The River of No Return

House, and he was searching for a favorite currycomb. She asked him why he didn’t just leave brushing the horses to the groom, and he said that in his new life, he had become used to doing everything for himself. He was desperate as he searched, tossing the tackle here and there in his single-minded desire to find what he was looking for. Then, when he finally found the palm-sized tool, he turned triumphantly to show it to her. But it wasn’t a comb at all. It was a small hedgehog, curled up in his palm. She stepped forward to see the animal, and it uncurled to reveal its pointed little nose and beady eyes. It looked straight at her and said, in Grandfather’s voice: “Then you shall be orphaned after all.”
    She stretched, remembering the dream. Grandfather was such a hedgehog. And Julia was an orphan. She had been since she was three months old. Her mother and father were dead. So why had Grandfather said “after all”? Julia mused on it, almost tumbling again into sleep . . . then suddenly she sat bolt upright. Grandfather had said exactly those words, just a few moments before he died. You shall be orphaned after all . . . you shall be orphaned after all . . . what if instead he had been saying that she would be Ofan after all? Grandfather could play with time. Had he known these people, these Ofans? Had Grandfather been Ofan himself?
    Julia got to her feet and stared blindly out of her bedroom window. Pretend, Grandfather had said. Pretend, and trust the angels to watch over you. You shall be Ofan after all. Was it a message? Pretend to be something other than you are. Do not reveal that you are the Talisman. Find the Ofan and trust them to watch over you.
    Miss Blomgren was Ofan.
    The sky had darkened yet another few shades. The birds in the trees were quieter. All across the city, the bells were tolling seven o’clock. Julia adored bells, the way each one had its own distinct voice. “My America, my Newfoundland.”
    Several new worlds had risen up on her horizon today.
    The bells rang on.
    * * *
    Julia stayed up late, thinking about her mother, whom she very rarely considered; thinking about Miss Blomgren; and thinking about the Ofan . . . but most of all, she was thinking about Nick Davenant. She drifted off sometime after her bedside candle guttered and went out . . . and now it must have been very late in the morning indeed, for the maid had been in to build up the fire, and the logs were fallen to embers. Julia remembered that she had made a plan to meet Nick after breakfast in order to tell all. Instead she had slept the morning away.
    She swung her legs out of bed and saw that there was a note slipped under her door, the paper folded in half. Julia swooped on it, knowing it would be from Nick. It was.
    He had received word that the lords were finally voting on the Corn Bill today, and he was desolate to postpone his appointment with Julia—but he had to go and vote against it. She would of course rejoice with him that he need not wear his robes in order to make this hopeless stand against the inevitable; he would be allowed to raise his futile protest dressed like a rational man. If she would please fold along the dotted lines and follow the agreed-upon procedure he would sign himself sick with longing for the way the curtain of her hair fell around his face when she kissed him: Nick. But, if she felt she could not follow those instructions, then he must sign himself regretfully—and then an absurdly flourishing signature: Blackdown.
    There were tiny dots in pale, watery ink beneath his black script, showing her how to fold the sheet of paper into a glider. She considered what to do. This was her first love letter, but only if she burned it. If she didn’t burn it, it wasn’t a love letter.
    She shook her head and started folding.
    * * *
    The day passed slowly. Clare fretted about the possibility of a riot but wouldn’t say that out loud in the presence of the dowager marchioness or Bella, both of whom she considered too volatile to handle the greater knowledge she had of what might occur. Bella could tell Clare was withholding something, and that talk of the riot annoyed her sister, so she mentioned it at every turn. The servants were also worried. They clattered the china and dropped the silverware, thus sending the dowager marchioness into a pet. Wasn’t it always the way that on a clear, lovely day one’s griefs and trials seemed too much to bear? The marchioness