Part 26 (1/2)

”Silence is a solid, interestingly-told YA novel that seems, superficially, to be just another wave in the current flood of YA supernatural. Being a wave isn't bad; I write urban fantasy, I am basically sponsoring a surfing compet.i.tion. But there's something wonderful about diving into a wave and discovering infinitely more.

Read Silence. Read it because it's awesome, and read it because any author who includes a complex, well-written, believable, believably autistic central character deserves our applause, and book sales are the best form of clapped hands, for an author.

My hat is off to Mich.e.l.le Sagara.”

-Seanan McGuire.

Coming in May 2013.

in a DAW ma.s.s market edition.

from MICh.e.l.lE SAGARA SILENCE.

Read on for a special preview.

EMMA.

EVERYTHING HAPPENS AT NIGHT.

The world changes, the shadows grow, there's secrecy and privacy in dark places. First kiss, at night, by the monkey bars and the old swings that the children and their parents have vacated; second, longer, kiss, by the bike stands, swirl of dust around feet in the dry summer air. Awkward words, like secrets just waiting to be broken, the struggle to find the right ones, the heady fear of exposure-what if, what if-the joy when the words are returned. Love, in the parkette, while the moon waxes and the clouds pa.s.s.

Promises, at night. Not first promises-those are so old they can't be remembered-but new promises, sharp and biting; they almost hurt to say, but it's a good hurt. Dreams, at night, before sleep, and dreams during sleep.

Everything, always, happens at night.

Emma unfolds at night. The moment the door closes at her back, she relaxes into the cool breeze, shakes her hair loose, seems to grow three inches. It's not that she hates the day, but it doesn't feel real; there are too many people and too many rules and too many questions. Too many teachers, too many concerns. It's an act, getting through the day; Emery Collegiate is a stage. She pins up her hair, wears her uniform-on Fridays, on formal days, she wears the stupid plaid skirt and the jacket-goes to her cla.s.ses. She waves at her friends, listens to them talk, forgets almost instantly what they talk about. Sometimes it's band, sometimes it's cla.s.s, sometimes it's the other friends, but most often it's boys.

She's been there, done all that. It doesn't mean anything anymore.

At night? Just Petal and Emma. At night, you can just be yourself.

Petal barks, his voice segueing into a whine. Emma pulls a Milk-Bone out of her jacket pocket and feeds him. He's overweight, and he doesn't need it-but he wants it, and she wants to give it to him. He's nine, now, and Emma suspects he's half-deaf. He used to run from the steps to the edge of the curb, half-dragging her on the leash-her father used to get so mad at the dog when he did.

He's a rottweiler, not a lapdog, Em.

He's just a puppy.

Not at that size, he isn't. He'll scare people just by standing still; he needs to learn to heel, and he needs to learn that he can hurt you if he drags you along.

He doesn't run now. Doesn't drag her along. True, she's much bigger than she used to be, but it's also true that he's much older. She misses the old days. But at least he's still here. She waits while he sniffs at the green bins. It's his little ritual. She walks him along the curb, while he starts and stops, tail wagging. Emma's not in a hurry now. She'll get there eventually.

Petal knows. He's walked these streets with Emma for all of his life. He'll follow the curb to the end of the street, watch traffic pa.s.s as if he'd like to go fetch a moving car, and then cross the street more or less at Emma's heel. He talks. For a rottweiler, he's always been yappy.

But he doesn't expect more of an answer than a Milk-Bone, which makes him different from anyone else. She lets him yap as the street goes by. He quiets when they approach the gates.

The cemetery gates are closed at night. This keeps cars out, but there's no gate to keep out people. There's even a footpath leading to the cement sidewalk that surrounds the cemetery and a small gate without a padlock that opens inward. She pushes it, hears the familiar creak. It doesn't swing in either direction, and she leaves it open for Petal. He brushes against her leg as he slides by.

