Текст книги "Nameless"

Автор книги: Sam Starbuck

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"The history scholar. Well, that's good, someone ought to be looking after you if you won't look after yourself."

"But I am! Anyway, I'm fine, it's just a routine checkup. I'm much more interested in your medical complaints. Is it the rheumatism or your spleen nowadays?"

"A properly vented spleen never acts up," she answered primly, and I was relieved to see she was taking the incredibly unsubtle hint to steer clear of my health.

I stayed for barely half an hour, though it was a good half-hour. Marj had a dinner she couldn't avoid attending, and I wanted to get an early night. I was meeting my old circle of friends for brunch the following morning, then spending the rest of the day being jabbed and photographed at the hospital.

The hotel room was quiet, considering how noisy the city is supposed to be. When I was at school I had an apartment near the El and I got used to the clacking and roaring and the occasional flash of light through my bedroom window. In Low Ferry I got used to people shouting across the street at each other early in the morning, and in winter the growl of the snow plow. In the hotel room there didn't seem to be much to get used to at all, other than the clean sterility of it.

I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands and let myself drop onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Why I'd bothered calling my city friends I couldn't even have said, other than that I knew they always had a Sunday brunch. I thought, in a fit of insanity no-doubt derived from my recent brush with death, that it would be fun to see them. It probably would be, but that night I couldn't fathom having the energy to get off the bed and undress, let alone leave the hotel and socialize with friends I hadn't seen in months, if not years. Even the hospital would be less tiring. At least at the hospital they let you lie down on a bed most of the time.

Finally, however, I pushed myself upright long enough to change into pajamas and pull the blankets back. I was unconscious not long after my head hit the pillow, and the next thing I knew was the alarm on the nightstand buzzing me insistently awake the following morning.

***

There were ten of us at brunch that Sunday, myself and seven people I knew plus two new additions I'd never met before. One of them, Derek – a bespectacled and earnest man about my age – was clearly my replacement.

Most of my friends hadn't changed much, except in circumstance: those who had been single were now married, and those who had been married were either parents or divorcees or both. Gone, too, was the champagne, which was what used to make our Sunday brunches last well into Sunday dinner sometimes. There were too many children toddling around the chairs for drinking to be an approved activity, apparently.

Oh yes, there were children. Two infants and three toddlers, plus a seven-year-old that Angie, whom I'd dated for about a month one time, was babysitting for a coworker.

"There's a new play at Steppenwolf, Chris," she said, chewing on a piece of fruit from the huge bowl of fruit salad in the middle of the restaurant table. "You'd like it. I think it's about the metropolitan identity or something."

"It's tedious," my replacement added. I grinned at him. "Old ground, shiny new costumes."

"I think he'd like to go out though," Mara waved a forkful of sausage before taking a bite. "Remember that little jazz club we used to go to?"

"I think so," I said. "The one with the rotten bartender who watered your margarita if you asked for it blended?"

"Where Angie did a striptease for the pianist," Steve said. Angie elbowed him and rolled her eyes at the kids.

Had that been me, in the club, cheering that business on? I remembered it, so it must have been, but it seemed more like something I'd watched on television once. Television itself seemed like something I'd read about in a book. I didn't own one in the village. A television, I mean. I owned a lot of books.

"Anyway, Chris, it's closed up but the little Chinese place next to it is now a hookah bar," Mara continued.

"A what?" I asked.

"Turkish food and hookahs. All legal, of course. Tobacco only."

"Yes – let's take him there, he'll love it," Brent said.

"Chris the romantic," Angie added, winking at me.

"You liked Casablanca, didn't you?" Steve asked.

"You wore blue; the Nazis wore grey," Mara quoted. Misquoted, actually.

"I'm afraid I can't," I answered, hoping I didn't sound as sharp as I suspected. A roomful of smoke would get me no gold stars from the doctor. "Business, you know how it is. I'm not in town long enough for much pleasure."

"Business? What business?"

"Oh, dinners and meetings and things," I said vaguely. They were dissatisfied with this reply, but nobody protested too loudly. After all, they'd found a new replacement Chris, which was just as well.

They moved on to other things, and I sat back and listened. Angie's husband seemed nice, and Steve's wife got him to stop drinking quite so much. Mara and Thomas and Brent were working their way up their respective career paths. The children were adorable, and Derek knew enough about literature to pass muster. They were getting along just fine without me.

