Amberville - By Tim Davys Page 0,107

suppressed rage. “That’s my purpose, that’s why I came this evening. I want you to remove two of the names.”

“You’re crazy,” said the archdeacon with his gaze aimed down at the desk. “You’re completely crazy. What you’re asking for is impossible.”

CHAPTER 26

Everything looks flipping alike,” swore Tom-Tom Crow.

He shook his head, trying to see what was on the street sign. Amberville’s endless blocks of mute townhouses made him ill at ease, and he drove slowly.

“This violet one here is Seamore Mews,” Sam Gazelle read on the sign. “It’s the next one, the turquoise.”

In his lap he had a torn-out page from the telephone directory where, to be on the safe side, he’d circled Owl Dorothy’s address. Number 24 Fried Street.

The car smelled of cheese doodles. When Sam forced the crow to stop at a Springergaast on Balderton Street to try to find a map in a telephone directory after far too many random right and left turns, Tom-Tom had taken the opportunity to buy a few bags of snacks. Now the acid odor had taken over the car, the crow was orange around the beak, and Sam was feeling carsick.

“There,” said Sam, pointing at the next sign that sat at the exact same height on an identical façade. “The turquoise one, like I said. Fried Street.”

Tom-Tom turned off.

“Now, let’s see…number 56. Go on a little, then we’re there.”

Tom-Tom drove slowly, passing building after identical brick building before he turned gently and noiselessly in and parked. The dark-red rows of buildings extended both north and south through a gently rolling landscape. Two stories high, black roofs, white windowsills, just as well cared for as everything else in Amberville.

Tom-Tom stepped out onto the sidewalk, Sam went around the car, and together they hurried up the ten steps to number 24 Fried Street. Sam rang the doorbell. They waited a minute or two, hearing footsteps en route down the stairs to the hall, and then the outside door was opened by Owl Dorothy.

The storm had just abated, but the sky was still covered with clouds.

Dorothy was a threadbare owl, a very old bird who pensively let her peering eyes wander from the gazelle to the crow and back again. They had awakened her, it was obvious; she had her ears in a kind of nightcap and had wrapped a dressing gown around her thin body. She concealed a yawn behind her wing.

“Good evening, beautiful queen,” said Sam in an attempt at lightheartedness, “my name is Sam. I beg your pardon that we’re disturbing you at this time of the evening, but Eric Bear asked us to come out and say hello.”

“Eric Bear?” Dorothy repeated.

The gazelle and the crow nodded.

For a moment Dorothy seemed to be considering how likely this statement was. Then she made her decision and took a step to one side, such that the strangers outside her door were transformed into guests. Sam stepped in, and Tom-Tom followed behind. The old owl guided them with vigorous steps to the kitchen, where she invited them to sit down at a small, round kitchen table while she herself put the teakettle on the stove.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Eric,” she said. “Is he well?”

“He’s lovelier than ever,” answered Sam.

“Superfine,” affirmed Tom-Tom.

“Anything else would have surprised me,” nodded Dorothy. “Do you take milk or sugar in your tea?”

“Just milk, thanks,” Sam replied.

“I’m okay,” said Tom-Tom. “Tea is not…”

“Would you like something else instead?”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

Tom-Tom felt troubled by the fact that the old lady, whom they would quite soon be forced to shout at and frighten, was treating them so politely. If he hadn’t accepted anything to drink, it would be easier to threaten her a little later, he reasoned.

Dorothy served Sam a cup of tea and placed a glass of water in front of Tom-Tom. Then she sat down across from them at the kitchen table.

“I don’t know how I should say it,” began Sam Gazelle.

“Just say it,” suggested Dorothy. “Things are the way they are.”

“Yes, but this is special,” said Sam. “And it sounds strange if you just say it.”

“Say it,” repeated Dorothy. “I’m old, I’ve heard most things.”

“Yes, but not this. This is the kind of thing you don’t talk about willingly. And it feels a little strange to just say it.”

“Say it,” said Dorothy for the third time. “It’s not going to get easier in a few minutes.”

“Say it,” agreed Tom-Tom irritatedly. “Otherwise I’ll say it.”

Sam held up a hoof. He would say it. Rather than