Pick’s wooden face twisted in an expression of distaste, and his twiggy body contorted into a knot. His eyes looked straight ahead. “Nothing.”
She waited, knowing from experience that there would be more.
“You remember what happened five years ago,” Pick said finally, still not looking at her. “You remember what that was like with John Ross and your grandparents and your … You remember?” He shook his head. “It wasn’t any of it what it seemed to be at first glance. It wasn’t any of it what you thought it was. There were things you didn’t know. Things I didn’t know, for that matter. Secrets. It was over before you found out everything.”
He paused. “It will be like that with this business, too. It always is. The Ward doesn’t reveal everything. It isn’t His nature to do so.”
Something was being hidden from her; Pick could sense it, even if he couldn’t identify what it was. Maybe so. Maybe it was even something that could hurt her. But it didn’t change what was happening to John Ross. It didn’t change what was being asked of her. Did she have the right to use it as a reason for not going?
She tried a different tack. “Ariel says she will go with me, that she will help me.”
Pick snorted. Ariel is a tatterdemalion. How much help can she be? She’s made out of air and lost memories. She’s only alive for a heartbeat. She doesn’t know anything about humans and their problems. Tatterdemalions come together mostly by chance, wander about like ghosts, and then disappear again. She’s a messenger, nothing more.”
“She says she can serve as a guide for me. She says that the Lady has sent her for that purpose.”
“The blind leading the blind, as your grandmother used to say.”
Pick was having none of it.
Nest angled through the trees, bypassing the picnickers and ballplayers, turning up the service road that ran along the backside of the residences bordering the park. Her mind spun in a jumble of concerns and considerations. This was not going to be an easy decision to make.
“Would you come with me?” she asked suddenly.
Pick went still, stiffening. He didn’t say anything for a moment, then muttered in a barely audible voice, “Well, the fact of the matter is, I’ve never been out of the park.”
She was surprised, although she shouldn’t have been. Why would Pick ever have gone anywhere else? What would have taken him away? The park was his home, his work, his life. He was telling her, without quite speaking the words, that the idea of leaving was frightening to him.
She had embarrassed him, she realized.
“Well, I’m being selfish asking you to go,” she said quickly, as if brushing her suggestion aside. “Who would look after the park if you weren’t here? It’s bad enough that I’m gone so much of the time. But if you left, there wouldn’t be anyone to keep an eye on things, would there?”
Pick shook his head quickly. “True enough. No one at all. It’s a big responsibility.”
She nodded. “Just forget I said anything.”
She turned down the service road toward home. Shadows were already beginning to lengthen, the days growing shorter with winter’s approach. They spread in black pools from the trees and houses, staining the lawns and roadways and walks. A Sunday type of silence cloaked the park, sleepy and restful. Sounds carried a long way. She could hear voices discussing dinner from one of the houses to her right. She could hear laughter and shouts from off toward the river, down below the bluff where children were playing. She could hear the deep bark of a dog in the woods east.
“I could do this trip in a day and be back,” she said, trying out the idea on him. “I could fly out, talk to him, and fly right back.”
Pick did not respond. She walked down the roadway with him in silence.
She sat inside by herself afterward, staring out through the curtains, thinking the matter over. Clouds masked the sky beyond, and rain was starting to fall in scattered drops. The people in the park had gone home. Lights were beginning to come on in the windows of the houses across Woodlawn Road.