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Copyright © 2012 by Deron R. Hicks
Illustrations © 2012 by Mark Edward Geyer
All rights reserved. For inormation about permission to reproduce selec-tions rom this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Miin Harcourt
Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
Houghton Miin is an imprint o Houghton Miin Harcourt Publishing Company.
www.hmhbooks.com
The text o this book is set in New Century Schoolbook.The illustrations are pen and ink.
Book design by Carol Chu.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hicks, Deron R.The secrets o Shakespeare’s grave / by Deron R. Hicks ; [illustrated by Mark
Edward Geyer].
p. cm.Summary: “Twelve-year-old Colophon Letterord has a serious mystery onher hands. Will she discover the link between her amily’s literary legacy
and Shakespeare’s tomb beore it’s too late?” —Provided by publisher.ISBN 978-0-547-84034-5 (hardback)
[1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction.3. Family-owned business enterprises—Fiction. 4. Brothers and sisters—
Fiction. 5. Cousins—Fiction.] I. Geyer, Mark, ill. II. Title.PZ7.H531615Sec 2012
[Fic]—dc23
2012014801
Manuactured in the United States o AmericaDOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
4500361544
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Le Mont Saint- Michel
May 1, 1616
Wind, rain, and waves have pounded the rocky coast
o Normandy or thousands o years. The orces o na-
ture slowly eroded the vast coastal plains to orm a
large bay and, in the middle o that bay—apparently
Prologue
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xii
oblivious to the onslaught o nature—remained an
impossibly large granite rock. According to legend,
the archangel Michael appeared to the bishop o Avranches in A.D. 708 and demanded the construc-
tion o a church on that rock. The bishop, who ap-
parently had other items on his agenda, ignored the
archangel’s demands. The archangel, however, would
not be deterred. With a touch o his fnger, the arch-angel burned a hole in the bishop’s skull.
The bishop got the message.
The church was built.
To honor the legend o Archangel Michael, the
rock has been known or centuries as Saint Michael’s
Mountain—or more commonly, le Mont Saint-Michel.
At the highest peak o le Mont Saint-Michel stands
the abbey church, hewn rom the native granite and
surrounded by beautiul gardens maintained by the
Benedictine monks who have lived in the adjacent
cloister or centuries. A narrow stone road winds its
way up the rock, and through a small village that sits
below the church. The church, the cloister, and the
village are surrounded by a ortifed wall—a testa-
ment to the rock’s history as a token o war. However,
it is the raging tides o the bay that surround andtruly protect le Mont Saint-Michel. The tides are not
timid—they are said to be the switest and deepest
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xiii
in Europe. Many a man has lost his lie or ailing to
pay due respect to the charging waters.
Over the centuries le Mont Saint-Michel hadserved as a ortress, a prison, and a sanctuary. On
this particular evening, however, Miles Letterord
hoped that it would oer both a brie respite rom
his long trf and the answer to his quest. He had set
out rom England fve days prior, but the weatherhad not been cooperative. On many occasions he had
been sorely tempted to turn back rom this arduous
and unusual journey. Just a wef ago he had been
sitting by the bed o his dying riend. His riend had
placed a ring in the palm o his hand and asked him
to swear an oath—an oath to recover and keep sae
that which his riend treasured most. Miles now si-
lently cursed his rashness in agreeing to such an
undertaking.
The relentless weather o the Norman coast had
let him cold, wet, and exhausted as he arrived at
the edge o the bay at dusk. In ront o him was le
Mont Saint-Michel. The massive rock—its village
lights ickering in the distance—seemed to oat on
the low og that covered the bay. Miles could see the
silhouette o the abbey church at the top o le Mont.His arrival coincided with low tide, and he knew
that the sea had retreated ar beyond the imposing
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xiv
rock. This was not, as he had been warned, a guar-
antee o sae passage, and the ading light and og
made the situation particularly dangerous—the baywas not a place to dally. Miles spurred his horse on
toward the glittering lights o le Mont.
