Free White Crow by Marcus Sedgwick Page A

threshold.
    The only thought we clung to was that the participants must come willingly to the Hall, not through threat, or through coercion, or bribery.
    And then, as we drained another jug of wine, Dr
    Barrieux suddenly sat bolt upright.
    - Hear me now! He said.
    And he expounded his scheme, and I bethought it subtle in its design and powerful in its simplicity.
    He outlined the message that we would put out to the world, and wait for the world to come to us, and I saw the power of what he said, for the thing that we would offer the world would be the very thing that we ourselves craved.
    The knowledge.
    The truth.
    The answer, to what lies beyond.
    And now, there only remained one obstacle; how should we send this message, how should it become known what we were offering?
    And at that moment, Martha entered the room to clear our plates, and to bring us more wine.
    The doctor smiled at Martha, who, bless her modesty, attended her gaze only to the top of the table, and so she did not see as the doctor smiled at me instead and then returned his gaze to the innocent woman.
    Yes, I thought.
    Yes.
    That is the way.

Saturday 31st July
    F erelith and Rebecca sit on the floor of Ferelith’s bedroom, on a big Turkish rug that’s seen better days. Ferelith has turned the music down but it still chunters on quietly from some unseen speakers.
    ‘Your room is amazing,’ Rebecca says, quite honestly. She’s not jealous of it, because it’s not how she would ever like her room to be, but amazing it is.
    It’s full of stuff. Every square inch of floor, wall, and in some places ceiling has something on it. Every bookcase, and there are many, is crammed to overflowing, not just with books, piled in sideways where there’s no room, but with all manner of things: interesting stones from the beach, bone-dry sticks, bleached by sun and saltwater, smooth green sea glass. There’s a bunch of dried mistletoe, rusty scissors that will cut nothing again. A jar of feathers, all of them black, save one that is white.
    There are two big wardrobes, and the door of one of them is open, showing a mirror and a rail full of what Rebecca can only think of as ‘Ferelith clothes’, mostly black, some muted colours, all very simple, all quite sexy in an unusual way.
    ‘You want a drink or something?’ Ferelith asks, but she doesn’t really seem to be offering, so Rebecca shakes her head.
    ‘So, you’re kind of famous, then,’ Ferelith says, changing the subject.
    Rebecca bristles.
    ‘Don’t be stupid.’
    ‘Do the press know your dad is here? I bet they do. They know everything. I guess there’s just something else to write about for now. I remember it though. It was last year, wasn’t it?’
    Rebecca is about to correct her, but decides she doesn’t want to talk about it.
    ‘I came here so I wouldn’t have to think about it, all right?’ she snaps angrily.
    Ferelith sits back. She doesn’t say anything for a very long time, waiting for Rebecca’s anger to pass.
    ‘God. You are so beautiful,’ Ferelith says eventually.
    ‘Shut up,’ says Rebecca, but she’s speaking gently. She frowns. ‘Do you like me?’ Her nose wrinkles. ‘Or something?’
    ‘You mean, like I . . . Why? Would you like me to?’
    ‘Of course not.’
    ‘Then why do you ask?’
    ‘Because of the things you say.’
    ‘But you are beautiful.’
    ‘I told you to shut up.’
    ‘Fair enough. Do you like me, though?’ She turns away, hiding her eyes behind a curtain of hair. Then adds in a small voice, ‘Would it kill you to tell me I’m not ugly?’
    Rebecca considers this. Ferelith is not beautiful. She is not pretty. Nor can she apply the words gorgeous, or stunning, or even handsome to her. But she’s certainly not ugly. And there’s something powerful about her, something powerfully attractive.
    ‘Do you think you are?’
    Ferelith shrugs, still turned away.
    ‘They all said I was at school.’
    ‘Kids say anything if they think it will