the atlas to a certain page, removed the film without rewinding it, stretched the relevant segment on the Formica counter beside the reader, laid her left hand atop it—and stabbed the golden pen through her flesh and into the acetate.
She gasped as the metal slid between her bones, but only a little, for she was used to the pain by now, and had only a few more days of such work left in any case: mopping up the fringes, mostly, in lieu of the major damage control she’d accomplished earlier—like that mess in the Willacoochee Witness two years back, which had required some truly creative rewording.
Which was reflection for leisure, not haste.
Her blood was seeping out now: adding its red to the film’s blue and white. And at a certain moment—instinct told her when—she raised the wounded hand and slapped it upon the atlas—atop a map of the United States on which all libraries and similar repositories likely to retain copies of the article she had just revised or its microfilm surrogates were marked with tiny stars of real gold. A deep breath, an instant’s concentration, and tendrils of blood flowed out from between her fingers and found their way to those miniscule markers. Each pulsed briefly, as though they drank their fill, then dulled back to mundanity. Another breath, when the last bright star had faded, andshe was done. Her hand no longer bled, and the map was dry, as was the film.
Quickly, she reinserted the reels, located the suspect article, and read it one last time. Good. Her changes were all there—in print now. Anyone using either the original newspaper or the copies—be they at Emory University or the Library of Congress; the University of Tennessee, Harvard, Berkley, Boston University, Spellman College, the University of Texas at Austin, or the myriad others she’d starred; never mind the National Archives, the British Museum, and the Bibliotheque Nationale—would see a slightly different headline, a subtly altered text.
Too bad she couldn’t track down all the copies, though, like the ones little old ladies tended to squirrel away in trunks and parents stuck in scrapbooks. Still, this was enough—probably. Besides, some things were even beyond the Sidhe.
Nuada, she was certain, would be pleased.
Sighing, Tana recorded the change on her legal pad, then consulted her scribbled list. Her next target was an article about a storm disrupting graduation at Enotah County High School almost a year after the previous occurrence, on which occasion numerous spectators claimed to have glimpsed the ghostly shapes of strangely clad warriors engaged in some titanic battle.
Fixing that would be a challenge.
Chapter I: Autumn Chill
(Nichols Ridge, Enotah National Forest,
Georgia—Saturday, October 24—morning)
“ Will you be quiet?” David Sullivan hissed under his breath and over his shoulder at the taller, fog-shrouded form behind him, that might have worn a fluorescent orange cap atop spiky dark hair. “And point that thing at the ground or somewhere. Anywhere but at my butt!”
The damp-edged crunch of forest leaves promptly decreased in frequency—but not, so David noticed, in volume, though the shadowing shape faded farther back into the morning fog, movement all that marked it from the gray trunks around it. “I can’t yawn and stealth at the same time!” came a muttered reply.
“Put a sock on it, McLean!” David growled back. “Better yet, put one in it!”
“It’s socks that’s the trouble,” the soft voice retorted. “You’re the one made me wear two pairs; they’re makin’ me walk funny!”
“You always walk funny! ’Sides, it’s usually cold enough this early this time of year to need ’em!”
“You’re both gonna be walkin’ funny if you don’t can it,” a third voice broke in, from the head of the three-man file. David froze in mid-stalk, cheeks hot with embarrassment garnished with irritation. The fog was thicker here: a shroud of white around what
She gasped as the metal slid between her bones, but only a little, for she was used to the pain by now, and had only a few more days of such work left in any case: mopping up the fringes, mostly, in lieu of the major damage control she’d accomplished earlier—like that mess in the Willacoochee Witness two years back, which had required some truly creative rewording.
Which was reflection for leisure, not haste.
Her blood was seeping out now: adding its red to the film’s blue and white. And at a certain moment—instinct told her when—she raised the wounded hand and slapped it upon the atlas—atop a map of the United States on which all libraries and similar repositories likely to retain copies of the article she had just revised or its microfilm surrogates were marked with tiny stars of real gold. A deep breath, an instant’s concentration, and tendrils of blood flowed out from between her fingers and found their way to those miniscule markers. Each pulsed briefly, as though they drank their fill, then dulled back to mundanity. Another breath, when the last bright star had faded, andshe was done. Her hand no longer bled, and the map was dry, as was the film.
Quickly, she reinserted the reels, located the suspect article, and read it one last time. Good. Her changes were all there—in print now. Anyone using either the original newspaper or the copies—be they at Emory University or the Library of Congress; the University of Tennessee, Harvard, Berkley, Boston University, Spellman College, the University of Texas at Austin, or the myriad others she’d starred; never mind the National Archives, the British Museum, and the Bibliotheque Nationale—would see a slightly different headline, a subtly altered text.
Too bad she couldn’t track down all the copies, though, like the ones little old ladies tended to squirrel away in trunks and parents stuck in scrapbooks. Still, this was enough—probably. Besides, some things were even beyond the Sidhe.
Nuada, she was certain, would be pleased.
Sighing, Tana recorded the change on her legal pad, then consulted her scribbled list. Her next target was an article about a storm disrupting graduation at Enotah County High School almost a year after the previous occurrence, on which occasion numerous spectators claimed to have glimpsed the ghostly shapes of strangely clad warriors engaged in some titanic battle.
Fixing that would be a challenge.
Chapter I: Autumn Chill
(Nichols Ridge, Enotah National Forest,
Georgia—Saturday, October 24—morning)
“ Will you be quiet?” David Sullivan hissed under his breath and over his shoulder at the taller, fog-shrouded form behind him, that might have worn a fluorescent orange cap atop spiky dark hair. “And point that thing at the ground or somewhere. Anywhere but at my butt!”
The damp-edged crunch of forest leaves promptly decreased in frequency—but not, so David noticed, in volume, though the shadowing shape faded farther back into the morning fog, movement all that marked it from the gray trunks around it. “I can’t yawn and stealth at the same time!” came a muttered reply.
“Put a sock on it, McLean!” David growled back. “Better yet, put one in it!”
“It’s socks that’s the trouble,” the soft voice retorted. “You’re the one made me wear two pairs; they’re makin’ me walk funny!”
“You always walk funny! ’Sides, it’s usually cold enough this early this time of year to need ’em!”
“You’re both gonna be walkin’ funny if you don’t can it,” a third voice broke in, from the head of the three-man file. David froze in mid-stalk, cheeks hot with embarrassment garnished with irritation. The fog was thicker here: a shroud of white around what
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