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from that moment； forgetting his wife； it was isabelle the doctor attended to。 he looked at her closely； kindly； with worry in the back of his eyes while he asked her question after question。 when she refused to answer he was unrattled； but when she was bothered to reply—by turns arch； impatient； nonsensical—he listened carefully； nodding as he made notes in his doctor’s pad。 taking her wrist to measure her pulse； he noted with alarm the cuts and scars that marked the inside of her forearm。
‘does she do this herself？“
reluctantly honest； the missus murmured； “yes；” and the doctor pressed his lips into a worried line。
‘may i have a word with you； sir？“ he asked； turning to charlie。 charlie looked blankly at him； but the doctor took him by the elbow— ”the library； perhaps？“—and led him firmly out of the room。
in the drawing room the missus and the doctor’s wife waited and pretended not to pay any attention to the sounds that came from the library。 there was the hum not of voices but of a single voice； calm and measured。 when it stopped； we heard “no” and again “no！” in charlie’s raised voice； and then again the low tones of the doctor。 they were gone for some time； and we heard charlie’s protestations over and over before the door opened and the doctor came out； looking serious and shaken。 behind him； there was a great howl of despair and impotence； but the doctor only winced and pulled the door closed behind him。
‘i’ll make the arrangements with the asylum；“ he told the missus。 ”leave the transport to me。 will two o’clock be all right？“
baffled； she nodded her head； and the doctor’s wife rose to leave。
at two o’clock three men came to the house； and they led isabelle out to a brougham in the drive。 she submitted herself to them like a lamb； settled obediently in the seat； never even looked out as the horses trotted slowly down the drive； toward the lodge gates。
the twins； unconcerned； were drawing circles with their toes in the gravel of the drive。
charlie stood on the steps watching the brougham as it grew smaller and smaller。 he had the air of a child whose favorite toy is being taken away； and who cannot believe—not quite； not yet—that it is really happening。
from the hall the missus and john…the…dig watched him anxiously； waiting for the realization to dawn。
the car reached the lodge gates and disappeared through them。 charlie continued to stare at the open gates for three； four； five seconds。
then his mouth opened。 a wide circle； twitching and trembling； that revealed his quivering tongue； the fleshy redness of his throat； strings of spittle across a dark cavity。 mesmerized we watched； waiting for the awful noise to emerge from the gaping； juddering mouth； but the sound was not ready to e。 for long seconds it built up； accumulating inside him until his whole body seemed full of pent…up sound。 at long last he fell to his knees on the steps and the cry emerged from him。 it was not the elephantine bellow we were expecting； but a damp； nasal snort。
the girls looked up from their toe circles for a moment； then returned impassively to them。 john…the…dig tightened his lips and turned away； heading back to the garden and work。 there was nothing for him to do here。 the missus went to charlie； placed a consoling hand on his shoulder and attempted to persuade him into the house； but he was deaf to her words and only snuffled and squeaked like a thwarted schoolboy。
and that was that。
that was that？ the words were a curiously understated endnote to the disappearance of miss winter’s mother。 it was clear that miss winter didn’t think much of isabelle’s abilities as a parent； indeed the word mother seemed absent from her lexicon。 perhaps it was understandable； from what i could see； isabelle was the least maternal of women。 but who was i to judge other people’s relations with their mothers？
i closed my book； slid my pencil into the spiral and stood up。
‘i’ll be away for three days；“ i reminded her。 ”i’ll be back on thursday。“
and i left her alone with her wolf。
？？
THE ALMANACS
…小……说。网
where else to begin my research but at home； in the shop？ i was fascinated by the old almanacs。 since i was a child； any moment of boredom or anxiety or fear would send me to these shelves to flick through the pages of names and dates and annotations。 between these covers； past lives were summarized in a few brutally neutral lines。 it was a world where men were baronets and bishops and ministers of parliament； and women were wives and daughters。 there was nothing to tell you whether these men liked kidneys for breakfast； nothing to tell you whom they loved or what form their fear gave to the shapes in the dark after they blew the candle out at night。 there was nothing personal at all。 what was it； then； that moved me so in these sparse annotations of the lives of dead men？ only that they were men； that they had lived； that now they were dead。
reading them； i felt a stirring in me。 in me； but not of me。 reading the lists； the part of me that was already on the other side woke and caressed me。
i never explained to anyone why the almanacs meant so much to me； i never even said i liked them。 but my father took note of my preference； and whenever volumes of the sort came up at auction； he made sure to get them。 and so it was that all the illustrious dead of the country； going back many generations； were spending their afterlife tranquilly on the shelves of our second floor。 with me for pany。
it was on the second floor； crouched in the window seat； that i turned the pages of names。 i had found miss winter’s grandfather george angelfield。 he was not a baronet； nor a minister； nor a bishop； but still； here he was。 the family had aristocratic origins—there had once been a title； but a few generations earlier there had been a split in the family： the title had gone one way； the money and the property another。 he was on the property side。 the almanacs tended to follow the titles； but still； the connection was close enough to merit an entry； so here he was： angelfield； george； his date of birth； residing at angelfield house in oxfordshire； married