetts, please come in."
The others made almost no sign that they'd received the message, but I did see Han casually hitch up his sleeve. A moment later the watchman had picked up his megaphone again and was clearing his throat to speak.
"May I have your attention, please," he said, evidently struggling to keep his voice even. "Due to a recent rail accident, the one-thirty northbound train will not be arriving in King's Cross Station tonight. All passengers for the one-thirty northbound train, please arrange for an alternative. The two-thirty northbound train has been diverted to Waterloo and will not be stopping here. However, the three-thirty eastbound is scheduled to arrive as usual. You may be able to pick up the northbound route if you take the eastbound to Portsmouth and transfer there. Further information can be obtained at the information desk at the end of Platform One. We…apologize for the inconvenience, and hope that none of your loved ones were riding the one-thirty train at the time of the accident. Thank you, and Godspeed to you all."
My stomach clenched. The coin in my hand buzzed and immediately I turned it over to read.
Everything's on schedule. Saw the train derail, it was a couple of Death Eaters. They Disapparated laughing without tracking us so suspect it was just a night raid, Aurors on it now. Stay focused. Will be there soon.
I held my breath for what seemed like an eternity. I wasn't sure if it was a trick of the light or if the shadows on the face of the clock were twisting slowly, forming fang-like shapes that made me wonder if I was losing my grip. Time passed like a slow-moving nightmare, the tick of each passing minute echoing through the near-empty terminal more menacingly than the last.
Then - suddenly, finally - there was a small flash of light at the end of the platform. The Prewetts had arrived.
Make sure nobody's following us, buzzed the coin. One of you please come with us. 9 3/4. Everything's fine.
I stood up behind the coffee counter, glancing around at my shift mates. Seeing their subtle nods, I hid my wand up my sleeve and quietly left my kiosk. Straightening my beret, I broke into a light jog, checked to make sure nobody was following me, and ran through the barrier to Platform 9 3/4.
Gideon and Fabian Prewett were standing close beside a middle-aged couple and their young, light-haired daughter. The parents' faces were utterly white, and the little girl was clutching her mother's coat, burying her face in it.
"Ah, Lily. Fantastic," Fabian nodded, gesturing for me to come closer. "This is Linda and David Crane, and their lovely little lass Diane. We're going to be taking them to Paris tonight."
"If you're moving us," said David tightly, "then where are you taking our older daughter?"
"She's staying at Hogwarts for now," Gideon said, gripping David's shoulder soothingly. "She's safer there than anywhere else. Professor Dumbledore has her under a very close watch. Nobody's going to be able to lay a finger on her."
"Yeah, it's you lot who need to get the hell out of dodge," Fabian said, checking his watch. "Train should be here soon. Lily, wand at the ready for when we get on, yeah?"
"Absolutely."
With a strangled little sob, Linda clutched her daughter and began to cry. Feeling a lump rise in my throat, I put my arm around her. "Shh, everything will be all right," I whispered. "Don't worry. We've got a safe house waiting for you in Paris, it's well-protected and the bad guys don't know it exists. We'll bring your daughter there when she finishes the term. She'll be safe."
Covering her mouth, Linda only cried harder.
"I want you to bring our daughter with us now," David hissed. "You can't bloody well smuggle us out of the country and leave our kid in the middle of a war zone, I don't know what you - "
"Mr. Crane," I cut in, so sharply that he started, "you don't want your Muggle-born daughter leaving Albus Dumbledore's sight. Trust us on that. He is the only wizard the Dark Lord is afraid of. Hogwarts is practically impenetrable. You are the ones in danger."
At that moment there came a whistle, a roar of engines, the sudden illumination of a headlight, and a long hiss. A wall of warm air rushed into the terminal as the deep blue locomotive - which we had affectionately dubbed the Phoenix Express - pulled into the station, releasing a thick mist of steam as it chugged to a halt. In its brightly lit windows were the silhouettes of other passengers, refugees picked up earlier from the northern regions of the country - witches, wizards, and Muggles alike.
"All aboard!" Fabian said loudly. "Mrs. Crane, ladies first!"
I raised my wand, scanning the station for intruders as the Cranes hurriedly boarded the train, the Prewetts close on their heels.