The ride across the bay took ar longer than Miles
had anticipated. The lights—so clear rom the ar
shore—were rendered almost nonexistent by thethick og that now enveloped him and his horse. Miles
wondered more than once whether he had rambled
o course—whether he would eventually run into
the teeth o the returning tide. He was thereore
greatly relieved when the light rom a lamp outside
the village gates fnally burned its way through the
thick haze and oered him a guidepost.
Once inside the village gates, Miles ound a public
stable where, or a small ee, his weary horse was
permitted some hay and shelter rom the weather.
Although his body ached and his stomach protested,
he knew that he would have to wait or his ood and
rest.
The rain had now passed and night had come;
the sky opened to reveal a ull moon. Miles walked
quickly through the empty, moonlit streets o the vil-lage, up a steep set o stone stairs, and onto a landing
at the top o le Mont. The imposing stone acade o
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the abbey church now towered above him, its spire
reaching ar into the night sky.
Miles looked around the landing.He was alone.
He opened the heavy wooden door o the church
and slipped quietly inside.
He stood inside the entrance and stared down the
nave. The church was dimly lit—our small lanternsoered only the merest hint o the space within.
Looking upward oered nothing more—whatever
moonlight illuminated le Mont could not penetrate
windows darkened by centuries o candle soot. He
could not see the ceiling—just darkness. The shad-
ows in the side aisles hung like curtains. Everything
was black and gray.
Miles stepped into the shadows o the side aisle
and listened intently.
He heard nothing.
The monks who inhabited the abbey ollowed a
rigid schedule—a schedule that called or them to
be in their rooms or evening prayers or at least the
next hour. The church itsel was used only or mass in
the morning and vespers in the evening. Otherwise
it remained empty, except or the occasional pilgrimand cleaning—neither o which would be expected
at this time o night.
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xvi
Satisfed that he was alone, Miles walked down
the nave to the center o the church—the crossing—
and turned right down a short passage. At the endo the passage, several small prayer candles burned
on a wooden pedestal. Above him towered a large
wooden sculpture o Archangel Michael, standing
triumphantly with his right arm raised high above
his head, a aming sword in his hand, and under hislet oot, the decapitated head o a dragon.
Miles pulled out his dagger, paused, and listened
once again.
Nothing.
He placed his let hand on the top edge o the ped-
estal and elt along its edge. Almost two-thirds down
the edge, he ound what he was looking or—a small,
almost imperceptible notch. He placed the tip o his
dagger in the notch and pulled.
CRACK
The sound reverberated through the church. The
ront o the pedestal separated slightly rom the rest
o the base.
Miles listened or any sounds.
Again, nothing.
Miles set the dagger in the crack in the pedestaland pulled again.
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xvii
The wood groaned and then . . . CRACK. The ront
o the pedestal separated a ull hand’s width rom
the base.Miles paused and listened once again.
Nothing.
He grabbed the ront o the pedestal, took a deep
breath, and pulled.
CRACK The ront o the pedestal had now separated en-
tirely rom the rest o the base. Miles careully placed
the ront o the pedestal aside, grabbed one o the pil-
grim candles, and held it up to the base. The base, as
he expected, was hollow. Inside was a box, which he
careully removed.
Miles examined the box. It was constructed o
dark, almost black wood, edged at its corners with in-
laid brass. Carved into the top o the box was a alcon
holding a spear with the words non sanz droict in-
scribed beneath. On the ront o the box was a large
brass oval inscribed with the symbol or the Gref
letter sigma—∑.
Miles ran his hand over the carving on the top o
the box. It was exactly as described to him. His heart
raced with anticipation, the long and demanding journey now orgotten.
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In his excitement, however, Miles did not hear the
ootsteps bind him.
WHACK The frst blow went directly into his ribs.
WHACK
The second blow struck him below his right shoul-
der blade.
Miles dropped the box and tumbled to his side inpain. He gasped or air as he looked up and saw stand-
ing above him a large bald man dressed in a gray
tunic—the traditional vestments o a Benedictine
monk. In his hand he held a thick wooden sta. His
ace was red with rage.
