by Lisa Maxwell
Chapter 10
They were making their way north and westward through mostly trackless country. The slopes were thick with forests and the horses found it easier to travel just above the tree line. The view was stupendous.
The mountains showed all their late-summer moods, from cool mornings to hot stultifying afternoons, broken by wind and lightning and sudden downpours.
Sometimes Is hunted in the evenings. Sometimes she hunted without killing anything, just reveling in the beauty of the animals. Sometimes she joined the man in collecting grain for cereal because he did not eat meat. There was always time for sitting, watching the horses graze, watching the streams near their campsites, watching the camp fire, or the stars. It was a leisurely pace, dictated by the land and the needs of the horses.
The man's company had become no more obtrusive than the horse's, which was as high a compliment to Is's way of thinking as she could give anyone. Someone else might have wished for conversation. Is didn't miss it.
From the top of a particularly high ridge the man pointed out landmarks. Behind them was the saddle where they had gotten caught in the blizzard, he mimed. In that valley was the Blueskins' camp. Back that direction was the town where they had gotten supplies. And there, where the perpetually snowcapped mountains towered ahead of them, was where they were going.
Is was considering how impossible it looked to get horses across those mountains when Lark's head swung around to the left. Following his gaze Is saw the smoke of a camp fire rising in one thin column of white straight into the fathomless blue sky. When she pointed it out to the man, he altered their course in that direction.
The next morning they saw the smoke again and by mid-afternoon they had crested the last ridge that separated them from it. A little meadow stretched below them and just at the transition between meadow and forest sat a small cabin.
Is followed as the man started down to it. This looked less dangerous than the town, and that ended safely enough.
When they were almost to the cabin, Lark snorted and shied. What Is had thought was just a bare patch of ground stood up and became a dog. Lark stopped dead, snorting again. The dog was as big as a small pony and its fur matched the tan soil perfectly. It stood with great dignity, eyeing them as though demanding how dared they disturb its nap. Then with odd nobility the dog stretched and yawned, arching its back high in the air. It was thin as a snake, all legs, with a long whip-thin tail. Having finished stretching, it moved off toward the cabin in a ground-covering trot. Lark relaxed and Is urged him forward. The mare had never hesitated so the man was well ahead.
Is saw a man standing in the doorway of the cabin. He had a great mane of white hair and a thick white beard. Is had just time to notice that much when the mare stopped and the man vaulted from her back. He walked forward a few steps, stopped and bowed to the man on the porch.
Is was trying to understand who the old man in the cabin could be to demand such respect from her man, when suddenly her man began to laugh. It was so out of keeping with the respect Is had just witnessed that it took her by surprise. In a moment he completely lost control, his laughter built into the stressed hysterical, insane sound Is hated so much.
He threw his head back and shrieked his laughter to the sky. Then he fell to his knees and beat the ground with his fists, still laughing. Is looked past him to the man in the doorway, who seemed startled, then puzzled. The way he was standing with his right arm hidden by the doorframe he could be holding a weapon in that hand. Is tensed.
At that moment the old man turned and looked directly at her. She saw the wrinkles around his eyes tighten.
"So you are ready to defend him," he said. It wasn't quite a question. His voice carried to her, surprisingly youthful. Is didn't answer.
"A crazy man, who isn't crazy,” the old man mused. “Riding without need of a bridle. And a woman riding a berserker's horse."
He seemed to be waiting for Is to say something. She just stared at him, hard, daring him to do anything, while the man knelt on the ground between them, his body wracked with convulsions. It was impossible to tell whether the gasping howling sounds he made were laughing or sobbing.
"Life has brought me many strange things," the old man finally continued, "but this is odd even by my measure." He came out of the doorway and his right hand was empty. He walked over to the man. "Stand up," he said. "Stop making that noise."
To Is's surprise the man stopped. The silence was wonderful.
The old man turned to Is. "I wonder," he said conversationally, "what do they do to someone who steals a berserker's horse? I wonder what do they do with the berserker whose horse this is, eh? That should pose them a pretty problem." He grinned as though the thought pleased him.
There was a feral quality to his smile. He regarded Is with penetrating eyes that held the quick intelligence she had seen in the wild animals she had studied.
"Welcome to my house," he said, sweeping an arm toward his cabin. "Come in. I will feed you and you will tell me your story, eh." He turned and walked into the house without a backward glance.
