The Drowned Vault Read Online Free Page A

Cy came in, and she glanced at a clock above the door.
    “Sorry, Tigs,” Cyrus said. “But I’m here now.”
    Antigone nodded toward the bed. “Tell her, not me.”
    “Oh, come on.” Cyrus pulled a chair over from beside the window. “She’s not mad at me. She doesn’t even know I’m here.”
    Antigone slipped her feet off the stool and let them thump onto the floor. “Cyrus Smith!”
    Cyrus dropped into his own chair, facing the bed. Leaning forward, he picked his mother’s smooth, dark hand up off the white sheet. “Hey, Mom, I’m here.” He shot a glance back at Antigone. “Now she knows,” he whispered.
    Antigone crossed her arms, but she smiled. “Cyrus was late again, Mom,” she announced loudly. “Nothing’s changed.”
    Cyrus looked at his mother’s sleeping face. Her cinnamon skin was framed by the whiteness of her tight hair, surrounded by the bleached hospital whiteness of her pillow. She’d been asleep ever since she’d been pulled from the frigid waves in California, since Cyrus and Antigone and Dan had watched her plunge in after their father’s distant, shattered boat three years ago.
    Antigone had done their mother’s hair in a braid, pulling it back from her face. Her breathing was steady and soft, her body relaxed, like she was well rested and ready for a new day, like she might suddenly yawn and stretch and smile at her waiting children. In some ways she seemed younger—three years without a smile to crease the corners of her eyes, without a laugh to seam her cheeks, without a son to give her worry.
    Cyrus ignored the tightness in his throat. His thoughts were always a jumble beside his mother’s bed. Words ran from him.
    Something rapped on the window. Antigone stood and crossed the room to crank open the glass.
    Cyrus kissed his mother’s hand and pressed the back of it against his cheek.
    “Love you, Mom.” His voice was just above a whisper. “Lots.”
    Behind him, the red-winged blackbird hopped through the open window and perched on the sill. Antigone sat back down.
    “Keep reading, Tigs,” said Cyrus. “Whatever it was.”
    Antigone leaned back in her chair and picked up her book. She cleared her throat. “ ‘When one is attempting to reproduce a map or chart from memory, it is of the utmost importance to have first seen—truly seen—the original in the correct way, even if only for an instant.’ ”
    Cyrus groaned. “Really, Tigs?”
    Antigone continued. “ ‘One must learn to see things correctly at the first before one can recall things correctly at the second. For example, when looking at a map of an island, one might mentally overlay the shape of a twelve-pointed star on top of the chart and therefore see the unpredictable coastline in terms of the more regular, but still unpredictable—’ ”
    “Tigs!” Cyrus yelled. “You’re torturing her.”
    Antigone looked over her book. “She likes it.”
    “You’re torturing
me
.”
    “Yeah?” Antigone smiled. “Well, I’m okay with that.” She tapped the page. “This works, by the way. I don’t use an imaginary twelve-pointed star, but it works.”
    “Well, you and your imaginary shapes can have fun together,” Cyrus muttered. “Leave me out of it.”
    Antigone grew serious. “Listen up, Rus-Rus. You’re the one who’s insisting that we try for Explorer. At some point you need to realize that we can’t do that just by running and shooting and fencing and swimming, okay? Are you listening to me? At some point, you are going tohave to read an actual book. And Nolan can’t force-feed you your languages, either. You have to want to learn … Cyrus?”
    Cyrus dropped his mother’s hand and straightened.
    Antigone set her book down. “What is it?”
    A woman’s shout echoed in the hall. On the windowsill, the blackbird hopped in place.
    “Run and fetch your precious Greeves!” boomed a male voice just outside the door. The knob turned and the door banged open, slammed against the