Chapter 22 I

For those who lived at the time, Russell Eigenbrick's first "reign" years were a difficult time as never before or since (or so they look back).On the November day that he was elected president by defeating a symbolic opposition force, a snowstorm suddenly appeared and has not seemed to subside since.It couldn't have been winter all those years, and summer must have come on time, but it was winter that was generally remembered: the longest, coldest, deepest winter ever recorded, in unbroken succession.Whether it is the suffering that the "tyrant" inflicted on them with full apology, or the suffering caused by the deliberate riots of the opponents, it has been made worse by this winter and the months of ice and mud rain. In trouble.It was a winter that made trucks, traffic, and regiments in brown uniforms difficult to move, and everyone remembered that there were refugees huddling together for warmth or lining up everywhere, relying on tattered clothes to resist the severe cold.Trains stopped, planes grounded, mud-splattered vehicles lined up at the new border for inspection by guards, and smoke from exhaust pipes spewed out in the bitter cold.There was a shortage of everything, a terrible struggle, a feeling of tribulation and uncertainty made all the more terrible by the isolation and the endless cold.On the square in Ayutthaya, the blood of martyrs and reactionaries froze in the dirty snow.

In Edgewood, the old houses are going from bad to worse: ancient water pipes are frozen, an entire floor is sealed off, and dilapidated rooms are filled with cold dust.They also put up ugly black stoves in front of the marble fireplaces, but to make matters worse dozens of windows had been nailed with plastic film (for the first time ever), so every day looking out of the windows seemed to be filled with fog.One night, Smoky heard strange noises in the deserted vegetable garden, so he went out to check with a flashlight, only to startle a starving animal.It is long and thin, with gray hair, red eyes, drooling, hungry and cold, almost mad.Everyone else said it was a stray dog ​​or something, but only Smoky had seen it, and Smoky was a little suspicious.

To keep the plaster of the ceiling from drying out and cracking, a pot of water was kept on the stove in the old piano room.Smoky haphazardly nailed up a huge wooden box to hold the firewood, and the two (stove and box) together gave the pretty room a nice flavor.Rudy Flood had split those logs, and he had accidentally split himself.He fell forward, holding the chainsaw in his hand, and was killed before he hit the ground, causing a jolt when he hit the ground (this is what Robin said, because he witnessed the accident) accidental change of temperament).Whenever Sophie left her drum table to add wood to that demanding man, she had the uncomfortable or at least odd feeling that what she was throwing into the fire was not Rudy's wood but a piece of wood. Pieces of Rudy.

Work is exhausting.But that wasn't the case when Sophie was young.In the good old days, young men might give up their parents' long-running farms, but now Sonny Nunn and many others besides Robin are into farming, and they think that if it weren't for these lands , These jobs, they really have nothing.After all, Rudy is a special case. Most of the experiences of the older generation are endless possibilities. They can often turn around suddenly and have various visions of freedom.The younger generation sees it very differently.Their motto is a cliché like "make the best use of everything and cherish resources", and it is inevitable.This can be applied anywhere: In an effort to do his part, Smoky has decided to reduce or suspend rents indefinitely.Older houses show this too: it does wear out, or so it seems.Sophie pulled her thick shawl tighter, looked up at the cracks in the ceiling that looked like skeletal palms and arms, and then at her cards.

Consumes, wears out, cannot be replaced.Will it be so?She looked at the cards she had dealt. What Nora Crowder left Sophie, besides the deck of cards, was her intuition: each set of cards unfolded is closely related to the other arrays of the deck, and they belong to The same terrain, or telling the same story, can only be interpreted in different ways according to different purposes, so it seems incoherent.Sophie followed Aunt Claude's opinion and gave a further explanation: If everything is one, then as long as you keep asking the same question, you should eventually get a complete answer (no matter how long and complicated), the whole answer should be will emerge.She just needs to be focused enough to keep asking questions in the right way (variations and descriptions must be correct) and not get distracted by little questions that she didn't even ask and the answer looms on the deck, like "Yes, Smoky her laryngitis will get worse", "Lily's baby is going to be a boy", etc., then she might have an answer.

The question answered by Ariel Hawksquill was not exactly what she wanted to ask, but the sudden and forceful appearance of the lady stimulated Sophie to start asking questions.Hawksquill easily sees in the cards the recent major events in the world, their reasons, and her own role in them, cutting them out of the trivial and puzzles, like a surgeon. Tumors are found and removed.The reason why Sophie has difficulty doing this is because since she started looking for Lilac, she feels that the questions and answers of these cards seem to be the same thing, and all the answers are just questions about this question to her, and Every question is just another form of the answer.With long training, Hawksquill could overcome this difficulty, and any gypsy fortune-teller could advise Sophie on how to ignore or avoid it.But if there were some expert advice, Sophie might not have spent so many years and so many long winters on this issue, and therefore would not feel like a big dictionary, guidebook or almanac as she does now. Filled with answers to her (technically impossible) question.

One by one they are exhausted and cannot be replaced.Not dead (at least Sophie always thought so), but they were actually dying, and she didn't know why... Could it be possible?Or was she having such gloomy thoughts because it was a time of great scarcity? Aunt Claude once said: The world just looks old and old, just like everyone himself.But its life is too long, and it is impossible for ordinary people to feel it getting old in their lifetime.As the years grow older, you learn only one thing: the world is indeed old, and has been since a long time ago. Oh alright.But Sophie feels that it is not the world that grows old, but its inhabitants—if there is such a thing as a "world" for them to live in but independent of them, this is something Sophie cannot imagine.But in any case, assuming such a world exists (whether ancient or young), Sophie is sure of one thing: no matter how many inhabitants these lands lived in the time of Dr. Bramble or Paracelsus, they are now Most of it is already empty.And Sophie thinks that one day, not too long, she will be able to calculate the whole number even if she can't call out the names one by one.That number will not be very big, two digits at most, it may be like this, it is probably like this.And since every statement cited in "Architecture" and everyone who has ever dealt with it agrees that they are staggeringly numerous, that there is at least one in every hyacinth or thorn, Then it might mean that they've been withering and dying one by one for some unknown reason recently, like the firewood Sophie threw into the stove.Or else it is worn down and blown away by sorrow, worry and old age.