The man followed. Is hesitated. She did not trust this old man. His observations were too keen. He seemed to know too much. He was not some dumb tough like the men in the town and not an uneducated savage like the Blueskins. The advantage he had over her in knowledge frightened her. She did not want to go into the house, but her man had gone in. She dismounted and followed him.
The first thing she noticed was the books. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered two walls and there were books open on the table. Books! Here? For an instant Is was back in the forbidden libraries of the government school where books and reading and the knowledge one could gain were restricted to the very highest ranks. A person like herself should not even be in this room. It took an effort of will not to back out the door.
This was not the government school. She had been invited in.
She was distracted from her turmoil by the man. He had hesitated at the door but now he ran forward.
He took a book off a shelf, hugged it and pressed it to his lips. Is went from being appalled by his behavior to being afraid of him in one heartbeat. He was at ease with books. He had the right to handle them, read them. He could only be some sort of high government official then, not a criminal!
He brought a book to the table, rifled through it, and found a place. He waved the old man to him and pointed to a word in the book.
Is was aghast at his rough treatment of the book and horror-stricken by his presumption toward the old man who must also be a high government scholar, for no one else would have all these books. But the old man appeared more bemused than offended. He walked over and looked at the page.
"John," the old man read, sort of quizzically.
For answer, the man hit his chest and tapped the page imperatively.
"John," the old man repeated, more firmly. Then he extended his hand. "I am pleased to meet you. These days I am known as Amil," he said. The two men clasped each other around the wrists.
Is felt the whole room and everyone in it rushing away from her. Everything she had thought she knew about the man collapsed in her heart, as all she had known about the Blueskins, the Alliance troopers, and the Boundary itself had been collapsing. But this was too much. There shouldn't be scholars here, and books. The air squeezed from her lungs. She must have made a sound for the old man turned and looked at her.
"I am intrigued," he said. "Come, sit down. I will feed you, and you will talk, yes? Come. Wine? I have a little. It will help."
Is had no volition of her own. She walked over to the table and sat down and let him serve her. She was past being appalled. The wine did help.
Amil couldn't be a real scholar, not out here in the wilderness like this. Even if he were, he had no power over her here. And if John were someone even higher than a scholar? That didn't matter here either. Here, he had to obey th
e rules of the mountains, the same as anyone. But inside, Is felt like crying. Everything had become so strange. Only hours ago John had been as natural a part of her life as the horses and the land. Now he was a million miles away, gone in some weird fashion less explicable than death.
Is didn't try to analyze the betrayal and loss she felt. She needed to get away. She didn't realize she had risen until she heard her chair scrape on the floor. The old man heard it too. He had gone into the part of the room he used for a kitchen, but now he turned and studied her.
"Don't leave us yet, I beg you," he said. "Your story has only begun to ask its questions." He peered at her keenly. "Besides, I am a good cook," he said, turning away. "Why don't you just take their saddles off and let them rest?"
Is went out without answering him. The horses grazed a hundred meters away. The dog came out from under the shade of the house and followed her. He didn't seem unfriendly, but he didn't approach her either.
Being outdoors helped. The smell of warm horseflesh in the sun, the soft sound of the tearing of the grass as the horses grazed, the buzz of insects, the breeze and the birdcalls all soothed her. The mountains rose around her, steadfast and enduring. What seemed like big events to her were nothing to them. To the mountains, scholars were just like other people, inconsequential.
It was quite warm in the sun. The horses' backs would be sweaty under their saddles. Is looked up the valley. She could go somewhere and live alone as she had done before, simple and uncomplicated. Or, she could go back into that house where everything was different from what she had ever suspected.
In the few minutes she'd been inside the cabin her life had changed. If she went back in her world would continue to change. It would never be as simple as it had been these last days. She did not want more change, and yet ... could there be other alternatives than living the life she had run away from, or living the life of running? What were scholars, and books, doing out here far from the government center? And the most unthinkable of all – could she be allowed to learn to read? If she had reached out and touched a book, would they have let her? They had let her see the open books, and Amil had read the name "John" out loud in front of her. What else might they allow? The kind of deep excitement she had learned not to feel at the government school stirred in her and would not be put down. She undid Lark's girth and put his saddle on the ground while she took the mare's off. Then she carried both saddles to the house. The dog followed at a distance, sniffing here and there as though going about his own business and not following her at all.
