The Bone Clocks

“Only a psychosoteric could have killed Joseph Rhоmes,” says Фshima. “Rhоmes followed the Shaded Way for seventeen decades.”

Holly understands. “So you think it was Esther Little?”

Unalaq says, “It’s the least implausible explanation.”

“But Esther Little was a … sweet old bat who gave me tea.”

“Yes,” snorts Фshima, “and I’m a sweet old boy who rides around all day on my senior citizen’s bus pass.”

“Why don’t I remember any of this?” says Holly. “And where did Esther Little go afterkilling this Rhоmes man?”

“The first question’s simpler,” says Unalaq. “Any psychosoteric can redact memories. It takes skill to do it with precision, but Esther had that skill. She could have done it on her way in.”

Unconsciously, Holly grips the table. “On her way in—to where?”

“Into your parallax of memories,” I say. “To the asylum you offered her. Esther’s soul was battered in the Chapel of the Dusk, flamed as she fought our way out down the Way of Stones, and drained to the last psychovolt by killing Joseph Rhоmes.”

“Her soul would have needed years to reravel,” says Unalaq. “Years when Esther was as vulnerable to attack as someone in a coma.”

“I … sort of get it.” Holly’s chair creaks. “Esther Little ‘in-gressed’ me, got me away from the crime scene, wiped my memories of what happened … Okay. But where did she go aftershe … recovered?”

Фshima, Unalaq, and I all look at Holly’s head.

Holly frowns, then understands. “You’re bloody joking.”

BY SEVEN O’CLOCK, twilight is draping the attic in blues, grays, and blacks. The little lamp on the piano glows daffodil yellow. Four storys below us, I see the manager of the bookshop bidding a staff member good night. He then walks off arm in arm with a petite lady. The couple make an old-fashioned sight under the mist-haloed solars of West Tenth Street. I draw the curtains on the drizzlestreaked bulletproof glass. Фshima, Unalaq, and I spent the afternoon debriefing Holly further on Horology and our War with the Anchorites, and eating Inez’s pancakes. Going outside would have been a needless risk after this morning’s near disaster, and we’ll avoid 119A until our rendezvous with D’Arnoq on Friday. Arkady and the Deep Stream cloak will keep the place safe. On the evening news the “Police Impostor Fifth Avenue Shootout” was a lead story, with reporters speculating that the dead men were bank robbers who’d had a fatal argument prior to their heist. The national networks haven’t run with the story, due to yesterday’s gun massacre at Beck Creek, Texas, the reignited Senkaku/Diaoyu standoff between China and Japan, and Justin Bieber’s fifth divorce. The Anchorites will know Brzycki was killed by psychosoteric intervention, but how it affects any plans they have for our Second Mission, I cannot guess. I’ve heard nothing from our defector, Elijah D’Arnoq. I hear Unalaq and Holly’s feet on the creaky stairs, and they appear in the doorway.

“You have a psychiatrist’s couch,” says Holly.

“Dr. Marinus will see you now,” I say. “Again. Ready?”

Holly unslippers her feet, and lies back. “I’ve got over half a century of memories stored away, right?”

I roll up the sleeves of my blouse. “A finite infinity, yes.”

“How do you know where to look for Esther Little?”

“I was sent a clue via a cabdriver in Poughkeepsie,” I say.

Unalaq puts a cushion under Holly’s head. “Relax.”

“Marinus?” Holly flinches. “Will you see everythingI ever did?”

“That’s how scansion works. But I’m a psychiatrist from the seventh century, remember. There’s not much left that I haven’t seen.”

Holly’s unsure what to do with her hands. “Do I stay conscious?”

“I can hiatus you while I scansion you, if you wish.”

“Uh … No need. Yes. I dunno. You decide.”

“Very well. Tell me about your house, near Bantry.”

“O- kay. Dooneen Cottage was originally my great-aunt Eilнsh’s cottage. It’s on the Sheep’s Head Peninsula, this rocky finger sticking out into the Atlantic. There’s a drop to a cove at the end of the garden, and a path going down to the pier and …”