It was early afternoon when Billy Quick finally came downstairs. A message from his office contained extremely good news: all metals prices in Japan had spiked due to a series of unexpected riots in the copper mines there. Metals prices all moved together during times of indiscriminate panic, so this was an ideal opportunity for his firm to exit their position in a struggling aluminum refinery outside Kyoto. There were no telephones on Seven—that was one of its charms—so Billy’s office had enacted the emergency Seven Island protocol—in the event of bad surprises they were to trade immediately, while with good surprises they would set up the logistics of the trade and then give him twenty-four hours to respond before executing it. He was especially pleased that the ancien régime communications system had worked. His office had called the nearest public telephone, at the motel in Jennings, and then the motel sent a driver to leave a message in Seven’s mainland mailbox and fly the red flag on the dock, which meant urgent. Cyrus had collected the message that morning, and Billy was rereading it on the porch when he saw his daughters walking up the hill.
“Good morning,” Billy said.
“It’s afternoon, Daddy,” Ann said.
“Not in Kyoto.”
Ann was always angry with him, but Barbara, his little one, smiled whenever he spoke to her.
“Is it a picnic day?” he asked Barbara.
“Yes! Yes!” she said, and then her mouth opened extraordinarily wide, as if she were about to eat every picnic ever imagined.
“We can’t have a real picnic,” Ann said. “Edward Peck is taking the barge to North Island to practice for the Migration, so there’s no one to drive us.”
Billy thought Barbara might fall over from disappointment. Barbara loved picnics more than anything else and she could eat a chicken leg on a blanket on the lawn and be happy, whereas for Ann, the only picnic worth the effort involved taking a boat to the outer islands, which of course involved boats and staff and inordinate planning, none of which was feasible today due to the coming Migration.
“Well—this year the sheep will have to stay on Seven,” he said, “because Barbara wants a picnic.”
“No, Daddy!” Barbara said, alarmed, almost wailing. “The sheep need to eat clover! It’s only on North Island!”
“And what has Clover done,” Billy said, “that she should be eaten by sheep?”
Barbara was confused into silence, while Ann ignored him severely.
“Where’s Penny?” he said to Ann.
There was a strange thought abroad in the land, Billy had gathered, an incorrect impression. The thought ran that since his bereavement, Billy had infinite free time and also a boundless need for company. This mistake had allowed Billy’s extended family to make requests of him that would have otherwise been wholly inappropriate, such as his brother’s depositing his daughter, Penny, with them on Seven for two weeks while he went to Europe.
“I saw her walking toward the woods with Catta Hillsinger,” Ann said darkly.
Ann was still too young to have an informed opinion on anyone going anywhere with boys, but she disliked the woods. She thought they were dirty and barbaric and a place where animals were neither charming nor well-trained.
John Wilkie emerged from the Hill House, saw them across the lawn, and waved before heading off in the other direction.
“Wave to Mr. Wilkie,” Billy said, and the girls waved furiously.
Wilkie stopped, ensnared by the waving children.
“We don’t need a boat to have a picnic,” Billy continued. “We’ll go to the beach instead.”
Barbara shrieked happily, and the girls went inside to prepare for the excursion. Wilkie was walking toward him over the lawn.
“Tell your father the news from Japan is good,” Billy said.
“Aha,” Wilkie said. “He’ll be so pleased.”
Peregrine Wilkie had money invested with Billy and, like most clients, he liked to hear good news.
“Come with us on the boat later,” Billy said.
“I was told there were no boats today.”
“Chairman’s prerogative.”
“That sounds fascist.”
“Only if you’re not the chairman.”
Billy was feeling expansive, and this brief return of his good old rhythm with Wilkie reminded him of—and made him choose to forgive—Jim Hillsinger’s harsh tone last night. It was usually wise to disregard anything said or done in that house after dinner, and anyway, given the circumstances, he could afford to be generous.
Lila had slept in the New House last night, although not with him. Billy was up late, as usual, and found an attic door left open that was normally closed. He had climbed the stairs, fearing possums, but instead, there was Lila curled up on top of the covers in one of the attic rooms.
Obviously, Hillsinger knew that Lila had slept elsewhere. He would be concerned, and Billy reckoned that she would tell her husband the truth. And, as truths went, the easy interpretations were mostly anodyne: she was missing Hannah, angry that Jim had mentioned Baffin, et cetera. On the other hand, it was not helpful for other men’s wives to sleep in one’s house alone, however innocent last night’s reality might have been. It would help, Billy thought—it would be less dangerous for him personally—if Hillsinger heard the truth from Lila and then again from some disinterested third party. John Wilkie, for example, would be ideal. Billy knew better than most that Wilkie had terrible flaws—he was political in the bad sense and also fundamentally a coward—but, to his credit, he had deep and accurate instincts about information. He more or less made his living by deciding what certain people should or should not be told.
“If Hillsinger seems at all concerned,” Billy said, “tell him that last night Lila slept in one of our old attic rooms.”
“Aha,” Wilkie said.
Billy could not tell from his face or tone whether Wilkie already knew this or thought anything in particular about it. Billy did know, however, that Wilkie valued information more highly than almost anything else.
“The attic door was standing open,” Billy said, “which it never is, so I went up there to fight off the bats and raccoons. Lila was fast asleep on top of the covers in the room that Hannah slept in sometimes.”
“I see.”
“Use your judgment,” Billy said to Wilkie, “but no need to tell Hillsinger, unless he seems concerned.”
“Noted,” Wilkie said.
“Hannah must have told her about that room.”
“I’m sure she did.”
“Don’t forget—be on the dock at six o’clock sharp,” Billy said.
“Actually,” Wilkie said, “Lila said there was a formal dinner tonight. For the Migration?”
Billy paused.
“Christ—I completely forgot.”
18