At the head of the stairs, L motions to Ivy and whispers that she’s leaving—Orion’s on the back porch, won’t come up. “Will you tell my mom, I mean, say I’m sorry I had to leave?”
“Something up?” Ivy asks. Some sixth sense says she ought to ask. Not waiting for the answer, she trots down herself, to talk to Orion.
Nobody there. Black night—midnight already, how did the night go so fast? L emerges from the back door, whistles a winding tune. Orion steps out of the bushes.
“She can help,” L says.
After a moment, he nods. “Savaya’s gone to Toronto. I have to go get her.”
Ivy doesn’t say anything, just looks as open and unjudgemental as she can, waiting for more. He pulls out his phone. She takes it and reads,
> Indo para Toronto
Eu transei con Terry
e eu loitei con Nevaeh
todo é parafuso
She hands it back, eyebrows up.
“Sorry—” he says, sliding a finger on the phone and handing it over again. “Here’s the English side. When she’s got something going on, she Google-translates it into, like, Tagalog or Malaysian and then into Galician, in case her parents read her phone. Then I retranslate.”
Ivy looks down again, forces her eyes to focus on the tiny print.
> I’m going to Toronto
I trance Terry
and I struggled with Nevaeh
everything is messed
“She—tranced Terry?”
“She doesn’t mean trance. That’s why we use Galician.”
Oh dear. “She fought with Nevaeh? Why would that make her go to Toronto?”
“It’s because of something I told her—I have to go get her.” He sounds about ten years old, suddenly.
There’s only a minute to think. This doesn’t seem seriously bad, but can she take the chance? Orion won’t come inside, shouldn’t—Burton’s still up there. Oh, no more questions.
“I’ll get my keys,” she says.
“I can drive,” he says.
“Yeah, I’ve seen your car—let’s take mine,” Ivy says. But really, hers is not much better. Hugh’s van might be the best bet.
Newell steps out of the doorway, keys in his hand. “Need some wheels?” When he says things like that they sound funny and cool, not old and sad.
Ivy says, “I think we’re okay, we can take the Volvo.”
But there comes Jason with L’s jacket and his own, and Orion’s backpack that he left behind when he jumped. Four, counting Ivy, and then Savaya to bring back—too many.
“I have to go,” Orion says.
“How are you going to find Savaya?” Ivy asks.
“An app—it shows me where her phone is, see?” Orion sticks the phone out, at the end of his long arm, remaining infinitely remote from them. From Newell.
Who says, “I didn’t think she’d be so sensible.”
“She’s not. I installed it while I was taking her Scrabble turn in Social.”
“How does it—” Ivy stops. Doesn’t matter.
Orion explains anyway: “GPS. It’s quite neat to watch, actually. See, she’s in Queen’s Park, in the government buildings.” He says this to Newell, as if it means something, then offers Ivy the screen, looking at it with her. “Look, she’s walking. We have to hurry. I told her a stupid thing, and I’m afraid she might—” He looks at Newell.
Newell looks back at him. “Take the Saab,” he says.
Orion takes the keys from his hand, an odd silent moment. Then the three of them dart off into the darkness. A moment later the car starts, a low-purring, well-heeled engine noise.
“We’d better go too,” Newell tells Ivy. “What can that Volvo of yours do?”
“Well–110, anyway.” Ivy feels a bit defensive. She loves that car.
A voice speaks in the darkness. “Take mine,” it says, a ghost in the shadowy garden. It’s Gerald, sitting alone in the dark on the bench on the gallery porch.
Newell turns to him. “Gerry,” he says, in his kindest, milksoft voice. “You okay, sitting out here? Lonely tonight? Go on upstairs—Hugh’s giving a little party for Della and Ken, he’d love to have you drop in.”
“Looking for Jasper,” Gerald says.
“He’s up there too, he’ll be glad to see you. Ivy and I can take you up.”
“That’s okay.” Gerald stands, heavy on his feet, stooping a little under the porch roof. “Here—” He dangles a set of keys. “Out front. Silver Ghost 9-3, basically a Phoenix. Call it a test drive. Except the way things are with Saab, it won’t ever get into general production.” He tosses the keys.
Newell catches them. “Your house key on here too? We might be late.”
“I’m not going out there,” Gerald says. “Jasper lets me stay at his place.”
They look at him, as well as they can see in the darkness. A shambling beast, a bear of sorrows and acquainted with grief. Then headlights glare in from the parking spot behind the gallery, and Gerald puts an arm up to shield his blinded eyes.
“Look!” A woman’s voice. It’s Ann. “People are still going in, see. It’s fine, I told you it would be.”
Three people get out of the car, and walk over. Ann and a tall man and the painter, Mighton. Ivy has decided she doesn’t like Mighton.
Okay, perfect—a little outing will be even better now.