The weight of that soft hand, the intimacy of her smile—yes, Flora Tilburn was one of nature’s born heartbreakers.
Good thing my heart wasn’t hers to be broken. I patted her wrist genially and made my escape.
My membership application was still pending, but Gaskill allowed me entrance to the Antikythera Club with a silent nod. Alas, Ruthie and John had not taken the baby into the bar—I could have done with something stiff and sparkling—but into the cozy, cushioned warmth of the club library. Velvet chairs waited with welcoming arms to receive readers, sturdy tables stood ready to support spread-out research materials, and small burnished lamps cast warm light over hardbacks and paperbacks alike. Retromatting texts was nearly as difficult as retromatting clothing—but retromatting paper and platens and type from a set of instructions was entirely feasible, and several publishing companies currently flourished on the ship, as well as a dozen different newspapers and magazines.
I’d have guessed about half the books on these shelves had never been seen on Old Earth. Probably for the best, as the ideas Antikythera Club members tended to produce were the kind that were as beautiful and brilliant as lightning, and just as dangerous to try to grasp with a human hand.
Unless, it seemed, that hand was small and plump and belonged to the infant Peregrine, because the baby was currently at the center of an admiring circle of geniuses and being pampered like a very small, very smug Louis XIV.
A particle physicist held out one digit to be grasped by tiny baby fingers, and theFairweather’s greatest astronomer was currently waggling her glasses up and down to make Peregrine giggle at the way they caught the light. Several people were whispering questions to Ruthie, and I misliked the way they were taking such careful notes. As if the baby were an object of study, a stunning scientific theory, or a newly engineered weapon, rather than a small fragile person unable to defend himself.
I found a seat near where John sat sprawled in an armchair, his hands wrapped around something with wreaths of steam. “Any news?” he asked.
“Some,” I conceded. “And I have an ethical dilemma to put to you.”
“It would be nice to use my brain for something other than internal screaming,” John said with a glance at thebaby and his court of scientists. Ruthie had produced a bottle and they were all avidly watching the baby eat, nestled in the crook of my nephew’s arm, Ruthie proud and fond as any new parent.
“It seems,” I said, “that Flora had stopped updating her memory-book, so as to keep Peregrine’s existence a secret from Ferry.”
“That girl watches too many flickers,” John muttered.
I pulled the diary from my pocket and set it on the short table between us. “But she did not entirely give up recording her memories. She only switched mediums. And there’s a lot in here that I don’t think she’d want other people to see.”
“Not a problem for a detective,” John said wryly.
“Thankfully not,” I answered cheerfully. “But here’s my dilemma: When all the detecting is done, and the various threads of this case have been unbraided, should I give Flora her diary back? I mean, would it be a gift or a burden?”
John considered. “Is it not hers by right?”
“In one sense. In another sense it belongs to a woman who’s gone. Someone who once existed, and now does not.” I tucked one leg under me and leaned forward. “You heard her say she felt like it had happened to someone else. It sounded a little traumatic. I’m not at all interested in traumatizing her further.”
John tapped his fingers on the blue cloth cover. “I suppose it depends on where you draw the boundary. Do weall become different people when we get reembodied in Medical?”
“Sometimes,” I said.
John’s eyes turned more knowing than was comfortable. “This is about Celia, isn’t it?”
I always went a little breathless at the name, even all these years later. My former wife had been losing her ability to retain memories in her body—which wasn’t a problem, so long as they were preserved in her memory-book in the Library. But an accident had wiped those clean, and our marriage had not survived their erasure. “I tried to tell her stories,” I admitted. “To give her my own memories in place of hers. It… proved uncomfortable for both of us.”
John nodded. “You didn’t want to feel like you had that much control over her.”
“I—yes,” I said. It was disconcerting to have someone else be so precise and on point about something so intimate. I squirmed, feeling a new sympathy for the people I prodded with questions day in and day out. “Perhaps I’m not as meddlesome as I’ve come to believe.”
“Let’s not be hasty.” I made a face at him, and John snickered into his coffee. But the speculation hadn’t left those observant eyes. “Something about Flora reminds you of Celia,” he said.
“I thought it was just the blond hair at first. Now I’m not so sure.” Some of those diary passages kept whisperingthrough my mind… “Perhaps I’ll ask her what she would prefer,” I said. “Give the decision to the person whom it most concerns, wash my hands of the whole problem.”
“Probably best,” John said, and finished his coffee. “And now I should probably take my turn with the baby and give my beloved time to eat something.”
He rose smoothly from his chair and moved toward the little group centered on Peregrine. Efficient practice and unnaysayable authority soon had Ruthie up, a drowsy Peregrine on John’s shoulder, several scientists shushed, and a soothing sense of calm returning to the space. Most of the club members wandered off, flipping through notebook pages and talking animatedly about the day’s revelations.
Ruthie came over looking equal parts joyful and wrung out, like a party frock freshly washed and spread out to dry. “Hullo, Aunt,” he said. “Fancy a sandwich?”
I gratefully accepted, and we decamped to the bar area, food not being permitted in the library.
The Antikythera’s chef had a way with a Monte Cristo that was something close to witchcraft. I wolfed down the first half and savored the second.
Ruthie ate absently, gaze flicking over to Peregrine approximately every three seconds. “May I ask you something, Aunt Dorothy?”