"Keep an eye out, Lily!" Fabian shouted as the engines began to huff. "Make sure the barrier seals!" And then, with a blast of steam and an ear-splitting whistle, the train sped away from the platform and vanished into blackness. All was silent.
Once I was sure that there was no errant steam leaking back into the station from the vanished train, I turned on my heel and strode to the opposite end of the platform, holding my wand high as I cast a memory-erasing charm over the entire station in case there had been any spies lurking in the shadows. Then, with one final sweep of my wand, I sent a jet of blue light flying down the length of the tracks. The sparks landed with dull finality between the crossties fifty feet beyond the train's vanishing point.
Satisfied that the Phoenix Express would not be discovered tonight, I turned and crossed the barrier into King's Cross, where I went back to the coffee kiosk and slumped into my chair.
Everything all right? came Sirius's message.
I raised the coin to my lips. Yeah. Fine.
I'm crawling out of my skin over here. Entertain me, will you please?
I snorted. Come see me and I'll sell you another coffee.
I just got wind that three of our people were injured on the train that derailed.
The chatter of thoughts in the back of my mind seemed to go silent. I looked up and saw Sirius walking toward me, looking somber, his shoulders hunched.
I stumbled home at 4:15 that morning, numb and sleepless. I shoved a fresh stack of paper into my typewriter and collapsed at my desk.
x.x.x.x.x.x
The summer passed slowly after the move, and the days blurred together, hot, pollen-dusted and smelling of brine. The debris of change lay scattered about between the temporary arrangements of tables, chairs, bookshelves, and lamps; brown cardboard boxes and crumpled newspaper made up the landscape of our house for much of July and August. Shadows wandered across the undecorated walls in a slow ballet, dappled with spots of pale gold sun in the mornings and shot through with the silhouettes of the trees and boxes by the windows in the evenings. The solitude was palpable, it seemed, there to absorb whatever noise I made and whisper it back to me as I walked between our half-unpacked possessions each morning, my footsteps creaking softly over the wooden floors.
The house seemed packed with latent possibilities during the hours before my family awoke. We had an attic as well as a basement-more space than I'd imagined could exist within any house. Most alluring, though, was the open road that led out of our neighborhood and ran along the seashore, winding away into the morning mist as it curved towards the north and banking closer to my grandparents' house as it wound towards the south, snaking into the distance over long stretches of low, sandy beach and jutting, rocky cliffs. It was on this road that I habitually met the playmates who would later hold the ladder for me as I climbed into our attic at seven o'clock in the morning to look for ghosts: Edwin and Noah O'Neill.
Our parents made it a point to get my sister and me out of the house when they were unpacking. "We're taking a load of glass and fragile things out of their boxes now, and we don't want you girls around to trip on them and cut yourselves," Dad said one morning as he shooed us out the front door. "Go out and play, but don't wander too far." I'm sure that I never would have made a habit of meeting Edwin and Noah on that road if our parents hadn't always insisted on keeping Petunia and me out of the way while the house was being removed from storage; this was how I ended up walking along beside Petunia on one particularly humid morning, skipping rocks along the pavement.
The sun had just risen into a clear sky, breathing a pale gold-orange glow onto the mists scattered between the rocks and cliffs. It was early enough not to be uncomfortably hot, and the road was so empty of cars and pedestrians that an ant probably could have crossed it without risk of being stepped on. As for me, I was enjoying myself; I had made up my mind to explore the area as soon as the moving van had pulled away from our house, and being kicked out of the house at the break of dawn presented the perfect opportunity to do so. Petunia, however, didn't like the idea of leaving our front porch in the absence of an adult, but she couldn't do very much but follow me-she was afraid she'd be punished if she let me out of her sight.
"I don't think we should go much further," she said as we approached a rocky outcropping that swept out over the surf. "Mum and Dad won't like it."
"We're not going that far," I replied, focusing my energy on walking on the curb. I wobbled slightly, then put my arms out for balance. "Why doesn't it help to stick your arms out?"
"Of course it helps. You're just not doing it right."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"I dare you to do it yourself, then," I said, putting my hands on my hips.
"I won't. It's dangerous."
