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Excerpts

Two

The Fall of Snowflakes

In which Mrs. Dyer sees something alarming,the Tar Man finds what he is looking for,and Kate contacts Peter's father

When Kate walked into the kitchen at the farm, exhausted and utterly overwhelmed by her conflicting emotions, she was immediately enfolded in a forest of arms that refused to let her go. Her brothers and sisters stood on the threshold, huddled around her. Only Sam, the next eldest, held back a little, his eyes too brimful of emotions to risk anything more. The twins, Issy and Alice, covered her with kisses, as she knew they would, while the two youngest, Sean and little Milly, crawled up her legs as if she were a tree trunk. She tried to speak, but couldn't. When she looked at her mother she saw, etched into her features, despite her current joy, the pain and fear of the preceding weeks.

But now it was Monday morning, barely a day and a half since her return, and Kate was helping her mother with the milking. She wanted to feel that everything was back to normal even though it was far from it. The calm patience of the cows and the smell of the milking parlor were so familiar and comforting it made her want to cry. Where was she going to find the courage to leave her mother and her brothers and sisters and return once more to 1763? And what if something went wrong? She might never see them again. She almost wished that her father had not brought her home -- surely it would have been better to go back and search for Peter straightaway.

In the blinking fluorescent light, beads of moisture shone on Erasmus Darwin's broad pink nose as she waited her turn to be milked. Kate stroked the cow's soft, black ears and admired, as she always did, the length of her eyelashes. The memory of her meeting with the cow's namesake, the real Erasmus Darwin, suddenly flooded into her head -- she recalled how excited she had been to meet the great man in Lichfield after the party had been attacked by the highwayman, and how she had let slip that Darwin's grandson, Charles, would discover evolution. Peter had been so cross with her afterward!...She smiled at the thought but then, unbidden, another memory rushed in. She pictured the tiny attic room in Lincoln's Inn Fields where she and Peter had sat sweltering in the heat of a sunny summer afternoon. It was the day of the blood pact and she could hear herself making Peter repeat after her, "I swear on my life that I shall never return to the twenty-first century without you." Except it was she who had broken that sacred promise. A wave of grief and guilt passed through her but she did not allow herself the release of tears.

"There," said her mother, standing up and pushing back a dark curl from her face. "All done. Let's go and get some breakfast inside you. Megan's mum sent over some Cumberland sausages; she knows how much you like them."

"Can Megan come over later?"

"Yes, of course she can. Inspector Wheeler promised he'd be finished with you by noon."

Kate's face dropped.

"I hate having to lie. I don't think he believes me."

"Oh, Katie...I wish we didn't have to put you through this."

"I know."

Kate put her arms around her mother's waist and buried her head in her shoulder.

While Mrs. Dyer finished up, Kate opened the barn door and stood against it watching the line of peaceable animals pass through. The cows ambled across the muddy yard in their rolling, ungainly way, following the exact diagonal path they always trod. They trooped into the field and she clanged shut the metal five-bar gate behind them.

Dawn had just broken and a few fluffy flakes of snow floated down from a lead-gray sky. The wind had dropped and the valley seemed eerily still. Kate's spirits rose a little, for she loved snow. If it settled, she and Sam could make a snowman -- at least once Inspector Wheeler and his entourage had finished asking her their interminable questions. With any luck his police car might get stuck in a snowdrift! She twirled round and round, head back, mouth open, hoping that a snowflake would land on her tongue. As she looked up, she had the strangest sensation that the laws of gravity had been temporarily suspended and that the snowflakes were hanging, immobile, in the column of cold air above her. It must be a trick of the light, she thought.

"Look, Mum!" she shouted. "It's snowing!"

Mrs. Dyer did not answer her but stood, motionless, an anxious expression forming on her face, at the other side of the farmyard.

"Mum! Look, it's starting to snow! Mum?...Is anything wrong?"