The one true redeeming quality of that morning's brunch was that it gave me something noisy and distracting to play back in my head later that day. I'm not one to say that modern medicine is a horrible thing, as I've reaped my share of benefits from it, but there is some terror involved. Terror! Giant whirring machines – x-rays bouncing off my insides – tubes where tubes should never be – sterile jars, cold stethoscopes, paper gowns, biopsy needles, and thick folders with charts stapled to them. The whole ghastly mess, in some kind of cyclical rerun of the time when my father's heart was failing him in the hospital and the doctors whispered to me that I ought to have mine looked at, if I really had been feeling uneven beats for a few months. I hadn't wanted to die like dad, so I'd put it off – until I realized that putting it off was probably what had killed him.

All this sounds more dramatic than it actually was, but I spent that day and most of the next in the hospital, while my health insurance adjusters probably groaned and made a note to raise my rates. My city doctors showed me into a conference room at the end of it and shrugged at me. Stress-induced heart failure, yes, but there was no further damage to the heart itself. I should learn to expect the arrhythmia. I could try surgery, but –

No, I couldn't. I didn't want to. I was scared, and why shouldn't I be. The mortality rate was high, the return uncertain, and I lived a quiet life.

More shrugging. It's your health, Mr. Dusk.

And with that I fled, signing all the proper forms and collecting all the paperwork and running away to Eighth Rare Books. It was the next best thing to my home – my village, my bookshop, my upstairs bedroom and tiny kitchen.

Marjorie understood, of course, so she coddled and entertained me while I nursed the bruised places where they'd poked me and the bloody places where they'd stuck me. We sat and talked about the usual subjects (books, writers, politics) until we were both talked out and her customers had grown annoyed with the rumpled young man who was taking up all of her time.

***

Thankfully, the weather held while I was in the city. The train ride back to the village that Friday was pristine and beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I stepped onto the platform at my stop with the sudden realization that I should have called Charles before leaving the city. I would be waiting for quite a while in the dry but chilly afternoon before he showed up, if he was even able to get away and drive out to meet me.

I needed to call him, but I also knew that I'd need to find a telephone and money for the call, which was more organization than I was willing to cope with immediately. I'd just come from the warm, comforting rocking of the train into the freezing country air with my coat half-on while I carried my bag towards a windbreak.

"Hi! Hello there, Saint Christopher! Come and say hello!"

I looked up from fumbling attempts to button my coat and saw a young woman in a thick woolen dress and dark heavy boots hurrying towards me. Beyond her, an older man was securing the door of a camper-trailer hooked to a large, battered pickup truck. Two Low Ferry boys were loitering around the camper, looking curious.

"Gwen!" I said, startled. "Is that you?"

"Who else?" she said, stopping in front of me and looking me up and down. "Well. I heard you'd died but you don't look resurrected."

"Who told you – never mind," I said, because the children turned guilty faces towards me. One of them was the boy Lucas tutored.

"Come on, then," Gwen said, hands on her hips, and I grinned and shoved my arms through them, hugging her. She hugged back, tight enough for me to swing her up and around while she laughed. "Oh, Saint, it's good to see you."

"You too! I didn't think you'd make it through for another month."

"Well, the road was good and we'd worn out our welcome where we were," she said, taking my hand and dragging me towards the trailer. "We're on our way to camp. Do you need a ride?"

"I do, as a matter of fact," I answered, allowing myself to be pulled into the front seat of the truck after Gwen. Her father, Tommy, slammed the door on the trailer and slapped my shoulder in greeting as he climbed into the driver's seat. The village boys rough-housed their way into the back of the cab. The warmth was a welcome relief, as was the grunt and purr of the engine.

"Good to see you, Saint," Tommy said, easing the truck out of the train-station parking lot.

"You too, Tommy. I see you brought the whole clan," I said, as Tommy pulled the truck neatly into a slow-moving line of cars and campers of various sizes and ages, all of them looking battered and weather-beaten. "You just get into town?"

"Manner of speaking," Tommy replied with a grin, not taking his eyes off the road. "Buyin' supplies."

"From who?" I asked. Tommy tapped the side of his nose. The train station was a popular place for truck-drivers to pull up for the night. Unscrupulous drivers sometimes sold some of what they had to people who needed it. They got to pocket the cash, after all, and insurance covered the loss.

"Lucky we found you," Gwen continued, as the caravan made its way out onto the road. Mud and snow pocked the surface, making it a little perilous, and the campers moved slowly. "Been to city?"

"Just came back," I said. "You?"

