The Forgotten Garden Part 13

"Oh, yes," said the old woman sagely, "and that's a fact."

"The woman I'm interested in lived on this street, too. Here at this house, apparently. Perhaps you remember her?" Nell unzipped her bag and withdrew the picture she'd had photostated from the frontispiece of the fairy-tale book. Noticed that her fingers were trembling slightly. "She's drawn to look like a fairy-tale ill.u.s.tration, but if you look closely at her face..."

The old woman extended a gnarled hand and took the proffered image, squinted so that rows of wrinkles gathered around each eye. Then she started to cackle.

"You know her?" Nell held her breath.

"I know 'er, all right, I'll remember 'er to me dying days. Used to frighten the bejesus out of me when I was a littl'un. Told me all sorts of wicked stories when she knew my ma weren't around to give 'er a pounding and send 'er scuttling." She looked up at Nell, frowning so that her forehead concertinaed. "Elizabeth? Ellen?"

"Eliza," Nell said quickly. "Eliza Makepeace. She became a writer."

"I wouldn't know about that, not much of a reader, m'self. Can't see the point of all them pages. All's I know is that the girl there in your picture told stories to make your hair stand on end. Kept most of us local kids frightened of the dark, though we was always coming back for more. Don't know where she learned the likes of 'em, herself."

Nell looked again at the house, tried to get a sense of this young Eliza. An inveterate storyteller, scaring the younger children with her tales of terror.

"We missed her when she were taken." The old woman was shaking her head sadly.

"I'd have thought you'd be pleased not to be frightened anymore."

"Not likely," said the old woman, lips moving as though she were chewing her own gums. "There ain't a child alive what don't enjoy a good scare now and then." She dug her walking stick into a spot on the stairs where the cement was crumbling. Squinted up at Nell. "That girl herself got the worst sort of scare, though, far worse than any of her tall tales. Lost her brother, you know, one day in the fog. Nothing she could tell us was as ghastly as what happened to him. It was a big black horse, trod right through his heart." She shook her head. "The girl, she were never the same after that. Went a bit batty, you ask me, cut off all her hair and started wearing breeches if I remembers properly!"

Nell felt a rush of excitement. This was new.

The old woman cleared her throat, withdrew a tissue and spat into it. Continued as if nothing had happened. "There was a rumor going around she were taken to the workhouse."

"She wasn't," said Nell. "She was sent to live with family in Cornwall."

"Cornwall." A kettle began to whistle from inside. "That's nice, then, isn't it?"

"I imagine it was."

"Well then," the old woman said with a nod towards the kitchen, "that's teatime." The p.r.o.nouncement was so matter-of-fact that for a brief, hopeful moment Nell thought she might be being invited inside, offered tea and countless other anecdotes about Eliza Makepeace. But when the door began to close, the old lady on one side and Nell on the other, the fond fancy pa.s.sed.

"Wait," she said, pus.h.i.+ng her hand out to hold off the closing door.

The old woman held the door ajar as the kettle continued to shrill.

Nell pulled a piece of paper from her handbag and began to scribble on it. "If I write down the address and phone number of the hotel I'm staying at, will you contact me if you remember anything else about Eliza? Anything at all?"

The old woman c.o.c.ked a silvery eyebrow. She paused briefly, as if sizing Nell up, then took the piece of paper. Her voice when she spoke was slightly changed. "If I think of anything, I'll let you know."

"Thank you, Mrs...."

"Swindell," said the old woman. "Miss Harriet Swindell. Never met a man I'd let make me his own." Harriet Swindell. Never met a man I'd let make me his own."

Nell lifted a hand to wave farewell, but old Miss Swindell's door was already closed. As the kettle finally stopped shouting inside, Nell glanced at her watch. If she hurried, there was still enough time to get to the Tate Gallery. There she could see Nathaniel Walker's portrait of Eliza, the one he'd called The Auth.o.r.ess The Auth.o.r.ess. She pulled the little tourist map of London from her bag and ran her finger up the river until she found Millbank. With a final glance down Battersea Church Road, as a red London bus shuddered past the banks of Victorian houses that had played host to Eliza's childhood, Nell set off.

