There was no street number. On the bottom, written in rough blockish letters, was a last inducement:
She was still too tired to think. She forced herself to lie back down. If sleep would not find her again, she would search for it. As it finally crept toward her, she put her fear to the side.
She got up five hours later and called Bossier Thornton. She explained what happened, in simple terms. Just the facts. The fire. The note. The new room. As they talked he tried online to find the “Talisman Store” and an address, but came up with nothing.
He put her on hold for a moment, and then came back. “Cadence, I just checked. The Algonquin night clerk is off duty and can’t be reached. The staff could’ve delivered the note. I know you will be talking with the assigned police and fire officers, but I want to sit down with you. I can’t get there till early evening. Say six. I could buy you dinner.”
“Thanks, you got a date, Officer Thornton.”
By one o’clock the fawning concierge had definitely hooked her up — swagged and fed and clothed and spa’d. She had on a brand new Chrome Hearts exercise outfit and Adidas running shoes. More important, she had open accounts, courtesy of the Algonquin. One was waiting at Macy’s — another of those purses? Another account waited at — all right! Bergdorf’s.
She would get a new purse, some hot shoes and, hell, a complete new wardrobe.
But before that, she had to take a mental break. A short fog-clearing vacation from everything. A freewheeling run might work. Let it take her wherever it might lead. She hadn’t jogged since she discovered the stacks of journals in her grandfather’s attic, in what now seemed to be another world, long ago.
She recalled sitting there in the attic with the yellow circle of the flashlight, feeling the ebb and flow of a tide of family questions that demanded answers. Now she had the start of some answers. Time might fill in details if they had that luxury. She had to decide her next steps, think about returning to Topanga with her grandfather, think about how to protect Ara’s story. More than that, how to keep Ara alive.
An hour later her feet had taken her to West Seventieth and Broadway. A slight breeze freshened the air that still felt cleansed by overnight rain. It was one of those days when sunlight showed off a bit, splaying broad stripes on buildings and dappling the pavement through leafy tree branches.
She kept jogging. A diner loomed in front of her. Big, steam-fogged windows and patrons posed like an afternoon version of
She turned right and Broadway opened up, gently curving, lined with buildings leaning toward uptown like a Robert Crumb comic.
Chapter 36
INKLINGS IX
“I have enjoyed this delightful conversation with you, over so many Tuesdays. I regret that my great vice, this occupation with words and stories, may have been inflicted on all of you too heavily.”
“Not at all. Don’t be daft, man.”
“Tell us, Tollers, have we helped you reach any conclusions?”
“Only the happy one, aside from the importance of boon friendships. And that is this: it all goes on.”
“But where, isn’t that the question?”
“We should always remember, Ian, a tale is like any living thing, it is restless and has a will of its own.”
“I applaud your long effort. There are no, or at least should not be, any border police on stories.”
“But I think what Tollers is also telling us is that where he toils, on the frontier where making and remaking are as one, is an unruly place. All borders are places of magic. Like your half-mad little character, crossing even the doorstep threshold and setting foot on the road can sweep one away into far lands under strange moons.”
“Well, enough of all this. Edith and I are moving to a place on the coast. I shall hear the long clash of waves and rock, and the sea-birds repeating sounds like the waking cries of a newborn world.”
“And your secret gate?”
“That I have indeed passed through. Many times. Unlike Rhygoal, the Loud-Grating, or Utgard, the Unbreachable, it is a simple quaint, roundish door, decorated with tree branches. It bears no name, but be assured — it is there. It is time for others to find their own gates.”
Chapter 37
OCTOBER 31. 1:00 P.M
Jess returned to his room at the Algonquin, feeling new currents swirling in his life, threatening to jump the banks entire and sweep away four decades of emotional levees and willow thickets. Here, at the vortex of those currents, he had made the single greatest confession of his life. Here he was capable of giving a different answer to his life’s riddle: do I stay or do I go? Just like the song. He could stay with Cadence, this family remnant. Or, he could, as always, go. He could flee to the beckoning whiteline of the road. He felt at peace with the answer. He would stay here and wait for Cadence and they would set their plans. Together. He shuffled some papers and discovered that before she left last night she had taken something he hadn’t wanted her to see. It was a disturbing two-page translation that even he didn’t believe. He saw that Cadence had also placed two sketches on his desk. They were two images of the same rounded, ancient gate: one closed, one open.
He sat and resumed translating with a troubled intensity, waiting for Cadence to return. He hoped he could help Ara’s story find its conclusion. Perhaps he could even find a safe home for her legacy. Most important, perhaps he could find a safe place for his grandchild.
After a few moments of scribbling, he stopped cold. He could sense that, without warning, the Elvish of Mirkwood was about to reveal the final fate of Ara. He took a deep breath and resumed with a desperate, deliberate run to her final truth:
Ara lay hidden and listening just below the windowsill, her head pressed close against the outside wall. “Silence!”
The harsh clicking of orc speech was stopped cold by a single command in the Common Tongue. The voice had a clipped and fast accent. It was deep, accustomed to giving orders. The speaker was southern. His back was to the room as he looked out through the window of the stone building, his scarred hands inches from Ara’s hiding place.
“Marshalling an army is like harnessing a river. Confusion everywhere. The order of battle should be precise,
