Jack (Gilead #4)(16)

She said, very softly, “You know, you shouldn’t talk to me the way you do.” And a shock of discomfort passed through him, part shame, part alarm, part irritation, part a kind of panicky bewilderment and reappraisal. The memories he had been storing up for future use, maybe refining a little, were all turning to regret and embarrassment even before he knew what unpardonable thing about them would be hectoring him on his deathbed, in all probability. His lips were suddenly very dry, so he said only, “Sorry.”

“We’re just out walking together. You’re not obliged to tell me every worst thing you ever did.”

He laughed with relief. “I haven’t! Word of honor! But it is very kind of you to think so, Miss Miles.”

She said, “When the world ended, nothing would matter but what you wanted to matter.” She was talking into the darkness. “No more dragging around all the things you regret. Just regretting them would snuff them out.” She made a gesture with her hand, like a bubble bursting. “That’s one new rule.”

“You don’t seem like someone who would have much to regret. I mean, I have sisters like you. I told you. Four of them. They teach and play piano and remember everybody’s birthday and send thank-you notes. When I was a kid, I thought it was an amazing thing to watch. One after another, passing from childishness to impeccability. A long time ago, of course, but people like that don’t change. I suppose my sisters think they have regrets. That they know the meaning of the word.”

“Well, I do know the meaning of the word.”

“I’m not asking for a confession or anything.”

“Good.” She sat up, and stood up. “I hear that man singing.” They were both stiff and cold from their hour of rest, pleasantly miserable, walking up the hill to the deeper darkness, laughing a little, quietly, at their awkwardness. She was leaning on his arm. Tell St. Peter at the Golden Gate that you hate to make him wait. She said, “I guess he doesn’t know another song.”

“I suspect he sings like that to give us disreputable types a chance to avoid him.”

“Very thoughtful.”

“People can be like that. I’ve noticed, from time to time.”

They waited together, very still and quiet, till the man passed by. As is our custom, Jack thought. How quickly things can become understood sometimes. “Did you happen upon the lake in your wanderings? You must have. It’s pretty hard to miss. They call it a pond.”

“I saw it.”

“It’s really best on a night like this, when you can’t see it. You just hear it breathing, and you feel the breaths on your skin. On a still night, of course. Which this one is, at the moment.”

“Yes, I saw those little chapels, I suppose they’re tombs, but with stained-glass windows and everything, overlooking the lake, as if there would be anyone there to see it.”

“Besides me.”

“And me. I sat there on the step of one for a while, admiring the willows. Very poetic.” She laughed. “That was when I still expected I’d find my way out of here sometime.”

Jack said, “That is absolutely my favorite tomb. The one that looks like a gingerbread house? I have passed many a not unpleasant hour on that step.”

“A gingerbread house—it looks like a witch is going to open the door and invite you in.”

“True. No luck yet.”

She shook her head. “Jack Boughton, how you talk.”

“I mean there might be a plate of cookies involved. I believe that’s how the story goes, isn’t it? You’d take one or two, and then you’d just walk away: Tragedy averted.”

“I don’t think so. Dealing with a witch wouldn’t be that simple.”

“You speak from experience, I suppose?”

“I believe I do.”

“Maybe I know that witch.”

“You don’t. You have your own witches.”

“No doubt. I didn’t mean to encroach.”

“That’s all right.”

“We could walk over there, anyway.”

“We’ve been walking that way for a while. We must almost be there by now.”

“Well, that’s true. I was thinking about the lake, and the willows, and the delectable tomb. Thinking you might want to rest awhile. I guess I wasn’t quite aware of where I was taking you. Not everyone likes to spend midnight on the very porch of extinction, so to speak. The threshold of Judgment, if you prefer. No one with an interest in symbolism, at least. I should have asked.” He laughed, and she was quiet. He wished he could take back every word he had said. “Did you notice? Its gargoyles are cherubs. The water pours out of the jars they’re holding. A nice touch, I think. Gargoyles can be pretty grotesque.” Still quiet.

Then she said, “I’ve been to so many funerals, so many burials. My father always said, ‘That pale horse is carrying a child home to his Father’s house.’ Quoting somebody. Tombs don’t really bother me.”

“Me either, in all seriousness. I was attempting a kind of joke.” This wasn’t really true. It was true that he was interested in the way they bothered him.

That man again, singing. “I—wish I didn’t love you so. My love for you should have faded long ago.” They were very quiet. “I—wish I didn’t need your kiss.”