Gwen shrugged cheerfully. "We've been round and about. Do you need any chickens?"

A loaded question requiring a cautious answer: "Dead or alive?"

"Prefer 'em dead?" Tommy asked.

"Usually. I'll take a few, but not for a few days," I said, as the truck grumbled its way towards Low Ferry. "Just looking forward to getting home today."

"Is it long, the train to city?" Gwen asked.

"Not really. City itself's a little tiring, though," I replied.

"So I hear," Tommy observed.

"How come you two are hanging around with these troublemakers?" I asked, turning to the boy and his comrade.

"Came to see the Friendly," the boy piped up. "Bernie MacKenzie said they were coming."

"Your parents know you're taking rides from strangers?" I inquired.

"Do yours?" Gwen asked, elbowing me.

"Oh, I'm a latchkey kid," I answered. The boy leaned over the seat, watching the road. "Good to see you though, Gwen."

"Is it now?" Gwen replied. "Were you waiting for the Friendly, or for me?"

I laughed. "No other woman for me but you, Gwen."

"Easy, boy," Tommy put in.

"It's just his cat's tongue," Gwen said complacently. "He's a city boy, they love their land more than their women."

"Unkind!" I said. "Don't tell me you don't love the road more than your man, Gwen."

"Haven't got a man," she replied. "Besides, it's different. People change when they own land."

"Well, we can't all live as free as the Friendly do."

"Isn't it true!" she laughed. "And we're not all born to it. Do you know Don's granddaughter?"

"Irene, right?" I asked.

"Well, what do you think but she went to the University two years ago and now she's marrying a land-owner and keeping his house."

"Irene didn't really like caravaning, though, did she?"

"It's not for those who can't do with their hands," Tommy grumbled. "And there's no excuse for mooching around with your head on crooked."

"Which just goes to show," Gwen reflected, "that the Friendly are chosen people and it's nothing to do with blood or mothers."

"Chosen by whom?" I inquired.

"Well-asked," Tommy said. "Your wit's as sharp as ever."

The first of the caravan passed the turn for the main road then. Tommy pulled out of the string, making for my shop.

"Hear there's a man out at The Pines," he said, as we drove up the road. It was quiet, not many people on the street, and those who were stopped and watched with equal amounts of pleasure and anxiety as the truck came past. The relationship of the Friendly to Low Ferry is...complicated.

"I suppose you have this kid to thank for that," I said, tilting my head to the side and knocking the boy with it. He took the hint and leaned back. "Why, are you headed out there to camp?"

"Thought we might. Think he's liable to chase us off?"

"Just a renter," I replied. "Name's Lucas. He's not likely to try and talk to you, let alone make trouble."

"Very good," Tommy decided. "We're not in a way to offer much of a bribe."

"Bad year?"

"Not so bad as some," Gwen said.

"Well, wait around here a while, I'm sure you'll do decent business," I said. "Pull up – come in for a little while? Make you a hot drink and let you put your feet up."

"Won't say no," Tommy said, parking the camper in front of the shop. The boy and his friend jumped out of the truck and ran off to the cafe, probably to spread the word of the Friendly's arrival. I held the door for Tommy and Gwen, then led the way up the stairs and into my kitchen. Tommy sat at the table, stretching out his legs and leaning back comfortably. Gwen, entirely unself-conscious, sat cross-legged on the bed after shedding her muddy shoes on the kitchen mat.

"So you aren't in good health," Tommy said, as I rummaged in the cupboards.

"Tea or coffee? No, I'm fine," I replied.

"Tea please."

"English Breakfast or Jasmine?"

"Jasmine, and don't change the subject," Gwen interrupted. "A trip to city and a tired look and the boy said you'd been ill. Doesn't look like influenza to me, or gout or – one of Cupid's diseases, maybe?"

I laughed and shook my head while I ran the water. "Just a matter of the heart."

"Oh," Tommy said, raising his eyebrows. "My father had matters of the heart. He took the nitroglycerine. Died in bed, though."

"Well, that's a peaceful way to go, eh?" I asked, putting the kettle on the stove.

"Not according to his third wife," Gwen said with a giggle.

Tommy coughed. "Tell us more about this man at The Pines."

I hesitated, feeling oddly unwilling to discuss Lucas with them. He'd be terrified of a band of strangers camping on his doorstep and I didn't want to arm them any more than they already were by dint of his shyness and silence.

"He won't run you off, but you're best settled not too close to the cottage," I said finally. "He's shy and from city. He doesn't take easily to strange people."

