gray roots were beginning to show again. That would have to be fixed before I went to my new job.
I had never liked red. I would buy some brown dye, and I would let my eyebrows grow back. Symmetrically.
Lore’s back was healed and her hair was a different color. She was as disguised as she was going to get. She was getting restless.
She had been inside the flat for several weeks and, before that, the kidnappers’ tent. Now she was afraid to go outside. She sat by the living-room window and watched the sky as it turned to November gray, and shuddered. It was so big, so open. She tried to imagine being out under the whipping clouds, among the people who all seemed to be hurrying toward destinations she could only guess at. But she had nowhere to head for. And she would be without a slate, without a real identity, with no one to call if she found herself in trouble. And people might recognize her, might stare and point . . .
She went into the kitchen to make coffee, try and distract herself. The weeds down in the back garden were turning yellow. She stared at them while the coffee bubbled. Weeds, interlopers, were always the last to die. They started small, but after a year or two they made themselves belong, put down strong roots.
Trying not to think about what she was doing—or she would panic—Lore went into the tiny hallway and pulled on one of Spanner’s jackets. She did not pause to zip it up. She had to think for a moment before she could remember the door code Spanner had given her three weeks ago; then she opened it and went out.
The stairwell was damp, and funneled the cold November wind right through her thin jacket. But it was still en closed. The hard part was reaching the street. People passed her, not looking, but she still felt horribly exposed. She was breathing hard.
The cut-through was five yards to her left. She ran. It was a brick-lined tunnel under the overhanging flat, about eight feet high and less than a yard wide. Her footsteps echoed.
At the other end was a gate. It was shut. She rattled the door. The knob came off in her hand, the wood was so rotten. She kicked it. The door split open. The wood smelled fruity and spoiled. She went through and lifted it back into place as well as she could. She was probably the first person to set foot back here in years.
It was hard to tell what had once grown here a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty years ago when the row of large houses had originally been built. It looked as though no one had cultivated the place for a long, long time. Judging by the assortment of ancient appliances and precode concrete rubble, the place had been used as a tip for the last two or three decades. But everywhere—by the rusting washing machine, between the old tires, in between the broken paving stones—sprung weeds and small saplings. There were brambles and the remnants of what might once have been a rose garden. She squatted down by the tangle of thorns. They might be the variety that bloomed at midwinter.
This close to the ground she could smell the dark, cold, loamy dirt, a clean smell, one that reminded her of being small, watching while one of the van de Oest gardeners planted tulip bulbs. She dug her fingers into the leaf mold. It felt just the same.
There was a rotted-out lean-to by one wall. She poked at it, looked at the hole in the roof. It wouldn’t be too hard to waterproof it enough for gardening tools.
She stood in the middle of the barren garden, surrounded by walls and broken glass, and smiled. She felt safe here. Many of the windows of the surrounding commercial buildings had been bricked up. Unless someone looked down from Spanner’s bathroom or kitchen, no one could see her. She looked up at the windows. They were blank, reflecting only the scudding sky.
She waited until Spanner had taken off her shoes, then told her she wanted to do something with the garden.
“Like what?”
“Clear it first. Then
I had never liked red. I would buy some brown dye, and I would let my eyebrows grow back. Symmetrically.
Lore’s back was healed and her hair was a different color. She was as disguised as she was going to get. She was getting restless.
She had been inside the flat for several weeks and, before that, the kidnappers’ tent. Now she was afraid to go outside. She sat by the living-room window and watched the sky as it turned to November gray, and shuddered. It was so big, so open. She tried to imagine being out under the whipping clouds, among the people who all seemed to be hurrying toward destinations she could only guess at. But she had nowhere to head for. And she would be without a slate, without a real identity, with no one to call if she found herself in trouble. And people might recognize her, might stare and point . . .
She went into the kitchen to make coffee, try and distract herself. The weeds down in the back garden were turning yellow. She stared at them while the coffee bubbled. Weeds, interlopers, were always the last to die. They started small, but after a year or two they made themselves belong, put down strong roots.
Trying not to think about what she was doing—or she would panic—Lore went into the tiny hallway and pulled on one of Spanner’s jackets. She did not pause to zip it up. She had to think for a moment before she could remember the door code Spanner had given her three weeks ago; then she opened it and went out.
The stairwell was damp, and funneled the cold November wind right through her thin jacket. But it was still en closed. The hard part was reaching the street. People passed her, not looking, but she still felt horribly exposed. She was breathing hard.
The cut-through was five yards to her left. She ran. It was a brick-lined tunnel under the overhanging flat, about eight feet high and less than a yard wide. Her footsteps echoed.
At the other end was a gate. It was shut. She rattled the door. The knob came off in her hand, the wood was so rotten. She kicked it. The door split open. The wood smelled fruity and spoiled. She went through and lifted it back into place as well as she could. She was probably the first person to set foot back here in years.
It was hard to tell what had once grown here a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty years ago when the row of large houses had originally been built. It looked as though no one had cultivated the place for a long, long time. Judging by the assortment of ancient appliances and precode concrete rubble, the place had been used as a tip for the last two or three decades. But everywhere—by the rusting washing machine, between the old tires, in between the broken paving stones—sprung weeds and small saplings. There were brambles and the remnants of what might once have been a rose garden. She squatted down by the tangle of thorns. They might be the variety that bloomed at midwinter.
This close to the ground she could smell the dark, cold, loamy dirt, a clean smell, one that reminded her of being small, watching while one of the van de Oest gardeners planted tulip bulbs. She dug her fingers into the leaf mold. It felt just the same.
There was a rotted-out lean-to by one wall. She poked at it, looked at the hole in the roof. It wouldn’t be too hard to waterproof it enough for gardening tools.
She stood in the middle of the barren garden, surrounded by walls and broken glass, and smiled. She felt safe here. Many of the windows of the surrounding commercial buildings had been bricked up. Unless someone looked down from Spanner’s bathroom or kitchen, no one could see her. She looked up at the windows. They were blank, reflecting only the scudding sky.
She waited until Spanner had taken off her shoes, then told her she wanted to do something with the garden.
“Like what?”
“Clear it first. Then
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