think they were watching a play upon a stage, instead of people going about their daily business in their own way, as they believed the Lord wished them to. Without adornment or preening, without false allegiances or pomp.
“Come in,” Hannah whispered, and he did.
In the entryway they stood still for a moment, letting their eyes adjust to the interior. In daylight, the long windows that came to a point at the top—the only decorative flourish on the building—provided ample light for reading and dreaming. Hannah didn’t want to light a lamp, but she wasn’t sure his vision was equal to her own. She took a deep breath, savoring the smell of the place: waxed wood and old parchment.
“Is there a candle?” he asked.
“No! Not here. Only the lamps. To prevent fire.”
She shuddered, remembering waking to the Portuguese bell tolling in the dead of night, the clamor of residents rushing to man the bucket lines. She’d been a child; the fire had begun on the edge of Town, near the wharves, and was contained before it reached the center. But she clearly recalled the gusts of smoke and ash, the wall of heat, the fear in her father’s eye as he pushed Hannah and Edward from the scene, ordered them home when they’d followed him to the edge of the crowd, eyes wide and watering.
Nantucket’s history was scarred by fire; the early settlers had built themselves a tinderbox of a town that on more than one occasion had burnt to the ground. Once, on a mapping expedition sometime around their sixteenth birthday, Edward had hurled himself down in the long grass atop the southern rise of Saul’s Hills, where the town of Sherburne had once stood. It had been autumn, a bright day that blew them forward.
“Is it odd that once there was a town here?” Hannah had asked.
“Odd in what way?”
“Well, look at it.” Sky met raw earth in that place. Nothing but a strip of dry yellow grass ringing a large stone broke the surface. A cloud passing over the sun’s face cast them in shadow. “If our town burnt to the ground like Sherburne did—”
“It won’t, if the Fire Brigade can help it,” Edward had said, and made a mock salute. “ ‘Friend, have you emptied your ash-bucket this morning? Are you certain your broom is twenty paces from the hearth?’ ”
“I’m serious. What should be left of us?”
Edward had crossed his arms across his chest and lay back in the weak sunshine.
“Well, I suppose there would be plenty of baleen.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. What else wouldn’t burn?” Edward asked.
“Instruments,” Hannah offered. “Metals. Quadrants. Sextants.”
“John’s compasses.”
“The tips of Lilian’s rolling-pins.”
“Are they not wood?”
“No, they’re copper.”
“What else, Hannah?”
“Bone.”
They’d been silent, then, until Edward offered another: “Gold.”
“Bone and gold. Is that how we shall be remembered?”
Edward sat up and reached over to sprinkle a bouquet of dry leaves over her head.
“I think you’ll be remembered for more than that,” he’d told her as she rolled away from him. The sun had begun to dip below the horizon- line. “Thy fine cooking, for instance. Thy delicacy. Thy sociability!”
Laughing, Hannah had risen and pulled her twin to his feet, leaves spinning in the fresh wind.
*
In the dark, echoey Atheneum, Hannah headed toward the reference volumes, letting her fingers trail over the neat edges of wooden tables and hard pews that had been repurposed from the original building. They weren’t comfortable, but they helped the studious stay awake. Hannah approved of them, if not the frothy novels library-goers often hid beneath their guidebooks and catechisms.
She passed the cabinets of pamphlets, the monthly minutes of Associations ranging from American Anti- Slavery to Zoological, re- alphabetized by Hannah herself that morning, and then remembered her companion. She squinted into the room but couldn’t see him.
“Mr. Martin,” she whispered.
“Miss
“Come in,” Hannah whispered, and he did.
In the entryway they stood still for a moment, letting their eyes adjust to the interior. In daylight, the long windows that came to a point at the top—the only decorative flourish on the building—provided ample light for reading and dreaming. Hannah didn’t want to light a lamp, but she wasn’t sure his vision was equal to her own. She took a deep breath, savoring the smell of the place: waxed wood and old parchment.
“Is there a candle?” he asked.
“No! Not here. Only the lamps. To prevent fire.”
She shuddered, remembering waking to the Portuguese bell tolling in the dead of night, the clamor of residents rushing to man the bucket lines. She’d been a child; the fire had begun on the edge of Town, near the wharves, and was contained before it reached the center. But she clearly recalled the gusts of smoke and ash, the wall of heat, the fear in her father’s eye as he pushed Hannah and Edward from the scene, ordered them home when they’d followed him to the edge of the crowd, eyes wide and watering.
Nantucket’s history was scarred by fire; the early settlers had built themselves a tinderbox of a town that on more than one occasion had burnt to the ground. Once, on a mapping expedition sometime around their sixteenth birthday, Edward had hurled himself down in the long grass atop the southern rise of Saul’s Hills, where the town of Sherburne had once stood. It had been autumn, a bright day that blew them forward.
“Is it odd that once there was a town here?” Hannah had asked.
“Odd in what way?”
“Well, look at it.” Sky met raw earth in that place. Nothing but a strip of dry yellow grass ringing a large stone broke the surface. A cloud passing over the sun’s face cast them in shadow. “If our town burnt to the ground like Sherburne did—”
“It won’t, if the Fire Brigade can help it,” Edward had said, and made a mock salute. “ ‘Friend, have you emptied your ash-bucket this morning? Are you certain your broom is twenty paces from the hearth?’ ”
“I’m serious. What should be left of us?”
Edward had crossed his arms across his chest and lay back in the weak sunshine.
“Well, I suppose there would be plenty of baleen.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. What else wouldn’t burn?” Edward asked.
“Instruments,” Hannah offered. “Metals. Quadrants. Sextants.”
“John’s compasses.”
“The tips of Lilian’s rolling-pins.”
“Are they not wood?”
“No, they’re copper.”
“What else, Hannah?”
“Bone.”
They’d been silent, then, until Edward offered another: “Gold.”
“Bone and gold. Is that how we shall be remembered?”
Edward sat up and reached over to sprinkle a bouquet of dry leaves over her head.
“I think you’ll be remembered for more than that,” he’d told her as she rolled away from him. The sun had begun to dip below the horizon- line. “Thy fine cooking, for instance. Thy delicacy. Thy sociability!”
Laughing, Hannah had risen and pulled her twin to his feet, leaves spinning in the fresh wind.
*
In the dark, echoey Atheneum, Hannah headed toward the reference volumes, letting her fingers trail over the neat edges of wooden tables and hard pews that had been repurposed from the original building. They weren’t comfortable, but they helped the studious stay awake. Hannah approved of them, if not the frothy novels library-goers often hid beneath their guidebooks and catechisms.
She passed the cabinets of pamphlets, the monthly minutes of Associations ranging from American Anti- Slavery to Zoological, re- alphabetized by Hannah herself that morning, and then remembered her companion. She squinted into the room but couldn’t see him.
“Mr. Martin,” she whispered.
“Miss
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