A/N: Ok, I've been promising a long chapter for some time, and here it is. Phew, my fingers are tired from all that typing. There are probably tons of typos, I'm sorry, I'm too tired to fix them. Now, I've never written any mystery before, so I struggled with this chapter trying to decide what to hint at, what to explain, what to leave out, etc. If you want to review this chapter, could you help me out? If there's something that's simply so unexplained that it makes you want to stop reading, let me know and I'll try to address it soon. Likewise, I'm really curious to get everyone's feedback on where they think the plot is going. It'll help me a lot in shaping the story. Also let me know if there's something I should have taken out. This chapter got really long on me. I tried to keep it short, but it just didn't work.
Standard Disclaimers Apply: Will Stanton and The Dark is Rising series belong to Susan Cooper.
Non-Standard Disclaimers: The Santa Lucia/Queen of Lights carol is an actual ceremony performed mostly in Sweden. However, it was also done in my middle school, so it can be found in America too. I've changed some things around though. For instance, it is usually done on December 13th, not Christmas Eve. What can I say? I moved it for dramatic effect. Boys usually have a role, too, but I jettisoned them without cause. Sheer laziness. Also, the lyrics here are a compilation of ones I found online and the ones I remember singing myself (in the chorus, of course . . . I am singularly atrocious when it comes to singing, which is perhaps why I wanted to make Annie so divinely good at it). Bottom line, the words are substantially, but not completely, accurate. I've just moved things around a bit to make it flow better. Enjoy : ).
Reader Review Reponses Below . . . Far, far below . . .
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"It's time the long arm of the law put a few more in the ground
Send 'em all to their maker and he'll set 'em down
You can bet he'll set 'em down
'Cause Justice is the one thing you should always find
You got to saddle up your boys
You got to draw a hard line
When the gun smoke settles we'll sing a victory tune
And we'll all meet back at the local saloon.
And we'll raise up our glasses against evil forces singing
whiskey for my men, beer for my horses
Singing whiskey for my men, and beer for my horses"
Toby Keith and Willie Nelson, "Beer for My Horses."
They were seated halfway down the center aisle, just on the right edge. There was a place saved for him between his father and Will. Peter awkwardly squeezed in past Will's knees and collapsed upon the thinly cushioned wood.
"What took you so long, Peter?" His mother leaned around to peer at him. "We were starting to worry."
Peter fell back upon the tried-and-true excused for delinquents everywhere. "I had to go to the bathroom. There was a line."
A tiny frown appeared between Jane's eyebrows. She knew her son. "Are you feeling sick? Your face looks a little flushed."
Peter wiped at his brow. It felt damp. He tried to speak with casual unconcern. "Naw, I'm fine. Here are the programs. Annie's on page four. The picture came out real good."
"You sure you're okay? If you're not, we could – "
"I said I'm fine!" he snapped.
Jane's eyebrows raised and her lips made a tiny 'o' shape. Bran shot his son a warning look: Watch your tongue, bach. Peter sunk down into the pew sullenly. Will turned and looked at him dispassionately. Peter met the Old One's eyes for a split second and then looked away.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, shame making his ears burn.
There was just a second of hesitation. "Hey, forget it." Jane reached her arm behind Bran and ruffled her son's hair. "The concert's about to start. Let's enjoy the evening."
"All right."
The lights dimmed. Peter squirmed and tried to make himself comfortable, unaccustomed as he was to the hard wood of the pews. The Davies weren't church-goers by any stretch of the imagination. His father didn't like it, and his mother preferred spending Sunday mornings dressed in her bathrobe worrying over her latest article. Still, the Ceremony was more school concert than religious ritual, and they always made Christmas Eve an unprincipled exception to their heathenish habits.
Ms. Evans walked onto the illuminated stage. "Friends and family, citizens of Wraithfell, let me welcome you to one of our town's oldest and most honored traditions: the Christmas Ceremony. For over one hundred years this night has been dedicated to the music and joy out children bring us during the holiday season. For a hundred years we have come together in this place on this night, to celebrate the return of the light."