AND THERE she was, she was, The Auth.o.r.ess, The Auth.o.r.ess, hanging on the gallery wall. Just as Nell remembered her. Thick braid slung over one shoulder, frilly white collar b.u.t.toned to her chin so that her fine neck was encased, hat on her head. Quite different from the sorts of hats usually worn by Edwardian ladies. Its lines were more masculine, its pitch more jaunty, its wearer irreverent somehow, though Nell wasn't sure how she knew that. She closed her eyes. If she tried hard enough she could almost remember a voice. It came to mind at times, a silvery voice, full of magic and mystery and secrets. But it always slipped away before she could clasp the memory to her, make it her own to command and recall. hanging on the gallery wall. Just as Nell remembered her. Thick braid slung over one shoulder, frilly white collar b.u.t.toned to her chin so that her fine neck was encased, hat on her head. Quite different from the sorts of hats usually worn by Edwardian ladies. Its lines were more masculine, its pitch more jaunty, its wearer irreverent somehow, though Nell wasn't sure how she knew that. She closed her eyes. If she tried hard enough she could almost remember a voice. It came to mind at times, a silvery voice, full of magic and mystery and secrets. But it always slipped away before she could clasp the memory to her, make it her own to command and recall.

People were moving behind her and Nell opened her eyes again. The Auth.o.r.ess The Auth.o.r.ess came once more into frame and Nell walked closer. The portrait was unusual: for one thing, it was a charcoal sketch, more a study than a portrait. The framing was interesting, too. The subject wasn't facing the artist but had been drawn as if walking away, as if she'd turned back her gaze only at the last minute and been frozen in that moment. There was something engaging in her wide eyes, her lips parted as if to speak; and something uncomfortable, too. It was the absence of even the hint of a smile, as if she'd been surprised. Observed. Caught. came once more into frame and Nell walked closer. The portrait was unusual: for one thing, it was a charcoal sketch, more a study than a portrait. The framing was interesting, too. The subject wasn't facing the artist but had been drawn as if walking away, as if she'd turned back her gaze only at the last minute and been frozen in that moment. There was something engaging in her wide eyes, her lips parted as if to speak; and something uncomfortable, too. It was the absence of even the hint of a smile, as if she'd been surprised. Observed. Caught.

If only you could speak, Nell thought. Then perhaps you could tell me who I am, what I was doing with you. Why we boarded that boat together and why you didn't come back for me.

Nell felt set upon by the dull weight of disappointment, though what revelations she'd imagined might be gleaned from Eliza's portrait, she didn't know. Not imagined, she corrected herself, hoped. Her entire quest was based on hope. The world was an awfully large place and it wasn't easy to find a person who'd gone missing sixty years earlier, even if that person was oneself.

The room with the Walkers was beginning to empty and Nell found herself surrounded on all four sides by the silent gazes of the long-dead. All observing her in that strange, heavy way the portrait subject has: eyes, eternally watchful, following the viewer around the room. She s.h.i.+vered and slipped on her coat.

The other portrait caught her eye when she was almost at the door. As her gaze fell upon the painting of the dark-haired woman with pale skin and plump red lips, Nell knew exactly who she was. A thousand s.n.a.t.c.hes of long-forgotten memories combined in an instant, certainty flooded every cell. It wasn't that she recognized the name printed beneath the portrait, Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet-the words themselves meant very little. It was more and it was less. Nell's lips began to quiver and something deep inside her chest clenched. Breathing was difficult. "Mamma," she whispered, feeling stupid and elated and vulnerable all at once.

THANK G.o.d the Central Reference Library was open late, for there was no way Nell could have waited until morning. Finally she knew her mother's name, Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet. Later, she would look back on that moment in the Tate Gallery as a birth of sorts. Swiftly, with neither warning nor fuss, she was someone's child, she knew her mother's name. She said the words over and over as she scurried along the darkening streets. the Central Reference Library was open late, for there was no way Nell could have waited until morning. Finally she knew her mother's name, Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet. Later, she would look back on that moment in the Tate Gallery as a birth of sorts. Swiftly, with neither warning nor fuss, she was someone's child, she knew her mother's name. She said the words over and over as she scurried along the darkening streets.

It was not the first time she'd heard them. The book she'd bought from Mr. Snelgrove with its entry on Eliza had mentioned the Mountrachet family. Eliza's maternal uncle, minor member of the aristocracy, owner of the grand estate in Cornwall, Blackhurst, where Eliza had been sent after her mother's death. It was the link she'd been looking for. The thread that tied the Auth.o.r.ess of Nell's memory to the face she now recognized as her mother's.