This, incidentally, was the moment Edwin chose to crash the scene. In retrospect, I suppose I should have heard him coming; there was never anything subtle about his step or the way he carried himself-wherever Edwin O'Neill went, a battery of energy and noise followed. His eyes were alert, slightly cocky, and constantly scanning for some new form of excitement; his shoes were perpetually untied; and his ankles were always smudged with dirt where the soles of his sneakers had scraped across his skin as he walked, jumped, or ran. Watching him move, you'd almost expect him to break everything he touched; and though that rarely ever seemed to be the case, you could always tell where he'd been. There would be a fresh smear of charcoal, a smudged fingerprint, or perhaps a twig or chess piece out of place, for he was the sort of boy you saw traces of wherever you looked, even-especially, I should say-in his absence.
"Hi," he said, ignoring Petunia. "I saw your grandparents the other day. They were on the beach."
"Oh. Yeah, they walk a lot."
"Crazy old people," Edwin said, picking up a pebble from the side of the road and skipping it along the pavement as I had just been doing. It bounced twice before skittering off the shoulder and disappearing into the weedy gravel beside the curb, scattering a few other pebbles as it went. "I think they're nuts."
I picked up a pebble of my own and skipped it in Edwin's direction. "Just because you walk doesn't mean you're nuts."
"Edwin, are you supposed to be here?" Petunia demanded. "Are your parents letting you walk out here this early in the morning?"
"They're not even awake yet."
"Fine, it won't be my fault if you get in trouble."
Edwin made a noise of disgust. "Your sister's nosy, Lily."
"I know, she loves to come into my room at five o'clock in the morning and ruin all the stuff on my desk-"
Petunia's cheeks reddened. "I do not, Lily. Mum wants me to check on you, that's all-"
"I told her what you were doing," I said, rolling my eyes, "and she thinks you're being nosy too."
"She does not!" Her voice was higher than usual now. "And besides, you're always up making noise, so someone has to make sure you won't burn the house down!"
I raised one leg and held it up behind me, stretching my arms forward to maintain my balance, and rolled my eyes again. "You're dumb, Petunia."
"You're younger. And dumber."
"Yeah, well," I said, adjusting my arms, "Mum and Dad decided to have me because you were too dumb for them, so shut up and go away, please."
I don't know which reaction I was expecting; I didn't think that what I'd said was any worse than what I usually said to Petunia when she got aggressive, so I was surprised when she simply stood there, working her jaw to zero avail. It was a moment before I noticed that her lip was trembling.
"Forget it," she shot back after another few seconds' delay. "You're impossible, and I'm not the one who's responsible for you. And if you get either of us hurt, or even killed," she added, jabbing a finger in my face, "Mum and Dad will just have to deal with it!" With that, she turned on her heel and stormed off down the road, disappearing around the bend that led to our house.
Edwin looked at me and raised an eyebrow. "She's crazy."
I swallowed. "I think she was just born that way." Then I made a face. "She's always doing things like that."
"Yeah, probably," Edwin agreed. "Come on, let's go find my brother. He's looking for rocks on the beach."
x.x.x.x.x.x
We did indeed find Noah O'Neill on the beach, but he wasn't looking for rocks; rather, he was down on all fours, digging in the wet sand by the tide line. Unlike his brother, he didn't have any dirt smeared across his cheek or ankles, but his hair was wiry from collecting ocean spray all morning; though he and Edwin were identical twins, Noah's face was more deeply freckled, and, somehow, his hands were more slender and his skin more delicate, almost as if he had less of a penchant than his brother for getting mud under his fingernails. He wore an intent look on his face now, chewing his lower lip in concentration as he scraped at the sand with the tips of his fingers. Edwin and I came to a stop in front of him and peered down at the pit he'd dug; something smooth and white was protruding from the ground.
"What's that?" Edwin asked, squatting beside his brother. "Looks like a seashell."
"I think it's a conch," Noah replied, still focused intently on the task of unearthing the object. "Dad showed me one with spikes like that."
"Why don't you use your foot to push it out of the sand?"
"No, don't do that! You'll break it, jeez."
"I always use a shovel when things are that hard to dig up," I said, tapping the shell. "I could go back to my house and get one."
Noah looked up at me, his eyes meeting mine briefly; then he dropped his gaze again. "It's okay, I think I can get it out like this."
It took us the better part of an hour to dig up the conch, or whatever it was-by time we'd finished, the sun had burned away the last of the morning's mist and was beating uncomfortably on our backs. Rubbing the sand from his hands, Noah reached into the pit and lifted out a large spiral seashell, which he turned over in his hands for us to examine.