There was a small splattering of polite applause.
"And at no other time have we been in such need of such a night as this year, when war threatens and thousands upon thousands of innocents have perished in the past days. Let us take this time to reflect upon our blessings and remember those who have passed away in the past week."
There was perfect silence, except for a few elder women who sniffled piteously.
"Thank you, everyone," Ms. Evans said, her voice switching smoothly from solemn doom-and-gloom to holiday cheer. "And now, without further ado, please join me in appreciation of the feast of musical talent that we will be presented with tonight."
Ms. Evans took her seat at the piano with a flourish. She made a small beckoning motion with her hand, and the fifth grade chorus tripped on stage and filled the risers. They proceeded to warble their way through Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Up on The Housetop, and Silent Night. Peter clapped enthusiastically along with the rest of the audience when the performance was completed. It hadn't been astounding, but was that ever the point?
The high school chorus was next. They opened with Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer. The music, however, was secondary to the performance of homecoming king Gregory Smith, who, decked out in complete Grandma-drag (silver wig and all), had shrieked girlishly and tried in vain to escape Heather Blythe's ferociously homicidal reindeer. The audience hooted with laughter. Then there was a quietly beautiful staccato version of Do You Hear What I Hear?, followed by a thunderingly mighty rendition of Good King Wenceslas. At the end Will cheered and whistled louder than anyone, clapping his hands with enthusiasm.
"That's always been a favorite of mine," he whispered to Peter. "I can't tell you how many years it's been since I've heard it performed so well."
The applause subsided; Jane shuffled in her seat and clutched Bran's arm. He laid a hand over hers and looked at the stage with proud expectancy. The lights dimmed further and then were extinguished completely. Excited whispers floated through the darkness.
A single candle was lit, creating a halo of light. A slight girl stood on the stage, clenching the flame in her hands. Its glow flickered over her features so that her face looked like a banner rippling in the wind. Annie stood silent: eyes raised to the ceiling; face quiet and calm. A green wreath perched atop her head, decorated with four electric candles. Her black hair cascaded over her shoulders, a shadow against the perfect whiteness of her dress. Her skin was flushed; her eyes sparkling blue sapphires. The audience murmured in aesthetic appreciation.
But something clenched unpleasantly in Peter's stomach as he watched his sister. Her beauty was extraordinary – and frightening. She looked wild, as if she were an unearthly being transplanted from a time long since gone. It scared him, this transformation of his beloved little sister into some unknown creature. Why had he never noticed it before?
Because it's not her, someone whispered. Peter jumped and whipped his head about, searching for the unknown speaker. But no one was paying him the slightest attention; even Will Stanton was held rapt by the girlish figure in white. Perhaps it had been his imagination. He had just decided upon this explanation when he heard the same voice again, eerie and distant:
The beauty you see has nothing to do with the Annie you know, with the girl who finger-paints flowers and climbs trees higher than the boys during the summer. It is beyond her, a burden that she must bear, but not one that belongs to her.
Peter clapped his hands to his ears, but it was useless. The voice was in his head.
And it is a burden for which she will pay dearly.
Peter panicked badly, as any rationale person would have. This wasn't the speech of his mind, the small voice that provided his life's running commentary. These words belonged to somewhat who was completely alien to him. Who are you? he shouted desperately in his head. What are you trying to tell me? He strained to catch a response, but heard nothing. A bead of stinging sweat ran into his eye.
Annie's silence had captured the audience's complete attention, as she had wanted it to do. Smiling now, she heaved a deep breath and opened her mouth to sing:
Nightly, go heavy hearts
Round farm and steading
On earth, where sun departs,
Shadows are spreading.
Then on our darkest night,
Comes with her shining light
Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia.
Her voice was sweet and simple, slightly tinged by the remnants of her Welsh accent. The words flew over the audience like delicate paper birds. She sustained the last note; it quivered momentarily in the darkness before fading into silence.