The woman at the library desk remembered Nell from the day before, when she'd come searching for information on Eliza.

"Did you find Mr. Snelgrove, then?" she said with a grin.

"I did," said Nell, rather breathlessly.

"And you lived to tell the tale."

"He sold me a book that was very helpful."

"That's our Mr. Snelgrove, always manages to make a sale." She shook her head fondly.

"I wonder," said Nell, "if you could help me again. I need to find some information on a woman."

The librarian blinked. "I'm going to need a little more to go on than that."

"Of course. A woman born sometime in the late nineteenth century."

"Was she a writer, too?"

"No, at least I don't think so." Nell exhaled, collected her thoughts. "Her name was Rose Mountrachet and her family were aristocrats of some kind. I thought perhaps I might find something in one of those books, you know the sort, with details of members of the peerage."

"Like Debrett's. Debrett's. Or Or Who's Who. Who's Who."

"Yes, exactly."

"Worth a look," said the librarian. "We've got both publications here, but Who's Who Who's Who is probably easier to read. Hereditary peers are automatically invited for inclusion. She might not have an entry of her own but if you're lucky she'll be mentioned in someone else's, her father's, perhaps, or her husband's. Don't s'pose you know when she died?" is probably easier to read. Hereditary peers are automatically invited for inclusion. She might not have an entry of her own but if you're lucky she'll be mentioned in someone else's, her father's, perhaps, or her husband's. Don't s'pose you know when she died?"

"No. Why?"

"Given that you don't know when she was entered, if at all, it might save you time if you just looked her up in Who Was Who Who Was Who first. Need to know when she died for that, though." first. Need to know when she died for that, though."

Nell shook her head. "I couldn't even guess. If you point me in the general direction I'll just check through the Who's Who Who's Who-start this year and work backwards until I find mention of her."

"Might take a while, and the library's closing soon."

"I'll be quick."

The woman shrugged. Leaned over to pluck a small notepad from the typewriter beside her. She wrote down a shelf number and handed it to Nell. "Take the stairs to the first floor and you'll find the back files at the inquiry desk. The listings are alphabetical."

FINALLY, IN 1934, Nell struck gold. It wasn't Rose Mountrachet, but it was a Mountrachet nonetheless. Linus, the uncle who'd claimed Eliza Makepeace after Georgiana's death. She scanned the entry: 1934, Nell struck gold. It wasn't Rose Mountrachet, but it was a Mountrachet nonetheless. Linus, the uncle who'd claimed Eliza Makepeace after Georgiana's death. She scanned the entry: MOUNTRACHET, Lord, Linus St. John Henry. b. b. 11 January 1860, 11 January 1860, s. s. of late Lord St. John Luke Mountrachet and late Margaret Elizabeth Mountrachet, of late Lord St. John Luke Mountrachet and late Margaret Elizabeth Mountrachet, m. m. 31 August 1888 Adeline Langley. One 31 August 1888 Adeline Langley. One d. d. late Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet, late Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet, m. m. late Nathaniel Walker. late Nathaniel Walker.

Rose had married Nathaniel Walker. That meant, didn't it, that he was her father? She read the entry again. The late late Rose and Nathaniel. So they'd both died earlier than 1934. Was that why she'd been with Eliza? Had Eliza been appointed her guardian because her parents were both dead? Rose and Nathaniel. So they'd both died earlier than 1934. Was that why she'd been with Eliza? Had Eliza been appointed her guardian because her parents were both dead?

Her father-that is, Hugh-had found her on the Maryborough wharf in late 1913. If Eliza had been appointed guardian after Rose and Nathaniel were killed, that meant, didn't it, that they must have died before then?