"Good," Amil said, "you came back." He had stirred up the coals in his stove and steam was already beginning to rise from a pot on top of it. He had been busy cutting up tubers, keeping his end of the bargain.
John was standing at the bookshelf with his back to her. He didn't turn around. His forehead rested against the books on one shelf as his fingers traced the writing on the spines of one book after another on a lower shelf. Pain and loss emanated from him.
Is sat at the table where she had sat before. She didn't even try to lie. She told Amil why she had stolen Lark. John turned around and leaned his back against the bookshelves, watching her. This was the first time he'd heard any of this too. To keep from looking at him, Is watched Amil. He continued to keep himself busy in the kitchen, but she knew he was listening intently. Somehow it was easier to talk to him while he worked than it would have been if he were sitting looking at her. When she paused, he asked, "How did you meet John?"
So she told him how she had found John. How sick he had been and how she had come to believe someone had tried to poison him. When Amil glanced at John for confirmation, John nodded.
Is went on with the story, telling about the Blueskins and the outlaw town. It gave her a funny feeling to realize how differently John might tell the same tale.
Amil was a good cook. He knew how to use wild herbs and spices to make the simple grains and vegetables he'd prepared taste completely different from the fare on which Is had been living. The plates he served it on were finer than anything Is had ever used and oddly out of place with the rather crude workmanship of the table and chairs.
She was content to eat silently. John came to the table but did not touch his dinner. He pushed his plate aside and set a book in front of him, turning the pages slowly, running his fingers lovingly over the words. Suddenly his finger stopped at a word. He tapped it imperatively. Amil, who had been watching, unhurriedly set down the odd polished sticks with which he was eating, wiped his mouth and pulled a blank piece of paper and a pencil to him. Then he wrote down a word that didn't look like the word John had pointed out. But John seemed happy with it. He was off again, turning pages, running his fingers down them, looking for another word.
Is’s heart beat fast with excitement. They were allowing her to stay in the same room where reading and writing were going on! They were breaking the law so nonchalantly.
She was so intrigued she forgot to eat. John and Amil managed to get a few words written down that way, but Is could see that John was struggling. He squinted hard at the words as though it was hard for him to see them. His hand shook as he traced his finger across the page. When his finger paused at a word, Is couldn't tell if he was tapping it for Amil or if he was getting so out of control he couldn't proceed. She was afraid that he would tear the page if he tried to turn it.
Amil noticed too. He reached over and slid the book away.
John convulsed as if an electric current had run through him. He grabbed wildly after the book, but his movement was ill coordinated and without aim. His face twisted. His throat worked as though he were swallowing repeatedly.
Suddenly he stood up, pushing his chair away from the table with such force it went over backward. He started to bend, as though to right it, but then he just folded up on the floor beside it. He wrapped his arms around himself and began to rock. The muscles of his arms stood out as he gripped himself. He rocked faster and began to make a sound like a high-pitched animal keening. It made the hair on Is's arms stand up. A moment later the high hysterical laughter she hated so much filled the room. Suddenly John threw his head back and screamed, breaking free of the laughter for a moment, but only for a moment. It came back, wracking his body, and filling the room.
Is jerked to her feet and then stood undecided. Amil remained unperturbed. He continued to eat, watching John with one eyebrow raised, inquisitively, as he might watch an interesting insect crawling on the floor.
Is couldn't take any more. She went around the table and knelt by John, talking quietly as she might soothe a hurt horse. But it only seemed to make John worse. He jerked away, putting his back to her and laughing louder.
"Why don't you do something?" Is shouted at Amil. "He stopped when you told him to before."
Amil set down his eating sticks, wiped his mouth and sat looking at her for a time before he spoke.
"Perhaps he needs to laugh."
"He's not laughing. He's in pain. Can't you see that?" Is screamed. Her nerves were frayed beyond caring who Amil was.
"What else is laughter, but the release of pain?" Amil said easily, but when Is turned angrily away he spoke more gently. "Let him release it. He has something he wants to tell us. He will return to that when he is able."
Is wavered. She could see the truth of what Amil said, but she was disturbed on some deep level by the uncontrolled release of anguish that John's noise expressed.
"Come, sit down," Amil said, motioning to her chair. "We will talk, you and I."