The doors leading from the vestibule into the nave swung open, and a sea of lights flowed into the church. A procession of girls paced down the aisle, every one wearing white with a red sash about her waist. Their ages ranged from eight to eighteen, and each cradled a candle in her hands. Their voices rose to join Annie Davies' in the refrain:
Santa Lucia,
Thy light is glowing
Through darkest winter night,
Comfort bestowing.
Dreams float on dreams tonight,
Comes then the morning light,
Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia.
And then Annie solo again:
Darkness shall fly away
Through earthly portals.
Night-darkling, huge and still,
Hark, something's stirring!
Daylight again renewed,
Will rise all rosy-hued,
Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia.
The first thread of cold pierced Peter halfway through the second refrain. He looked in confusion down at the flesh of his left forearm, where he had felt the tiny pinprick of ice. Odd, the church wasn't cold. Bewildered, his eyes reverted once more to his sister, singing lonely on the stage. The smile on her face was gone, and the corners of her mouth looked grim. Her gaze swept the darkened audience in apprehension, and Peter saw that her eyes were wide and panicky.
Then, without further warning, pain tore his body apart.
Peter was never able afterwards to describe exactly what the attack of the Dark had felt like on a human body. The words that could contain such anguish had never been invented. An arctic glacier had exploded in his veins. His blood was a river of ice. It foamed through every inch of his body, and the synapses of his brain froze and crackled like icicles. Behind it all raged an overwhelming nausea, a red and black monster that gnawed gleefully at his insides. And then there was a screaming in his head. Except that it wasn't exactly screaming, but a horrid cacophony of laughter and shrieks and caterwauling, of tortured voices pleading piteously for help, all of them howling madly for his attention.
And the pain. The pain was killing him, he was going to die. He wanted to die. Please, oh god, please, kill me now. Anything, even nothingness, rather than feel this agony one second more.
He opened his mouth to scream, to release the pain in any way he could. But before he could do so a new voice, strained yet calm, cut through the madness in his head and whispered small words of comfort:
Hold fast, Peter. Hold fast, dear boy.
Peter looked about wildly, but noticed nothing unusual except that his right hand was engulfed in Will Stanton's left. The Old One had turned and was staring at him, eyes glazed and opaque. Peter recognized his own pain in their careful blankness, and he knew then that whatever it was, Will Stanton felt it too.
Another wave of torment broke over him, and his eyes rolled back in his head and his body convulsed.
No! No, Peter! Open your eyes and look at me. Everything will be all right. They can't kill you. Do you hear me, damn it? They can't kill you, Peter.
Peter heard the words from a long way away. They floated to him across an ocean of pain. He grasped at them like a lifeline and let them pull him to shore. His gaze steadied and met Will's. There was a warmth seeping into his right hand. It ran up his arm and sparked in his brain, clearing a tiny bright spot in which he could think. It pushed away the pain and muffled the screaming.
Will! He shouted in this strange new manner of communicating, the words forming themselves with some effort in his head. Will, what is it? Is it the Dark?
Yes. No. Perhaps. I think so.
What is it?! He screamed in terror.
Look around you, Peter. What do you see?
Peter's distressed gaze swept the church. The audience was smiling complacently in appreciation of the performance, oblivious to whatever it was that was tearing him apart body and soul. A red haze hung before his eyes, and several seconds passed before he saw what Will Stanton wished him to see.
Here and there, scattered throughout the church, there were people he knew with faces he didn't recognize. Something was blurring their features, a dark smudge that looked like a dirty eraser had tried to edit reality. Noses merged with lips, and eyes floated every which way upon skin that had become like putty. The faces belonged to neighbors and teachers and friends alike, but to no one under the age of forty. An old woman across the aisle turned slowly and looked directly at Peter. He stared, fascinated. Sluggish black tears poured down her cheeks, as if her eyes were weeping oil.
Their faces . . . there are some people whose faces – they're gone, Will. They're gone!