Otherwise it is dead.Ariel Hawksquill believes that the story behind it is the war, and it is the war that makes this world or this "story" (if there is a difference between the two) so sad, confusing, and promising.No matter how inevitable, all wars are involuntary, and our side has suffered heavy casualties, and Sophie can't even imagine what kind of casualties they might inflict on the enemy in any way... War: If so, they only Will the surviving forces be the last death squad, bravely fighting a desperate defense battle, ready to fight until the last soldier? No!There is such a thing as terrible: death.extinct.Sophie knew (no one knew better than she) that they had never loved her, never cared about her or her kind in any human way.They had stolen Lilac from her, and if they hadn't done it to hurt Sophie, it certainly wasn't because they loved him, it was purely for their own reasons.No, Sophie had no reason to love them, but she couldn't bear the thought of them disappearing altogether: it was like thinking of an endless winter.

But she still felt that she would soon be able to count the few remaining. She folded the cards and fanned them out in front of her.Then she drew out the court cards one by one, to represent those she already knew, and put them together, according to what she could guess, with the smaller cards of the same suit, whether they represented Their courtiers, children, or agents. One is in charge of sleep, four is in charge of the four seasons, three is telling fate, two will become princes and princesses, one is in charge of sending letters, no, two are in charge of sending letters, one is sending, one is sending back... The key is to distinguish responsibilities, understand who is responsible for what, And how many hands are needed for each job.One is responsible for giving the gift, and the three are responsible for taking it away.Queen of Swords, King of Swords, Knight of Swords; Queen of Coins, King of Coins, ten small cards representing their children...

fifty two? Or is it purely because she only has fifty-two cards? (Only the small big cards representing their actions are not counted.) There was a sudden loud bang overhead, and Sophie ducked her head down.It sounded as if a whole heavy stove set had been spilled all over the attic.In fact, it was Smoky who was messing with the stargazer.She glances up.The crack in the ceiling seemed to have grown, but she thought it must be an illusion. Three for production, two for making music, one for dreaming... She stuffed her hands into her sleeves.In short, there are only a few, not several groups.The stretched plastic covering the windows was like a drum, flapping with the wind.It seems to be snowing again, but not much yet.Sophie gave up the calculations and put the cards away in bags and boxes (she knew so little and it would be wrong to speculate, especially on an afternoon like this).

She sat there for a while, listening to Smoky's hammer, hesitantly at first, then more persistently, and finally loudly, like a gong.Then he stopped, and the afternoon returned to calm. "Summer," Mrs. McReynolds raised her head slightly from the pillow, "is a myth." The nieces, nephews, and children around her looked at each other, with either deep doubt or suspicious thought on their faces. "In winter," the dying old woman continued, "summer is a myth, a message, a rumor, unbelievable..." Everyone surrounded her, looking at her delicate face and blue eyelids that kept blinking.Her head rested lightly on the pillow, her hair was meticulously dyed with blue hair dye, but this must be her last words, because her life contract has expired and cannot be renewed. "Never," she said, and then there was a long, dying pause.Auberon continued to ponder: Never forget me?Never lose faith, never mention death, never, never, never? "Never 'crave,'" she said, "just wait, just be patient. Desires can kill you, and what should come will come." People around were already crying, but they dared not let her see, because The old woman couldn't stand crying. "Be happy," she said, her voice already weaker, "because of that stuff..." Yes, she was going to die.Goodbye, Mrs. McReynolds. "Boys, those things—the things that make us happy, give us wisdom." She looked around one last time.Eyes exchanged with Frankie McReynolds, the family black sheep: he'll take it to heart, a new chapter has begun in his life.The music starts.people die.Auberon pressed two space keys, typed three asterisks on the paper, and then pulled out the paper. "Okay," he said. "Ready?" said Fred Savage. "Done?" "It's done," said Auberon.He stacked two dozen pages and stuffed them awkwardly into an envelope with his gloved hands. "Go." Fred took the envelope, neatly pinned it under his arm, gave a pretentious