The Last Will of Moira Leahy Read Online Free PDF Page A

, I wrote at the top of a note. Sighed, crumpled it up, tried again. Marion .
    Kit might chide me about needing an MRI, but having a book anonymously nailed to your office door had a way of messing with your concentration. I couldn’t deny wanting to learn more about the keris , and I knew Garrick would gladly pull up a chair with me tonight if I appeared at his door. Thanksgiving break was just two days out, though, and if I didn’t focus, I’d never jump through all the university hoops. I could wait to learn about the blade—and my displaced friend.
    Noel, my companion and ally since I’d arrived in Betheny eight years ago, had been in Europe for months, not just searching for antiques but for his only living parent: his mother. He hadn’t seen her since she’d crushed his little-boy heart by leaving him with her father, Garrick, and disappearing from their lives. The only time he’d really talked about her, he’d said they thought she lived in Europe now and good riddance. But a few months ago, on a sweltering August day, he’d changed his mind, said he had to search.
    How will you do it? You don’t even know where to look .
    I have some ideas , he’d said, evasive.
    I didn’t understand his sudden need, but I respected it, envied it even. At least some who were lost could be found.
    It always made my day to receive one of his postcards, picturing cobbled streets, majestic castles, white-capped mountains, or balconies of cut stone. I imagined the rest—the people and language, even the music. Nearly a month had passed since I’d heard from him, and the silence was wearing on me. I had no way of contacting him at all; Noel didn’t have a cell phone or an e-mail account, hated computers. In fact, he didn’t like anything that verified he lived in the twenty-first century.
    Is it me, Maeve? Or is it … just?
    Just. Just .
    Tension sprouted between us before he’d left. I’d pretended not to understand its root and then made a concerted effort not to think of it at all. I needed to do that again. Not think. Not miss him. Just wait. The Fifth Chinese Brother could hold his breath eternally, after all—though I wondered if his ribs ever cracked, if he ever longed to steal just a little air.
    I pulled the book from my briefcase and touched the red silk marker, lifted it and breathed a spicy, exotic fragrance, the scent of a foreign land. It lingered with me for days.
    I STOOD IN a park filled with decaying greenery. A hundred cranes flew overhead, but still I stared at the stone monument of a woman. Something seemed wrong with her, but I couldn’t say what. Then she turned her head to stare at me, water trickling and words rumbling from her ancient mouth.
    Nascer, nascer! she said. Rise. Get up.
    I startled awake and rose, stumbled to my cell. The dream-world message continued to punch at me as I made the call.
    Nascer, nascer, nascer!
    Six rings, seven. I looked at the clock; God, only 5:10.
    “’Lo?” my father said in his sleep-scarred voice.
    “Dad, sorry it’s so early.” I didn’t sound much better than he did. I cleared my throat.
    “Maeve? You okay?”
    “I just wondered … Is everything all right?”
    “Ayuh,” he said, “same, you know.” I let loose my breath. “Got the first snow last night. Wind’s up. Your mother—she’s not here or I’d put her on. Left for the day, I think.”
    Of course, at 5:10, she’d be off. Resentment pulsed in me, plain and ugly, though I wouldn’t let it leak into my voice. Then I realized. “Dad, it’s Thanksgiving.”
    “So it is. Forgot, just about.” An uncomfortable moment passed. “Sorry we couldn’t make it there, Mayfly. Sorry about all of it.”
    “I know. Me, too.” The act seemed simple enough—visit me, share the holiday. But nothing was simple with my mother.
    “You know,” he said, “if you left now—”
    “No, Dad.” I tried to look forward. “At least there’s Christmas, right? You’ll come then.”
    Silence. My