Now look up, Peter.
Peter looked up. High above him, at the very peak of the church, roiled a black cloud that he knew well, having once before seen its blackness spreading over a winter night's moon.
Now listen, Peter, can you still hear me?
Yes, Will, I can hear you. But . . . but . . . how?!
Never mind that for now. Peter, I'm going to have to let you go somewhat. You're going to have to fight it on your own for just a little while, do you understand?
Noooo . . . Will, please. I can't bear it again.
You can. You must. Annie needs me. I can't shield you both completely, separated as we three are.
Peter's fingernails dug into his palms. A new voice was in his head now, or perhaps it had been there all along. It blended with the distant background of screaming, but at the same time was distinctly different. It howled in terror.
Annie.
His sister was still singing, her voice joined by those of the procession. She stood still and straight, hands clasped before her, a slight smile about her mouth. Everything about her was cool, calm, and collected. But even as Peter heard her physical voice ring in his ears, her inners shrieks increasingly filled his mind. It was uncanny, for the wailing rose and fell with the same rhythm of the music, the notes of despair strangely paralleling the song of light and hope. Peter saw that she had bitten her lip. A single drop of red blood welled at the corner of her mouth.
Annie? he thought, sending his new mind-voice out into the dark void between him and his sister.
Peter? The tentative cry reached him from a distance. Peter, is that you?
Yes.
What's happening?! It's like that morning. Only worse, oh so much worse . . .
I know. It's something to do with the Dark. . . . Annie, do you see it? Do you see their faces?
There was no answer. Peter thought he heard a muffled moaning.
Annie, answer me!
Peter, she can't. Will's voice was gentle and firm, yet tense. Just standing is taking almost everything she has. Let me help her.
Peter gritted his teeth and tried to capture the feeling of warmth that Will Stanton's calloused palm gave him. A part of his mind was sufficiently collected enough to wonder that a literature professor's hand was so rough. He took a deep breath and steeled himself.
All right, then. I'm ready.
He released his grip on Will Stanton's hand.
It was as horrible as it had been before, it really wasn't. There was still the cold and the screaming and the pain, but they all remained safely at a bearable distance. Something of the Old One's protection remained with Peter, shielding him from the worst effects of the attack.
And Peter felt – how, he had no idea – a great river of Light leave Will and flow up to envelop Annie on the stage. Although "Light" wasn't quite the right word, for he could see nothing, only sense the heat and reassurance pouring out from Will. He saw Annie visibly relax. Her shoulders lowered and her hands fell down once again to hang loosely at her sides. During a break in the song her tongue darted out and blotted the drop of blood at her mouth.
The performance was almost over. The procession of lights had vanished once more through the church doors, and Annie was signing the final refrain:
Santa Lucia,
Thy light is glowing.
Through darkest winter night,
Comfort bestowing.
Come now, O Queen of Light,
Wearing thy crown so bright.
Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia.
Once the last note died away, the attack stopped as swiftly as it had begun. Peter could breath and think again. Annie looked silently out upon the audience once more. Then with a quick puff of breath she extinguished her candle and with one hand flicked the small off-switch on the battery pack that Peter knew was hidden beneath her sash. The wreath of lights on her head blinked out. There was darkness once again. Everything was silent, and Peter felt as if the stillness would drive him mad.
Then the church lights flickered back on, and thunderous applause erupted. The doors opened once again, and the girls who had been in the procession rushed to join Annie on the stage, where they bowed and giggled and waved to friends and family. Several of them flung their arms around his sister in warm-hearted congratulation. She returned their hugs absently. Ms. Evans then came out and raised Annie's hand in the air. The cheering increased. The girl smiled wanly.
Bran and Jane jumped to their feet and began to cheer and whistle, Bran calling out accolades in Welsh. Peter remained glued to the pew, head down, eyes fastened on the floor. He tried to focus simply on breathing. The pain and cold were gone. But when he raised his eyes he could still see the black cloud boiling just below the ceiling, and everywhere he looked there were random distorted faces staring in his direction.