salute, and was about to leave the folding bedroom. "Will I wait there while they visit?" He asked while holding the doorknob. "Oh, don't bother," said Auberon, "there's no time now. They'll just have to do it." "Okay," said Fred, "see you later, buddy." Auberon lit the fire, pleased with himself.When he took over from the original creator, Mrs. McReynolds was one of the few remaining characters.Thirty years ago, she was a divorced young woman who held onto her role doggedly and masterfully through alcoholism, remarriage, religion, pain, old age, and illness.But now the show is over.Contract terminated.Frankie is also going away, he's coming back (he's under contract for several years, and he's the producer's boyfriend), and when he does he's going to be a different person. Become a missionary?Oh well, in a way yes.Maybe it will be a missionary... More things should happen, Sylvie told Fred Savage one day.In Auberon's interpretation, a lot does happen.He couldn't believe it at first, but the reason why its original plot was so bombastic, slow-paced, and pointless seemed purely a lack of originality in the screenwriters.Auberon (at least at the beginning) is not lacking in creativity, and with so many boring and unlikable characters to be deleted, the passion and jealousy of this group of people is always difficult to understand for Auberon.Therefore, the death rate in the play soared for a long time. The sound of tires braking on rainy days, the horrible creaking sound of steel plates hitting steel plates, and the whining of police sirens almost never stopped.Contractually preventing him from removing the character of a drug-addicted young lesbian with a mentally handicapped child, he pulls a trick by creating a long-lost twin sister with a very different temperament to replace her.It took him several weeks. At that time, the production team's complexion changed drastically because of the successive disasters in the play. They said that the audience must not be able to accept this kind of storm, because they are used to monotony.But the audience doesn't seem to agree with this, and while the subsequent audience isn't the same crowd, it's not diminished (if at all) and more committed than ever.In addition, due to the sharp drop in salary, there are very few screenwriters as prolific as Auberon, so the production team decided to let Auberon play freely. After all, in their careers, they encountered insufficient funds and bankruptcy. In the dilemma of wandering on the edge, we have to thoroughly calculate the pros and cons. So every day the actor read lines delivered by Fred Savage from Old Order Farm.While the characters they've played for years are beginning to ooze some quirky hope, seem to foretell something important, and secretly harbor anticipation (whether it's calm, mournful, impatient, or determined), they meekly try to infuse a little truth Sensation and humanity.Compared with the prosperity of the past, few actors' jobs are now secure, but for each new role that Auberon announced, dozens of people will come to apply, even though the pay they offer is in that lost golden age. It will make people scoff.They're grateful to be cast in these strange roles, revolving around that mysterious event that seems to be brewing all the time, but what that event is never revealed, and the appetite of the audience has been hooked for several years. Auberon smiled.Staring at the fire, he has already begun to brew new traps and setbacks, entanglements and breakthroughs.What a form!Why has no one figured out this trick before?All it takes is a simple axis, a career that is closely related to each character, with a lofty, beautiful and simple goal: but this goal will never be achieved one day.Always approaching, making people full of hope, and then suffering from disappointment, through the unchangeable process that dominates people's fate and love, slowly advancing towards the present: but never, never arrives. In the good old days, when polls were as common as door-to-door searches are now, pollsters used to ask audiences why they liked the wacky entanglements of soap operas and why they wanted to keep watching them.The most common answer is: They like soap operas because soap operas are like life. Much like life.But Auberon felt that in his hands, it had become like many things: like facts, like dreams, like childhood (at least his own childhood), like a deck of cards or an old photo album.It didn't feel like life to him—at least not like his own.In , every time a character loses hope, or completes all quests, or sacrifices himself to save a child or friend, he can die or at least disappear from the show, or be completely remade with new quests, New problems, new children reappeared.Unless the actors are on vacation or