page_72 < previous page page_72 next page > Page 72 her chest, and wiggled her back into the pillows she had arranged against the headboard. The heaviness of the journal seemed unexpectedly comforting, and the looseness of the riddles sliding across the bedspread made her feel relaxed, as though it were all right to lose a little order. She opened the journal and began to read, hoping for a clue to the riddles. After a while, she tired. Only after she had reluctantly placed her work to one side did she realize that she had not felt this way in a long time; she was excited. She opened the drawer to her nightstand, where she kept her own journal, a blank book she had bought at Todd's General Store. As she removed it, she saw Ted's manuscript beneath it. The journal in one hand, she touched the manuscript with the other, briefly distracted by it, tempted to take her pen to it. But she closed the drawer firmly, eased back onto the bed, uncapped a pen, opened her journal. Here, she had transcribed much of the notes she had taken and had recorded her life with the Whartons. She wrote until a small cramp formed along the length of her hand. She flexed and curled it. When the pain subsided, she opened her palm flat to look at it; she thought she could still see the tension under the skin. Her hands were abnormally long and narrowpianist fingers, people always said, though someone had once told her that the greatest pianists had short, broad hands. But Trutor had no mind for sounds. They simply vibrated in her ears, pleased her, and left forever. She could memorize formulas and facts but could never remember the words to a song, could never hear the lingering memory of a tune. Pondering this deficiency, she slowly realized that somewhere in the house, down the hall perhaps, a radio was playing classical music. The notes were familiar to her but, as always, she could not remember the piece. The music stopped, became the drone of the announcer moving through the walls without definition. Maybe she should find out who was listening. As soon as she stepped out into the hall, it was clear that the music came from Proctor's room. She walked toward it, planning on continuing to the Gallery. The door was half open. Inside, the room glowed a brilliant, almost blinding yellow-white. She hesitated, not meaning to pry but unable to stop herself. Â < previous page page_72 next page >