Free Ysabel by Guy Gavriel Kay Page A

couple of fast digitals. Quality didn’t matter inthese, Ned knew; they were just to let his father have a glance at what they were talking about.
    Steve said, looking back at Melanie, “You say there are others like this? Maybe we check some out later? Ask around, where the best ones are. Is there anywhere the sun might set or rise along them? That might be—”
    “Uh-huh,” Greg said. He had pulled right off the road again, to where they could look along the double aisle of green. “Good thought. East-west, most of these. The big wind’s north.”
    Ned, impressed, reminded himself that his father’s people were always going to be competent, really good at their jobs, even if they might wear ridiculous swim trunks or write notes in green ink, with smiley faces at the bottom.
    The line of plane trees marched away from them, evenly spaced, framing the road on both sides, the spring leaves making a canopy above.
    He looked at them a moment out his rolled-down window, then shook his head. “Sorry, but you won’t get a sunset or sunrise,” he said. “Too many leaves by now, guys. That’s a winter shot.”
    Greg and Steve slowly turned around together in the front seat and stared at him.
    “Scawy,” said Greg. “Vewy scawy! What if he turns out to be like his old man? Imagine two of them. And he’s already picked up a chick here! I think I’m going to make Ned my new hero.”
    Steve laughed. “Replacing SpongeBob? That’s a major commitment!”
    “Wait till you see him on Rollerblades,” said Melanie.
    Ned shook his head at that one. Ack. What did you do with someone like Melanie? “Right,” he said. “I blade just like my dad.”
    Greg laughed and started the car again while Melanie made a note of where they were. She leaned forward and added another note. She was logging distance off the odometer, Ned saw.
    Just ahead was a T-junction. There was a largish restaurant on the right and a small café ahead, with tables on both sides of the road. That seemed to be all there was to Le Tholonet. They went straight through. A little farther along the road rose a bit, the screening woods gave way, and they had their first glimpse of the full mountain, no trees between.
    Ned was impressed. Hard not to be. Seen this close, Mont Sainte-Victoire completely dominated the landscape. It wasn’t huge, you weren’t going to snowboard down it in winter or anything, but there were no other mountains or hills around and the triangular peak was crisp and imposing. At the very top Ned saw a white cross.
    “Well,” Melanie said, checking her notes, “Barrett’s written ‘money shot’ just ahead, where there’s a place to get off the road.”
    Greg saw it and pulled over. He turned the engine off and hit the flashers again. They all got out.
    The triangle loomed above a long green field. There were trees to their left, but none were in the way here; it was a wide-open shot, easy to frame. The rocky slopes were lit by the afternoon light. The mountain lookedprimitive and astonishing. The four of them were silent awhile, staring.
    “Boss man won’t like it,” Steve said, finally. He put his sunglasses back on.
    “I know,” Melanie said glumly. She sighed. “There’s a pull-over-and-snap-a-picture thing going on here. They might as well put up a Kodak sign and picnic tables.”
    Ned wasn’t so sure, actually. The stony bleakness above the green meadow didn’t say “pretty” to him. It felt more powerful and unsettling than that. He was going to say something, but in the minute or so since they’d stopped and gotten out he had started to feel peculiar. He kept his mouth shut. Steve took a few more digitals.
    “I’ll make a note, but let’s go on,” Melanie said. “I’m gonna get worried about Barrett Reinhardt, if this is his idea of a money shot.”
    “The man wants to sell books,” said Greg. “This is, like, a photo of a painting everyone knows. Comfort food.”
    They got back in. Ned swallowed,