Suppose she were to look up Nathaniel Walker in Who's Who Who's Who for that year? He was sure to have an entry. Better yet, if her theory was correct and he was no longer alive in 1913, she should go straight to for that year? He was sure to have an entry. Better yet, if her theory was correct and he was no longer alive in 1913, she should go straight to Who Was Who Who Was Who. She hurried along the line of shelves and plucked out Who Was Who 18971915 Who Was Who 18971915. Fingers trembling, she flicked through from the back, Z, Y, X, W Z, Y, X, W. There he was: WALKER, Nathaniel James. b. b. 22 July 1883, 22 July 1883, d. d. 2 September 1913, 2 September 1913, s. s. of Anthony Sebastian Walker and Mary Walker, of Anthony Sebastian Walker and Mary Walker, m. m. the late Hon. Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet, 3 March 1908. One the late Hon. Rose Elizabeth Mountrachet, 3 March 1908. One d. d. the late Ivory Walker. the late Ivory Walker.

Nell stopped short. One daughter was correct, but what did they mean by late? She wasn't dead, she was very much alive.

Nell was aware suddenly of the library heating, felt she couldn't breathe. She fanned her face and looked back at the entry.

What could it possibly mean? Could they have got it wrong?

"Found her?"

Nell looked up. The woman from the front desk. "Are these ever wrong?" she said. "Do they ever get things wrong?"

The woman pursed her lips thoughtfully. "They're not the most reliable sources, I suppose. They're put together with information supplied by the subjects themselves."

"What about when the person is dead?"

"I'm sorry?"

"In Who Was Who Who Was Who the people are all dead. Who supplies the information then?" the people are all dead. Who supplies the information then?"

She shrugged. "Remaining family, I expect. Most of it I guess they just copy from the last questionnaire the subject provided. Add the death dates and Bob's your uncle." She brushed a bit of lint from the top of the shelf. "We're closing in ten minutes. Let me know if there's anything else I can help you with."

There had been a mistake, that was all. It must happen often; after all, the person setting the type didn't know the subjects personally. It was possible, wasn't it, that a typesetter's mind might wander for a moment, the word "late" be inserted by error? A stranger consigned to early death in posterity's silent eyes?

It was little more than a typo. She knew she was the child of whom the entry spoke and she most certainly was not "late." All she needed to do was find a biography of Nathaniel Walker and she could prove the entry was wrong. She had a name now; her name had once been Ivory Walker. And if it didn't feel familiar, if it didn't slip over her like a well-worn coat, then that was as it was. There was no accounting for memory, which things stuck and which didn't.

She remembered suddenly the book she'd bought on her way into the Tate, all about Nathaniel's paintings. It was bound to include a brief biography. She pulled it from her bag and flipped it open.

Nathaniel Walker (18831913) was born in New York to Polish immigrant parents, Antoni and Marya Walker (originally Walczwk). His father worked on the city wharves and his mother took in laundry and raised their six children, of whom Nathaniel was the third. Two of his siblings died of various fevers and Nathaniel was set to follow his father on to the wharves when a picture he had been sketching on a New York street was noticed by a pa.s.serby, Walter Irving Jnr, heir to the Irving oil fortune, who commissioned Nathaniel to paint his portrait.Under his patron's wing, Nathaniel became a well-known member of New York's burgeoning society. It was at one of Irving's parties in 1907 that Nathaniel met the Honourable Rose Mountrachet, who was visiting New York from Cornwall. They were married the following year at Blackhurst, the Mountrachet estate near Tregenna, Cornwall. Nathaniel's reputation continued to grow after his marriage and relocation to the UK, and the pinnacle of his career was the commission in early 1910 for him to paint what would be King Edward VII's final portrait.Nathaniel and Rose Walker had one daughter, Ivory, born in 1909. His wife and daughter were Nathaniel's frequent subjects and one of his best-loved portraits is that named Mother and Child Mother and Child. The young couple were tragically killed in 1913 at Ais Gill when their railway train and another collided and caught fire. Ivory Walker died from scarlet fever days after her parents' deaths.

It made no sense. Nell knew knew she was the child to whom this biography referred. Rose and Nathaniel Walker were her parents. She she was the child to whom this biography referred. Rose and Nathaniel Walker were her parents. She remembered remembered Rose, had done so instantly. The dates fitted: her birth, even her voyage to Australia, tied in too neatly with Rose's and Nathaniel's deaths to be coincidence. Not to mention the further connection that Rose and Eliza must have been cousins. Rose, had done so instantly. The dates fitted: her birth, even her voyage to Australia, tied in too neatly with Rose's and Nathaniel's deaths to be coincidence. Not to mention the further connection that Rose and Eliza must have been cousins.