Her mother neither moved nor spoke and then Kate heard an unearthly sound behind her, horribly loud and deep, an unrelenting, throbbing noise which she felt in the pit of her stomach. Fearful of what she might see, she pressed the palms of her hands over her ears and whipped around. Yet there was nothing unusual as far as she could make out -- apart, perhaps, from the cows, which would normally have reached the other side of the field by now. Instead, they were still all clustered around the gate and every single one of them was looking directly at her. Then she noticed that none of them was moving at all -- not even a twitch of a tail. The huddle of black and white cows fixed their unblinking gaze on her, and all the while this awful, piercing sound drilled into her.

But when Kate looked back at Mrs. Dyer for reassurance, she saw that her mother was, just like the cows, motionless, seemingly frozen, and, in a deeply distressing way, elsewhere.

"Mum!"

Horrified, Kate ran over to Mrs. Dyer. Something was very wrong indeed -- she was not responding.

"Mum, please! What's happening?"

Kate reached out to shake her, but the instant she touched her mother everything was transformed. She experienced a sensation similar to opening the door of a quiet, air-conditioned train and stepping out onto a bustling station platform: one moment you are cocooned and safe, the next you are buffeted by waves of noise and activity. All at once the volume was turned up: The cows were mooing, her mother was speaking, the cold wind was blowing, and the snow was falling. She was a part of the world again, and she brushed aside the small voice in the back of her mind that asked why, if there was something wrong with her mother, did she suddenly feel so different?

Kate scrutinized her mother. She did not look ill.

"Are you all right? What happened to you?" asked Kate. "You were acting really weird!"

"I was!" exclaimed Mrs. Dyer. Kate watched her mother pass her hands over her eyes and shake her head as if to clear her mind. Then she said: "I'm all right -- low blood sugar or something.... For a minute, I thought...Oh, never mind, let's go in and get some breakfast inside us."

Kate kissed her mother's cheek. "You've been working too hard what with me and Dad being away. I think you were about to faint. It was really strange -- almost like you were moving in slow motion."

The cows were still mooing and pressing up against each other, their hooves churning up the mud next to the gate.

"Look," said Kate, pointing at them, "you've even spooked the cows."

As they were walking back to the house, the newspaper boy arrived. He was a couple of years ahead of Kate at school.

"It's you!" he grinned. "We all thought you was a goner!"

"That's nice!" laughed Kate.

"Look," he said, opening up the front page of their newspaper and pointing to a photograph. "You're famous! Here, you can have that one, too, I've got a spare. Bye! Don't go getting lost again!"

Kate and her mother spread out the newspapers on the table. They looked at the first. The news of her return had not made the front page, owing to an England soccer star's divorce, but there, on page two, was Kate in her old school photograph. Kate was appalled.

"Oh no! You let them use that photo?" she exclaimed.

Then she noticed the puzzling and bizarre headline above it and quickly scanned the article. The news reporter had asked Inspector Wheeler if he would like to speculate on what could have happened to Kate Dyer to have made her lose her memory. A traumatic event of some kind? An attempt to conceal the truth?...The Inspector had replied that, despite extensive investigations, all their lines of inquiry had turned up one blank after another; he therefore could not afford to leave any stone unturned. The reporter had clearly taken him at his word.

"Oh no," said her mother as she saw the headline. "Your father and Dr. Pirretti are going to go mad when they see this...."

It read: POLICE STUMPED: WAS MISSING GIRL ABUDCTED BY ALIENS?

It was early afternoon and a wintry sun shone down on London from a cloudless sky. There had been a hard frost that night and the puddles were still iced over and the wind was bitter. The Tar Man, however, sat warm and at his ease, his long legs stretched out beneath a window table at The George, a former coaching inn, a stone's throw from London Bridge. His fingers were draped over the fascinating black radiator beneath the window ledge and were periodically withdrawn when they grew too hot.