"Look at that," Edwin said, pointing to the opening on the underside of the shell. "I think there's something living in it…"
I nearly fell into the hole as I craned my neck to see what they were talking about, and I had to get down on my hands and knees to keep my balance. In any case, my efforts were rewarded when Noah suddenly recoiled and dropped the conch right in front of me, where it landed with a dull thud in the sand. Something wet and brown was squirming slowly at the opening, a flat, slimy-looking thing that smelled vaguely like spoiled fish. After a moment its head emerged, slug-like and whiskered, stalk eyes bulging. With a small yelp I jumped back and wiped my hands on my shorts, even though I hadn't touched it.
"It's still alive," Edwin said in a low voice, his eyes wide. "It's moving…"
"I think it's dying," Noah said in horror. "Look what it's doing." He picked up a small piece of driftwood and poked tentatively at it. The animal twitched at the sensation, writhed slowly about its shell a few more times, and then lay still, its foot drooping limply.
"Get it some water," I suggested. "Maybe it can't breathe…fish out of water can't breathe either…"
"Can we get it out of the shell?" Edwin asked, still staring at it in awe.
"I don't know," I said. "I think it's attached to the inside."
Silent, Noah poked the animal's flesh again. It didn't move.
"Dead," he said after a time. His voice carried a note of amazement and dismay. "It's dead."
I didn't know what to say, so I looked up at Edwin; he didn't seem to know what to say either.
"Are you sure?" I asked hesitantly. "Maybe it just went to sleep instead."
"No, it's dead," Noah replied, still prodding at the snail with his piece of driftwood. "This would wake it up if it were asleep." And with that he sat back and drew a knee up to his body, resting his chin against it as he stared down into the pit of sand. A wave washed up on shore and pooled around the snail, spreading a thin layer of foam over its foot before disappearing.
"How did you find it, anyway?" Edwin asked, breaking the silence.
"I saw the shell sticking out of the sand."
I fidgeted uneasily with my shorts. "I don't think we should bury it again."
Noah gave me a look of puzzlement. "Why not?"
"Because then it's like we never found it."
"Yeah," Edwin piped up. "We should keep it. Or mark the spot so we can find it again later."
Now Noah looked incredulous. "It's going to rot," he said emphatically. "It's going to rot and stuff is going to come out of the sand and eat it. Remember the bird we found on the road? Like that. That's what it's going to be like."
"Let's just mark the spot, then." Edwin began pushing handfuls of wet sand over the snail until he'd built a small mound, cracked where the sand hadn't stuck together and imprinted with the shape of his hands. He picked up the piece of driftwood Noah had used to poke the snail's body and drew a large X over the pile. "See?" he said, sitting back after a moment. "At least now we know we found it. Conches are rare. You can't find them anywhere but on a few beaches in the world, anyway."
Noah didn't respond; he only gazed towards the surf. The three of us sat there in silence for a long while. Finally Edwin got to his feet and retraced the X with his toe. "There. That should last a while."
Noah and I exchanged glances as a fresh wave swept over our feet and wiped the last trace of our little grave into the surf in one smooth stroke. When I turned to gaze ahead once again, Edwin was running ahead of us - though not without gesturing for us to follow.
x.x.x.x.x.x
I stopped typing and pushed my chair back from my desk. The typewriter continued to sit expectantly before me; it was nearly dawn and I still hadn't finished the obituary. The half-written draft lay derelict atop a pile of tax returns, words scrawled haplessly up and down the parchment where I had tried in vain to come up with something bearing even a shred of perspective.
James's roses sat wilting in their vase on the other side of the typewriter, their petals dry and curling. In a haze of exhaustion I carried them into the kitchen, where I pared off the rotten tips of their stems with a knife and replaced the water in the vase.
On the other side of the window, the world was still dark. The ticking of the kitchen clock made my skin crawl.
I went back to my bedroom and curled up under the covers with a draft of Paxton's obituary and not a lot of hope of finishing it.
6:23 AM
It's about that time of the morning again-the printing presses will be rolling in a few minutes. Am expecting the train wreck to hit the papers in about twenty-four hours' time with a likely alibi. We'll see if they blame it on a drunken conductor.
I am on the precipice. I am staring down at a pit of invisible monsters.
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