Nell turned to the index and ran her finger down the list. She stopped at Mother and Child Mother and Child and flicked to the nominated page, heart thumping. and flicked to the nominated page, heart thumping.

A tremor in her lower lip. She might not remember being called Ivory but there was no longer any doubt. She knew what she had looked like as a little girl. This was her. Sitting on her mother's lap, painted by her father.

Why, then, did history think her dead? Who had given such misinformation to Who Was Who Who Was Who? Was it a deliberate deception or had they believed it themselves? Not realizing that she had, instead, been boarded on a s.h.i.+p to Australia by a mysterious writer of fairy tales.

You mustn't speak your name. It's a game we're playing. That's what the Auth.o.r.ess had said. Nell could hear it now, the silvery voice, like a breeze off the ocean surface. It's our secret. You mustn't tell It's our secret. You mustn't tell. Nell was four years old again, felt the fear, the uncertainty, the excitement. Smelled the river mud, so different from the wide blue sea, heard the hungry Thames gulls, the sailors calling to one another. A pair of barrels, a dark hiding s.p.a.ce, a thread of dust-flecked light...

The Auth.o.r.ess had taken her. She hadn't been abandoned at all. She'd been kidnapped and her grandparents didn't know. That's why they hadn't come looking for her. They'd believed her dead.

But why had the Auth.o.r.ess taken her? And why had she then disappeared, leaving Nell alone on the boat, alone in the world?

Her past was like a Russian doll, question inside question inside question.

And what she needed to unravel these new mysteries was a person. Someone to whom she could speak, who might have known her then, or know someone who had. Someone who could shed light on the Auth.o.r.ess, and the Mountrachets, and Nathaniel Walker.

That someone, she figured, was not going to be found in the dusty vaults of a reference library. She would need to go to the heart of the mystery, to Cornwall, to this village, Tregenna. To the huge dark house, Blackhurst, where once her family had lived and she, as a little girl, had roamed.

NINETEEN.

LONDON, 2005.

RUBY was late for dinner but Ca.s.sandra didn't mind. The waiter had given her a table by the large gla.s.s window and she was watching harried commuters hoofing their way home. All these people, the stars of lives unfolding quite outside the sphere in which Ca.s.sandra's own life took place. They came in waves. There was a bus stop right out front and across the street South Kensington station still wore its pretty coat of art nouveau tiles. Every so often the traffic current swept a wind-blown cl.u.s.ter of people inside the restaurant doors, where they would slide into seats or stand by the brightly lit deli awaiting white cardboard boxes of gourmet food to carry home for dinner. was late for dinner but Ca.s.sandra didn't mind. The waiter had given her a table by the large gla.s.s window and she was watching harried commuters hoofing their way home. All these people, the stars of lives unfolding quite outside the sphere in which Ca.s.sandra's own life took place. They came in waves. There was a bus stop right out front and across the street South Kensington station still wore its pretty coat of art nouveau tiles. Every so often the traffic current swept a wind-blown cl.u.s.ter of people inside the restaurant doors, where they would slide into seats or stand by the brightly lit deli awaiting white cardboard boxes of gourmet food to carry home for dinner.

Ca.s.sandra rubbed her thumb along the soft, worn edge of the notebook and ran the sentence through her mind once more, wondering whether it would sit more easily this time. Nell's father was Nathaniel Walker. Nathaniel Walker, painter to the royals, had been Nell's father. Ca.s.sandra's great-grandfather.

No, the truth still fitted like someone else's glove, just as it had when she'd first uncovered it that afternoon. She'd been sitting on the bench by the Thames, decoding Nell's scrawled account of her visit to the Battersea house in which Eliza Makepeace had been born, the Tate Gallery where Nathaniel Walker's portraits were on display. The breeze had picked up, skimming the river's surface and racing up the banks, and Ca.s.sandra had been about to leave when something drew her eye to the particularly scratchy pa.s.sage on the facing page, an underlined sentence that read: Rose Mountrachet was my mother. I recognize her portrait, and I remember her Rose Mountrachet was my mother. I recognize her portrait, and I remember her. An arrow then, and Ca.s.sandra's attention leaped ahead to the t.i.tle of a book, Who Was Who, Who Was Who, under which was printed a hasty list of bullet points: under which was printed a hasty list of bullet points: Rose Mountrachet married Nathaniel Walker, painter, 1908 one daughter! Ivory Walker (born sometime after-1909? Check. Scarlet fever?) Rose and Nathaniel both killed 1913, train crash, Ais Gill (same year I disappeared. Link?) A piece of loose paper had been folded into the margins of the notebook, a photocopy taken from a book called Great Rail Disasters of the Steam Age Great Rail Disasters of the Steam Age. Ca.s.sandra pulled it out again now. The paper was thin and the text faded, but it was blessedly unmarked by the mold spots that were busy devouring the rest of the book. The t.i.tle at the top read "The Ais Gill Railway Tragedy." As bistro noise hummed warmly around her, Ca.s.sandra scanned once more through the brief but enthusiastic account.

