So Lan had letters and flowers and gifts piling up from people we didn’t even know, as well as letters from all the family, even the cousins and second cousins that Mama and Papa hadn’t told yet because there wasn’t much to tell. Miriam and I were the ones who ended up answering the letters. Miriam took the huge stack from the people we didn’t know at all, and I took the giant one from the family. When your father is a seventh son, and most of his brothers and sisters married, there are a lot of aunts and uncles and cousins, and that was on top of Sharl and Peter and Diane and Julie and all the rest of my older sisters and brothers who’d stayed in the East.
I didn’t mind writing my brothers and sisters, but I wondered a bit about the rest of the family. Most of them hadn’t liked me much when I was little, and I hadn’t seen any of them since I was thirteen. The one letter I was sure about was the one to William. I’d written him the day we got to Philadelphia, to tell him what we knew about Lan. He’d written back right away — a short note to Mama and Papa saying how sorry he was to hear it and that he trusted things would work out well and he hoped we’d let him know when they did. There was also a letter to me that was a lot less formal and polite.
I never really believed everything Lan said about Professor Warren, he wrote, but I guess he was right after all. I don’t know why Lan was taking that class, anyway — he doesn’t have the temperament for Hijero-Cathay an magic. Write if you need to, but don’t feel as if you have to. You have more important things to do right now.
I wrote him back right away, even though he’d said not to. It was the one letter I really wanted to answer. All the well-wishing from other people was a nice distraction some of the time, but it got real wearing after a while, especially since we still didn’t know if Lan would be all right. Writing William was a comfort, because I didn’t have to watch what I said or pretend I was sure everything would be fine.
Pretending everything would be fine got harder and harder as the days went by and Lan didn’t wake up. The doctors still wouldn’t let us see him, except for Frank, and Mama and Papa for just a few minutes a day. Finally, five days after we arrived, Mama cornered Frank.
“I’d appreciate some more information,” she told him, in that tone that said he’d better fess up right now, or else.
Frank sighed. “Mother —”
“Your father has been a professor of magic for nearly fifteen years,” Mama interrupted. “I’ve seen my share of student mishaps, though thank the Lord no one has died of them. Still, I know what is usual and what isn’t, and this isn’t. You know more than you’re saying. Say.”
“I — there isn’t much to say.” Frank looked at Mama, then Papa, then me. “From everything we know — and we’ve talked to the other students and examined both them and Lan — the critical period was the first seventy-two hours, and —”
“Critical period?” I interrupted. “What does that mean?”
Frank swallowed hard. “It means Lan should have died then, if he was going to. And if he wasn’t, he should have started improving.”
“But he hasn’t,” Papa said heavily.
“No.” Frank straightened his shoulders. “It’s been more than twice as long as we expected, and he isn’t improving. None of the treatments we’ve tried have helped. I don’t think he’s going to make it, Mama.”
I stared at him, thinking that I should feel upset, or cry. I just felt numb and a little dizzy. It should have been a shock, but after so long, it was almost a relief to know, even though it was sad and horrible, too. Papa’s jaw tightened, and then his head jerked, just once. Mama’s face went a little whiter, and she nodded, too. “Then there’s no reason for us not to stay with him, is there?” she said.
“I suppose not,” Frank said. “I’ll talk to the floor director. They may not want everyone there at once.”
“Then they can come and tell us,” Mama said. “We’ll be with Lan. All of us. Daniel, Miriam, Eff.” She raised her chin and swept out of the waiting room, and we followed her. Frank hesitated, then trailed along behind.
That was the first time they’d let Miriam and me in to see Lan. His room was hardly bigger than the box room in the attic at home, and I could see why they didn’t want a crowd of people in there. There was just room for the door to open without hitting the end of the narrow bed. The walls were painted gray, and there were plain, heavy curtains at the one window that had been only partly opened, so the light was dim. It smelled of medicine and sweat and the dusty tang of spent magic.
Lan looked very small and white lying on the bed. I could tell just by looking at him that he wasn’t sleeping. He had bandages on the left side of his face and his left shoulder and arm; Frank explained in a low voice that he’d been burned when he’d stopped the spell and protected the other students.
I nodded along with everyone else, but I didn’t really take in what Frank was saying. I didn’t seem to be able to think at all, or do anything except stand and stare. Mama took the one chair squeezed in beside the bed and held Lan’s good hand for a while. Nobody spoke much, and when they did, it was in soft voices, as if we were trying not to wake him. I thought that didn’t make much sense, since we’d all have been happier than Christmas if Lan had even moved or grumbled a little in his sleep, but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to upset Mama.
After about half an hour, one of the doctors came in and said we couldn’t all stay. I could see Mama was ready to argue, so I volunteered to go back and write some more letters if I could trade places with Miriam later. Mama nodded, and Frank said he’d walk me back to the hotel, so that was two less people for a while, and that seemed to be enough for the doctor.
The minute I got out of the hospital, I felt better. I hadn’t noticed how odd and light-headed I’d gotten until then. Frank looked worried and solemn. By the time we got to the hotel, I just felt tired. I told Frank I’d answer some letters and then take a nap, and sent him back to Mama.
As soon as he left, I lay down on the bed without even kicking my shoes off and fell straight asleep, and straight into dreaming. I could tell right off that it was another one of those dreams, the ones that were too sharp and clear and orderly to be normal dreams. I’d had another few since the last of the drowning dreams back in September — maybe one every couple of months — but I hadn’t thought on them much because they weren’t frightening. Mostly, they were just dreams of following the silver cord and watching the woods green up.
This one started off that way, with me following the cord through a forest. The light started going, as if the sun was setting somewhere I couldn’t see, and a mist came up in the trees. Something tugged on the cord I was holding, and I nearly dropped it. It was pulling me left, instead of straight on, the way I’d been walking. I stopped moving for a minute, and the tug came again. I turned left and started walking again.
The mist got thicker and thicker, until I couldn’t see the trees any longer. I tightened my fingers around the cord; if I accidentally let go of it and lost it in the mist, I’d never find it again.
After a long while, the mist cleared and I was standing in the darkened kitchen of our old house in Helvan Shores. I felt unhappy and uncomfortable; I didn’t have a whole lot of good memories from there. The silver cord I’d been following was gone. Everything was quiet and empty and very cold.
I shivered and looked around. The big black stove was barely warm to my touch, but when I opened the fire door I saw a few embers still glowing in the heaped-up ashes of yesterday’s cookfire. I gave a Rennie-like sniff, wondering who had left the stove in such a state, and set out to mend matters as best I could.