Ashtown Burials
Page 34
An ebony box sat amid the shards.
Horace opened it and leaned forward, peering beneath the hinged lid through his half-lenses. Cyrus held his breath as the little lawyer lifted out the contents one at a time. First, a creased and folded hand-drawn map of Mongolia. Second, an apple core the color of leather. Third, a little booklet called How to Breed Your Leatherbacks. Fourth, a folded rice-paper sphere for a Chinese lantern, wrapped in a protective oilcloth. The lawyer expanded it carefully until it sat on his desk in front of Cyrus and Antigone, a little larger than a classroom globe. A map of the world had been crudely drawn on its yellowing paper, and the oceans were filled with ink scrawlings in a language even Rupert didn’t recognize. Also in the box, a tiny bamboo tray full of hardened oil with a candlewick.
While Cyrus and Antigone watched, Horace attached it to the bottom of the paper globe and lit the wick.
The room glowed orange. Cyrus glanced at his sister. Map shadows striped her surprised face. Moments later, the sphere floated gently into the air, spinning slowly. “Right,” said Cyrus.
“So …,” said Antigone.
Rupert Greeves laughed. “Horace, I think you’d better read them the will.”
EPILOGUE
IN A COLD, dark room, Dr. Phoenix sat at his desk, chewing thoughts, digesting dreams. A smooth black tooth chilled his one remaining palm. His soiled white coat had only one full arm, and so did he. Despite every spell and charm and oily medicine, the other hand had drifted away. In ash.
Smiths. He hated all Smiths.
He ran a finger across the tip of the Reaper’s Blade. He had done much with it already. He had planted many seeds. Soon the harvest would come.
This would be a year the world would remember.
Five minutes later, Phoenix stepped down a flight of tight stairs and pulled open a heavy metal door. Frozen air flowed out around his crippled legs, and he hobbled in, passing between stacks of long metal boxes, each with a glass door in its side. Naked shapes were visible behind them.
Finally, he stopped, breathing hard, puffing vapor.
Behind a glass door, three boxes up from the floor, lay the lifeless body of a tall man with blond hair. His puckered bullet wounds were pale. His dead lips and ears and eyelids were blue. His name was written in ink on a small card attached to the glass.
LAWRENCE JOHN SMITH
END OF BOOK ONE
Obsecro ut haec recites: Jam incipio calcare orbem terrarum, colere agrestia, jugum injicere maribus quemadmodum antea fecit frater meus, sanctus Brendanus. Nec prae timore avertam gradum ab umbris nec mea lumina a luce. Secundum imperia Procuratorum me geram, nec quicquam secretum ab Sagis habebo. Sint stellae mihi duces et Dominus me servet semper. Ceterum, in Bibliotheca inhaustu abstinebo fumorum.
GRATITUDE
Kate Klimo and Mallory Loehr
for eyes, words, and belief
Meg O’Brien for laughter
Dennis M., Joe E., and the rest of the sixth floor
for batting cleanup
Ellice Lee for my new uniform
Heather Linn for every little thing
Rory, Lucia, Ameera, Seamus, and Marisol
for being (and test-driving large portions of this
in their own bedtime adventures)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
N. D. WILSON lives in Idaho with his wife and their five young explorers. For more information, please visit ndwilson.com.