The Tar Man found that he preferred to sup his ale in taverns he had frequented in his previous existence. The George Inn was one such, and it had changed surprisingly little. All the stagecoaches between London and Canterbury used to stop here, and there were rich pickings for any highwaymen prepared to tackle the guard and his blunderbuss. The George Inn still had its pretty, galleried balconies that overlooked the large cobbled yard, but gone were the noise and bustle, the passengers clamoring for food and the drivers shouting at the stable lads to bring water for their horses. It was here that the Tar Man liked to meet the highwayman, Doctor Adams, so called on account of his habit of dislocating the shoulder of any victim who proved uncooperative. He would, however, generously push back the arm into its socket before taking his leave for, as he freely admitted, once he had deprived his victims of their valuables, they would be hard-pressed to pay for a doctor afterward.

"Enjoy your meal, Sir."

One of the bar staff placed a large plate of fish and chips in front of him, golden brown and crunchy. There was a steaming mound of green peas on the side. The Tar Man devoured it with his eyes first. At that time of day, the low winter sun hit the windows of the modern office block opposite and its rays were reflected back through the casement windows into the dark, wood-paneled room. A narrow beam of sunshine passed through his glass of ice-cold beer and cast a pleasing amber glow on his succulent meal. The Tar Man licked his lips. And fresh peas, too! How the devil did they manage to grow garden peas in the middle of winter! He was beginning to warm to the twenty-first century.

While he ate, the Tar Man's gaze fell onto the cleanly swept yard with its rows of wooden tables and benches and curious outdoor heaters like giant mushrooms. He took another gulp of beer and looked at the scene outside. It amused him that all these people would choose to eat under the open sky when they could be sitting here in the bar. Something made him look twice at a girl of perhaps fifteen or sixteen who was walking past his window. She settled herself at a bench underneath one of the heaters. He watched her pull open a packet of what he had only that morning discovered were crisps. He did not care for them. They hurt his gums. The girl took a swig from a red-labeled bottle. What was it about her? She was very pretty -- she had olive skin and large, expressive, dark eyes, and her silky black hair was cut short like a boy's -- but it was more than that. Her clothes, which the Tar Man found ugly in the extreme, like most of the fashions paraded on London's streets, were deliberately ripped and baggy and drab, yet her outfit could not disguise her natural grace. But what caught the Tar Man's attention above all was the professional way in which she scanned the yard before she sat down, as if she were making a careful mental note of who sat where, who was worth a second look, and where the nearest exit was to be found. He recognized a kindred spirit. They belonged to the same tribe, he and this girl; he was certain of it.

The Tar Man ate the last morsel of fish and pushed away his plate contentedly, although his gaze kept wandering back to the yard. Four youths walked by carrying pints of beer and chose to sit at the table adjacent to the girl. She had taken out a paperback book from her pocket and was poring over it, popping crisps mechanically into her mouth as she read. The youths were all loud and intent on having a good time, but one of them, the leader of this little gang, was more full of himself than the rest. He was tall and blond and kept looking over at the girl and after a while started to imitate her, hunched up over a book, in order to win her attention. His mates laughed; the girl did not react. Then the youth reached over and tried to grab her book. Before he could touch it, she swung her arm up sharply, without even raising her head, and knocked his wrist out of the way. He could not stop himself from crying out -- she was wearing a chunky metal bracelet, and she had hurt him. She continued to read. His mates, on the point of laughing, stopped themselves when they saw the thunderous expression on his face. He shouted something at the girl. The Tar Man could not make out the words he used, but by the reaction of the people seated at tables around them, they were ugly. At first the girl did not move but then she coolly raised her head and looked up at the boy. Whatever it was that she said to him, all his mates burst into spontaneous laughter, spluttering their beer into the air. The blond youth kicked out petulantly at the girl's table, causing her bottle of Coca-Cola to wobble from side to side. The girl's hand shot out to steady it and calmly went back to her book. The Tar Man smiled appreciatively. She had spirit and knew how to handle herself. A thought came to him: Could this girl be the guide he was seeking?

After a few minutes, he observed her gather her things together and walk toward the inn, squeezing through the rows of benches. She slid past a large, burly man whose generous rear was jutting out over his bench. He was staring deep into the eyes of an attractive woman opposite him as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist for him. The Tar Man did not have a clear view, yet he was certain that the girl had taken something from his back pocket. She had chosen well -- of all the customers in the yard he was the easiest target. Then he saw her tap the big man on the shoulder, whisper something in his ear, and point at the table of youths. The big man immediately got up, felt in his trouser pocket, and, finding it empty, tore across the yard like a charging bull elephant.

