The Gray House

“We were too much of a single person for one of us to remain alive after the other went away. We were not simply close, we were one. After what happened to him, I figured that since one half of me stayed on, and kept staying on, then at least the life I was leading should have some meaning. Which it would, except for my utter worthlessness. I remain a mere Jumper even after all the poison I have forced into myself. On the Other Side the events control me, not I them.”

Noble is frozen near the door. He is looking down at the floor as he listens to Vulture. Sphinx glances in his direction and is filled with compassion. Judging by Noble’s expression, he is unlikely to fully appreciate the fact that Vulture has just accepted him into the closest circle, made him one of those worthy of listening to his innermost secrets. Likely as not he thinks that Vulture simply didn’t notice him.

“And the worst thing is,” Vulture says. “The worst thing is, if it were him instead of me, he would have succeeded where I have failed. He was so much stronger.”

The rain picks up, drowning the screams in the yard below. Beyond the window it’s a uniformly gray curtain. Drops ricochet off the ledge, the windowsill is already soaking wet, and there’s soon going to be a puddle on the floor. Sphinx wishes to simply watch all of this unfold. Or stick halfway out of the window, under the streaking, streaming wetness, and breathe it in. Washing off the pain that’s not his own.

“So I keep thinking,” Vulture sighs. “How did it happen that the one who died was the wrong one?”

The canteen is in a festive mood. The atmosphere is cheerful, noisy, and squelching. The floor is covered in dirt and crisscrossed by the trails of rubber wheels. Those who got a dose of the rain showed up either wrapped in towels or, if they came up directly from the yard, simply soaking wet. Rats have their boombox blaring at full blast, and their table features a likeness of Iggy Pop cut out from a magazine and glued onto cardboard, at the place of honor in the middle. A patron saint, as it were. It is also his voice that’s screaming from the speakers. Birds strut with black towels on their heads and warm themselves by means of sipping from mysterious bottles that they pass around under the table.

The table of the Fourth is more soulful than merry. Lary, in a striped turban fashioned from towels, slurps his soup with the pinkie of the hand holding the spoon sticking daintily out. Smoker scratches industriously in the infamous notebook, shielding it from prying eyes. Tubby is busy chewing on the napkin. Tabaqui, swaddled in a bath sheet from head to toe, occupies a chair while Mustang is drying next to him, and judging by its look it has a lot of drying still ahead of it.

Sphinx is barely able to sit down before Tabaqui already sidles up to him along the edge of the table.

“The love potion for Mermaid came out great,” he announces above the din. “One hundred percent guaranteed results.”

“What would she want with it?”

“What do you mean?” Tabaqui says incredulously. “For the parrot!”

Sphinx recalls that someone in the girls’ wing keeps an aggressive bird, a female, that’s learned to open its cage from inside. A big chunk of their hallway is now out of bounds as a result, and the inhabitants of the rooms near the parrot’s den do not venture out except with opened umbrellas at the ready. Sphinx lately hasn’t heard anything about the exploits of the old macaw and assumed that the problem had been dealt with one way or another.

“You’ll see,” Tabaqui assures him. “One whiff of the potion, and the birdie is going to trail Mermaid everywhere, moaning passionately.”

“I do not approve of anyone or anything trailing my girl with passionate moans!”

“Your approval is immaterial. Too late, the machinery has been put in motion. The only thing left to do now is wait for the results.”

“Are you trying to lure her away from me?” Sphinx says. “Massaging brush for the cats, that light-up umbrella, the alarm bracelet, now this. To say nothing about your joint hunting trips.”

The music suddenly cuts out, and feisty Rats stop punching each other.

R One has stopped at the door and is looking over the canteen sullenly. A counselor at lunchtime is always bad news, and the room goes almost completely quiet, with only the Insensible continuing to munch happily.

“Please stay where you are.”

Ralph slams the door closed behind him and leans against it, arms crossed.

“The dorms and classrooms are being searched as we speak. Once the search is over you will be allowed to leave the canteen.”

Rats explode with noise. Bespectacled Pheasant Leader is forced to shout to be heard.

“Excuse me! On behalf of the First I would like clarification, please. The search being conducted, does it encompass all of the dorms?”

“Yes, it does,” Ralph says coldly.