A/N: Sorry for the long wait, and sorry again for another short chapter. I've finished the whole thing, but it was twelve pages, so in an effort to keep chapter lengths somewhat consistent, I picked a cut-off point and am only posting the first third. The next chapter will be up soon, probably next Sunday, when I have the time to sit down again and type it in on a school computer. That whole internet access thing still isn't working for my laptop.

Standard Disclaimers: Will Stanton, The Dark is Rising, and all associated characters belong solely to Susan Cooper. I can only hope that some day I'll be half as creative.

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Chapter Ten

"So does a whole world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it."

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.

There was a new moon, ideal for star-gazing, and Peter's gaze drifted carelessly over the sharp angles of Orion's massive shoulders. He had always felt somewhat ambivalent towards the stars. Sometimes he imagined that he was microscopic, as tiny as the quarks and neutrinos his science teacher Mr. Goldman loved to talk about. The universe would expand into a limitless wonderland, where everything was possible and something always new. Eyes closed, he would pretend that he could feel the rushing madness of Earth's headlong flight through space. That was a good feeling.

But sometimes he imagined that he was huge, more massive than the largest galaxy. And then all those tiny pinpoints of light began to look mighty puny in their pathetic attempt to illuminate infinity. That's it? His mind would wonder. And that was a bad feeling.

It's all, he mused as trudged alongside his family and Will Stanton, a mere matter of perspective. And he thought he was quite wise to have discovered this.

It was Christmas Eve, night of the Wraithfell Ceremony. The snow that had been falling for days had stopped just before sunset, and a rumbling fleet of snowplows had emerged hastily to clear the roads before evening. Parking at the church had been tight, and they had been forced to go some way down the street to find an empty spot. Salt crystals crunched under Peter's booted feet, and Bran carried Annie in his arms so she would not sully her thin white slippers. The sidewalk's packed snow was iridescent under the orange streetlamps, and the slight breeze caused the evergreen branches to groan and dump their snowy loads in massive clumps that slid slowly to the ground. Christmas trees glowed in the windows of the dark houses they passed by.

Will Stanton noticed where Peter's eyes were wandering. "What do you see up there in the stars, Peter?" he asked casually. His voice was muffled by the colorful scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face.

"Monsters!" Annie giggled from over Bran's shoulder. She swung her head so that the poofy balls of yarn hanging from her hat thumped against her shoulders. "And animals and fairies!" She placed her hands against Bran's shoulders and pushed herself back so she could grin into his face. She pulled his hat down over his eyes. "What do you see, Da?"

He laughed and pushed that hat back up. "Judgment," he said with mock severity. "Judgment for little girls who aren't nice to their daddies." He flicked a finger at her nose, she screeched happily, and a minor scuffle ensued.

Jane's voice was silver in the night. "That's Will Stanton for you. Always asking the unanswerable questions and getting people into arguments."

"Debates, my dear, they're debates," Will chuckled. He arched an eyebrow at Peter, who grinned back. "So how 'bout it, Peter?" he whispered. "What do you think is up there?"

Peter remembered the oozing blackness that Will had shown them from the Davies' balcony. Life. Death. Infinity. Endings. Beginnings. "Well, uh . . . nothing much, I guess. Just the stars."

They had reached the church, and Peter studied the massive stone building as they walked up the broad, shallow steps. Shards of light exploded from the stained-glass windows, splintering the night. The brilliant spire ripped up into the winter sky, a needle of fire poised to pierce a cloth of black velvet. The effect was beautiful and wondrous, but something about it made him uneasy.

Inside, laughing people thronged the vestibule, and the building's echoing immensity magnified each sound tenfold. Girls giggled nervously in groups, while boys fidgeted awkwardly in prickly suits and ties. Parents fussily slicked down errant hair and rearranged already perfect clothes. Slow and stately organ music drifted through the air. Candles flickered in the windows. Everything was gold and crimson, as the warm light set fire to the red pew cushions.

Annie was hopping from one foot to another in barely contained excitement. "I'd better go, Mum," she said with self-important enthusiasm. "Ms. Evans is waving me over." She pointed to the beckoning chorus teacher.

"Not quite yet," Jane demanded as her fingers smoothed the black hair falling over Annie's shoulders. She adjusted the red ribbon in her daughter's hair and tugged the white dress into place. Having finished, she leaned back and looked at her daughter critically. "There now, you look perfect."