sick, their characters never leave the scene, and even after all the important scenes are over, they still hold the so-called final script and linger on the edge of the story. After all, it was a lot like life, a lot like Auberon's life. Not like a plot, but like a fable, a story with a point, and that point has been made clear.That fable was Sylvie herself, and Sylvie was that focused, lucid, but rich, inexhaustible fable or story at the bottom of his life.He also understood at times that to look at her in this way was to deprive her of that intense and irrepressible sense of reality (that she was now unquestionably, and indeed, alive somewhere), and whenever he realized it, There was a sudden burst of shame and panic in my heart, as if I had heard or said an astonishing word slandering her.But that happened less and less as the story, the fable, perfected itself, became thinner and easier to tell and added many complex and shiny layers.It supports, explains, criticizes, and defines his life, while his life becomes less and less like his own experience. "You still carry the torch," said George Mouse, and Auberon, who had never heard the old proverb, found the metaphor apt, for he thought the torch in his hand was not a penance or a prayer torch. , but Sylvie herself.He held a torch: Sylvie.Sometimes she is bright and sometimes dim. Although there is no road that he particularly wants to walk around, he still relies on her light to move forward.He lives in a folding bedroom, he helps out on the farm, year after year.Like a man crippled for many years, he often automatically puts aside the better parts of the world because he thinks they are of no use to a man like himself.Nothing will happen to him again. Strange ailments arose from the absurdity with which he lived his most vigorous years.He was often unable to wake up to dawn on all but the deepest winter mornings.He could see faces, or rather, he couldn't help but see them, in the random arrangement of all the fittings in his room: some evil, wise, or stupid faces, figures gesticulating at him, strangely Twisted, emotionless in itself but able to convey something that affects his emotions, inanimate yet lifelike.It made him feel slightly sick.He couldn't help but feel sympathy for the lamp on the ceiling: two screws stuck in its eyes, and a light bulb stuck in its idiotic ceramic mouth.There is a large group of people on the printed curtains, or should I say two groups: one group is the flowers, and the other is the background, the outline of the background is outlined by the flowers, faintly visible among the flowers.He actually sneaked in to see a psychiatrist when he felt the room was full of people, more than he could bear.The doctor said that he suffered from "facial delusion syndrome", saying that this disease is not uncommon, and suggested that he go out for a walk more often.But doctors also say it will take years for the treatment to work. several years. Get out and about: George has always been a fastidious playboy, and he is no less attractive now than he was then, so he introduces many women to Auberon, and the rest is provided by Seventh St. Bar.But the ghosts and ghosts are lingering after all.Occasionally he would convince two real-life women to sleep with him, and if he focused enough, they would become one in his eyes, gaining an intense, obscene ecstasy from it.But his imagination is based on a strong but extremely detailed memory after all, so its saturation belongs to a completely different level. Things could have been different, he was convinced.Occasionally when he was extremely sober, he even knew that as long as he changed someone, the situation would be completely different. He would be so powerless, not because he had encountered such a thing, but because of his personality flaws.Not everyone will become so calm after being gently touched by Sylvie, maybe he is the only one who will be like this-this is such a stupid and ancient disease, which may have been extinct in the modern world.He sometimes resented himself for being the last patient in the world, and then being quarantined under some kind of public health law from participating in the feast of Ayutthaya--a feast that can still be held in Ayutthaya's decline.He wished, wished he could do what Sylvie did: say hell with his "fate," and run away.He could have done it too, he just didn't try hard enough, and he knew that, but therein lies the problem: he was flawed.Maybe having this flaw, being so out of place in the world, was meant to be part of the "story" (he could no longer deny that he was in it), but it didn't make one feel any better.Maybe the "story" is the defect, and the defect is the same thing as the "story". Being in the story means that you are suitable for the