So Is returned to the table and sat, answering Amil's questions as if they were having a perfectly reasonable conversation and it was not at all strange to have to shout over the noise of a man convulsing on the floor. But while her body behaved, her mind was completely unable to concentrate. She had no idea what she was telling Amil.
As abruptly as it had started, it was over. Silence filled the ro
om. John got up, righted his chair and sat down. Amil slid the book to him. John began paging through it again and Amil went back to writing down words.
Is drew her shattered nerves together. She was no longer in awe of the old man.
"You're no proper scholar," she told him. "What are you doing with all these books?"
Instead of being offended, Amil smiled. "I thought you would never ask. You might say I have stolen them." He paused and watched for her reaction. His eyes sparkled under arched brows. "Or you could say I have rescued them. Much the same as your horse."
Stealing books, taking things of such power and significance, affected Is as the desecration of a holy shrine would affect someone who was deeply religious. Books, and the knowledge and power they contained, were something the government held. Citizens received the information they needed in order to achieve the purposes of their lives. Her purpose had been to train war horses. She did not need to know how to read or write, or the denominations of money. Wanting more knowledge than that was improper. Taking it was wrong in some way Is had never contemplated.
Amil's chuckle brought her whirling thoughts up sharply.
"So I have fallen from being a god, to being the worst sort of criminal," he said good-naturedly. "You might want to look at a belief system that allows that to happen."
Is couldn’t make any sense of his words.
"You did me the honor of telling me why you stole the war horse. You wanted to rescue him. I wanted to rescue the books. You see, within the Alliance there are different factions. One or another gain more power and they decide what things will be known and what forgotten.
"Yes," he said to her expression of wonder. "It is not just the citizens who are not allowed to know things. Even within the upper levels it is sometimes better for the people holding the most power if certain things are forgotten."
"What sort of things?"
"Oh, history mostly. The way things really came to be the way they are. These," Amil waved his hand at the bookshelves, "are the old books. In many cases they are the original chronicles of an event, a discovery, or an experiment. From time to time the old books are copied. At those times they are shortened and condensed, which I suppose is necessary, but they are also changed. Sometimes quite on purpose, so the next generation will believe things were different than they really were. The Alliance would have us think it is a small thing. Not all knowledge can be retained." He sighed. "I suppose they are right. A bias always creeps into history. I just hate to see it done deliberately.
"So I took the books. I couldn't see them burned. But their fate here is no better. They will rot eventually."
John had been watching the exchange keenly. He started to say something. For a moment Is believed he would succeed. Some rational sentence would come out of his mouth. Instead, at the last instant, his lips drew back and the sound he made was a scream like a hunting hawk.
He jerked to his feet, turned abruptly on his heel and began to pace with sharp staccato steps punctuated by an occasional peal of high laughter. He covered the small room in three strides, spun, three more steps, a pivot, three steps. He looked like a caged animal desperate for its freedom. Is couldn't watch.
Amil reached out calmly, pulled John's untouched plate to him, and began to eat with the delicate unhurried precision with which he had eaten his own supper. Is thought she would go crazy. John's unbearable tension and Amil's calm seemed equally insane to her.
Then John reseated himself, opened the book, and pointed to a word. Amil put down his sticks, picked up his pencil and wrote with the same calm lack of haste with which he had been eating. Everything was back to normal – as normal as it was going to get.
When every grain was gone, Amil took the dishes to the kitchen. He dipped hot water from a bucket sitting on the stove, poured it over the dishes and scrubbed as meticulously as he had done everything else, interrupting his work to write down a word whenever John rapped on the table to get his attention.
When no one was watching, Is slid her hand out and touched one of the books John had pushed aside still open. She could feel the texture of the paper and smell the slightly musty smell, almost like old leaves. She had taken too long. John noticed. Is snatched her hand away guiltily. But instead of being mad John slid the book toward her. Surprised, Is raised her eyes to his. He nodded at the book. Is took it in her hands, lifted it, felt the weight of it, smelled its scent, felt the texture of its binding.
The sounds from the kitchen had stopped. Amil watched her too. Defiantly Is ignored him. She took her time, turning the pages and looking at the incomprehensible words. When she handed the book back to John, she did so boldly. He went right back to work and Is wondered if the message he was trying so hard to finish was going to make any sense.
