The Colors of Madeleine 01: Corner of White Read Online Free PDF Page A

through the station guard’s whistle — cutting through it all came the low, deep throb of the warning bells.

    The warning bells were also ringing through the town.
    At the Watermelon Inn, it seemed for a moment like the sky was joining in with the clamor and laughter of the children playing in snow.
    Then the place flew apart like hands tearing at a jigsaw puzzle.
    The doors of the Inn were thrown open, and people pushed, shoved, and poured inside. Voices screamed the names of children, or shouted, “What is it? What’s the code?” Then, as the bells carried on, “It’s a Gray, it’s a fifth-level Gray!”
    Within moments, the doors, security gates, and shutters had all slid, rattled, and slammed shut.
    Scarves and bags were left scattered on the snow, alongside upturned snowmen.

    At the station, the train almost stopped.
    Then, as its engine hushed, the warning bells filled the air instead.
    The Sheriff’s hand was already raised in greeting. He could see their faces — the Selectors’ faces — just behind the window of the first-class carriage doorway, ready to disembark.
    That was the point when the train’s security shutters clanged down — bang , bang , bang , all along the carriages — and the train itself picked up its pace, resumed its rattling roar, and sped away down the line.
    The station guard was bolting the door to his guardhouse when he realized that the Sheriff was still outside. Standing frozen at the edge of the platform, one hand in the air, his old coat flying outward in the wind.
    The guard had to fumble for his own safety jacket, unbolt the door, run across to him.
    By the time he got there, the fifth-level Gray had torn bloody stripes into the Sheriff’s bare hands and right across the flesh of his face. It had ripped through the cartilage in his knee.

    Long after the warning bells had stopped, the front room of the Watermelon Inn retained its hushed, excited jitter.
    The guests wanted to stay and talk, repeating the same stories. Phone calls were made and word passed around that Hector, the Sheriff, was in the emergency room but would most likely recover. Everyone else in town, it seemed, was safe.
    Talk changed to other things. Three different seasons were expected for tomorrow. Somebody thought that the Butterfly Child had been found by the Chokeberry River, but others thought that that had been a hoax. Le Petit Restaurant did the best roast duck with a maple glaze in the province, and their vanilla-pear brûlée was to die for.
    Behind the talk came the clink , drip , and splat of snow melting outside. Alanna and Elliot handed out coffees and slices of pecan pie.
    Across the room, Corrie-Lynn was curled on a couch by the fireplace, reading a book.
    “That’s the owner’s daughter,” somebody murmured. “Poor little thing.”
    Elliot paused at the coffee urn.
    “I know,” replied another guest. “Her father was killed in an attack a year ago.”
    “I heard that two other locals disappeared the same night,” chimed in a third voice. “The little girl’s uncle, I think — used to run an electronics repair shop downtown. And a local teacher too. Vanished. Both of them.”
    “Not a trace?”
    Elliot scratched his neck. He set down the cup he’d been about to fill.
    He moved through the murmurs and stopped at Corrie-Lynn.
    She did not look at him. She was staring at a page in her book.
    Elliot turned his head, to read the title of the book.
    The Kingdom of Cello: An Illustrated Travel Guide.
    He’d seen it here before. They kept it on the mantelpiece, along with tourist brochures and pamphlets on local attractions.
    He lifted the book out of her hands, but still Corrie-Lynn did not look at him. Her gaze transferred itself to her empty palms.
    He watched her a moment, then read the open page:

    While Cello is a wonderfully “colorful” place, in the traditional sense of that word, it is also home to a large population of “Colors.” These are living organisms: a kind