O' Artful Death Part 23

Patch nodded and she opened the faceplate, peering awkwardly into the helmet. "There's something tied on the inside," she said, reaching back and untying a string and coming up with a small cloth bag. She handed it to Patch.

"I wondered about whether I should tell you," she said. "I thought that Sherry and Charley should be able to sell it, if they needed to. But now I think that the colony is her legacy, too, Charley's. I still don't know if it was the right thing to do."

Patch took the small bag and went over to Sir Brian. He lifted the helmet and dropped the little bag back inside.

"Let's see what happens," he said. "I think it should be up to Charley."

SWEENEY STOPPED BY Bennett Dammers's house the next day, before she and Toby started for Boston. Bennett Dammers's house the next day, before she and Toby started for Boston.

She told him about Rosemary and about Mary and Jean Luc and she told him about the deed and Louis Denholm's joke.

He expressed his surprise at it all and then he said, "Do you know, I wonder what will happen between you and that nice Englishman."

Sweeney blushed.

"If I had known you under other circ.u.mstances," he said very quietly. "In a different time, in a different life where I'm not old enough to be your grandfather, I believe I should have fallen in love with you myself. It doesn't end, you know. The excitement of love. It never stops mattering. Don't make that mistake."

Her eyes welled with tears and before she knew what she was doing, she was blurting out to him, "I don't know what's wrong with me. I should want that. I know I should. But I'm so mixed up. I don't want to mix anyone else up, too. I feel as though I'm a disease, that I'll infect someone else with it and I should stay away, alone."

He smiled kindly and he took her hand and let her cry. "I expect you'll be all right," was all he said.

THE CAR WAS packed and Toby was waiting discreetly, listening to the news on the radio. She and Ian stood in the cold driveway, leaning against each other. packed and Toby was waiting discreetly, listening to the news on the radio. She and Ian stood in the cold driveway, leaning against each other.

"So you're going to go down and see Sherry and Charley today?" she asked him.

"Yes. I think I'll invite them to come to England for a visit sometime."

"She resembles you a little. Charley. I didn't notice it before." She reached up to straighten his gla.s.ses.

"Why don't you come to England," he said suddenly. "We can go for walks in Hyde Park and get married and have lots of babies who will have dual citizenship and lead strange bi-national existences."

He was kidding, or half-kidding, but he kissed her and looked hopefully down at her through his gla.s.ses, his eyes blue and very serious. She wondered what it would take for her to say yes, for her to get on an airplane and ... and what?

She stood against him in the crisp, cold air, the deaths hanging between them as hard and cold as metal. Something she had once written in a paper about European funeral rituals came into her mind, "Death must have his due."

There had been so much death. She breathed in the cold, dead winter air and, with a small fluttering, she felt something loosen deep within her. Her breath caught in her chest.

"Not yet," she said, trying to smile. "But maybe I'll come visit. In the spring."

AS SWEENEY AND TOBY drove south a light snow started to fall, then grew heavier and heavier again, the giant flakes twisting in the cold air and falling to earth, making a thick shroud over the ground. drove south a light snow started to fall, then grew heavier and heavier again, the giant flakes twisting in the cold air and falling to earth, making a thick shroud over the ground.

Just north of Boston, Sweeney pulled the car over and they got out to watch the sun set in the parking lot of a rest stop. When the sun, brilliantly pink and violet, had cleared the horizon and disappeared, she turned to Toby and hugged him hard, letting him cry, the pain between them a kind of anchor, pain she leaned into the way a sailor leans his boat into the wind.

Acknowledgments.

Many thanks to my agent, Lynn Whittaker. Her enthusiasm, expert agenting, and friendship throughout were indispensable. Everyone at St. Martin's Minotaur was wonderful. Thanks especially to Kelley Ragland and Ben Sevier, who were tirelessly kind, smart, and helpful in every way.

A number of people helped with the details of their own particular fields, though any mistakes or false notes are mine and mine alone. Thanks to Bob Dance, Robert Sand, and Phil Nel. Thanks also to a fabulous group of readers and friends who provided very helpful criticism, a.s.sistance and/or support: Vendela Vida, Olivia Gentile, Kathleen Burge, Sarah Piel, Andy Jen, Geoff Hansen, Deborah Perry, Jennifer Hauck, Vicki Kuskowski, and Rachel Gross.

And finally, many, many thanks to Susan and David Taylor, who have provided love, support, and cheerleading for this, and all of my endeavors; to John Judson Taylor, for all of his love; to Tom Taylor, a stunningly good writer, editor, and brother; and to my husband, Matt Dunne, who makes all things possible and fun. And many, many thanks to Faith Dunne, who should have been here.