“Thie!” the monk growled. “Wretched vile
miscreant!”
Miles attempted to scramble to his eet, but an-
other blow to his back sent him at to the ground.
“Ill-bred, bee-witted varlet!” the monk hissed.
Miles struggled to catch his breath. His chest
burned. “Wait . . . ,” he coughed.
“Fie upon you!” the monk exclaimed. “Ye will get
no sympathy rom me!”
Miles crawled toward the crossing as the beating
continued.WHACK
“Villain!”
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xix
WHACK
“Louse!”
WHACK “Venomous cutpurse!”
Miles reached the crossing and rolled over onto
his back. The monk—sweat pouring rom his bald
head—stood over him and raised his sta high,
ready to strike. Miles covered his ace with his handsand awaited the next blow.
But the next blow never came.
Miles waited, eyes closed, hands over his ace.
Nothing.
He chanced a pef at his attacker. To his surprise,
the monk was reaching down, his hand extended to-
ward Miles.
“My apologies,” said the monk.
It’s a trick, Miles thought, and covered his ace.
“I pray thee,” said the monk, “stand up.”
Miles slowly removed his hands rom his ace. The
monk simply stood there, his hand extended. Miles
did not move.
“Come now,” said the monk. “I haven’t all night.”
Cautiously, Miles extended his right hand to the
monk, who grabbed it and pulled him to his eet. Themonk stood him upright and brushed him o.
“There—just as I ound ye,” said the monk, who
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extended his right hand. “My name is Gallien.”
Miles ached rom top to bottom.
The welts on his back and side pounded with pain.His breaths came in short, painul gasps.
All courtesy o the monk standing in ront o him.
But, Miles realized, he had just been caught break-
ing into a church and destroying church property. As
such, he considered it a ar better approach to makepeace with his attacker rather than argue over his
own inconveniences. He took the monk’s hand and
shook it. “My name is Miles Letterord,” he said, and
paused. “Not to seem ungrateul, but may I ask why
you relented?”
The monk gave a short laugh. “The ring, o course.”
The ring.
The ring was why he was in this dark, dank
stone church. The ring was why he had made this
journey.
“You know o the ring?” asked Miles, suspiciously.
“But how?” His riend had not mentioned that anyone
else knew o the ring—or the box, or that matter.
“Aye,” replied the monk. “Many years ago your
riend—the man who once wore that ring—de-
livered that very box to me or safeeping by thearchangel.”
The monk sensed Miles’s uncertainty. “Fear not,
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xxi
my riend. I swore an oath to watch over the box, but
I have never asked its contents, nor sought to know
them.”Miles breathed a sigh o relie. “Forgive my
suspicions.”
“No orgiveness is necessary,” replied Gallien.
“However, I ear that your journey brings bad tid-
ings.”Miles nodded. “Indeed. He died a wef ago.”
The monk sighed. “When I saw the ring, I knew.”
His voice was heavy.
“Good monk,” said Miles, “I must again sef your
pardon or my actions this night. Had I known that
you—”
“Nay,” interrupted Gallien, “no pardon is neces-
sary. I am pleased that the archangel has success-
ully ulflled his duty.”
The monk placed his hand on Miles’s shoulder.
His tone was solemn. “Now, my riend, that duty has
allen upon you. I pray thee, carry it well.”
Miles looked back at the box. He knew what was
inside and what it meant. For the frst time, however,
the weight—the signifcance—o this undertaking
was clear to him.Miles retrieved the box and carried it to the en-
trance o the church.
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xxii
Gallien held open the door. “Do ye need assis-
tance?” he asked.
“No,” replied Miles. “It is a weight that I mustbear.”
The monk smiled in appreciation. “Then God keep
ye, my riend.”
Miles hoisted the box onto his shoulder and
stepped out into the night.
England
Winter 1623
Ellis Hollensworth could not reuse the oer, as
strange as it may have been.
It was more than he could earn in six months.
Six months? Gad! It was easily a year’s pay.