"Really?"

"Really really, silly goose."

Annie grinned in delight and scampered off through the crowd to join Ms. Evans.

"Well, then," Jane said, her voice sounding strangely choked. She was blinking quickly. "There she goes."

"Don't fret so, Jenny." Bran slung an arm over her shoulders and spoke bluntly. He was wearing a black suit, tie, and shirt. The contrast with his white hair made people stare, and Peter was secretly pleased at the attention his father unconsciously demanded. "She'll do just fine."

"Oh, no doubt about that. She's worked so hard. It's just . . . well, look at her Bran!"

Peter looked. Annie was talking animatedly with Ms. Evans, who was laughing at something the girl had said. His sister's hands were flying and her face lively and eager. A glow of excitement lit her features like a sun.

Will Stanton was wearing one of his inscrutable looks again. "She fearless, that's all," he said vacantly. "I'm sure we'll see her gracing the New York stages one of these days soon."

"Nonsense." Jane pulled on her ponytail and wrapped an arm about her husband's waist. She reached up to pull the dark sunglasses from his face. She tucked them in her purse and gave Bran and laughing, disapproving look. "She's my little girl, and no one's taking her away from me yet."

"Hey, I see the programs over there by the door," Peter interrupted. "I'll go get some."

"All right, Peter," Bran said, ruefully rubbing his hair and looking abashed at his wife. "We'll go grab some seats before they're all taken. Meet us inside."

"Sure thing. I'll be right back."

Between Peter and the programs were scores of happily chatting people. He shouldered his way through the crowd, mumbling pardons and excuses as he went. Everyone was close and jammed pack together, and he was beginning to sweat under his heavy suit jacket. The smell of vanilla was everywhere. He saw Mrs. Reynolds from across the vestibule and waved to her cheerfully. The old woman grinned in return and winked in his direction.

A stout lady in pink appeared out of nowhere. Peter accidentally jostled her hard. He turned in consternation. "I'm so sorry, ma'am," he apologized, back-pedalling in the direction of the program table.

"Now, don't get your underpants all tied up in knots over it, young man," she said with dismissive dignity. "'Tis the season for forgiveness." She turned back to a pudgy boy dressed in a powder blue suit who must have been her grandson.

Peter laughed and continued moving backwards. He felt himself stumble and awkwardly collide with someone massive. His feet blundered and his arms flailed as he tried to maintain his balance. He succeeded, barely, and turned with a smile to placate yet another bruised individual with his hasty apologies.

Richard C. Winslow, Esq. loomed above him, clad in an exquisitely expensive suit. He looked down upon Peter with an inscrutable expression on his face.

The apology choked in Peter's throat. He opened his mouth, but even the slightest gurgle emerged. An anvil dropped heavily into his stomach and store through his guts. He looked at Stan's father with all the dislike he could muster, anticipating a verbal flaying or – at the very least – the evil eye.

Oh, Will, where are you?

But Winslow only stared wordlessly at the silent boy standing before him. An expression of polite confusion played over his features. "May I help you?" he finally asked courteously.

Peter's jaw dropped. "Uh, no. I'm sorry, I was just getting programs, and – and . . . didn't watch where I was going. Clumsy, I was, and – "

"Fine," Winslow interrupted him neatly. He shrugged his large shoulders and turned back to join his group's conversation. "Oh, I forgot." He turned back around and fixed Peter with his light blue eyes. "Merry Christmas, kid."

Peter couldn't move. His feet were welded to the floor, his eyes wide with shock. Winslow was engrossed with his conversation once again, completely oblivious of his very existence.

Peter couldn't help eavesdropping.

"Now, look here, Dick," a shorter man was saying emphatically. Peter recognized his ruddy face from election advertisements. He was a city councilman. Cianconne, that was his name. His voice was slightly slurred, and the sharp odor of brandy was in the air. "No one has all the answers. But I'll say what I think and I'm not ashamed of doing so. I think the President should send our boys in their fighter jets and have them bomb that bastard Muscharch to the very gates of hell itself. And bomb 'em again, if we have to. Nuke the whole damn region, before they destroy us all."

"That's a very interesting theory, Ryan," Winslow replied mildly. "But hardly one that would be effective, I think. At least not in the long run. What good would it do to ruin a whole country to get one man? Instead of a single enemy, we'd have thousands. It's simply not practicable."