Amil returned to the table with a kettle of steaming water and three cups. Cups and kettle were made of the finest porcelain and at odds with the rough cabin. When he poured the water into the cups it was not clear but reddish and sweet smelling.
John suddenly pushed the book away and sat back. Amil finished taking a sip of tea, put his teacup back in its saucer and set the whole thing away from him. Then he wiped his mouth one last time with his napkin, folded it, and set it with the cup.
"Well," he said, "shall we see what John has written?"
Is could barely believe he would decipher the writing with her sitting there, but Amil was already studying the paper.
"Ahhmm, well, this is difficult. This is an old language," he explained. "It was a root language from which the language we speak today was developed. We all studied this as young men, but my knowledge has grown old. Well, let us see.
"'I,' and a verb that means 'to have existence,' but with the ending that denotes duty or obligation. 'I am obliged,' I suppose. Then, ‘belonging to my family,' no, larger, 'my tribe or people.'" He glanced to John for confirmation.
John motioned impatiently at the paper and Amil continued. '"I am under duty or obligation to my people to make information of a secret nature openly available.'"
Amil's gaze jumped from the paper to John. "You are a spy?"
John nodded quickly and vigorously as though yes, wasn't that obvious, and he was trying to hurry the old man on. But Amil sat back from the paper, a thoughtful look in his eyes.
"You inform on the Alliance to your people?" It was only half question. John stopped nodding. He was watching Amil with a keen alertness that made Is think John was ready to defend himself, but Amil went on calmly. "There wouldn't be anything worth finding out unless you had posed as a scholar. That means you would have lived at Court?" Amil paused to watch the hand signs John was making, a collecting-in motion, the center of something.
"Court Center?" The old man seemed impressed. He had named the highest seat of government research. "Who trained you? To pass as a scholar there would not be easy. That degree of knowledge is hard to come by outside the government schools, and even within them unless you are specially picked. I would have said it was impossible. But you were not trained in the government schools?
"No," to the quick shake of John's head, "I thought not."
"So your people trained you. They have that level of knowledge? The rumors were true, then, about 'outside' spies. But I could never figure out where those spies would come from. You are not a Blueskin. And the people in the outlaw village are too uneducated. Your own people then? Whoever they are, on the far side of the Boundary. They trained you." It wasn't a question. John met Amil's gaze steadily.
Is felt the hair on her arms stir like the ruff of a frightened dog. To her the government was an all-powerful and very distant being, like a god. It was not something one could question, let alone spy on! If people were spying on it, what were they doing with what they learned? Because didn't the fact that John's people spied on the government imply they meant to do something? Not only John, but all his people were criminals of a s
ort Is had never imagined. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. She had hated the government school, but she had considered that to be her own failing. It was her inability to fit in and do what other students did that had caused the problem. Later, she had come to hate having to let the government take her stallions, and now she had accepted that she had to hide from the government because of what she had done. But she had never considered herself in opposition to it. It was hard to accept that there was a whole group of people who opposed the Alliance government.
Amil's voice brought her back. "Let us see." He was studying the paper again. "It is hard to get the sense of this next part. The first word means captured. The ending signifies great force, or perhaps torture. This word," he said, pointing to it, "means 'mind' and in its placement in the sentence it receives the force of the torture." He raised his eyes from the paper.
"You were caught and tortured?" he asked John. “And they did something to your mind?” Their eyes met and a depth of understanding passed between them. Sobered, Amil went back to the words.
"This word means literally, 'divorced.' It is followed by the word for reproducing, but in an asexual form, and 'spoken language.'" He looked up, his eyes bright and serious.
"Divorced from reproducing spoken language," he repeated with dawning understanding. "They caught you. They tortured you, and then they took away your ability to speak."
"No!" Is blurted out and froze, surprised she'd spoken. "John can speak. He spoke some words once,” she said, hesitating. “They just didn’t make sense,” she faltered to a stop.
Amil studied her before speaking. "So what they did to John was even more sophisticated. They 'divorced' a critical connection in his mind. He can speak, but he can't communicate with words. He can't even write them, or he would have written this note himself. And we saw, just trying to organize the words for me to write was almost too hard."
He appraised John for a long moment. "If you were at Court Center, you would have been in Research. I was at Court South, in Records. I thought I followed the research closely. But I had no idea that what they have done to you was even possible.