Her pretty face alight with a delighted smile, the girl entered the low-ceilinged bar where the Tar Man sat. She ordered a cup of decaffeinated coffee at the bar, and while the barman had his back to her she removed several ten-pound notes from the big man's wallet and shoved the evidence between a potted plant and its holder. The Tar Man called over to her from his table.

"That was neatly done."

The girl whipped round. She was angry with herself that she had not noticed him sitting there.

"What you talking about? I never did nothing!"

The Tar Man smiled broadly. "Never try to hoodwink a hoodwinker. I say it as one who has an appreciation for such things."

The girl looked the stranger up and down, took in his scar and his unusual taste in clothes.

"Well, I can see you ain't the law...."

She walked toward his table, ignoring the Tar Man, so that she could see what was going on outside. She grinned broadly. The burly man was dragging the youth, shouting and kicking, out of the yard into Borough High Street.

The barman came over to the table with the girl's coffee, thinking they were together.

"No -- " she started to say.

"Yes," interrupted the Tar Man, "let us drink a glass together."

"You don't half speak funny...."

"I see that it pleases you to read."

The girl looked askance. "Yeah, and...?"

"Would you do me the kindness of reading this for me?"

The Tar Man pointed to a small framed poem hung on the wall next to the window. It was a surprising request and the girl found herself reading it before she could think of a reason to refuse.

"Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!

Heav'n grant no tears but tears of wine!"

She reads well! thought the Tar Man. Even better...

"Forgotten your specs, have you?" asked the girl.

"Specs? I do not understand you."

"Spectacles! You know..."

"Ah. No. It is not for that reason that I cannot read."

"You're dyslexic, then?"

"Upon my word your speech is hard to follow!"

"You get your letters confused?"

"As I never knew my letters, I could hardly confuse them. In my time, natural good sense was more than sufficient and I never felt the lack. I fear that things have changed."

The girl looked at the Tar Man. He read suspicion and curiosity in her features.

"I have a fancy we could be of use to each other, you and I."

He had unsettled the girl. Usually she was good at sizing people up, but she did not know what to make of this character.

"I gotta be going."

"Tell me your name first."

"My name ain't none of your business!"

The Tar Man stood up and bowed his head. "Then until we meet again..."

"I doubt it."

The girl swallowed down her coffee and made for the door. The Tar Man made sure that he was looking away when she sneaked a final glance at him, as he knew she would.

It was the first day of the spring term for Kate's younger siblings. Sam, who never usually gave his sister hugs, ran back from the Land Rover to give her one before he left. She had tousled his hair roughly and told him that he had gone soft while she had been away, but he could see that she was pleased. Kate was half- expecting her parents to say that she had to go to school too, as her mum was always so strict about taking days off. Instead, her mother had encouraged her to take it easy and catch up on her sleep if she could. Mrs. Dyer had then gone even further and, to Kate's astonishment, had telephoned Inspector Wheeler to insist -- forcibly -- that her daughter was exhausted and needed rest and calm and could not possibly be questioned again today. So Kate found herself at a loose end: She had eaten lunch, taken Molly for a walk, and read the two little ones a story before their afternoon nap. She decided to go downstairs and watch television. Sean and Milly were both light sleepers, so she crept carefully down the creaky stairs so as not to disturb them. The kitchen door was shut and she thought she could hear voices. Her dad had gone out mid-morning so she presumed it was the radio, but as she was about to turn the handle she recognized both her parents' voices. They were speaking in a desperate tone and, fearful, she stood for a moment to listen. What she heard convinced her to remain outside the door unannounced. She pressed her cheek against the heavy oak door.

Her mother was speaking. She sounded agitated.

"Dr. Pirretti can't be serious about destroying the antigravity machine tonight! Even if it's true that Tim Williamson intends to get it back, it doesn't follow that he is going to spill the beans to NASA or to the press."