"What good would it do? You can't be serious. It'll stop Muscharch from nuking us, that's what it'll do. I tell you, Dick, that man is evil. He deserves what he's getting at our hands. He deserves to burn as he made those Sindalians burn."

"That he may." Winslow stroked his chin. "But I think you're overlooking the point, Ryan, that while he most definitely deserves what you say he does, his country does not. Besides, do . . . do you really think President Muscharch is an evil man?"

Peter stared, incredulous. Winslow sounded almost . . . wistful.

"That I do," Cianconne said firmly, viciously. "As evil as they come, as evil as the serpent in the Garden of Eden. A scourge to freedom and liberty everywhere, that's what he is. No doubt about it."

One side of Winslow's mouth went up in a derisive smirk. "But he's only a man, Ryan. Do you really believe any mere man is capable of pure evil?"

"Surely you don't mean that Muscharch was justified in using those bombs, do you, Dick?

Peter saw the muscles in Winslow's back stiffen. The free hand that was not holding his jacket clenched into a fist. "No, I don't," he spat. "It was despicable. The kind of act that makes me want to puke. I wish Muscharch would die. He deserves to die, after everything he's done."

"Then I don't see what your whole point about 'being only a man' is all about." Cianconne shrugged and turned away.

Peter's frozen limbs melted into life again, and he began to inch away. After a few steps, he turned and bolted. The crowd had thinned as people took their seats, and he reached the program table without difficulty. He picked up four pamphlets of pale blue embossed with silver lettering. They shook in his hands. He couldn't hold them, so he let them fall and followed them weakly to the floor.

This is silly, he thought fiercely, pulling his knees up and leaning his back against a pillar. He could feel the stone's welcoming coldness even through his jacket. Winslow's a monster all right, but did you really think he would reach out his claws and gobble you up in the middle of a church? In front of a councilman? Pull yourself together, man.

His hands began to shake harder.

But that's not really it, is it? You wouldn't be trembling like this if it was just Winslow you had to worry about. Here's the real problem, the thing that's driving you mad: he had no fucking clue who you were.

Peter rubbed his forehead against his knees and fisted his hands in his hair, the strands wrapped around his fingers like wire. He bit the inside of his cheek hard, hoping the pain would clear his mind. Did you see his eyes when he looked at you? Completely blank. No anger, no recognition. Nothing. As far as he was concerned, he's never seen you before.

But wait, there's more. Why would Stan's dad be so . . . intense about Muscharch?

Peter shook his head, unable to make any sense of the conversation he had just heard. For a while Winslow had sounded as if he was almost defending the bloodthirsty President. The next minute he had been spitting words against the man like they were bullets. And there had been more than simple disapprobation in Winslow's voice. There had been hatred: a deep, personal sort of hatred. The hatred reserved for someone who deprived you of love and comfort and home, of all you held dear, and yet left you with bitter life so you could rue everything you had lost.

The lights began to flicker. Peter looked up and realized that the vestibule was almost empty. Everyone had taken their seats. He clenched the programs to his chest and scrambled to his feet. His legs felt a little unsteady, but he guessed he'd be all right. He needed to find his family.

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norah-hunt: Glad to see you back! Your English teacher sounds divine. Here's the important question: is he single and perhaps under forty? Eagerly awaiting your next update!

silvergenji: The big important magical stuff is coming up next chapter. Oh, yes, and it will get much worse. Mwa ha ha! Hope the moving is going well.

CPAnthoni: Wow, thanks! Authoress blushes. The squirrel and guacamole episode will come up later, but not in this story, and not for a long time. I'm shameless and am dangling it in front of you so you'll keep reading : ). I agree with you on the danger of lyrical language, I'm trying to cut from my writing as many evil adverbs as I can. As for Bran's choice: do you think it really matters to Will? I'm sure as an Old One he knew what it would mean.

svufreak: Glad you like the descriptions. I worried about posting such a chapter, but I'm glad you appreciated it!

Eirias2: Right now : ). But mostly in the next chapter. Promise.

lol: Thanks! I really liked it too, which is weird because I wrote it completely last minute once I decided to break up the chapter. It's nice when inspiration strikes randomly in that fashion. : ).

Venus Smurf: Authoress laughs. Wow, thanks for the amazing reviews! I must confess that I thrive on praise – yes, selfish and arrogant, I know – and your reviews always make me anxious to get back to the computer to write more. Thanks for the inspiration!