For a brief second Peter's gaze collided with Richard Winslow's. The man was deadly pale. But his features were clear. His eyes met Peter's with a strained expression in them, and then darted swiftly away again. Peter looked down, and didn't look up again.
Jane noticed that he was still sitting. "Peter, come on!" she cried happily. "Stand up! Annie's getting a standing ovation!"
Peter squeezed his eyes shut and remained seated. He heard the words, but couldn't look at his mother. He could not. He knew that he would not be able to bear it if he saw that horrible blur upon his parents' faces.
Will Stanton must have known what Peter was thinking, for he grabbed the boy's arm and hauled him to his feet. "It's all right," he hissed in his ear. "Your parents are fine, look at them. Just act normal."
Peter stole a tentative sidelong glance. Smiles were plastered over his parents' faces, faces that were pure and clean and unsullied. His body deflated with relief. Jane reached around her husband to engulf Peter in a happy hug. "She was magnificent!" she cried. "Wasn't she?" Peter eagerly returned the hug, just glad that his parents were still his parents.
"Magnificent," he murmured.
The applause slowly died down and people began to throng the aisle as family members sought each other our for congratulations. Still, something was different now, something that Peter couldn't quite put into words. There was a brittleness to people's smiles, a fierceness to their laughter. Tension crackled in the air. Peter felt it the way that one feels television static, even though the screen may be blank and the sound muted. It was there, and yet not there. And every time he saw a blurred face out to kiss the cheek of a child, he cringed and looked away.
Will bent down to whisper urgently in his ear. "Go get your sister, Peter, and take her outside. Now."
"Will, can anyone else see it? The faces and the cloud? I feel normal again but – it's not over, is it? It's not gone."
"No, it's not gone. And I would be very much surprised if anyone else here could see as much as you and your sister. Now go get her outside. I'll stay with your parents. Run quick!"
Peter nodded wordlessly and began to fight his way to the stage. It was the most terrifying journey of his life. Noise and people crashed into him from all sides. The whole time he was dreadfully aware of the raging cloud above him, and he jerked back in horror whenever he brushed against an adult carrying the blurred face. Councilman Cianconne crossed his path, and Peter stifled a gasp. The man's face looked like it had been torn apart by a sharp-clawed beast.
Somewhere in the crowd, a cell phone started playing the 1812 Overture.
"Peter!"
He had reached the stage. He looked up and saw Annie sprinting towards him across the golden wood. He reached out his arms, and she literally threw herself off the edge and into his grasp. He closed his eyes and rested his head in relief against her hair.
"Are you all right?" he whispered urgently.
"I think so. Will helped me, you know." There was an awe in her voice. "I didn't know he could do that."
"No, me neither."
"Peter, we have to do something! It's still here. Something terrible is going to happen, I can feel it!"
He frowned. "I think something terrible has already happened. But come, I'm supposed to get you outside. Here's your coat. Put it on." He placed her on her feet and tried to drape the poofy blue plastic about her.
She struggled. "What?! Why? No, I'm not going anywhere. I want to do something. Where's Will?"
"Will told me to take you outside. For once, I think you should do as you're told."
"What does that mean?!" She stomped a foot in fury, her face turning a shade of outrageous red. "Are you saying I'm a brat?"
Peter growled in frightened frustration. "Just shut up, will you? Have you looked at the ceiling yet? Look at it!" He seized her chin and forced it upwards. "Do you see that? Do you know what that is? I sure as hell don't, but I do know I don't want to be anywhere near it! Now let's go!"
He grabbed her arm and began pulling her through the crowd. Hands reached out from all directions, patting Annie's shoulders and shouting out congratulations. She waved absently in return as her brother dragged her along behind him. A few people tried to stop them and start a conversation, but Peter shrugged them off roughly and continued his single-minded journey towards the doors.
A woman shrieked: "He's dead!"