"I think he will," replied her father. "I think he wants to go down in history as the inventor of time travel. Anyway, he lied to me about where he was going. It was only because his flatmate happened to be there that I found out that he wasn't going to be around over the next couple of days because, quote, 'he's picking up a large bit of equipment.'"

"Where is the antigravity machine, anyway?" asked Mrs. Dyer.

"In a lock-up garage behind a post office in a village in Hertfordshire. Middle Harpenden or something."

"But how can Anita even think of destroying it now?" said Mrs. Dyer. "It's monstrous!"

Dr. Dyer did not answer.

"Please don't tell me that you would be prepared to leave Peter stranded in 1763!" shouted his wife.

Kate bit her lip. This was awful. She could tell her mother was close to tears. It was bad enough eavesdropping and hearing her parents argue -- which was something they never did -- but she could not believe what she was hearing.

"Listen," said Dr. Dyer. "I am trying very hard to keep my head and to do the right thing. I didn't say that I was happy about leaving Peter in the eighteenth century! And I'm quite sure that Anita isn't either -- but can't you see that she is justified in fearing the consequences of going back even one more time? And she's worried that Inspector Wheeler may wheedle the truth out of Kate, that Tim Williamson may go public, and that the antigravity machine will be impounded.... If the tabloid press get their hands on this story, we'll have more to worry about than headlines about alien abductions."

"But a boy's life is at stake!"

"You don't need to tell me that!" roared Dr. Dyer. "And who knows how many lives will be at stake if we do go after him!"

"Ssh...," said Mrs. Dyer. "Kate might hear us."

With difficulty, Dr. Dyer made himself speak slowly and calmly.

"Can't you see what a nightmare time travel could be? The future of history would be up for grabs.... Just imagine what it could be like -- the person you're talking to could suddenly disappear because someone went back in time and changed something that wiped out his entire bloodline. We're old enough to have learned that life is a game of chutes and ladders at the best of times. I, for one, don't want to live in a world where you are forced to play it in several dimensions."

"And Anita Pirretti thinks it's okay to sacrifice Peter to her doomsday theory?" asked Mrs. Dyer.

"Of course she doesn't think it's okay! But she does think it might be the most responsible course of action...."

Mrs. Dyer let out a desperate little cry.

"And does the same go for you? Are you going to stand by and let her do it?"

"I...I don't know yet. My heart and my head are saying different things."

"Peter's father is coming over this evening," Mrs. Dyer cried. "Tell me, what are we supposed to say to him?"

"As little as possible...."

Behind the door Kate clenched her fists. She turned white with anger.

"And remember," continued Dr. Dyer, "that we have no guarantee that we can return to 1763 a third time or, if we manage it, that we could then return to the present."

"But we've got to try, surely! Peter is an innocent victim in all of this. He didn't ask to be sent back in time!"

"True -- but how many innocent victims will there be if we let the world know that time travel is possible?"

Kate had heard enough -- was this really her Dad talking? What kind of a monster had he turned into? She took a deep breath, composed her face into a smile, and burst into the kitchen. Her parents were standing at opposite sides of the room, and her mother's complexion was blotchy. Both immediately clammed up and stood looking awkwardly at their daughter.

"Is it still okay for me to invite Megan over?" asked Kate brightly.

"Yes, of course it is, love, if you feel up to it," answered her mother. "But you...you will be careful what you say to her, won't you?"

"Of course," replied Kate. "I'll give her a ring, then. She'll probably be back from school by now. Can she stay for a sleepover?"

An hour later Mrs. Dyer stood at the window holding little Milly. They watched Kate run out into the yard to greet Megan. The valley was already in dark shadow, and the hilltops with their light dusting of snow glistened red. Banks of ominous gray clouds were building up to the north. "I shouldn't like to be out tonight," she said. "Aren't you glad we'll all be warm and cozy inside...." Milly did not reply, preoccupied as she was with puckering up her lips against the pane of glass like a fish in an aquarium. Through the window they heard squeals of delight as the two friends ran toward each other arms outstretched, so happy to be reunited. Kate and Megan had talked endlessly on the telephone but this was their first meeting. The girls' breath came out in great clouds of steam. They hugged and talked and hugged each other again. Then they disappeared into the cowshed for some privacy, as they often did. Mrs. Dyer smiled to see them.

