The Keepers (54 page)

“Goofing.”

“Yeah. Did Dad see the note?”

“No.”

“Well, what did he say when I wasn't here?”

“I told him you had a thing.”

“A thing. You didn't call the police?”

“What would I have told them?”

Horace chewed his sandwich slowly. “I don't know.”

“The truth?”

He chopped a laugh, bits of bread spewing out. “Sorry,” he said, trying to push the absurdity of the thought aside. He swallowed what he had and put the sandwich down. “Sorry. I know what I did was bad.”

“What you did.”

“Yes.”

His mother leaned across the table. “Horace.”

“Yeah?”

She laid her hand down just beside the Fel'Daera. “Horace, I know this Tan'ji.”

Everything inside him ground to a halt. “What did you say?”

“I said I know this Tan'ji.” She leaned back and sighed, squeezing her eyes closed for a long, hovering moment. “I know it well, in fact. The Box of Promises. The Fel'Daera.”

Horace could hardly let his ears hear the sound of the name on her lips. She opened her eyes, sad and shining, pleading with him. She . . .
knew
. And for a moment she was not his mother at all, was someone else entirely, some being he had never met, never known, someone he could not trust or recall. A rival, even. “Did you have it?” he croaked, surprised to even find his voice. He looked at the box, between them on the table. He itched to snatch it up. “Were you its Keeper?”

“Oh, god, no, not me. I was not so . . .” She hesitated for several long seconds, fishing deep for a word. And it was this moment Horace would remember later, long after, remembering the sight of her face as she struggled for a word both true and kind. Because of course—he later understood—there were other words she could have summoned that night, words kinder but less true, or truer but less kind, and watching this
woman choose those words might have been the single keenest lesson he would ever learn about the course he had taken, the life that had come for him, the long path that led forward and forward into the unknowable. “I was not so
needed
,” she said at last. “Not like you.” With those words, there she was again, just as she always was. Just as she always would be.

“How do you know the name, then? What else do you know?”

“I know enough to recognize a leestone when one is brought into my house. Enough to know what that means. I know enough to guess the reasons for your sneaking out at night, the reasons for disappearing for a day. I know enough to recognize Chloe for what she is and imagine what the two of you might have gone through together. I know the names Meister and Hapsteade. As for the Fel'Daera, I know . . .” She hesitated. “I
knew
. . .”

Horace's heart was a struggling beast in his chest. “You knew the last Keeper.”

She shook her head. “Not the Keeper.” She gave him a long, open stare like a wound, full of hurt and apology and hope. “The Maker.”

I'
M SO GRATEFUL TO BE ABLE TO THANK EVERYONE WHO
played even a small role in shaping the path that led to this book, beginning with my parents, for whom reading and writing was always so vital.

I also want to thank Jackie May Parkison, this book's first real reader, whose early edits slid the project into an orbit it would never have otherwise found;

Miriam Altshuler, my wonderful agent, for that first long talk and all the talks since, and for all her invaluable guidance;

Toni Markiet and Abbe Goldberg, my editors, whose brave and patient work did so very much to make this book what it is;

Laura Koritz, for being such a constant friend and honest reader;

my son, Rowan, who inspired so many of these pages, for
never being too impressed and for never being afraid to have an idea I might steal;

my stepdaughter, Bridget, for being such an excellent human being to share the world with, and for teaching me so much about being a dad;

and above all, again, my amazing wife, Jodee, for almost never telling me to shut up about it already.

Much gratitude also to Phoebe Yeh, Kate Jackson, the entire Harper crew, the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference, Matt Mulholland and his physics students at Zionsville High School, Neil Archer, Philip Graham, Michael Madonick, Alex Shakar, Richard Powers, and Matthew Minicucci—teachers, believers, and friends.

Photo by Jodee Stanley

TED SANDERS
is the author of the short-story collection
No Animals We Could Name
, winner of the 2011 Bakeless Prize for fiction. His stories and essays have appeared in publications such as the
Georgia Review
, the
Gettysburg Review
, and
The PEN/O. Henry Prize Stories
anthology. A recipient of a 2012 National Endowment for the Arts literature fellowship, he lives with his family in Urbana, Illinois, and teaches at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. This is his first book for younger readers. You can visit him online at
www.tedsanders.net
.

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.

Cover art © 2015 by Iacopo Bruno

Cover design by Amy Ryan.

THE KEEPERS: THE BOX AND THE DRAGONFLY
. Text copyright © 2015 by Ted Sanders. Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Iacopo Bruno. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com

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