"More hidden knowledge,” he growled, his tone deep with anger. “More research that didn't get recorded. Or if it did, it was kept from the general records. I can only guess how much else they have hidden from us."
He turned to Is. "That is why I took the books. They would erase so much of this research." He waved at the bookshelves. "They hide it even from the scholars, as they hide everything from the citizens." His voice trembled with rage. He paused to collect himself, then took another very precise and unhurried sip of tea before he returned to deciphering the message.
"The next sentence begins with the imperative form of deliver and is followed by the most respectful form of the word for lady. This message is to be delivered to a very important lady," he explained to Is. But they were interrupted as John slammed his fist against the table and gestured at Is.
"This is for you?" Amil asked. "Does he not know your name?"
Is realized she had never told it to him. She shook her head, embarrassed. It seemed so rude now not to have told him, but she had not done it out of rudeness, or even on purpose. She had just fallen into the habit of not speaking to him because he did not speak to her. She was too accustomed to being with the horses. One doesn't tell a horse one's name. To a horse you are a certain collection of smells that the horse names in his own fashion. Besides, at first Is had thought John might be an agent of the law. Why would she tell him her name? She missed Amil's hesitation that was an invitation to tell them her name now. After a few seconds' pause Amil continued.
"The next word denotes thanks in a very heartfelt way. The whole structure of this sentence conveys gratitude in a very personal mode, followed by an apology, also of deep feeling." He paused again, but Is made no comment. She didn't understand why John would apologize to her.
"The next paragraph begins with 'deliver' again," Amil said. "This time directed to, ahh, 'the possessive of people.' Oh, his people. This is for his people." He glanced up as though seeking John's permission to continue. John waved him on.
"'Extreme,' let me see, 'all-encompassing activities' - ahh, 'circumstances.'" He paused and tried again. "'Extreme circumstances have led me to undertake an extreme action.'" He looked to John as though for help, but John just gestured at the paper.
"This action has something to do with a mirror." Again he glanced at John for confirmation. “The word mirror is followed by the suffix that means opposite." Amil shrugged. "A mirror that is not a mirror only, mmmm? Well, this mirror has possession of some sort of opening . . . oh, a key. A key to 'the connection of mind and language.' And the whole thing ends with a word that means 'promise,' but is in a hopeful, almost wistful form.
"I can only conclude he thinks, or hopes, this mirror thing can help restore his ability to speak."
He studied the page a bit. "Evidentially there is some risk involved. There is a sentence here about 'sudden, involuntary action of great power' in regard to this mirror. But 'some knowledge possessed by John may make possible a different dialog with it.'" Amil glanced at Is. "There is also something about a relationship that is somehow related to the mirror's key, but has to do with a man of great strength ..."
"Berserker," Is said.
"Yes. Also an animal of great strength." Neither of them bothered to say "horse." "And also," Amil added, "a ghost of great power."
"No?" Amil questioned as John thumped the table and shook his head. "Well, something amorphous but of great power." He looked at Is but she had no idea what that could be.
"Let me see, there is also something here about 'a system of long standing,’ the Alliance, I would guess. And a word for misunderstanding that implies a deliberateness and bad spirit in this action. This is all couched in terms of gravest warning.
"This is followed by the strongest imperative that understanding must not be lost." The old man looked at John. "I'm sorry I can't do better with this. If I were to study it more . . ."
John shook his head.
"I hope your people will translate it better than I." Amil studied the paper again.
"The next paragraph begins 'Lady' in the most honored form – the one he used for you before. This is followed by a verb of being, in the near future tense, connected to the action of going or traveling somewhere. Then, 'people' of his 'possession,' and the word for guest in a form of highest honor. Reassurance is intended."
"He is taking me to his people," Is said. It was a relief to know her status among them would be as an honored guest, not a slave.
"So you will continue with him?" Amil said, and there was something wistful in his voice that set Is on alert. She thought for a moment that Amil might ask her to stay with him. She thought about the books. Maybe he would teach her to read! She would have knowledge. But he didn't ask, and if she had heard longing in his voice, it was probably because he was lonely and wanted to bed with her, not teach her to read. She thought about John's people who trained their horses to go without bridles. They would have much to teach her too and that was the sort of thing she was suited to learn. But she felt sad and would not let herself understand why.
When she looked up, she caught John quickly looking away from her.