In the dark and early hours of 2 September 1913, two Midland Railway trains left Carlisle Station en route for London, all those aboard unaware that they were being spirited towards a scene of utter devastation. It was a steep line, traversing as it did the peaks and troughs of the rolling northern landscape, and the trains were hopelessly underpowered. Two facts conspired to drive the trains to their destruction that night: their engines were smaller than was recommended for the line's steep gradients, and each had been supplied with poorly screened coal, full of slack that prevented it from burning efficiently.After departing from Carlisle at 1.35 a.m., the first train laboured to reach the Ais Gill summit, the steam pressure began to plummet and the train ground to a halt. One can imagine the pa.s.sengers would have been surprised by the train's sudden halt so soon after leaving the station, but not unduly alarmed. After all, they were in safe hands; the guard had rea.s.sured them that they'd only be sitting still a few minutes and then they'd be on their way again.Indeed, the guard's certainty that the wait would be short was one of the fatal errors made that night. Conventional railway protocol suggests that if he'd known how long it would take for the driver and fireman to clean the grate and rebuild the steam pressure, he'd have laid some detonators or carried a lantern down the line to signal to any oncoming trains. But alas, he did not, and thus the fates of the good folk on board were sealed.For further down the line the second engine was also straining. It pulled a lighter load but the small engine and inferior coal were nonetheless sufficient impediments to cause the driver difficulties. A few miles before Mallerstang, the driver made the fatal decision to leave the cab and inspect the engine in action. Though such practice seems unsafe by today's standards, it was quite a common occurrence in those days. Unfortunately, while the driver was absent from the cab, the fireman also encountered problems: the injector was stalling and the boiler level had begun to fall. When the driver returned to the cab, the task consumed their attention so fully that they both missed the red lantern being waved from the Mallerstang signal box.By the time they finished and returned their attention to the line, the first stalled train was but a few yards away. There was no way the second train could stop in time. As can be imagined, the damage was extreme and the tragedy yielded unexpectedly high casualties. Additional to the collision impact, the parcels van's roof slid over the second engine and dissected the first-cla.s.s sleeping accommodation behind. The gas from the lighting system ignited and fire swept through the devastated carriages, claiming the lives of those poor unfortunates who stood in its way.

Ca.s.sandra s.h.i.+vered as images from a dark night in 1913 a.s.sailed her: the steep summit ride, the night-draped terrain through the window, the sensation of the train coming to an unexpected standstill. She wondered what Rose and Nathaniel had been doing at the moment of impact, whether they'd been asleep in their carriage, or engaged in conversation. Whether they'd even been speaking of their daughter, Ivory, waiting for them at home. How odd that she should be so moved by the plight of forebears she'd only just learned she had. How awful it must have been for Nell, to finally discover her parents only to lose them again in such a terrible way.

The door of Carluccio's pushed open, bringing with it a burst of cool air laced with exhaust fumes. Ca.s.sandra looked up to see Ruby bustling towards her, a thin man with a s.h.i.+ny bald head close behind.

"What an afternoon!" Ruby collapsed onto the seat across from Ca.s.sandra. "A group of students right at the last. I didn't think I'd ever extricate myself!" She indicated the thin neat man. "This is Grey. He's a lot more fun than he looks."

"Ruby, darling, what a charming introduction." He extended a smooth hand across the table. "Graham Westerman. Ruby's told me all about you."

Ca.s.sandra smiled. It was an interesting proposition given that Ruby had known her the sum total of two waking hours. Still, if anyone was capable of such a miracle, Ca.s.sandra suspected it was Ruby.