"Low Ferry like him?"

"Oh, I suppose so. Don't dislike him, anyway." It occurred to me that more people spoke to me about Lucas than spoke to Lucas himself. "But if you take my advice you'll leave him in peace."

"Scared for us or for him?" Gwen asked.

"I'm not scared for anyone," I protested.

"What's he do?" Tommy asked.

"He's an artist."

"Oho!" Gwen laughed. "Painter? Photographer?"

"More of a sculptor," I said. "He makes masks. He was Fire Man at the Halloween celebration this year."

"We were sorry to miss that," Tommy said. "Like to meet this fellow, I think."

"You can come with us," Gwen offered. "To make sure nobody needs your services as a knight."

"Well, wait a little while, at least," I said. The kettle began to whistle. "I'm dead on my feet."

"Oh, we'll be setting up camp tonight at any rate," Tommy said. I passed him a mug and held one out for Gwen, who got off the bed and came to the table.

Talk turned from The Pines to news of the village, as I poured the tea, and then to news of the Friendly. Their family connections are wide and varied, traveling as much as they do: itinerant craftsman and migrant workers, they make their living buying and selling goods or doing odd-jobs. These days nomads in America often get in trouble for theft or fraud, by the Friendly are good people and don't deserve the reputation they get.

In Low Ferry, they usually settled in the field out by The Pines and came in to sell their goods: cold-weather clothing sewn by hand, chickens and rabbits raised on the move, sometimes knicknacks picked up from other small villages. They have a man who sharpens knives and scissors, and a couple of leather-workers who are good at fixing tack or shoes. And they had the most remarkable storyteller I'd ever met.

"We should go," Gwen said, when their tea was done and mine was getting cold. "Others'll complain if we aren't there to help set up camp. You will come tomorrow, Saint Christopher?"

"Of course," I said, and hugged her again. "Looking forward to it. I'll bring my wallet," I added with a wink.

"Good man. We'll show ourselves out," Tommy said, and they clattered down the stairs. I watched from the window as they climbed into Tommy's truck and pulled away.

When they were gone I poured out the remains of the tea, put the mugs in the sink, and lay down for a minute, just to stretch out before I unpacked my bag. I was asleep almost immediately.

I woke, disoriented, to the telephone ringing. I hadn't turned any of my lamps on and it was already falling dark; the only light was coming through the window from the street. I fumbled towards my desk, almost knocked both the lamp and the phone over, got it lit, and answered just before my answering machine would have picked up.

"H'lo," I mumbled, throwing myself into the chair.

"Christopher?" a hesitant voice on the other end asked.

"Lucas?" I asked. My breath was coming short and I felt a little bit like I was falling apart. I inhaled deeply, relieved when I found that I could.

"Hi," Lucas said apologetically. "Bad time?"

"No, sorry, I just woke up."

"Is it...late – it's not late..."

"No, I got back in from the city and fell asleep. Are you okay?"

There was an awkward cough on the other end of the line. "Yeah, I – think so. I don't know."

"You don't...know?" I prompted.

"Christopher, there's a bunch of people here, they're outside my house. Down in the field, below the hill."

I rubbed my face and laughed halfheartedly. "Is that all?"

"It's not all, there are strange people in the field!" he said, and I caught a note of hysteria in my voice.

"Calm down, they're just the Friendly."

"How do you know that, they – "

"Not friendly, the Friendly. I know them, they're okay."

"Who are they, though? I was coming back from the village and they were all there, and I had to go around and there are fires and – "

"Lucas, they're just travelers. They come through every winter."

A long silence. "Oh."

"They're harmless, they won't hurt you. I spoke to them this afternoon, they know you're there."

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing, it's all right. I just told them you were there, asked them to leave you alone. They seemed interested in you. I told them you make masks."

"Why'd you tell them that?"

"Well, they asked, and I didn't think it was a secret," I replied. "Take a deep breath or two. They won't bother you tonight, they just needed someplace to camp and they usually camp out there."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. Two of them gave me a ride in to town from the train station."

"Oh – god, Christopher, I'm sorry, how are you? Are you okay?"

I laughed again. "Relax, Lucas."

"But I – "

"I'm fine. You're safe tonight. I'll come out tomorrow, say hello, introduce you to them."

"Well, I – I'd like to see you and hear about it. I would. But maybe you shouldn't, you should rest – and anyway you don't have to introduce me. You don't, do you?"