Still, the ride had taken much longer than he had
anticipated.
He had no idea where he was.
Had they let London and gone north? South?
East? West?
He simply did not know.
For all he knew, he could still be in London. They
may simply have been riding around in circles or
hours.
The thick wool blindold prevented him rom see-
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xxiii
ing anything. It also covered his ears and mued any
sounds. Not that it mattered anyway. Heavy drapes
covered the windows o the carriage. He had seenthat much beore the blindold was put in place. The
constant beat o the carriage wheels and the sound o
the horse’s hooves drowned out any other noise.
The carriage had stopped just minutes ago, and
now he was being led somewhere. He could hear thedead winter grass crunch under his boots, and the
aint sounds o owing water in the distance. There
was a slight but bone-chilling breeze.
Is it nighttime already? he thought. How long
have we been riding?
“Stop,” the voice said. And he did.
He could hear the heavy creaking o hinges.
A hand on his right orearm pulled him orward
yet again.
Three steps orward, and his eet hit solid oor.
The wind stopped, but it was still cold. He was now
inside some sort o structure. The hinges creaked
again, and he heard the door shut.
THUD. Something heavy landed on the oor be-
side him. He assumed it was the device and his tools.
The instructions or the device had been very pre-cise—they had made clear to him that there was no
room or error. He had spent six months orging it.
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xxiv
Although he had constructed devices with similar
components in the past, none o them approached the
scale and complexity o the one that now sat—pre-sumably—in a crate at his side. The customer had
provided a single set o plans. When Ellis completed
the work, the customer had demanded the return o
the plans and an oath that they had not been copied.
He had placed the device and his tools in a woodencrate and, as instructed, waited to be picked up at the
appointed hour. Now he was blindolded and stand-
ing in some unknown structure in some unknown lo-
cation in England.
The blindold was removed. The light in the
room—although represented by only a couple o
lanterns—immediately blinded him. It took several
minutes or his eyes to adjust beore he could even
squint at his surroundings. When he did, he discov-
ered that he was in a small limestone room with a
low ceiling. There were no markings in the room. No
ornamentation. There was nothing to suggest where
he was or the purpose o the room.
In ront o him were the our horizontal limestone
blocks into which the device would be ftted—just
as the plans had indicated. Each block was exactly aoot and a hal high and six eet wide. Although the
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xxv
blocks appeared massive, they were, in act, barely
fve inches in thickness. And, critical to his particular
task, each block was hollowed out, leaving a two-inchcavity that ran its length. When they were stacked
one on top o another, the internal cavity would be
exactly six eet high, fve oot six inches in width, and
exactly two inches in depth. The device was designed
to ft into this cavity.He began unpacking the crate. Slowly and pre-
cisely, he set each piece o the device into place in the
cavity. The device had been made, in large part, o
an alloy o bronze and gold. The metal was hard and
expensive but would resist corrosion. The device was,
he understood, intended to last or centuries.
Strange, though, he mused. Built to last forever,
but designed to be used only once.
Finally, it was time or the central component.
The placement o the central component was criti-
cal. He slowly lowered it into place until the right
and let sides clicked into position. From the box
he retrieved an iron rod with a slightly concave tip.
Placing the tip into a slot in the right side o the de-
vice, he gave a slight pull until he elt it click. He
then moved back to the central component and in-serted the tip o the iron rod into yet another slot.
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xxvi
This will not be as easy, he thought.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled hard on the iron
rod. Slowly it began to move.One click.
A second click.
A third click.
One more click, and the device would be set.
He pulled hard. The iron bar did not want to move.Despite the cold, he was sweating intensely.
And then, fnally, when it appeared that it was not
going to budge . . .
CLICK
It was done. Once the stones were put in place, the
device would set itsel until . . .
Until whenever.
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S e c r e t s
of
S H a k e s p e a r e ’S
Grave
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“Change at the top for
publishing firm”
B y W alter r. lichand
W all S treet J ournal
J anuary 24, 2005
For more than our hundred years, Letter-
ord & Sons has published books o note
What News, I Prithee?