It's dark here. It's always dark when she comes. She's only seen the cemetery in the day twice, and she never wants to see it in daylight again. It's funny how night can change a place. But night does change this one. There are no other people here. There are flowers in vases and wreaths on stands; there are sometimes letters, written and pinned flat by rocks beneath headstones. Once she found a teddy bear. She didn't take it, and she didn't touch it, but she did stop to read the name on the headstone: Lauryn Bernstein. She read the dates and did the math. Eight years old.

She half-expected to see the mother or father or grandmother or sister come back at night, the way she does. But if they do, they come by a different route, or they wait until no one-not even Emma-is watching. Fair enough. She'd do the same.

But she wonders if they come together-mother, father, grandmother, sister-or if they each come alone, without speaking a word to anyone else. She wonders how much of Lauryn's life was private, how much of it was built on moments of two: mother and daughter, alone; father and daughter, alone. She wonders about Lauryn's friends, because her friends' names aren't carved here in stone.

She knows about that. Others will come to see Lauryn's grave, and no matter how important they were to Lauryn, they won't see any evidence of themselves there: no names, no dates, nothing permanent. They'll be outsiders, looking in, and nothing about their memories will matter to pa.s.sing strangers a hundred years from now.

Emma walks into the heart of the cemetery and comes, at last, to a headstone. There are white flowers here, because Nathan's mother has visited during the day. The lilies are bound by wire into a wreath, a fragrant, thick circle that perches on an almost invisible frame.

Emma brings nothing to the grave and takes nothing away. If she did, she's certain Nathan's mother would remove it when she comes to clean. Even here, even though he's dead, she's still cleaning up after him.

She leaves the flowers alone and finds a place to sit. The graveyard is awfully crowded, and the headstones b.u.t.t against each other, but only one of them really matters to Emma. She listens to the breeze and the rustle of leaves; there are willows and oaks in the cemetery, so it's never exactly quiet. The sound of pa.s.sing traffic can be heard, especially the horns of p.i.s.sed-off drivers, but their lights can't be seen. In the city this is as close to isolated as you get.

She doesn't talk. She doesn't tell Nathan about her day. She doesn't ask him questions. She doesn't swear undying love. She's done all that, and it made no difference; he's there, and she's here. Petal sits down beside her. After a few minutes, he rolls over and drops his head in her lap; she scratches behind his big, floppy ears, and sits, and breathes, and stretches.

One of the best things about Nathan was that she could just sit, in silence, without being alone. Sometimes she'd read, and sometimes he'd read; sometimes he'd play video games, and sometimes he'd build things; sometimes they'd just walk aimlessly all over the city, as if footsteps were a kind of writing. It wasn't that she wasn't supposed to talk; when she wanted to talk, she did. But if she didn't, it wasn't awkward. He was like a quiet, private place.

And that's the only thing that's left of him, really.

A quiet, private place.

CHAPTER.

ONE.

AT 9:30 P.M., CELL TIME, the phone rang. Emma slid it out of her pocket, rearranging Petal's head in the process, flipped it open, saw that it was Allison. Had it been anyone else, she wouldn't have answered.

”Hey.”

”Emma?”

No, it's Amy, she almost snapped. Honestly, if you rang her number, who did you expect to pick it up? But she didn't, because it was Allison, and she'd only feel guilty about one second after the words left her mouth. ”Yeah, it's me,” she said instead.

Petal rolled his head back onto her lap and then whined while she tried to pull a Milk-Bone out of her very crumpled jacket pocket. Nine years hadn't made him more patient.

”Where are you?”

”Just walking Petal. Mom's prepping a headache, so I thought I'd get us both out of the house before she killed us.” Time to go. She s.h.i.+fted her head slightly, caught the cell phone between her chin and collarbone, and shoved Petal gently off her lap. Then she stood, shaking the wrinkles out of her jacket.

”Did you get the e-mail Amy sent?”

”What e-mail?”

”That would be no. How long have you been walking?”