Eclipse Three

– What is it? she said. -You're shaking. What's the matter?

– Nothing, he said. -I'm OK.

She rubbed some of the wet off him with an edge of the sheet, and reached down for a quilt, and pulled it over them both.

– I don't think you're feverish, she said. She felt his forehead with her wrist, and he couldn't help smiling, it was such a Wendy thing to do. -You're kind of cold, really.

– Omne animal triste post coitum. Only in my case, it's chilly, not sad.

– You're chilly and sad.

– It'll pass.

– OK.

She didn't say anything, just held him.

I want you to be here, his father had said. I want to see you. We both do.

I don't want to see him. He didn't say that. He'd never say that. He just wouldn't show up. It wasn't even that he didn't want to see him. He didn't want to hear the voice.

– Did you ever have a tree? he asked. -Or a Chanukah Bush or something?

She squeezed him in mild protest. -Tacky. If you want a tree, have a tree, I say. Don't try to whitewash it. Don't, like, frigging lie about it.

– So you wanted one.

– Well, yeah. Of course. A tree in your house? Come on.

– I like that you don't have one.

– Good. I'm glad. She stroked his hair. -But you know what? For you… for you, Kay, I might get one. If you wanted it.

– You would?

– And when my mother visited, I'd say that it was all your fault.

– You would?

– I would. You'd back me up, though, wouldn't you?

– I would. For you, I'd lie to a nice old lady who probably marched against the Pentagon and won't drink coffee that isn't Fair Trade certified.

– Hey, when did you meet my mom?

– So how is she?

– Fine. But I was just kidding.

– I know, he said. -But your family. Are they all right?

– Yeah. Sure. I just saw them last week. We always have this Chanukah party. With big piles of latkes. Is there something-

– No. It's just… you never know. You never know when something's going to happen. I mean, one day you're all fine, and the next-the next -you just can't believe it. It's literally incredible. Like something you read in a book. Not something that could really happen. Not to anyone real. Not to anyone at all. Let alone someone you know. You see it, you know it, but you just ca

– Is she OK? Your sister, I mean.

– Eloise? She's fine.

– What about your dad?

– Graham's a busy man. A very busy man, these days. Calling in favors. Calling up doctors. Calling on one-eyed gypsies from Transylvania… No, they're fine. They're both fine. They don't know what happened, but they're sure it isn't catching.

She understood, at last, or thought she did. -Your other dad, she said. -Is he… sick?

He made a little noise into her breast.

– Like, really, really sick? And you just can't face it?

He thought of the syringes on the table, the plastic bags in the fridge and in the microwave, heating to 98.6.

– You couldn't either, believe me.

– I know, she said. -I know. I hear about stuff, and I-I feel so lucky, sometimes.

– It's like-I can't go home. Home isn't even there anymore.

– I know. She tightened her hold. She waited, then said, -Is he all… different?

– Yeah. He used to be so-well, civilized. Disciplined. Controlled. And now -Now I wouldn't trust him with anything. Not the book, not anything. You can't turn your back on him. He's hungry all the time.

– He is?

– He'll eat anyone if he doesn't stop himself. He'd eat the fucking field-mice if he could!

– I thought it was supposed to make you not eat much, she said gently.

– He doesn't eat much. He doesn't eat anything. He used to like broccoli rabe and anchovies and crème caramel. He can't take real food at all, now.

She touched his wrist. -I'm really, really sorry.

– Yeah, well.

– I'm glad you're here.

– Yeah.

Her warm fingers slipped around his wrist, soft against his pulse, like life holding onto life. She'd know if anything happened to him. She'd know…

The radiator clanked, and, on the edge of sleep, he jumped.

"Sii-lent night… "

The sound drifted up from the radiator, no, from the window it was under, which rattled in a gust of wind, covering for a moment the words, the silly happy people out there singing in the street, and then it was, "Allllll is calm… Alllll is bright…"

"Yes, come along, field-mice," cried the Mole eagerly. "This is quite like old times! Shut the door after you. Pull up that settle to the fire."

She said, -I'll be your home, tonight.

– Dulce Domum, Kay said quietly.

– Dulce? Is that, like, ice cream?

– It's the chapter in the book, stupid. Latin for "Home, sweet home."

– I've got half a jar of dulce de leche from the corner bodega. When's the last time you ate?

– Breakfast, I guess.

– Get up, she said. -In my home, we make fried eggs and toast in the middle of the night when we're especially happy. It's a tradition.

And they braced themselves for the last long stretch, the home stretch, the stretch that we know is bound to end, some time, in the rattle of the door-latch, the sudden firelight, and the sight of familiar things greeting us as long-absent travellers from far overseas.

About the Authors

Daniel Abraham was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, earned a biology degree from the University of New Mexico, and spent ten years working in tech support. He sold his first short story in 1996, and followed it with six novels, including fantasy series "The Long Price Quartet," Hunter's Run (an SF novel written with George R. R. Martin and Gardner Dozois), dark fantasy Unclean Spirits (as M. L. N. Hanover), and more than twenty short stories, including International Horror Guild Award-wi

Peter S. Beagle was born in Manhattan on the same night that Billie Holiday was recording "Strange Fruit" and "I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues," just a few blocks away. Raised in the Bronx, Peter originally proclaimed he would be a writer when he was ten years old. Today he is acknowledged as an American fantasy icon, and to the delight of his millions of fans around the world is now publishing more than ever. He is the author of the beloved classic The Last Unicorn, as well as the novels A Fine and Private Place, The I

Elizabeth Bear was born in Hartford, Co