C hAPter o ne
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2
and distinction. Established in 1590 in
London by Miles Letterord, the company
had opened its frst ofce in America in1793 in New York City. Although Letter-
ord & Sons is not the largest publisher
in the world, many in the publishing com-
munity consider it the most prestigious.
It remains a amily-owned and -operatedbusiness. Yesterday, ater orty years un-
der the successul direction o Raymond
Letterord, Jr., ownership o the company
passed to his oldest son, Raymond “Mull”
Letterord III. Mull Letterord has most
recently served as vice president o busi-
ness operations or the company. A cer-
emony celebrating the transition took
place at the amily’s ancestral home in
London.
“W arehouse fire Destroys
book inventory ”
B y roJas smith
loS angeleS t imeS
m ay 19, 2008
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3
A fre broke out in a warouse on Smak-
lin Street last night, destroying over ten
thousand copies o the new book by au-thor Debra Tavenhast. Tavenhast is the
author o the wildly popular children’s se-
ries about Tobby, the boy accountant. The
books destroyed in the fre represented
the entire frst printing o her latest book,Tobby Bridges the GAAP. It was expected
to be released on June 5. Mull Letterord,
president o Letterord & Sons and the
publisher o the series by Tavenhast, was
not available or comment. The cause o
the fre is unknown at this time and is
under investigation.
“reClusive a uthor signs ContraCt
With Dougherty house”
P ubliShing t imeS
neW y ork
June 14, 2008
Dougherty House Publishing announced
today that it has acquired the exclusive
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4
rights to publish the orthcoming novel by
the reclusive and eccentric author Brog-
don Honeycutt. Honeycutt, who has notappeared in public since the publication
o his renowned novel Concrete Monkey
Hymns in 1977, is reportedly receiving
an advance o more than $3 million, hal
o which, he has insisted, must be paidin Mongolian Tugrik coins. The novel is
expected to be ready or publication in
time or the holiday shopping season. The
signing o Honeycutt by Dougherty House
ended one o the fercest bidding wars be-
tween publishing houses in recent years.
Mull Letterord, president o Letterord
& Sons, expressed disappointment at his
ailure to acquire the rights to the new
novel. The ailure was a particularly hard
blow to Letterord & Sons, which had pub-
lished Honeycutt’s amous 1977 novel.
Honeycutt, who purportedly reuses to
acknowledge the existence o Canada, re-
leased a two-word statement through his
gardener regarding his agreement with
Harvest House: “Pepper butterbottom.”
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5
Dougherty House oered no comment on
the statement by its author.
“Death of loCal philanthropist
stuns Community ”
m ancheSter S tar m ercury
July
2, 2008
The sudden and unexpected death o
Raymond Letterord, Jr., has shocked the
Meriwether County community and the
worldwide publishing community. Well
known or his local philanthropic eorts,
Raymond Letterord died o a heart at-
tack at his amily’s home in Manchester
on Monday, June 30. Letterord gained
ame and ortune as the owner o Letter-
ord & Sons, perhaps the most prestigious
publishing company in the world.
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Manchester, Georgia
Wednesday, November 26
Late afternoonColophon Letterord took o her glasses, stuck her
head out the open window o her ather’s car, and
Homeward Did They Bend Their Course
C hAPter t wo
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7
breathed deeply. The cool wind whipped across her
ace and through her shaggy blond hair.
Fall was ar and away her avorite time o year.The mornings were cool enough to justiy jeans and
a light sweater; the aternoons were warm enough to
accommodate shorts. The all air smelled o dry grass
and smoke rom distant freplaces, and the autumn
sun painted the countryside with a warm ocher glaze.Colophon took it all in. It was perect.
The moment, however, did not last.
“Hey, doous, shut the rigging window. I’m
reezing.”
It was Case, Colophon’s older brother and con-
stant source o irritation. At fteen, Case was three
years older than Colophon. He had grown tall over
the past year—at least two inches taller than their
ather—but this growth spurt had done little to ma-
ture him. He was the same bully that he had been a
year beore, only bigger and stronger.
