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Authors: Vivian Vande Velde
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comfortably dead for the past three days. I've had to live through them."
"Dying takes a lot out of you," Farold argued. "I won't even mention the strain of some dumb twit bringing you back as a bat. Let's see if you do better when it's your turn to die."
Selwyn was uncomfortably aware of just how close he'd come to having it be his turn. Rather than quarrel with Farold, he explained, "But I can't just walk into Penryth in the middle of the night. You know them. They'd be convinced I was a thief or ruffian of some sort and run me off for sure."
Farold didn't say anything—which likely meant he agreed but didn't want to admit it.
Selwyn said, "This will give us the opportunity to talk."
"I'm not allowed to tell about the afterlife." Farold took hold of a nearby branch and hung upside down from it. "That's one of the conditions, before people are allowed to leave."
"All right," Selwyn agreed slowly. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't believe that he'd spent all this time with someone who had actually died and come back, and never once had he wondered to ask what it had been like—a question that had nagged at people throughout the ages. He had been too caught up in his own concerns. Farold gave him a self-satisfied, self-important smirk—Selwyn could recognize the expression even on bat lips, even on bat lips hanging upside down in the predawn dark. "All right," he repeated, disappointed—now—that he wouldn't be able to ask the questions he had previously not thought to ask. He went back to what he'd been going to say. "Then let's talk about your enemies."
"I don't have any. Everybody liked me."
"I didn't," Selwyn pointed out. "And somebody killed you. Or did you stab yourself in the back? Was it suicide after all?"
"
I
didn't like
you,
either," Farold snapped. "I'm constantly reminded why."
"This bickering is getting us nowhere. Who would have wanted you dead?"
Farold, upside down, shrugged.
Selwyn said, "I think it could have been Linton."
"Linton is my cousin," Farold protested. "Why would he want me dead?"
Selwyn refrained from saying, "
Because
he's your cousin," and instead said, "To get the mill." Linton was the oldest of Derian's sister's children, and for the past two years he had been helping at the mill.
"Then he would have killed Uncle Derian, too." Far old seemed suddenly to realize the full implication of this. "Will he? Do you really think he killed me? Do you think he plans to kill Uncle Derian?"
For the first time, Farold sounded concerned about someone other than himself. "I doubt he would kill Derian," Selwyn reassured him. "That would be very obvious. People would suspect him if
both
of you died suddenly."
"But he could wait two or three years," Farold said, getting into the full spirit of suspicion, "and then kill him."
"If he waits two or three years, Derian is likely to die on his own," Selwyn said, "old as he is."
"Well, you certainly are the personable one, aren't you?" Farold snapped. "Don't you ever worry about other people's feelings?"
It was hard to think of a sarcastic little bat as having feelings. Selwyn told himself he would have done better and been less blunt if Farold had been in his old shape. "Sorry," he said.
"My uncle Derian raised me, you know"—Farold continued complaining—"from the time I could barely walk or talk—when my aunt Sela said her hands were already full with Linton."
"Sorry," Selwyn repeated. "I didn't mean anything." He didn't bother to point out that Farold must have been awfully slow if he was just barely walking and talking when his parents had died. Selwyn and Farold were the same age, which would have made Farold five the night part of the old mill burned, killing Earm Miller and his wife, Liera, and their three older children. Selwyn and his family could smell the smoke from their house, seven farmsteads away. Derian had not only raised Farold, he had been the one who had rescued him from the flames. "I wasn't thinking," Selwyn
"Dying takes a lot out of you," Farold argued. "I won't even mention the strain of some dumb twit bringing you back as a bat. Let's see if you do better when it's your turn to die."
Selwyn was uncomfortably aware of just how close he'd come to having it be his turn. Rather than quarrel with Farold, he explained, "But I can't just walk into Penryth in the middle of the night. You know them. They'd be convinced I was a thief or ruffian of some sort and run me off for sure."
Farold didn't say anything—which likely meant he agreed but didn't want to admit it.
Selwyn said, "This will give us the opportunity to talk."
"I'm not allowed to tell about the afterlife." Farold took hold of a nearby branch and hung upside down from it. "That's one of the conditions, before people are allowed to leave."
"All right," Selwyn agreed slowly. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't believe that he'd spent all this time with someone who had actually died and come back, and never once had he wondered to ask what it had been like—a question that had nagged at people throughout the ages. He had been too caught up in his own concerns. Farold gave him a self-satisfied, self-important smirk—Selwyn could recognize the expression even on bat lips, even on bat lips hanging upside down in the predawn dark. "All right," he repeated, disappointed—now—that he wouldn't be able to ask the questions he had previously not thought to ask. He went back to what he'd been going to say. "Then let's talk about your enemies."
"I don't have any. Everybody liked me."
"I didn't," Selwyn pointed out. "And somebody killed you. Or did you stab yourself in the back? Was it suicide after all?"
"
I
didn't like
you,
either," Farold snapped. "I'm constantly reminded why."
"This bickering is getting us nowhere. Who would have wanted you dead?"
Farold, upside down, shrugged.
Selwyn said, "I think it could have been Linton."
"Linton is my cousin," Farold protested. "Why would he want me dead?"
Selwyn refrained from saying, "
Because
he's your cousin," and instead said, "To get the mill." Linton was the oldest of Derian's sister's children, and for the past two years he had been helping at the mill.
"Then he would have killed Uncle Derian, too." Far old seemed suddenly to realize the full implication of this. "Will he? Do you really think he killed me? Do you think he plans to kill Uncle Derian?"
For the first time, Farold sounded concerned about someone other than himself. "I doubt he would kill Derian," Selwyn reassured him. "That would be very obvious. People would suspect him if
both
of you died suddenly."
"But he could wait two or three years," Farold said, getting into the full spirit of suspicion, "and then kill him."
"If he waits two or three years, Derian is likely to die on his own," Selwyn said, "old as he is."
"Well, you certainly are the personable one, aren't you?" Farold snapped. "Don't you ever worry about other people's feelings?"
It was hard to think of a sarcastic little bat as having feelings. Selwyn told himself he would have done better and been less blunt if Farold had been in his old shape. "Sorry," he said.
"My uncle Derian raised me, you know"—Farold continued complaining—"from the time I could barely walk or talk—when my aunt Sela said her hands were already full with Linton."
"Sorry," Selwyn repeated. "I didn't mean anything." He didn't bother to point out that Farold must have been awfully slow if he was just barely walking and talking when his parents had died. Selwyn and Farold were the same age, which would have made Farold five the night part of the old mill burned, killing Earm Miller and his wife, Liera, and their three older children. Selwyn and his family could smell the smoke from their house, seven farmsteads away. Derian had not only raised Farold, he had been the one who had rescued him from the flames. "I wasn't thinking," Selwyn
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