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charlie stood on the steps watching the brougham as it grew smaller and smaller。 he had the air of a child whose favorite toy is being taken away； and who cannot believe—not quite； not yet—that it is really happening。
from the hall the missus and john…the…dig watched him anxiously； waiting for the realization to dawn。
the car reached the lodge gates and disappeared through them。 charlie continued to stare at the open gates for three； four； five seconds。
then his mouth opened。 a wide circle； twitching and trembling； that revealed his quivering tongue； the fleshy redness of his throat； strings of spittle across a dark cavity。 mesmerized we watched； waiting for the awful noise to emerge from the gaping； juddering mouth； but the sound was not ready to e。 for long seconds it built up； accumulating inside him until his whole body seemed full of pent…up sound。 at long last he fell to his knees on the steps and the cry emerged from him。 it was not the elephantine bellow we were expecting； but a damp； nasal snort。
the girls looked up from their toe circles for a moment； then returned impassively to them。 john…the…dig tightened his lips and turned away； heading back to the garden and work。 there was nothing for him to do here。 the missus went to charlie； placed a consoling hand on his shoulder and attempted to persuade him into the house； but he was deaf to her words and only snuffled and squeaked like a thwarted schoolboy。
and that was that。
that was that？ the words were a curiously understated endnote to the disappearance of miss winter’s mother。 it was clear that miss winter didn’t think much of isabelle’s abilities as a parent； indeed the word mother seemed absent from her lexicon。 perhaps it was understandable； from what i could see； isabelle was the least maternal of women。 but who was i to judge other people’s relations with their mothers？
i closed my book； slid my pencil into the spiral and stood up。
‘i’ll be away for three days；“ i reminded her。 ”i’ll be back on thursday。“
and i left her alone with her wolf。
？？
THE ALMANACS
…小……说。网
where else to begin my research but at home； in the shop？ i was fascinated by the old almanacs。 since i was a child； any moment of boredom or anxiety or fear would send me to these shelves to flick through the pages of names and dates and annotations。 between these covers； past lives were summarized in a few brutally neutral lines。 it was a world where men were baronets and bishops and ministers of parliament； and women were wives and daughters。 there was nothing to tell you whether these men liked kidneys for breakfast； nothing to tell you whom they loved or what form their fear gave to the shapes in the dark after they blew the candle out at night。 there was nothing personal at all。 what was it； then； that moved me so in these sparse annotations of the lives of dead men？ only that they were men； that they had lived； that now they were dead。
reading them； i felt a stirring in me。 in me； but not of me。 reading the lists； the part of me that was already on the other side woke and caressed me。
i never explained to anyone why the almanacs meant so much to me； i never even said i liked them。 but my father took note of my preference； and whenever volumes of the sort came up at auction； he made sure to get them。 and so it was that all the illustrious dead of the country； going back many generations； were spending their afterlife tranquilly on the shelves of our second floor。 with me for pany。
it was on the second floor； crouched in the window seat； that i turned the pages of names。 i had found miss winter’s grandfather george angelfield。 he was not a baronet； nor a minister； nor a bishop； but still； here he was。 the family had aristocratic origins—there had once been a title； but a few generations earlier there had been a split in the family： the title had gone one way； the money and the property another。 he was on the property side。 the almanacs tended to follow the titles； but still； the connection was close enough to merit an entry； so here he was： angelfield； george； his date of birth； residing at angelfield house in oxfordshire； married to mathilde monnier of reims； france； one son； charles。 tracing him through the almanacs for later years； i found an amendment a decade later： one son； charles； one daughter； isabelle。 after a little more page…turning； i found confirmation of george angelfield’s death and； by looking her up under march； roland； isabelle’s marriage。
for a moment it amused me to think that i had gone all the way to yorkshire to hear miss winter’s story； when all the time it was here； in the almanacs； a few feet under my bed。 but then i started thinking properly。 what did it prove； this paper trail？ only that such people as george and mathilde and their children； charles and isabelle； existed。 there was nothing to say that miss winter had not found them the same way i had； by flicking through a book。 these almanacs could be found in libraries all over the place。 anyone who wanted could look through them。 might she not have found a set of names and dates and embroidered a story around them to entertain herself？
alongside these misgivings i had another problem。 roland march had died； and with his death the paper trail for isabelle came to an end。 the world of the almanac was a queer one。 in the real world； families branched like trees； blood mixed by marriage passed from one generation to the next； making an ever…wider net of connections。 titles； on the other hand； passed from one man to one man； and it was this narrow； linear progression that the almanac liked to highlight。 on each side of the title line were a few younger brothers； nephews； cousins； who came close enough to fall within the span of the almanac’s illumination。 the men who might have been lord or baronet。 and； though it was not said； the men who still might； if the right string of tragedies were to occur。 but after a certain number of branchings in the family tree； the names fell out of the margins and into the ether。 no bination of shipwreck； plague and earthquake would be powerful enough to restore these third cousins to prominence。 the almanac had its limits。 so it was with isabelle。 she was a woman； her babies were girls； her husband （not a lord） was dead； her father （not a lord） was dead。 the almanac cut her and her babies adrift； she and they fell into the vast ocean of ordinary people； whose births and deaths and marriages are； like their loves and fears and breakfast preferences； too insignificant to be worth recording for posterity。
charlie； though； was a male。 the almanac could stretch itself— just—to include him； though the dimness of insignificance was already casting its shadow。 information was scant。 his name was charles angelfield。 he had been born。 he lived at angelfield。 he was not married。 he was not dead。 as far as the almanac was concerned； this information was sufficient。
i took out one volume after another； found again and again the same sketchy half…life。 with every new tome i thought； this will be the year they leave him out。 but each year； there he was； still charles angelfield； still of angelfield； still unmarried。 i th