Colophon kept her eyes closed and pretended that
she hadn’t heard her brother. This strategy didn’t
work. A quick punch to her let arm ensured that she
paid attention.
“Jerk! You’re not supposed to hit a girl.”“Bite me,” he replied with a smirk.
Colophon shut the window, put her glasses back
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8
on, and sat back in her seat as their ather’s car
trundled lazily down the long driveway leading
to their home in Manchester, Georgia. Colophon’sgreat-great-grandather had moved to Manchester
in 1876. He had selected the small southern city
because it shared the name o his mother’s home-
town in England, but not the cold and wet climate.
Originally intended to serve as only a summer home,it eventually became the amily’s ull-time residence.
The drive home rom school had been unusual. As
a general rule, their ather was usually too busy to
pick up Colophon and her brother rom school. The
amily’s publishing business occupied his time—now
more than ever. Moreover, when her ather did pick
them up rom school, he normally rambled on non-
stop about some new manuscript that he was read-
ing or a new book that would be coming out soon.
Today, however, he remained silent as they drove
home. Although his cell phone rang twice, he made
no eort to answer it.
Colophon knew her ather’s company had recently
suered a series o mishaps, tragedies, and outright
disasters—the loss o a best-selling author to a ri-
val publishing house, a fre in a storage acility, andworst o all, the death o her grandather. These
events had led her ather to be somewhat disengaged
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9
rom amily matters. Lately, he always seemed to be
distracted. Case was, o course, oblivious to his a-
ther’s mood. He passed the time on the drive homerom school in his usual ashion—with earbuds in
place and tethered to his iPod.
The driveway leading to the amily home wound
its way through a thick orest o tall hardwoods and
then a large rolling feld. Golden bales o reshly cuthay peppered the landscape. On both sides o the
road, a low-stacked stone wall corralled the vicle
as it sped toward the large brick Victorian resting
at the edge o the feld. The three-story home was
constructed o a dark red brick that had grown con-
siderably darker over the last hundred years or so. A
fne knit o fg ivy covered the tower at the ront o
the house.
As the vicle turned into the pea gravel drive in
ront o the house, Colophon spied her mother wait-
ing or them by the ront door. Beside her sat Maggie,
the amily’s golden retriever, her tail beating the
ground in anxious anticipation.
Meg Letterord, Colophon’s mother, was a small,
thin woman with short, dusty-blond hair. A college
proessor by trade, she was as comortable sitting ona tractor as she was teaching history bind a class-
room podium. She had an earthy, outgoing quality
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that perectly balanced her husband’s bookish and
scholarly demeanor.
Mull Letterord pulled to a stop. As Case andColophon stepped out o the car, their mother greeted
each o them with a hug and a kiss on the chef. Case,
in usual teenage ashion, shrugged o his mother’s
aections, although his eorts appeared halhearted
at best.“Any homework?” asked Meg Letterord.
“No,” replied Colophon. “We have all o
Thanksgiving o—no homework and no assigned
reading!”
“Pity. I’m sure I could come up with something, i
you like? Perhaps a call to one o your teachers or
some suggestions?”
Colophon eigned shock. “Mom!”
“Very well,” Meg Letterord replied in mock ex-
asperation. “Rot your brains with TV and video
games—see i I care.”
“You know better,” Colophon said.
“Indeed I do,” replied Meg, who was intensely
proud o her daughter’s academic eorts.
Meg bent over and whispered in Colophon’s ear:
“How was your ather on the way home rom school?”Colophon could hear the concern in her mother’s
voice. “Quiet,” she replied.
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Meg sighed deeply.
“Is everything OK?” asked Colophon.
Her mother stood up straight. “Just business, that’sall. It’s been tough lately. It has him distracted.”
Colophon looked into her mother’s eyes. She could
sense there was more going on than she was willing
to say. She started to ask, but her mother interrupted.
“This, too, shall pass,” she said. “Let’s have a happyThanksgiving break, OK?”