role, and you are useless in other aspects.It's like having squinted eyes: you're always seeing something elsewhere, but in the eyes of others, it's just a flaw (even to yourself most of the time). He stood up, unhappy that his thoughts were bogged down in the old one.He has a job to do and that should be enough, he does think so most of the time, and he's grateful.Auberon had first shown his manuscript to an amiable man who had died of an accidental overdose, but he would have been ashamed if he had known how many manuscripts Auberon had completed for such a small fee. Startled.It was a good time...he poured himself a small whiskey (gin was already a no-no for him, but the absurd years had given him the habit of drinking it more as a preference than a addicted), and began to read the mail that Fred had brought from the north of the city.Fred, who had been his guide, was now his partner, as Auberon had introduced him to his employer.He's also a farm hand, and a "death warning" in Auberon's eyes, or at least a physical lesson of some sort.It seemed that he could not live without him.He opened an envelope. "Tell Frankie he's going to break his mother's heart if he goes on like that. Can't he see it? How can he be so 'blind'? Why doesn't he marry a nice woman and settle down." His The audience has a way to take everything seriously, which Auberon has never been used to, and there will always be a kind of guilty excitement.Sometimes he feels instead that the McReynolds family is real and the audience, like the lady who wrote the letter, is figment of the imagination (just bleak figments longing for these flesh and blood beings created by Auberon) .He threw the letter into the firewood box.Settle down, huh, a good woman.Don't even think about it.It would be another three hundred years before Frankie settled down. He had saved the letter from Edgewood for last, a long letter home from his mother that must have taken weeks to arrive.He sits down to read like a squirrel about to start eating a big nut, hoping to find some material from the letter for his next month's script. "You ask me what happened to Mr. Crowder that my Aunt Crowder married," she wrote. I remember the general situation. His name was Harvey Crowder, and his father was the inventor and astronomer Henry Crowder. Henry used to come here for the summer, and the nice cottage where the Junipers later lived was His. I think he made a lot of money from patent taxes. Old John invested in his inventions. Some engines, I think, or astronomical instruments. I don’t know. But one of the ones he invented The thing is the stargazer on the top floor of this house - you know. It was one of Henry's inventions, I don't mean that the stargazer thing was invented by Henry, the inventor of the stargazer was a ' My lord', believe it or not (Smoky told me that). But Henry died before our top-floor stargazer was finished (and I think it must have been expensive), and Nora—that was Claude Auntie, married Harvey around that time too. Harvey was doing that stargazer too. Like father, like son. I saw a picture of him, old Auberon, in a shirt , in a stiff collar and tie (I assume he even wears it to work), looks fierce and thoughtful, standing next to the engine of the stargazer, which is still not installed. The thing is huge and complex , took up most of the picture. Then right after they installed it (John was long dead by then), there was an accident: Poor Harvey fell off the roof and died. I guess everyone has been there ever since Forgot about the astrolabe, or didn't want to think about it. I know Aunt Claude never mentioned the astrolabe. I remember you used to hide in there. You know? Now Smoky spends his days there, thinking Seeing if it could turn, and poring over books about mechanics and clockwork—don't know what he's up to. "So he used to live here, Harvey, I mean, in her room with Nora, and he'd go upstairs every day to get that stargazer, and then he'd fall and die. That's all. "Sophie wants you to pay more attention to your throat in March and watch out for laryngitis. "Lucy's baby is going to be a boy. "It's been a long winter! "Love your mother." Ok.Sure enough, there were some dark or weird sides in his family that he didn't know about.He remembered telling Sylvie that nothing bad had happened to his family.Of course, that was before he had learned about the real and fake Lilac, and now there was poor Harvey Crowder, a young husband, falling off the roof in his happiest moment. He could write it in, he began to feel that there was nothing he couldn't weave in, and he had a talent for it: a real talent.Everyone says so. But at the same time, he jumps the scene back to Daesong.This is the easy part, allowing him to temporarily escape from other, more complex scenes.Everything