Peter skidded to a halt, and Annie crashed clumsily against his back. He reached out an arm and pulled her protectively against his side. The crowd fell abruptly silent. The voice had come from somewhere nearby, and heads swiveled anxiously to find who had spoken.
Peter's questing eyes fell upon an elderly woman standing several feet from him. It was the woman who had been sitting across from him during the concert, who had wept black tears. Her face was still a ruin. She held a phone against her ear, and another hand was pressed to her chest. She was shaking her head in disbelief. "He's dead!" she repeated.
"Who's dead, Maria?" someone called fearfully. "Who?"
"Muscharch! Muscharch is dead!" She senselessly let the phone fall to the floor. "Oh, thank the Lord." A smile tried to erupt on her shattered face. "Thank you, Lord, thank you. We bombed him good this time, he couldn't escape. Ruins, my son says, the whole city in ruins. But he's dead, they say."
"Not . . . not another nuclear bomb?" Mrs. Reynolds was suddenly there. She was wearing a dress of astonishing green velvet, and sprigs of mistletoe were tucked into her long grey hair. Fear quivered in her voice. "Oh, Maria, my friend, tell me it wasn't another nuclear bomb?"
"Nuclear? Of course it was, but one of the smaller ones, don't worry. Nothing huge. And now it's all over!"
No, Peter thought dully, remembering the coldness and the screaming and the pain. It's just beginning. He's a martyr now.
People everywhere began shouting. The tension that had been humming in Peter's ears snapped. He didn't know what to think. People on all sides of him were crying and laughing. The tears he could understand. But the laughter, the strange, triumphant laughter, he could not.
A large hand fell on his shoulder. Peter jumped and whipped about, pushing Annie behind him.
"Peter Davies, where is William Stanton?"
Peter stared at Richard Winslow. The man's face was taut and furious, his voice low and threatening. Annie wrapped an arm carefully about her brother's waist.
"What do you want?" Peter snapped, tired of this man and his intrusions.
"He thought he could make me forget, did he?" Winslow hissed, leaning down into Peter's face.
Peter's jaw dropped.
Winslow laughed unpleasantly. "Oh yes, Mr. Davies, I've met Professor Stanton and his little tricks before. It was long ago, and I didn't realize it was the same man until tonight. Such things should not be possible. But when that sister of yours sang, I remembered everything. Will Stanton is involved in all this somehow, don't try to fool me into thinking he's just another school teacher. I know better. And now you're going to tell me where he is so that I can find him . . . and so that I can stop him."
Peter's brain scrambled for the right response. "Of course you've met Will Stanton before. You were just at out house last weekend, remember?"
"Before that, Mr. Davies. Many years before that."
Peter felt the blood drain from his face. "If you know what Will Stanton is, sir, you cannot possibly hope to stop him."
"Perhaps not. But I'll try anyway." Winslow grinned widely, showing his teeth and gums.
"You'll fail!" Annie said stoutly, defiantly.
Winslow's face flushed with anger. His jowls quivered. "Little girl, you know not what you speak of! You just go on thinking that William Stanton is noble and pure. I know the truth. I could tell you things that would make your young blood curdle. Do you imagine that this is a coincidence, that William Stanton just happens to return to Wraithfell after all these years at this specific time? If you think so, you're a fool!"
Annie's lips quivered.
"Richard Winslow, stop harassing these children! What are you saying to them?" A strident, angry voice cut into Winslow's attack.
Winslow's head jerked towards the new speaker. Peter and Annie gratefully looked up to discover the identity of their savior.
Mrs. Reynolds stood just behind them, arms folded across her chest, green eyes snapping. Her wild hair sprung out in all directions from her head.
"Madeleine." Winslow sounded somewhat taken aback. "It's been years, hasn't it? And to find you taking the opposition's side. How truly astonishing."
"Don't ever call me 'Madeleine' again, you insolent upstart. How dare you interrogate these children? They have nothing to do with your affairs."