"Do you know," she said to Milly, "your big sister and Megan have been friends since they weren't much older than you? It seems like only yesterday since I saw them walking hand in hand into nursery school on their first day, eyes wide as saucers at this big new world. You've got that coming, my love...."

Milly blew bubbles on the glass. "Your big sister is going to want to go back and rescue Peter. I know she is...."

"Pe-ta," repeated Milly.

"But I shan't let her -- not again. I almost hope that the antigravity machine will be destroyed tonight! Why should our family suffer anymore? It wasn't our fault! Perhaps it is right that one boy's happiness be sacrificed for the greater good.... And he has a difficult relationship with his father, according to Margrit. Why, he might even prefer it in the eighteenth century...."

The toddler started to wriggle and Mrs. Dyer put her down. "You're getting heavy, Milly, my love."

As she stood up again, her hand pressing against the small of her back, shame pricked at her. She thought of Peter's mother and what she must be going through, and then turned her mind to what on earth she was going to say to Peter's father when he arrived in a couple of hours' time.

Kate was telling Megan about her parents' argument. "It's like they'd had a personality change! I couldn't believe it!"

They were sitting side by side on a bale of hay, their backs against the cold brick wall. Kate's long, red hair made Megan's blond ponytail seem even paler. Megan knew her friend well enough not to argue.

"Stress does funny things to grown-ups."

"You will help me, won't you, Meggie?"

"Yes, of course I will.... Not that I want you to go back in time again either."

"I don't have a choice! If I don't try to save him, I'll have to live with it for the rest of my life. It was a blood pact."

"You are going to tell Sam, aren't you? You don't realize what a terrible state he's been in. I don't know how he'd cope if he woke up and found you'd disappeared again."

"Wouldn't it be better if I just went? He'll only get upset anyway and then he might give the game away."

"That's not fair, Kate -- we didn't know if you were alive or dead! It's torture not knowing.... If you explain it to him, he won't like it but at least he'll understand."

"Okay, okay. I'll tell him."

Megan's big Christmas present was a state-of-the-art mobile phone which had barely left her hand since she had pulled it excitedly out of its box. Now she used it to track down Mr. Schock's office number. She was convincing enough to persuade the receptionist to reveal her "uncle's" mobile number. She put her own mobile to her ear and waited.

"He's not answering -- it's gone into voicemail," she said. "Now what do we do?"

"Leave a message, of course! Here, give it to me!" exclaimed Kate.

She gulped and took a deep breath, suddenly unsure what to say.

"Hello, Mr. Schock. You don't know me but I know your son very well. My name is Kate Dyer. Will you please ring this number urgently. I need to talk to you before you come to the farm. Before you speak to my parents. Please. This is a matter of life or death for your son."

"Well, if that doesn't get a response, nothing will!" said Megan.

There was a knock on the barn door. It was Sam.

"Come on in, Sam," called Megan. And then, with a pointed look at Kate, "We need you to help us with something. Kate's got something to tell you. Kate, you'd better keep hold of the phone in case Peter's dad calls."

The poor boy looked alarmed as Kate patted the haystack next to her. He sat down next to his big sister and Megan discreetly retreated to the house.

"You can start packing," Kate called after her. "Look under my pillow...."

Sam looked even more alarmed.

Megan waited in Kate's room. She picked up the pillow and saw, neatly arranged underneath, all those items which Kate had deemed essential for a stay in the eighteenth century. Megan picked them up one by one and stashed them in Kate's canvas backpack. It was strangely like packing for a vacation. There was a wide-toothed comb and shampoo; toothbrush and toothpaste; perfumed soap; plasters and antiseptic wipes, plus a small brown bottle labeled PENICILIN: TAKE ONE CAPSULE THREE TIMES A DAY. COMPLETE THE COURSE which she'd filched from the medicine cabinet; a large bar of chocolate (Kate's belated Christmas present from the twins); three cans of Coca-Cola; a small flashlight with spare batteries; two old watches (presumably to sell); lace doilies (ditto); spare sneakers; enough underwear for a week; and her Swiss Army knife.