in the big city is simple—hunting, chasing, escaping, winning, losing; natural selection, survival of the fittest.George's anonymous paperbacks on the shelf had been replaced by a long line of old doctor's books, from which he selected one.Ever since he became a writer, he had written to his family asking them to send them from Edgewood, and they were, as he expected, very useful.Now he was holding a copy of The Adventures of the Gray Wolf, and while sipping his whiskey, he was flipping through it to see if there was anything he could dig up. The moon is pure silver.The sun is gold, or at least gilded.Mercury is a mirrored sphere—silver-plated, of course.Saturn is heavy enough to be made of lead.Smoky remembered that "Country House Architecture" had mentioned that there was a certain correspondence between different metals and different planets, but those planets were fantasy planets in magic and astrology, not these planets.This stargazer, oak-cased and inlaid with brass, was one of the scientific instruments of the turn of the century, entirely rational, material, and mechanical: a patented virtual cosmic device made of rods, spheres, gears , Electroplated spring composition. So why couldn't Smoky understand it? He stared again at the mechanism, some sort of split escapement, which he was about to take apart.But if he took it apart without first understanding the principle, he might not be able to put it back together afterwards.There are several other things like this on the ground and on the tables in the hall downstairs, all of which have been cleaned up and wrapped in oilcloth. They have not been used since then, and the escapement in front of me is the last one.He wondered (and it wasn't the first time he'd thought so) that he probably never should have started.He looked at the illustration in the "Mechanical Encyclopedia" that most resembled the dusty, rusty thing in front of him. "E is a gear with four blades, and the tooth turns against the G point of the GFL crankshaft. The crankshaft is caught by the nail H, so it can't turn over, and it is held by a very weak spring K." God , it's really cold here.Very flimsy spring: is this it?Why does the direction seem to be reversed? "The B axis drives the FL arm release gear, one of the gears M..." oh my god.Once more than half the alphabet appeared, Smoky began to feel helpless and bewildered, as if trapped in a web.He picked up a pair of pliers and put them down again. The ingenuity of engineers is terrifying.Smoky had figured out the fundamentals of clockwork mechanics, on which all these precision devices are based: first there must be a motive force (such as a falling weight or a tightening spring), and then there must be an escapement, which allows the The original power is not exhausted in one breath, but released bit by bit, so that the pointer or the planet rotates regularly until all the energy is exhausted.Then you wind up again.All the rods, arbors, pawls, cams and barrels are just ingenious contraptions invented to regularize the movement.But here's the maddening problem with Edgewood's stargazer: Smoky couldn't find the power to move it—or rather, he knew where it was, in that giant round box with the shell It was as dark and thick as an antique safe.He checked it carefully, but he couldn't figure out where its power source was. It looked like it needed external power. Anyway, it's endless.He sat back, clutching his knees.At this point his eyes are level with the plane of the solar system, looking from Saturn to the sun.Endless: the thought stirred within him a wistful resentment and a deep, unadulterated joy that he had never experienced before, only a little in his early Latin studies as a boy.When he began to grasp the richness and depth of Latin, he felt that all the gaps in his life and his featureless character were about to be filled, violated and comforted by this language.Well, he only got half way through it and gave up because he'd licked off the magic like icing sugar.But in his later years, he found this task again: this is also a language. Those screws and balls and levers and springs are not a picture but a grammar.The stargazer does not represent the solar system in any visual or spatial way, for if it were, the beautiful earth with its turquoise enamel would be the size of a breadcrumb, and the whole machine would be at least ten times larger. Doubling it.No, what it conveys is the same as the inflections and predicates in the language, which is "a set of relations". Although the size and proportion are wrong, the relations obtained are correct and extremely precise; because language is numbers, and here it is Same as in the universe - it fits perfectly. It took him a long time to comprehend this, since he had no mathematical or mechanical skills, but now he understood the vocabulary and the grammar gradually became clearer.