"Kiddo, either I introduce you to them or they're going to come introduce themselves."

He was silent for so long that I asked, "Lucas? Still there?"

"Yes," he answered.

"You'll like them. I'll be out tomorrow to visit, okay?"

"Okay."

"Good. Now. I'm going to go back to bed."

"Okay," he repeated. "Uh. Bye..."

"Goodnight, Lucas," I said, and hung up the phone.

***

When I woke, late the next morning, some of the Friendly were already in town. They were working their way down the street, knocking on shop doors, asking to put handcrafts on display for sale or barter goods for things they couldn't make themselves, like hammers and rubber boots.

I opened the shop and was immediately swamped – not by Friendly, but by townspeople who had seen me return the day before or heard about it from others.

"So," Paula said, as she browsed. "How was the big city? Get mugged?"

"No," I laughed. "It's not that dangerous."

"You can't be too careful," Nolan said, laying down a stack of magazines to purchase.

"Well, that's true, about being careful," I allowed. "But I grew up in Chicago, you know."

"What was that like?" Nolan asked.

"Busy," I said absently.

"Why'd you go for so long, anyway?" Paula asked. "You didn't even bring any books back."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"Ron saw you last night, said all you had with you was your bag," Charles answered shamelessly. "Getting out of a Friendly truck, she said."

"Nothing wrong with that. They saw me at the station, thought I'd save you the drive."

"They camped out at The Pines?" Paula asked. "Lucas won't like that."

"Lucas is fine," I said, shoving Nolan's magazines into a paper bag and handing them to him.

"All right, no need to bite my head off, I'm just saying. If he has any trouble he should call me."

"He can look after himself."

"Doubt that," Charles remarked. "He checked your store every day while you were gone."

"Flattering, but not an indication of his dependence on me."

"Oooh, see, he goes to Chicago, comes back with a lot of big words," Nolan teased.

"You, scram, before I use some of them on you," I replied.

"Yes sir, city boy," he called, as he left.

"So," Paula came up to the counter and leaned against it, crossing her arms. "You went to Chicago. And...?"

I glanced from her to Charles to the three other townspeople in the shop, all of whom were listening intently. I sighed.

"I saw some doctors," I said.

"And?" Charles asked.

"They're still waiting on some tests, but apparently I'm fine," I said, not quite meeting his eyes. "And if we could all pretend," I drawled, catching a few guilty looks, "that Halloween never happened, I'd appreciate that."

Paula grabbed my chin and pulled me around to face her. She looked serious for a moment, but eventually a smile spread across her face.

"People talk," she said. "Don't dish it out if you can't take it, gorgeous."

"Duly noted," I replied. "Now, everyone, pay up or move on – I have errands to run. Go on, out."

The eavesdroppers sheepishly set down the books they'd been pretending to read. As they left, Charles handed me a mystery novel and took out his wallet.

"You're not telling us something," he said.

"Remind me to tell you about the hideous beast my ex-girlfriend married," I answered lightly. "Go on, Charles. Go ye and spread the good news of my continuing health."

He shook his head, but he put his hat on and stepped back out into the cold, briskly windy morning.

It wasn't long before I was walking out into the chill myself. It was a clear day, and clear days that late in the year were becoming rare. I could have kept the shop open and probably done brisk business, but people would still need books that afternoon, and I'd made a promise to Lucas. He probably hadn't slept very well.

On the way out of town I happened to see the boy; for whatever arcane reason children have, he was up in the branches of a snow-covered tree. I stopped underneath it and stared upwards while his progress down from the weaker limbs shook snow onto the street.

"What on earth are you doing up there?" I asked, shading my eyes against the glare off the overcast sky.

"Looking for you," he said. "Coming down!"

"Well, I'm not usually up trees."

"It's a lookout post," he said, unconcerned. He slid off the branch, landed on another one below, swung out to grasp a low branch over the sidewalk, and dropped the last eight feet into a pile of powdery snow.

"What did you want me for?" I asked.

"Thought you might be going to see the Friendly. Can I come?"

"Did your parents say you could?"

"I'm safe with you, aren't I?"

"That's not an answer," I said, but I shrugged and walked on. "Your funeral if you get grounded for it."

"I won't be," he said confidently, as we strolled down the narrow sunken path in the snow. "Will you see Lucas too?"

"I'm going out there to see him – have to open formal diplomatic negotiations between him and the Friendly, or he'll hide in his little den and they'll poke well-meaning sticks through the bars."

