The Thirteenth Tale-第21章

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from　that　moment；　forgetting　his　wife；　it　was　isabelle　the　doctor　attended　to。　he　looked　at　her　closely；　kindly；　with　worry　in　the　back　of　his　eyes　while　he　asked　her　question　after　question。　when　she　refused　to　answer　he　was　unrattled；　but　when　she　was　bothered　to　reply—by　turns　arch；　impatient；　nonsensical—he　listened　carefully；　nodding　as　he　made　notes　in　his　doctor’s　pad。　taking　her　wrist　to　measure　her　pulse；　he　noted　with　alarm　the　cuts　and　scars　that　marked　the　inside　of　her　forearm。

‘does　she　do　this　herself？“

reluctantly　honest；　the　missus　murmured；　“yes；”　and　the　doctor　pressed　his　lips　into　a　worried　line。

‘may　i　have　a　word　with　you；　sir？“　he　asked；　turning　to　charlie。　charlie　looked　blankly　at　him；　but　the　doctor　took　him　by　the　elbow—　”the　library；　perhaps？“—and　led　him　firmly　out　of　the　room。

in　the　drawing　room　the　missus　and　the　doctor’s　wife　waited　and　pretended　not　to　pay　any　attention　to　the　sounds　that　came　from　the　library。　there　was　the　hum　not　of　voices　but　of　a　single　voice；　calm　and　measured。　when　it　stopped；　we　heard　“no”　and　again　“no！”　in　charlie’s　raised　voice；　and　then　again　the　low　tones　of　the　doctor。　they　were　gone　for　some　time；　and　we　heard　charlie’s　protestations　over　and　over　before　the　door　opened　and　the　doctor　came　out；　looking　serious　and　shaken。　behind　him；　there　was　a　great　howl　of　despair　and　impotence；　but　the　doctor　only　winced　and　pulled　the　door　closed　behind　him。

‘i’ll　make　the　arrangements　with　the　asylum；“　he　told　the　missus。　”leave　the　transport　to　me。　will　two　o’clock　be　all　right？“

baffled；　she　nodded　her　head；　and　the　doctor’s　wife　rose　to　leave。

at　two　o’clock　three　men　came　to　the　house；　and　they　led　isabelle　out　to　a　brougham　in　the　drive。　she　submitted　herself　to　them　like　a　lamb；　settled　obediently　in　the　seat；　never　even　looked　out　as　the　horses　trotted　slowly　down　the　drive；　toward　the　lodge　gates。

the　twins；　unconcerned；　were　drawing　circles　with　their　toes　in　the　gravel　of　the　drive。

charlie　stood　on　the　steps　watching　the　brougham　as　it　grew　smaller　and　smaller。　he　had　the　air　of　a　child　whose　favorite　toy　is　being　taken　away；　and　who　cannot　believe—not　quite；　not　yet—that　it　is　really　happening。

from　the　hall　the　missus　and　john…the…dig　watched　him　anxiously；　waiting　for　the　realization　to　dawn。

the　car　reached　the　lodge　gates　and　disappeared　through　them。　charlie　continued　to　stare　at　the　open　gates　for　three；　four；　five　seconds。

then　his　mouth　opened。　a　wide　circle；　twitching　and　trembling；　that　revealed　his　quivering　tongue；　the　fleshy　redness　of　his　throat；　strings　of　spittle　across　a　dark　cavity。　mesmerized　we　watched；　waiting　for　the　awful　noise　to　emerge　from　the　gaping；　juddering　mouth；　but　the　sound　was　not　ready　to　e。　for　long　seconds　it　built　up；　accumulating　inside　him　until　his　whole　body　seemed　full　of　pent…up　sound。　at　long　last　he　fell　to　his　knees　on　the　steps　and　the　cry　emerged　from　him。　it　was　not　the　elephantine　bellow　we　were　expecting；　but　a　damp；　nasal　snort。

the　girls　looked　up　from　their　toe　circles　for　a　moment；　then　returned　impassively　to　them。　john…the…dig　tightened　his　lips　and　turned　away；　heading　back　to　the　garden　and　work。　there　was　nothing　for　him　to　do　here。　the　missus　went　to　charlie；　placed　a　consoling　hand　on　his　shoulder　and　attempted　to　persuade　him　into　the　house；　but　he　was　deaf　to　her　words　and　only　snuffled　and　squeaked　like　a　thwarted　schoolboy。

and　that　was　that。

that　was　that？　the　words　were　a　curiously　understated　endnote　to　the　disappearance　of　miss　winter’s　mother。　it　was　clear　that　miss　winter　didn’t　think　much　of　isabelle’s　abilities　as　a　parent；　indeed　the　word　mother　seemed　absent　from　her　lexicon。　perhaps　it　was　understandable；　from　what　i　could　see；　isabelle　was　the　least　maternal　of　women。　but　who　was　i　to　judge　other　people’s　relations　with　their　mothers？

i　closed　my　book；　slid　my　pencil　into　the　spiral　and　stood　up。

‘i’ll　be　away　for　three　days；“　i　reminded　her。　”i’ll　be　back　on　thursday。“

and　i　left　her　alone　with　her　wolf。

？？



THE　ALMANACS

…小……说。网
where　else　to　begin　my　research　but　at　home；　in　the　shop？　i　was　fascinated　by　the　old　almanacs。　since　i　was　a　child；　any　moment　of　boredom　or　anxiety　or　fear　would　send　me　to　these　shelves　to　flick　through　the　pages　of　names　and　dates　and　annotations。　between　these　covers；　past　lives　were　summarized　in　a　few　brutally　neutral　lines。　it　was　a　world　where　men　were　baronets　and　bishops　and　ministers　of　parliament；　and　women　were　wives　and　daughters。　there　was　nothing　to　tell　you　whether　these　men　liked　kidneys　for　breakfast；　nothing　to　tell　you　whom　they　loved　or　what　form　their　fear　gave　to　the　shapes　in　the　dark　after　they　blew　the　candle　out　at　night。　there　was　nothing　personal　at　all。　what　was　it；　then；　that　moved　me　so　in　these　sparse　annotations　of　the　lives　of　dead　men？　only　that　they　were　men；　that　they　had　lived；　that　now　they　were　dead。

