Sick of Shadows Read Online Free PDF Page B

hours,’ ” Amanda assured him. “And it is now eight-seventeen.”
    “Excuse me,” said a voice from the doorway. “Has anybody seen Eileen?”
    Elizabeth later wondered whether the family’s reaction would have been the same had Eileen been an “ordinary” bride, without her particular history. Certainly they seemed unduly concerned about a grown woman who was late for dinner. When everyone jumped up from the table, apparently intending to rush outside and search for her, this realization seemed to strike them, because they stopped abruptly and began to murmur little disclaimers.
    “Probably forgot her watch.”
    “It’s still very light outside. Doesn’t look past eight o’clock.” This from Louisa.
    “She’s absorbed in her masterpiece,” Amanda announced.“But we can’t let it ruin her health, can we now?”
    “Or our dinner,” murmured Geoffrey, resuming his seat.
    “She’s down by the lake. Charles, would you—”
    “Aunt Amanda,” Alban cut in. “I’m dressed for a trek through the weeds. I’ll go and find her. Sit down, everybody. I’ll be back before you finish your salads.”
    He was gone before anybody could protest.
    Michael Satisky shied past Amanda’s benevolent smile with a nervous titter of his own and took his place between his prospective father-in-law and the empty chair reserved for the bride.
    Elizabeth, ostensibly listening to Charles’s monologue on proton decay, watched Michael nibble forkfuls of salad and wondered if Geoffrey’s assessment of him were correct. He looks as though he’d forgotten his lines, she thought.
    “…  Because although the proton is 1,836.1 times heavier than the positron, they have identical charges, which has been explained by …”
    “I’ve always thought so,” Elizabeth assured him.
    “Just the slightest nuance of desperation in your voice invites me to interrupt this conversation,” said Geoffrey. “Perhaps I should introduce our new dinner guest. Elizabeth, Michael Satisky.”
    Satisky started at the sound of his name and produced a stricken smile at them from across the table.
    “This is my Cousin Elizabeth,” Geoffrey told him. “Her brother is in law school at your university. Bill MacPherson. Perhaps you know him?”
    “I—er—no,” Satisky mumbled. “I’m in the English department. We don’t see much of the people in law school. Eileen didn’t tell me …”
    “It’s a big place,” said Elizabeth. “Sixteen thousand students, I think. In fact, we didn’t even see Eileen all year. You’re in graduate school?”
    Now that the conversation had become less awkward, Geoffrey lost interest in it and reentered his mother’s conversation on the relative merits of variouspunch recipes. His own favorite, he insisted, was made with grain alcohol and anything.
    Michael began to explain about his interest in the Brontes (Branwell was the real genius of the family), and his own modest efforts in what he called “the realm of poetry.” He seemed more relaxed as the conversation progressed.
    Here at least is a chance to say something, Elizabeth decided, because in a physics conversation it is hard even to come up with a question unless you know a little about the subject. Since Michael looked less miserable when expounding on his own interests, she decided that it would be kind to encourage him.
    “What did Branwell write?” she asked.
    Satisky pulled up short in mid-sentence. “What?”
    “I said: ‘What did Branwell write?’ Branwell Brontë.”
    “Well—actually, nothing. I mean, not a novel or stories or anything. Actually, when he was a child he wrote fantasies with the girls, but his potential—”
    “Oh, I see!” said Elizabeth eagerly. “He died while he was still young, and the others grew up to become writers.”
    “Well … no.” Satisky rearranged a few stray peas on his plate. “Emily and Anne only outlived him by a few months.”
    “But—I don’t understand. How is he the real genius