After twenty minutes, Kate and Sam reappeared. Both their noses were red and Kate sniffed between sentences.

"It's on. Peter's dad called. He's meeting me in the lane at eight o'clock. And I've told Sam. You're going to help us -- aren't you?"

Sam was going on ten and in looks took after his mother. He was skinny with thick dark hair which went curly when it was damp. He nodded but looked close to tears.

Megan gave him a hug. "She'll come back. You know your big sister -- no one gets the better of Kate Dyer...."

"You better," said Sam gruffly.

At ten to eight, Kate stood at the kitchen door. Her mum was preparing the grown-ups' supper in time for Mr. Schock's imminent arrival. Issy and Alice were on the floor in front of the Aga cooker stroking Molly, who was almost asleep, lulled by the heat and all the attention. Kate walked over and crouched down next to the little group. She rested her head on Molly's fat belly for a moment.

"I'm cold. I'm going to have a hot bath," she announced. "Then I think I'll read in bed; I'm really tired."

"Okay, love, I'll come up and kiss you good night later," said her mum, giving her an anxious look. "Your dad's gone out.... I wish he hadn't. Mr. Schock will be here any minute.... If you're too tired to say hello to Peter's dad tonight, can I tell him that you'll speak to him in the morning? I know it'll be hard, but..."

"Yes. I don't mind...."

Kate walked over and put her arms round her mother's waist.

"I love you, Mum."

Her mother put down the tea towel she was holding and took hold of Kate's face. She kissed her forehead.

"And I love you."

Kate retreated from the kitchen before her courage failed her.

"Good night, Issy. Good night, Alice...."

True to his word, Sam stayed in the bathroom and turned the water on and off and splashed and even hummed his sister's favorite song. Kate turned up the music in her room and then she and Megan crept down to her dad's study downstairs. Dr. Dyer reluctantly allowed Kate's mother to store Bramley cooking apples wrapped in newspaper on his corner bookshelves -- and it was the familiar smell of books and waxy fruit and leather that caused a lump in Kate's throat. It was in this room, sitting on her father's knee, that she had learned to read, and he had told her so many wonderful stories.... Suddenly, the urge to leave it all for the grown-ups to sort out nearly overwhelmed her -- but she forced herself to run to the window and push it open. A blast of icy air slapped her face and brought her to her senses. Suddenly the wind caught hold of the window and she only just managed to grab hold of the frame before it smashed against the shutters. Snowflakes blew into the room and immediately melted on the worn Oriental rug. Kate climbed out, her feet leaving short-lived evidence of her escape on the snow-covered lawn. Megan leaned out to pass her the backpack.

"Here, catch!" said Megan, throwing a small object to her friend.

"Not your mobile! I can't! You've waited all year for this!"

"It's fully charged. If you keep it switched off most of the time it ought to be okay for a couple of weeks. I've already downloaded lots of my favorite songs...."

"Oh, Meggie...I can't. What if I lose it?"

"Don't! Just take me some good pictures of 1763 and shut up!"

"Thanks, Meggie.... You'll like Peter."

"He'd better be worth it. I'll see you soon. Okay?"

"Yeah. Very soon."

When Mr. Schock saw Kate walking toward him he started up the engine and turned on the headlights of his long silver car. The blue-white beams illuminated dense flurries of snow. He leaned over to the passenger seat and pushed open the door. Kate got in and brushed wet tendrils of hair from her face. Mr. Schock took hold of the backpack and threw it onto the cream leather backseat. Then he turned round to look at her. His blue eyes blazed.

"You must be Kate Dyer."

"Yes."

"Then you'd better stop playing games and tell me what's going on! Where's my son?"

"I'll do better than that. I'll take you to him."