Page 12 of The Lost Future of Pepperharrow

Mori smiled, shy like he always was if anyone was too pleased about something he’d said. ‘I think that deserves a toast.’

There was a hum from upstairs as Six turned on her generator to power her lightbulb collection, and then a squeaking that must have been the new addition going into a socket. Thaniel fetched down the brandy and a pair of glasses. As he set them down, he caught the smell of lemon soap from Mori’s clothes. It was on his skin too, hotter. Mori looked back as Thaniel leaned forward to kiss his cheek. He touched their heads together, just cradling the base of Thaniel’s skull for a careful moment before he kissed him back. Thaniel felt a flood of white hot relief.

He had never known what the agreement was. It was an unbearable thing to ask him. If Thaniel tapped on Mori’s door at night, he always let him in, but he never touched Thaniel first, and never spoke about it; no endearments, no promises, and no discussion. Thaniel liked it that way, but he was always afraid. Mori was from a generation and a country where carrying on with a friend was unremarkable, something you could do idly for a summer or two, or, worse, submit politely to even if you didn’t much want it, like a boring work dinner, for the sake of a bit of company. Thaniel had decided a long time ago he could live without knowing.

FIVE

Eight o’clock had just begun to chime when Six fetched Thaniel to read. The attic ran the length of the house. There was a trapdoor above the landing and a brass-fitted ladder that unfolded itself when the hatch opened. She hurried up ahead of him. Thaniel went more slowly. The insides of his elbows ached and he felt feverish.

Six’s lightbulb collection had turned the rafters starry. The bulbs were all different sizes and shades, wired up at different heights, because where they were depended on what she had found to climb up on. There weren’t dolls or normal toys. She had yelled and hidden from the doll Thaniel’s sister had once tried to give her. Instead, winking like sequins all across her desk were rows and rows of minuscule cogs she’d filed down herself. She loved going with Mori to the factory where you could buy them rough in bulk. She was making a naval chronometer.

Mori was there ahead of them, building a pyramid of kindling in the fireplace. He never let her go without a fire even if there was only a little chill in the air, and Thaniel loved him a lot for that. Growing up, his own father had had an unbreakable rule that there would only be a fire in the tiny gamekeeper’s cabin on days when you had to crack the ice on the water pitcher. It had been fair enough, but Thaniel had never hated anything like he’d hated winter then, except maybe his father, who hadn’t done it because of the cost – the cabin was right next to the woods and firewood was free as part of the job – but on principle. Really it had been a healthy experience, because now he knew that if anyone said ‘it’s the principle of the thing’ then the correct response was to punch that person in the throat, but he was glad that Six wasn’t having to learn that way.

She gave Thaniel the generator instruction manual and bumped Mori hard on her way by him, which made Thaniel pay attention even before she did anything else. She rolled a die along her desk, looked at the number and folded her arms. She was holding something else. Thaniel couldn’t see what it was. Mori jumped as if a huge noise had gone off in his face, even though there was nothing but the skitter of the die. He didn’t say anything.

She rolled the die again. Mori flinched hard, then eased when it landed on four.

‘Six,’ Thaniel said, slowly, because he had just understood what she was doing.

A die had exactly even sides. Mori had no way of knowing on which side it would fall, since nothing was more likely than anything else. Exactly even chances, one in six. Random was random whether you were a clairvoyant or not. Coins, dice, and lightning: that was the random trinity. Mori could watch a thunderstorm or a game of roulette for hours, just for the novelty of having no idea what was going to happen next.

The die landed on a six.

She slung down what looked like a teabag, but when it hit the floor, it went off with a bang much too loud for the attic.

‘Christ,’ Thaniel said, taken right off guard. She had always done peculiar things, but fireworks indoors weren’t something he’d ever expected. He had a feeling that she would be a lot older before she understood the ordinary rules most people took for granted. No stealing, no staring too hard, no firecrackers in the face. ‘What are you doing? You can’t have those in here.’

‘But they’re mainly only potential firecrackers,’ Six reasoned evenly.

Mori clenched his hands hard on his knees. ‘I think three times is enough, don’t you?’ he said quietly through the chemical smoke. The die had landed right on the edge of the desk and now it fell into his lap. He jerked back from it like most people would have from a spider. Thaniel heard his breath catch.

‘No more dice,’ Thaniel decided. He picked it up and slung it in the fire. It made her squeak. He knelt down to her so he wasn’t looming over her. ‘Come on, Six, if you’re angry, you have to tell people, you can’t throw dice and firecrackers. That’s not very …’ He stopped, because he had been going to say ‘ladylike’, but ladylikeness was the reason Mori thought women shouldn’t be allowed to vote. ‘Honourable.’

She hid under the bed before he was even halfway through speaking. Mori was staring at the fire as if he were worried the die wouldn’t burn but crawl back out of its own accord. When Thaniel touched his shoulder, his bones were so tight they thrummed. He seemed not to feel it.

‘Kei,’ Thaniel said.

‘No, I’m fine,’ Mori said. ‘It’s just – it’s …’ He let his breath out. He was much more bothered than he should have been by a firecracker.

Thaniel pulled him gently to make him move away from the fire. Mori let him, but only by a couple of inches.

‘I didn’t mean it to be that bad!’ Six said anxiously. She sounded near to crying. Thaniel’s heart squeezed. She had no middle ground; she was either content, or so deeply ashamed it scared him.

‘I know that, roku-chan. Come out,’ Mori said. He wound up one of her clockwork mice and scooted it under the bed to her. ‘The decent thing is to stand up straight and look someone in the eye.’

She sniffed.

Mori leaned down. He kept his hands clasped, holding himself just on the strength of his spine, though he had to go low enough for his hair to brush the floor. ‘I can’t do that if you don’t come out.’

She hesitated, then edged out. There was real fear in her. She expected a cane or worse, even now, though Mori had never so much as raised his voice at her. Mori pushed gently on her chest to make her uncurl, because she tipped forward over her knees when somebody had told her she was in the wrong. She would do it even when she was standing up. Usually she would find a corner first, and then creep down the wall. It was appalling and animal. Thaniel hoped she didn’t remember why she did it anymore.

Mori bowed where he was kneeling. ‘I’m sorry I left you for so long.’

She stared, then nodded and bowed back. ‘I’m sorry I let off fireworks inside.’

‘Square?’

‘Square,’ she agreed, broadcasting relief.