他认为就算不是在近期，有朝一日自己也应该能够约略读懂那些用黄铜和玻璃写成的庞大语句，而且内容不会像恺撒或西塞罗那样乏味、空洞、毫无神秘感，而是会揭露某种跟它的加密方式一样惊人的秘密，某种他亟需知道的东西。 观星仪门外的楼梯上传来快速的脚步声，接着他红发外孙巴德的头探了进来。“外公，”他环视着观星仪里的谜题，“外婆送了一个三明治来给你。” “噢，太好了，”史墨基说，“进来吧。” 他拿着三明治和一杯茶缓缓走进来，双眼始终盯着那台机器，它比任何圣诞橱窗里的火车玩具组都更好、更棒。“完成了吗？”他问。 “还没。”史墨基开始吃东西。 “什么时候会好？”他碰了碰一个球体，接着慌忙把手抽回来，因为在沉重砝码的作用下，它挪移了。 “哦，”史墨基说，“恐怕要等到世界末日吧。” 巴德敬畏地看着他，接着笑了出来。“哦，少来了。” “好吧，我也不知道。”史墨基说，“因为我还不知道动力是什么。” “是那个东西。”巴德指向那个状似保险箱的黑盒子。 “好吧，”史墨基端着茶杯走过去，“但接着问题来了：这东西的动力又是怎么来的？” 他把杠杆往上推、打开了盒子。盒盖上衬有垫圈（隔绝尘埃，但这是为什么？），盒里就是哈维·克劳德的机器中不可思议的心脏，清洁无比、上好了油，一副随时可以启动的样子，只是它不能启动。史墨基有时会觉得它也是艾基伍德不可思议的心脏。 “一个轮子，”巴德说，“一个弯曲的轮子。哇。” “我认为，”史墨基说，“它应该是靠电力运转的。你若拉起那扇门，地板底下就有一台很大很旧的电力马达。只是——” "what?" “呃，它装反了。它在那里面是装反的，而且是故意的。” 巴德检视着这样的安排，努力思索着。“这个嘛，”他说，“也许这个是靠这个运转，这个是靠这个运转，而那个又靠这个运转。” “不错的理论，”史墨基说，“只是这样等于绕了整整一圈。每种东西都推动另一种东西。互相接受彼此的能量。” “这个嘛，”巴德说，“倘若跑得够快，而且够滑溜的话。” 快速、滑溜、沉重，确实是这样没错。史墨基仔细研究它，内心浮现了某种佯谬。倘若这个推动那个（显然应该是这样没错），而那个又推动这个（这也没有不合理的地方），而这个跟那个又推动了那个跟这个……他几乎快要看出个中端倪，靠着关节与杠杆，那些句子其实顺着读、逆着读都行。有那么一刻，他也说不上来这有哪里不可能，只是世界就是这个样子，不是别的样子…… “倘若它慢下来，”巴德说，“你只要每隔一阵子上来推它一把就好。” Smoky laughed. “要不要把那当成你的工作？”他问。 “你来做吧。”巴德说。 推一把，史墨基想，只要时时推它一小把就好。但不管由谁来推，都不可能是史墨基，因为他没有那种力量。他必得想办法诱拐整个宇宙暂时抛下自己那一连串永无止境的动作、伸出一根巨大的手指触碰这些齿轮与传动装置。而且史墨基没理由认为他、哈维·克劳德，甚至是艾基伍德，有此荣幸介入这件事。 他说：“好吧，总之呢，继续工作吧。”他轻轻推了铅制的土星一把，结果它就动了，转了几度，而它挪移的同时，所有其余的部位，包括齿轮、传动装置、杠杆、球体，也全都挪移了。 “但说不定，”爱丽尔·霍克斯奎尔说，“根本没有战争。” “你是什么意思？”错愕地思考片刻后，红胡子腓特烈皇帝说。 “我的意思是，”霍克斯奎尔说，“也许我们视为战争的东西其实不是战争。我是说，也许到头来根本没有战争，也许从来都没有过战争。” “少荒唐了，”总统说，“当然有战争。而且我们占上风。” 皇帝软趴趴地坐在一张宽阔的扶手椅上，下巴瘫在胸前。霍克斯奎尔站在那架平台式钢琴旁，房间的另一端几乎快被这架钢琴给占满。这架钢琴被她改造过，可以弹出四分之一调，她喜欢用它弹奏悲戚的古老赞美诗。她自己发明了一套系统奏出和弦，而在这架改造过的钢琴上，曲调听起来有一种怪异又甜美的不和谐感，让暴君听了就悲伤。外头正在下雪。 “我不是说你没有敌人，”霍克斯奎尔说，“你当然有敌人。我指的是另外那场漫长的战争，那场大战。也许那根本不是一场战争。” 吵桥棍棒与枪支俱乐部虽然已被揭发（他们紧绷又冷酷的脸和深色外套刊登在每一份报纸上），但他们并未轻易被击倒，这倒也在霍克斯奎尔意料之中。他们的资源相当丰富，不管被控以什么罪名，都有办法反击，而他们也拥有最好的辩护律师。但他们已经玩完了（当霍克斯奎尔警告他们状况可能会变成这样时，他们置若罔闻）。挣扎只是在苟延残喘，这点从来不需要怀疑。每到审判的关键时刻，都有大笔资金流入，有时还会像炸弹般引爆，让会员的财产在短期内出现莫名其妙的大逆转。但即使有这些防火墙，俱乐部似乎还是始终没有足够的时间复原。从各方人马身上收取巨额费用之后，佩蒂、史密洛东与鲁思律师事务所在强烈的指责声浪中神秘退出、不再替他们辩护，不久后就有大量文件曝光，来源似乎十分可靠、不容否认。每一个电视屏幕上都可以看见那些一度呼风唤雨的冷血男子被戴着手套的警察和便衣带去受审，满脸都是沮丧绝望的泪水。事情结局如何并没有很多人知道，因为就在揭发最惊人的内幕的那年冬天，七十五年来都如圣诞灯般照亮了整个国家的全球传播网遭到大幅截断：一部分是艾根布里克本人干的，目的是防止被敌人接收；一部分是他的敌人干的，为的是防止被暴君接收。 那场战争算是真实了——人民对抗的是那头夺取权力践踏民主制度的野兽，皇帝总统对抗的则是人民的利益。过程里洒下的鲜血也是真实的。当社会遭受这样的痛击时，产生的裂痕是很深的。但是，“倘若，”霍克斯奎尔说，“倘若那些我们以为正在跟人类交战的家伙来到新世界的时间跟欧洲人差不多——也就是说，差不多就在关于你这新帝国的预言开始出现的时候，而倘若他们来此的理由也一样：为了自由、空间与视野，那么他们最后一定很失望，跟人类一样……” “是啊。”红胡子说。 “他们藏身的处女林被逐渐砍伐殆尽，河岸与湖畔出现城市，山中矿产遭到开采，人们也不像古代欧洲人一样对树精、地灵等心怀敬意……” "That's right." “而且，他们倘若真那么有远见，那么他们自己一定预知了这个结果，很久以前就知道会这样了。” "yes." “甚至在移民潮开始前就已经知道。事实上，早在陛下您第一次当皇帝时就知道了。而由于已经预知此事，他们做了准备：他们乞求时间之神让你陷入沉睡，同时他们则操兵练马、等待时机……” “是啊是啊，”红胡子说，“现在呢，虽然数量已经锐减、等待了好几个世纪，他们终于出击了！从他们古老的堡垒蜂拥而出！遭人劫掠的魔龙在睡梦中翻身，就这么醒来！”他站了起来，一张张薄薄的打印纸、战略图、平面图和数据表从他腿上滑落到地面。 “而他们跟你达成的协议，”霍克斯奎尔说，“有助于他们的计划。能转移国家的注意力、使之分裂（跟你的旧帝国相去不远，他们就仰赖你好好完成这件事），然后呢，当旧日树林和沼泽都已经恢复、交通中断、他们想要的失土都已经收复后，剩下的土地就是你的帝国了。” “永远都是，”艾根布里克动了动身子，“当初是这么承诺的。” “好吧。”霍克斯奎尔若有所思地说，“很好。”她敲了敲琴键，戴着戒指的手弹出一支像是《耶路撒冷》的曲调。“只是那些全都是假的。”她说。 "what?" “那些全都是假的，是个幌子，骗人的，事实根本不是那样。” "what……" “举个例子，它不够古怪。”她弹出一个嘈杂的和弦，拧了拧眉，又用不同的方式再试一次，“不，我认为有件很不一样的事正在发生，某种动作，某种整体性的变动，却不是出于任何人的旨意，不是任何人……”她想起终点站的圆顶，黄道带反了过来，她当时竟然还把它归咎于眼前这个皇帝。How stupid!然而……“有点像，”她说，“有点像把两副纸牌掺杂在一起。” “说到纸牌——”他说。 “再不然就是一副被分成两叠的纸牌，”她不理会他，“你知道小孩有时洗牌会把一半的牌弄反了？接着就变成那样，全掺在一起了，有的是正面、有的是反面，分也分不清。” “我要我那副牌。”他说。 “不在我手上。” “但你知道它们在哪里。” “没错。而倘若它们注定是你的，你也会知道。” “我需要它们的建议！我需要！” “握有那副纸牌的人，”霍克斯奎尔说，“也为这一切、为你现在和将来的胜利铺了路，他们做得不比你差，甚至更好。早在你还没出现前，他们就已经是那支军队的第五纵队。”她弹了一个和弦，酸中带甜，像柠檬汁那么尖烈。“不知道他们后不后悔，”她说，“不知道他们难不难过，或觉得自己背叛了同类。不知道他们晓不晓得自己在跟人类作对。” “我不知道你怎么会说没有战争，”总统说，“然后又扯这些。” “不是战争，”霍克斯奎尔说，“而是某种'像'战争的东西。”也许像一场风暴，是的，像在一个气象系统中前进的锋面，让世界由暖变冷、由灰变蓝、由春转冬。或是一场撞击：所谓的，但究竟是什么跟什么的结合？“再不然，”她突然想到，“就像两支商队，在同一扇门相会，来自不同的远方、朝不同的远方而去。当他们从那扇门挤过去时，他们混杂在一块儿，有那么片刻融合成一支队伍，接着出了大门又各自朝目的地前进，只是可能有少数几人交换了位置、有一两个鞍袋被偷、有人交换了一个吻……” “你是在说什么？”红胡子说。 她坐在琴凳上转过来面对他。“问题在于，”她说，“你再临的王国到底是个什么样的王国？” “我自己的王国。” “是啊。你知道吗，中国人相信我们每个人内心深处都存在一座神仙的花园，不比你的拇指尖大。在那座伟大的山谷里，我们每个人都是永远的王。” 他转向她，突然火大起来。“你给我听着！”他说。 “我知道，”她露出微笑，“你最后统治的若不是那些爱上你的共和国子民，而是一个截然不同的地方，那就天杀的太可惜了。” "No." “一个非常小的地方。” “我要那副纸牌。”他说。 “没办法，不是我的，我不能给。” “你去帮我弄来。” "No." “你难道要我逼你供出秘密？”红胡子说，“我确实有权力，你也知道。权力。” "Are you threatening me?" “我可以，我可以把你杀了。暗杀掉。这样就不会有个自以为比别人聪明的人了。” “不，”霍克斯奎尔平静地说，“你杀不了我的。用杀的是不可能。” 暴君笑了，眼中燃起灼灼火光。“你这么认为？”他说，“哦，你真这么认为？” “我'知道'是这样，”霍克斯奎尔说，“理由很怪，你一定猜不到。我已经把灵魂藏起来了。” "what?" “藏起了我的灵魂。是个老把戏，每个村里的巫婆都会。而且这么做是明智之举，因为你永远不知道自己效忠的对象什么时候会翻脸不认人、跟你反目成仇。” “藏起来？藏在哪？怎么藏？” “藏好了。在他方。至于藏在什么地方，或藏在什么东西里面，我当然不会告诉你。但你现在明白了吧？除非知道在哪里，否则你别想杀我。” “拷问，”他眯起眼睛，“拷问呢？” “可以。”霍克斯奎尔站起来。enough. “是的，拷问也许有效。现在晚安了。还有很多事要做。” 她在门口回过头，看见他仿佛被定格似的维持在那个威吓的姿态，怒目瞪着她，但又视若无睹。他究竟有没有听见、有没有理解她试图告诉他的话？她突然产生一种想法，一种诡异又可怕的想法，因此有那么一刻他俩就只是这样对望，仿佛两人都试图回想起他们是否曾在哪里见过面。接着霍克斯奎尔一阵惊恐地说：“晚安了，陛下。”随即离开了他。 当天稍晚，里麦克雷诺兹太太去世的那一集在首都播出。它在其他地方的播映时间各不相同，在很多地方都已经不是一部日间连续剧了，通常是过了午夜才播出。