"Madeleine, dearest, were you aware that Mr. William Stanton has returned, looking no older than a recent graduate student?"
The color drained from her face. "No," she whispered. "He couldn't have. Not again."
"Yes. And he's staying with these lovely children's parents. Now what do you have to say?"
A look of furious determination replaced Mrs. Reynolds' pallor. She threw her chin up. "I don't care, Winslow! You always thought you were so smart. Well, look where being smart has gotten you! You've never been able to admit you were mistaken about your friend. If blame is to be laid anywhere, it is with you and your damnable intelligence. Well, I know some things you don't Dickie. And this William Stanton, whomever he may be, cannot be who you think he is. Now get away from these children!"
For one second, Winslow's fleshy face drew in upon itself in a spasm of fear. But then the fear vanished, to be abruptly replaced by smugness. A slow, crafty smile spread over his face. "Very well, I'll go. But remember Madeleine, where your loyalties lie." Winslow turned his broad back and stalked away.
Mrs. Reynolds heaved a sigh and began to wring her hands. "Oh, I hope I did the right thing," she whispered anxiously.
"Mrs. Reynolds?" Peter asked tentatively, fearfully. The woman was staring vacantly into space.
"What? Oh, Peter." She sighed and looked down at the two children, valiantly trying to smile. "I'm sorry you had to see that. Richard Winslow and I have known each other for a . . . a long time. Sometimes he doesn't think about what he's doing. Still, he's not truly a bad man."
"Pardon me, ma'am," Annie blurted out. "But I think he's very bad, indeed."
Mrs. Reynolds laughed nervously. "Of course you do. He never really knew how to soften himself, even as a boy. I'm sure he meant you no harm, though."
Peter kept one arm tight about Annie's shoulders. Something in his heart was breaking. "Mrs. Reynolds, how do you and Mr. Winslow know Will Stanton?"
"I know no Will Stanton. Mr. Winslow doesn't either. He was mistaken." She paused. "But who is this man staying with your family? I met no visitors when I was there the other day."
Annie opened her mouth, but Peter stepped on her foot hard. She hissed in pain and clenched her teeth together. "Oh, no one," Peter said airily. "Just an old friend of my parents. He was upstairs with Da when you came. They've known each other since they were children."
"Since they were children, you say?"
"Yes. Why does that matter?"
"I said nothing about it mattering. Just idle curiosity."
"Well, that's what we were doing just now," Peter continued in a rush. "Will told us it would be a good idea to go outside with all these people packed in here. Annie's a little done for after all that singing. She needs some fresh air."
"Of course. By the way, it was a delightful performance, child, the best ever." Mrs. Reynolds' tried to grin at Annie, who blushed and murmured her thanks. The old woman turned back to Peter. "Well, if this visiting friend of yours told you to go outside, I think it would b best if you took his advice. He sounds like a wise man." She looked around at the crowd still swarming nervously around them. A shudder ran through her body. "And things are a little . . . difficult here at the moment."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, then, run along. I'll make sure Dick doesn't bother you again."
"Ok." Peter gave a stricken smile, and Annie waved a wordless goodbye. Holding hands, they fled to the doors.
Mrs. Reynolds followed the Davies' path with a troubled look on her face. Her face looked worn and haggard. She turned away once she saw that the two children had made it safely outside. A solitary tear ran down her cheek.
"He must be wrong," she murmured to herself. "He must!"
/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0
Chyneua: Hey, thanks! A new reviewer, woohoo! Is it that obvious I'm a Democrat? Guess so : ). And there go all my conservative readers, if I ever had any. Oh, well, I never pretended to be non-partisan. Go Kerry! And as long as I'm on the subject of politics, bonus points go to whoever can guess the real-life inspiration for Winslow's physical appearance.
Silvergenji: Thanks! Love your Chapter 13! Ah, romance is in the air . . . I'll review it soon, I promise, but at the moment I couldn't possibly sit in front of this computer one second longer. I need both food and sleep desperately . . .