The Quiet Pools

“My choice.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I’m putting in my turn at the wheel,” Keith said. “There are a lot of us doing it. I’ve been promised a place on Knossos.”

It was midmorning when Christopher reached the house on the ridge. After stowing the Avanti in the garage, he stopped in the bathroom to splash his face and in the kitchen to start coffee. While the coffee was brewing, he collected the Portables from his father’s bedroom and carried them into the den. He stacked them in three columns on the end of the comsole before settling, cup in hand, in the chair.

“You there, Lila?”

“Ready, Christopher.”

“Any mail? Any messages?”

“No. There are no new messages.”

“What about for my father?”

“I am handling Mr. McCutcheon’s correspondence.”

“Still pretending he’s not dead?”

“I am doing what he asked me to.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to let me see what it is.”

“I’m sorry, Christopher. I can’t do that.”

“Have you heard from my father?”

“No. Your father is dead.”

“Does anyone besides us know that?”

“No.”

“You haven’t told anyone while playing secretary for him?”

“I am conducting your father’s business according to his instructions.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll bet the only people you told knew him as Jeremiah. And Jeremiah’s not allowed to die, is he? Who’s the new Jeremiah, Lila?”

“I can’t answer that, Christopher.”

“Right.” He sipped at his caramel-colored coffee, still steaming. “Do you know anything about a will?”

“A will is registered with the Oregon State Probate Court. Since no death certificate has been filed, the will has not been presented.”

“Who’s the executor?”

“You are, Christopher.”

It was only technically a surprise. “I guess I know better than to think he’d ask me. Was he planning to ever tell me?”

“It’s not required by Oregon law, since an executor may refuse the appointment.”

“Know anything about what the will says?”

“No. The only knowledge I have of it comes from checking the court registry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Christopher. “That’s how he was going to get me back here, wasn’t it? That’s why he left the archives.”

“They were for you to read after his death.”

“So you said. Well”—he patted the top of the nearest stack— “I’m ready to see the rest of them.”

“I’m sorry, Christopher. I don’t understand.”

“I want you to show me anything and everything about my mother that you have in your files or can find anywhere, including these archives.”

“Checking. Your mother is Deryn Glenys Falconer?”

“Sharron,” he said impatiently. “I’m talking about Sharron. My father’s wife.”

“Checking. Full name is Sharron Ria McCutcheon, nee Aldritch?”

He stared at the display in surprise. “You had to check that? He didn’t think it was important enough to restore?”

“I do not know what information was not restored, Christopher, nor why it was not included.”

“Are you saying you don’t have anything about Sharron?”

“I’m compiling biographical information from several sources. I’ll have a report for you in the next thirty seconds.”

“I don’t want anything from outside. I want to know how he saw her. I want to see her myself. Where are the family albums? Didn’t he keep anything of hers?”

“Not in my records, Christopher.”

Seizing the nearest Portable, Christopher pulled open the drawer and pushed the book into the empty data port. “What about there?”

“This volume is Wild Animals of North America, published by the National Geographic Society. It contains no archives.”

“What?” Quickly, Christopher swapped another book into its place. “What about that one?”

“This volume is Ptolemy’s Daughter: The Art of Sabra Adams, by—”

“I can read the goddamned titles.”

“It contains no archives.”

“What’s going on here, Lila? These are the same books I read from on Tuesday, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Christopher. Those files were erased as you read them, on Mr. McCutcheon’s instructions. I find no other files.”

“Son of a bitch,” he breathed. “Why didn’t you tell me? If I’d known I was only going to have one chance to read them—” He stopped, seeing the answer to his own question.

—I’d have photographed the screen, or transcribed the entries, or read them into a recorder. And then I could have shared them with anyone. For your eyes only. This tape will self-destruct in ten seconds.

“You did tell me.”

“Yes, Christopher.”

“No other files marked for access by me, or no files at all?”

“I find no files at all.”

I can see Sharron in his eyes and hear Deryn in his words. They are both inside him, pulling at him to follow. Follow where? They had both found a way to leave him, but by very different ways to very different destinations.

They are both inside him—

You never wanted me to know who I am. You closed all doors but one, barred all paths but the one that would lead me back here. You tried to draw my eyes from her by shining more brightly. What is it you didn’t want me to see? You knew, you bastard, you knew all the time. Did you want me to like you, or just to be like you?

“What’s the magic word?” he asked suddenly.

“Excuse me?”

“What is it I have to say to earn the prize? He wanted me to take his place. The will gives me the castle. I know it does. You have to give me the crown. I’m the one he picked, right? He’d rather have given it to me than anyone, if only I could pass the test.”

“I can’t answer that, Christopher.”

“But you know, don’t you? You know.”

“I can’t answer that, Christopher.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? Silly question,” Christopher said. “Of course you would, if he told you to. I should take you down and clean you out so you’re working for me. Except someday a call’d come in and we’d be right back where we are now. Son of a bitch.”

“Mr. McCutcheon is the primary user.”

“Mr. McCutcheon is dead, you crystal moron.”

“I know that, Christopher.”

“Miracle! She knows something. How about something useful? Tell me about the Chi Sequence.”