Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls - Jane Lindskold [30]
During many visits Professor Isabella teaches me, often reading to me both before and after a visit to a certain gallery to give me reference points.
Abalone begins to participate in these lessons, first sitting with her own work on the fringes of our discussion and listening covertly, later giving up even the pretense of not attending. Sometimes she comes along to the museum, but more often she continues to live the schedule ordained by the Jungle Law of dusk to dawn.
As I grow more confident in my strange ability, I notice that Betwixt and Between are very cautious with me. They still tease me, but there is a gentleness in their words. And, even when I ask directly, they refuse to tell me about the Ivy Green Institute.
This annoys me some, for Abalone is having trouble finding records of the place. When she has time away from forgery and code-breaking, she has been searching record-bank after record-bank for some mention of the place. Occasional references have convinced her that the place did once exist, but equally, she is certain that someone or someones wish it to be forgotten.
I do not argue with my dragons except when we are alone, for I have learned that these conversations—heated as they can become—trouble Professor Isabella and Abalone more quickly than anything else that I do.
“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” I am arguing for the hundredth time one afternoon.
“Let the dead past bury its dead,” Betwixt stonewalls.
The door unlocking interrupts us as Professor Isabella returns from the grocery store. I go to help her and when we make dinner I consider with bad temper refusing to feed Betwixt and Between.
I give in to their pleading, though. First and foremost, we are friends, and I cannot believe that they refuse me from a desire to bring me harm.
My lessons are not only in arts and literature. Abalone has succeeded, to her surprise as well as mine, in teaching me to recognize certain of the code symbols used in programming. The idea came to her when she realized that although reading words and numbers of more than two digits still defeats me, I can memorize the pictographs used for illiterates.
After teaching me those for simple traffic commands and warnings, she decided to try and teach me programming icons. Admittedly, the process freaked me out—I had years of resistance against looking at characters that swarmed on the page or screen like guppies in my eye sockets—but slowly I caught on.
In early February, Abalone is ready to take me on another theft.
Excited, I view myself in the bathroom mirror, unable to believe that the reflection does not show how I have changed. Eyes, hair, skin—all are the same. Perhaps brighter, shinier, rosier, but nothing shows of the knowledge of people and places, nothing shows, nothing at all, of the happier, more confident Sarah.
This time, we alter our appearances in a public rest room in a near-empty office complex. Abalone is neutral in dark blue coveralls and boots, her hair under a matching billed cap. Her computer is easy to hand in a tool kit. I am dressed as a junior executive—tailored trousers and blazer of grey-blue linen. Then we go our ways.
I am not certain when things begin to go wrong. My first hint is when I see behind me lights flashing gold and orange. From my lessons, I recall that these are police lights. Even if I did not, Betwixt and Between would have been enough to remind me.
“Cops, Sarah! Step on it!” Betwixt yells.
“No,” Between counters. “Pull over, everything will be fine. Abalone’s got it under control.”
Ignoring the muttered “I hope” that follows this declaration, I steer the vehicle to the curb. Although there are few passersby, I realize that my first reaction isn’t fear—it’s embarrassment. Trying