reading　them；　i　felt　a　stirring　in　me。　in　me；　but　not　of　me。　reading　the　lists；　the　part　of　me　that　was　already　on　the　other　side　woke　and　caressed　me。

i　never　explained　to　anyone　why　the　almanacs　meant　so　much　to　me；　i　never　even　said　i　liked　them。　but　my　father　took　note　of　my　preference；　and　whenever　volumes　of　the　sort　came　up　at　auction；　he　made　sure　to　get　them。　and　so　it　was　that　all　the　illustrious　dead　of　the　country；　going　back　many　generations；　were　spending　their　afterlife　tranquilly　on　the　shelves　of　our　second　floor。　with　me　for　pany。

it　was　on　the　second　floor；　crouched　in　the　window　seat；　that　i　turned　the　pages　of　names。　i　had　found　miss　winter’s　grandfather　george　angelfield。　he　was　not　a　baronet；　nor　a　minister；　nor　a　bishop；　but　still；　here　he　was。　the　family　had　aristocratic　origins—there　had　once　been　a　title；　but　a　few　generations　earlier　there　had　been　a　split　in　the　family：　the　title　had　gone　one　way；　the　money　and　the　property　another。　he　was　on　the　property　side。　the　almanacs　tended　to　follow　the　titles；　but　still；　the　connection　was　close　enough　to　merit　an　entry；　so　here　he　was：　angelfield；　george；　his　date　of　birth；　residing　at　angelfield　house　in　oxfordshire；　married　to　mathilde　monnier　of　reims；　france；　one　son；　charles。　tracing　him　through　the　almanacs　for　later　years；　i　found　an　amendment　a　decade　later：　one　son；　charles；　one　daughter；　isabelle。　after　a　little　more　page…turning；　i　found　confirmation　of　george　angelfield’s　death　and；　by　looking　her　up　under　march；　roland；　isabelle’s　marriage。

for　a　moment　it　amused　me　to　think　that　i　had　gone　all　the　way　to　yorkshire　to　hear　miss　winter’s　story；　when　all　the　time　it　was　here；　in　the　almanacs；　a　few　feet　under　my　bed。　but　then　i　started　thinking　properly。　what　did　it　prove；　this　paper　trail？　only　that　such　people　as　george　and　mathilde　and　their　children；　charles　and　isabelle；　existed。　there　was　nothing　to　say　that　miss　winter　had　not　found　them　the　same　way　i　had；　by　flicking　through　a　book。　these　almanacs　could　be　found　in　libraries　all　over　the　place。　anyone　who　wanted　could　look　through　them。　might　she　not　have　found　a　set　of　names　and　dates　and　embroidered　a　story　around　them　to　entertain　herself？

alongside　these　misgivings　i　had　another　problem。　roland　march　had　died；　and　with　his　death　the　paper　trail　for　isabelle　came　to　an　end。　the　world　of　the　almanac　was　a　queer　one。　in　the　real　world；　families　branched　like　trees；　blood　mixed　by　marriage　passed　from　one　generation　to　the　next；　making　an　ever…wider　net　of　connections。　titles；　on　the　other　hand；　passed　from　one　man　to　one　man；　and　it　was　this　narrow；　linear　progression　that　the　almanac　liked　to　highlight。　on　each　side　of　the　title　line　were　a　few　younger　brothers；　nephews；　cousins；　who　came　close　enough　to　fall　within　the　span　of　the　almanac’s　illumination。　the　men　who　might　have　been　lord　or　baronet。　and；　though　it　was　not　said；　the　men　who　still　might；　if　the　right　string　of　tragedies　were　to　occur。　but　after　a　certain　number　of　branchings　in　the　family　tree；　the　names　fell　out　of　the　margins　and　into　the　ether。　no　bination　of　shipwreck；　plague　and　earthquake　would　be　powerful　enough　to　restore　these　third　cousins　to　prominence。　the　almanac　had　its　limits。　so　it　was　with　isabelle。　she　was　a　woman；　her　babies　were　girls；　her　husband　（not　a　lord）　was　dead；　her　father　（not　a　lord）　was　dead。　the　almanac　cut　her　and　her　babies　adrift；　she　and　they　fell　into　the　vast　ocean　of　ordinary　people；　whose　births　and　deaths　and　marriages　are；　like　their　loves　and　fears　and　breakfast　preferences；　too　insignificant　to　be　worth　recording　for　posterity。

charlie；　though；　was　a　male。　the　almanac　could　stretch　itself—　just—to　include　him；　though　the　dimness　of　insignificance　was　already　casting　its　shadow。　information　was　scant。　his　name　was　charles　angelfield。　he　had　been　born。　he　lived　at　angelfield。　he　was　not　married。　he　was　not　dead。　as　far　as　the　almanac　was　concerned；　this　information　was　sufficient。

i　took　out　one　volume　after　another；　found　again　and　again　the　same　sketchy　half…life。　with　every　new　tome　i　thought；　this　will　be　the　year　they　leave　him　out。　but　each　year；　there　he　was；　still　charles　angelfield；　still　of　angelfield；　still　unmarried。　i　thought　aga