"Gwen's really nice."

"She is. He'll like them once he gets to know them."

"Everyone at school says their parents won't let them go out to the camp because they think they'll be stolen."

"I doubt it," I answered. "When I was a kid my mom threatened to sell me to the gypsies if I was bad. I always thought it sounded pretty exciting."

"Gwen says we're not supposed to call them gypsies."

"Gwen's very right, and I apologize in absentia."

"What's that?"

"Latin."

He scowled at me and ran on ahead, plowing through the snow. In the distance the Friendly's camp was already visible, a low and uneven black skyline of trucks and campers and shoveled snow. Smoke rose from a handful of cook-fires.

By the time we actually arrived, the boy was coated in snow from the waist down and happily windblown, eager to see everything and everyone. It was hard to deny that the Friendly camp was an adventure for a village boy, full of dark places to explore and unusual things to see.

"Hello, Saint Christopher!" called a voice, and I turned from the boy, in conference with a handful of Friendly children, to find Tommy's brother Pete bearing down on me.

"Good morning, Pete," I said, offering my hand. He shook it and then clapped a book into it triumphantly.

"I have books to trade to you," he said, pointing at it. I opened the book – the pages were blank, but the binding was exquisite – soft suede leather, the pages tightly stitched.

"Where did this come from?" I asked. "Your work?"

"Good god no. My son. Keen craftsman, very good fingers. There are twenty in all, more can be made."

"I don't think I could sell more, but I'll buy your lot of twenty. How much are you asking?"

We haggled, of course. With the Friendly one must. On the other hand, as disgusted as I pretended to act over the final price, it wasn't a bad deal. It would take a while – maybe a year or two – to shift twenty leather-bound journals, but Christmas was coming, after all. And I like to do business with the Friendly, especially with Gwen and her family.

"Come have some hospitality," Pete said, gesturing me over to one of the cook-fires. There were beans bubbling in the embers, all-day cooking, and a pot situated over the flame that was just beginning to boil. He dished out two mugs of mildly-alcoholic something-or-other and passed me one.

"Glad to see you in good health," I said, as we stood in the cold and sipped, watching the daily activity of the camp go on around us.

"It's been decent this year. Tight, but not so bad as some."

"So Gwen said," I replied, looking around at the people building low walls from the snow, stirring pots over other fires, taking advantage of the spaciousness of the field to do a little cleaning in their campers.

"You seem well too, though Gwen tells me you've been sick," Pete said. I shook my head.

"I do just fine, Pete."

"Gwen tells me also that you're the guardian of the man up the hill," he added, nodding towards the cottage. "Saw him last night, watching us."

"Did you? I wouldn't credit Lucas with spying from behind the curtains."

"No, nor he did," Pete agreed. "Slunk out late at night and did a little circle – reminded me of an animal looking for handouts but not willing to come close-to. Gwen gave him a chance to make himself known, didn't take it."

"No, he wouldn't."

"Does he need your defending?" Pete asked. "You should know by now that Gwen's a kind woman. Grown woman too," he added, with a sidelong grin.

"Yes, I know."

"It's a shame you're a land-owner. She thinks very highly of you."

I laughed. "Was that a proposition of marriage from a near male relative?"

"You could do worse. Are you really happy here? The same faces, the same trees, the same buildings year after year?"

"One doesn't think about it much, as a land-owner," I said. "Though everyone else apparently thinks of it for me."

"Saint Christopher!" another voice called, and Gwen came running across the camp, hauling the boy after her. "Good morning!"

"Yes, it is," I answered, allowing her to tackle me in a hug and give me a kiss on the cheek. "And how are you?"

"Very good. Looking forward to meeting your mysterious Lucas."

"Ah, that was a hint," I said, amused. "I'm ready to run up to the cottage when you are."

"Just have to summon father. FATHER!" she called, and Tommy put his head out of one of the campers.

"Just coming now," he said, climbing down into the snow. "Good morning, Saint."

"Morning, Tommy. Pete, you coming along?" I asked.

"Fraid not – some chores to mind," Pete said. "Run along with you."

"Running along," I said. Gwen took my hand in hers, Tommy eyeing us suspiciously as we made our way towards the cottage on the hill.

"You have to be nice to Lucas," the boy said.

"I am nice to everyone," Gwen replied loftily.

"But really nice. He's shy."

"I'd never have guessed," Tommy said drily.

"He knows a lot. Like everything about history," the boy continued.

Gwen looked amused. "Whose history?"