但这部戏确实拥有广大收视率，无线电视、有线电视都播，而若是遇上线路被切断或遭禁播的情形，就会被偷渡到当地的小电台暗中播放，再不然就是被拷贝下来、靠人力运到有秘密发射台的地方，将那些珍贵的录像带透过微弱的讯号传送到远方积雪的小镇。若在这样一个夜晚徒步穿越一座这样的城镇，走在唯一的一条街上时，就会在家家户户的客厅里瞥见电视上的蓝色光晕。可能会在其中一户看见麦克雷诺兹太太被抱上病床，在下一户看见她的孩子聚集起来，在第三户看见她说出遗言，而来到城镇边缘、即将踏上寂静的大草原时，则会在最后一户看见她死去。 首都里，皇帝总统也收看这部戏。虽然眉毛浓密如鹰，但他柔和的棕色眼睛还是泛起了泪光。永远别去渴望；渴望是致命的。他内心升起一股同情、一股自怜，接着（跟云一样）变出了一个形状：是爱丽尔·霍克斯奎尔那张冷漠、兴味十足又顽固的脸。 why me?他想着举起双手，仿佛要展示手上的枷锁。他究竟做了什么，必须达成这桩可怕的交易？他向来真诚勤奋，写过几封措辞犀利的信给教皇，子女也都嫁娶得宜。其余就没什么了。既然都有了新领袖，那么为什么不是他的孙子腓特烈二世？为什么不是他？毕竟他不也拥有一段相同的传说吗？说他没有死，只是睡着了，有朝一日将会醒过来领导他的子民？ 但那只是传说而已。不，身在此地的人是他，虽然显得难以忍受，但必须忍受的人毕竟是他。 成为仙境之王：跟亚瑟王的命运一样。真的会这样吗？统治一块不比他的拇指大的领域，他凡尘的王国不过是一阵风；不过是他从这里到那里、从一场睡梦过渡到另一场睡梦时所掀起的风。 No!他坐直身子。倘若至今尚未有战争，或只有一场假战争……好吧，那都是过去式了。他将奋战到底，从他们身上把久远以前承诺给他的每一丁点东西都要到手。他沉睡了八百年，跟梦境奋战、围剿着梦境、征服梦境中的圣土、戴着梦境中的皇冠。这个真实世界，也就是他在层层虚幻梦境的包围下永远只能感知但无法望见的真实世界，他渴望了八百年。霍克斯奎尔也许是对的：他们从来都不打算让他拥有它。也许（也许，是的，一切在他眼中变得清楚无比）她打从一开始就和他们连手，准备把它从他手中夺走。想起自己曾经如此信任她，甚至依赖她，他就几乎笑出声来，是种阴惨的笑声。不再如此了。他会战斗。他将不择手段从她手中取得那副纸牌，是的，就算她倾尽全部可怕的力量来对付他，他都要奋战到底。虽然是孤军奋战，就算四面楚歌，他都要打，为他这伟大、黑暗、白雪覆盖的新发现之地而战。 “只要等待，”垂死的麦克雷诺兹太太说，“只要有耐心。”那个孤单的行人（难民？推销员？秘密警察？）行经郊外最后一栋房子，踏上空荡荡的公路。背后的房子里，蓝色的电视屏幕一个个熄灭。现在开始的是新闻报导，但已经没有新闻了。人们上床睡觉。夜很漫长，他们梦到了一场截然不同的人生，一场可以填补他们人生的人生，在另一个地方拥有家庭和房子，让黑暗的大地再次变成一个世界。 首都还在下雪。透过总统的窗户望去，大雪让夜晚变得白皑皑一片，模糊了远方的纪念碑、堆积在英雄雕像脚边、堵住了地下停车场入口。某处有一辆车正无助地试图从积雪中逃离，发出了有节奏的嗡嗡声。 红胡子哭了。 “你是什么意思？”史墨基问，“什么叫差不多结束了？” “我的意思就是，我认为差不多要结束了，”艾丽斯说，“还没结束，但快了。” 他们很早就上了床。这年头他们常这么做，因为他们那张叠着层层棉被的大床是整栋房子里唯一真正能让他们温暖的地方。史墨基戴着一顶睡帽：毕竟有风就是有风，反正也没有人会看见他这模样有多蠢。他们躺在那儿聊天。很多古老的心结都在这些漫长的夜里解开了，而就算没解开，至少也明确表示那些是无解的——史墨基认为这样多少就算是解开了。 “但你怎么知道？”史墨基说着朝她滚过去，让躺在床脚的那群猫像乘着浪潮般被顶了起来。 “呃，看在老天的分上，”艾丽斯说，“也拖得够久了，不是吗？” 他看着她，她苍白的脸和几乎已经白了的头发衬着白色的枕头套，在黑暗中依稀可见。为什么她总是会说出这些不是答案的答案、这些听起来仿佛只是逻辑推理的话、这些没意义或几乎没有意义的东西？这点始终令他惊异。“我不完全是这个意思。我想我的意思是：你怎么知道它快结束了？不管这个'它'指的是什么。” “我也不确定，”沉吟良久之后她说，“只是这毕竟是发生在我身上，至少有一部分是。而就某些角度而言，我就是觉得快结束了，而……” “别这么说，”他说，“连玩笑都别开。” “不，”她说，“我指的不是死去。你以为我说的是死亡？” 他确实这么以为。他发现自己根本没弄懂，因此他又滚了回去。“好吧，天杀的，”他说，“反正这事向来跟我没什么关系。” “哦，”她朝他挨近，伸出一只手抱住他，“噢，史墨基，别这样嘛。”她把膝盖紧紧贴在他的膝盖后侧，两人呈两个S形躺在一块儿。 “怎样。” 她很久都没说话。接着：“这是个'故事'，就这样而已，”她说，“而故事都有开头、中间、结束。我不知道开头在哪里，但我知道中间……” “中间是什么？” “你就在里面呀！是什么？就是你呀！” 他把她那熟悉的手拉得更紧。“那结束呢？”他说。 “噢，我指的就是这个，”她说，“结束。” 他在她话中瞥见了某种黑暗深沉的意义，于是慌忙赶在自己被攫获前说：“不，不，不，不。事情不会那样结束的，艾丽斯。也没有什么开头。生命中的一切都是中间。就像奥伯龙的节目。就像历史。只是一件天杀的事跟着另一件发生，这样而已。” “故事都会结束的。” “好吧，你是这么说的，那是你说的，但……” “还有这房子。”她说。 “这房子怎样？” “它难道没有结局吗？它似乎有呀，而且不远了。倘若它真的……” “不。它只会愈来愈老。” “分崩离析……” 他想起它满是裂痕的墙壁、空荡荡的房间、渗进地下室的水；没刷油漆的护墙板愈变愈弯、石工逐渐腐坏，还有白蚁。“好吧，那不是它的错。”他说。 "of course not." “它应该要有电的。很多很多的电。最初是设计成这样的。要有泵，水管里要有热水，暖气系统里也要有热水。要有电灯。排风扇。因为没有热、没有电，东西才会冻结龟裂。” "I know." “但不是它本身的错。也不是我们的错。状况实在变得太糟糕了。都是他害的，那个罗素·艾根布里克。战争期间要怎么修东西？都是他的国内政策所致。疯了。所以才会什么都缺，也没有电，所以……” “而你认为，”她说，“罗素·艾根布里克会出现是谁的错？” 有那么一刻，只有那么一刻，史墨基感受到故事包围了自己、包围了他们大家、包围了一切。“哦，拜托。”他说，想用这个咒语驱走这个想法，却无法奏效。一个“故事”，更像一个丑恶的笑话吧，准备了不知多少年，历经了流血事件、分裂和大苦大难之后，暴君终于即位，为的就只是让一栋老房子丧失存续下去所需的一切，好让那段注定随着房子崩毁而结束的复杂历史能够确实结束，或加快结束。他继承了这栋房子，而他们最初用爱情把他骗到那里去，也许就是为了让他成为继承人，让他在房子毁坏时担任屋主。也许甚至想让他确保房子一定毁坏，毕竟他是这么笨拙无能。虽然他竭力抗拒，手边随时都有工具，但他怎么做都徒劳无功。而房子毁坏后，将会……“好吧，会怎样？”他问，“这里不能住之后会怎样？” 她没回答，但她摸索到他的手，紧紧握住。 离乡背井。他可以从她手中读到这点。 No!这种事他们其余人也许可以想象（只是怎么会这样呢？毕竟这房子向来是她们的而不是他的），也许艾丽斯可以、索菲可以，女儿们也可以，想象某个不可思议的虚拟目的地，某个遥远的地方……但他却没办法。他想起多年前一个寒冷的夜晚，想起一个承诺：他跟艾丽斯第一次同床共枕的那一夜，两人紧紧包着棉被，呈两个S形躺在一起。当时他就发现：若要追随她到天涯海角而不被抛下，他就必须找到一股愿意去相信、很孩子气的意念，只是他向来不擅长这种事，就算是那时候，他对这种事都已经很生涩。而他发现自己现在也没比当年更有追随的准备。 “你会离开吗？”他问。 “应该会。”她说。 "when?" “等我知道自己该去哪里的时候。”她带着歉意地朝他身上贴得更紧，“不管那是什么时候。”两人陷入沉默。他感受到她的气息呵在他脖子上。“或许不会是最近，”她用脸颊磨蹭着他的肩膀，“也可能不会离开，我的意思是真正离开。说不定永远都不会。” 但他知道她这么说只是为了安抚他。毕竟他在这场故事里始终只是个小配角，他早就预期自己会以某种方式被抛下。但那场命运已经有这么长一段时间都处于蛰伏状态、没给他带来什么悲伤，因此他选择忽略它（虽然始终未曾忘记），有时甚至允许自己相信他已经靠着自己的善良、顺从与忠诚逼走了它。但事与愿违，它就在这里：艾丽斯正在准确表达的前提下尽可能婉转地告诉他这件事。 “好吧，好吧，”他说，“好吧。”那是他俩之间的密语，表示“我不懂但我已经尽力了，反正我这么信任你，咱们谈点别的吧”。only-- “好吧。”他又说了一次，但这回意思却不一样：因为就在这时候，他发现有一种方法可以抗拒这件事，虽然不可思议、匪夷所思，但却是唯一的方法——是的，抗拒！他一定要办到才行。 现在这天杀的房子已经是他的了，该死的，而他只要让它保存下去就好，就这样。因为倘若房子保存了下来，倘若房子真的得以保存，那么故事就没办法结束，对吧？这样大家就不必离开了，也许只要房子屹立不摇、只要可以阻止它继续毁坏或逆转它毁坏的过程，就没有人可以离开了。光靠蛮力是不够的，至少靠他个人的蛮力不够。必须耍点心机。他得想出一个伟大的主意；（是不是已经在内心深处呼之欲出？还是说那只是一种盲目的希望？）此外还需要胆量、执行力，以及死神般的固执。这就是方法，唯一的方法。 他带着强大的动力与决心在床上猛然翻身，睡帽上的穗带因而飞了起来。“好吧，艾丽斯，好吧。”他又说了一次，然后热烈地吻了她（她也是他的！），接着又稳稳地吻了她一次。她抱着他笑了，回应着他的吻，殊不知他刚刚下了决心，要倾注自己的一切破坏她的故事。 两人亲吻的同时，黛莉·艾丽斯禁不住揣测：为什么在这一年当中最黑暗的一夜对自己深爱的丈夫说出这些话，她感受到的竟然不是悲伤而是喜悦，甚至充满了快乐的期待？Finish.故事结束对她而言就等于永远保有了一切，没有任何部分遗落，一切终于完整无缺——史墨基当然不会被排除在外，因为他已经卷入这么深了。终于能够拥有全部是这么棒的一件事，终于进入完成阶段，就像一点一滴累积进行的漫长工程，怀抱着希望与信念，坚信只要打入最后一根钉子、完成最后一针、拉好最后一条线，一切就会突然变得有意义：松了一口气！事情尚未全部完成，但在这个冬天，黛莉·艾丽斯终于能够毫无保留地相信它会结束：就只差那么一点了。 “也有可能，”她对史墨基说，史墨基赶紧停下来注意听，“也有可能才要开始。”史墨基摇着头发出哀嚎，她则笑着抱紧他。 床上的人不再说话后，女孩转身离去，她打从好一阵子前就已经在那儿看着他们翻来覆去、偷听他们说话。她之前是赤着脚从门口走进来的（门开着，因为要让猫咪自由出入），然后站在阴影里观望倾听，脸上带着一抹淡淡的微笑。由于床上堆着一座小山似的棉被，史墨基和艾丽斯并没有看见她，而那些漠不关心的猫咪只有在她刚进来时瞪大眼睛，接着就继续睡觉，只会不时透过眯成一条缝的眼睛偷看她。她在门边驻足了片刻，因为床上又传来声音，但她无法从这些不是话语的低沉声响中听出什么，因此她从门口溜了出去，踏上走廊。 外头没有灯光，只有从长廊末端那扇窗户透进来的雪光。她像个盲人一样伸出双手，踩着小小的步伐一声不响地慢慢从一扇扇关起的门前走过。每经过一扇黑暗而了无特征的门，她就考虑一下，但每次都是摇摇她那头金发，继续往前。最后她终于弯过一个转角，来到一扇拱形的门前，露出微笑，伸出小手转动那个玻璃门把，把门推开。

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