Secret of Light (11 page)

Brodie shrugged. “Okay by me. Still, it's best to have an independent observer in any experiment. How about if you stay outside and watch from a distance? That way you can let Darrell know if I disappear and she has to come and find me.”

He laughed at Kate's look of horror. “I'm kidding! You can be the lookout to make sure no one comes along while I'm checking the place out. It'll only take me five minutes or so.”

Kate turned to Darrell, who sat in her chair fiddling with the old bit of stick she had taken from Delaney. “You seem awfully quiet about this,” Kate said. “Do you think it's safe for Brodie to go back into the lighthouse?”

Darrell gave a little start. “What?” She looked at her friends' expectant faces and tried to remember what they had been talking about. “The lighthouse? Sure. Do you want me to come?”

“Have you heard a word we've been saying?” asked Kate. She raised her eyebrows at Darrell and turned back to Brodie. “Okay, I'll come, as long as we keep the space cadet here as far away as possible.”

Brodie jumped to his feet, but Kate stood more slowly, staring at the solid wall of rain outside the window,
her face a mask of gloom. “I need to go find an umbrella first,” she said, “although I don't know why I bother. That rain is going straight sideways.”

Darrell waved absently as they left, but stayed in her seat, staring into the empty expanse of the dining hall. She slipped Delaney's old stick from her pocket, tracing her fingers over lines so thin as to be barely visible, and remembered the last look of anger and puzzlement she had seen in Leonardo's eyes.

After examining the fine markings on the old stick for an hour, Darrell came to a decision. She spent the afternoon in the school library, poring over books about a certain genius artist of the Renaissance era. Delaney curled contentedly under her chair as Darrell devoured everything she could find on the subject. At dinner, Brodie and Kate related their experience of spending what turned out to be the entire afternoon running up and down the stairs in the lighthouse, and they talked about it in what seemed like endlessly tedious detail. At the end of the meal, Professor Myrtle Tooth stood and announced the schedule for mid-term exams, slated to begin the following week and run until Thanksgiving weekend.

Everyone groaned and Kate slapped her forehead. “Argh! Tests in math and computers won't be so bad, but I am so dead in English and history.”

Brodie chuckled. “Since Professor Tooth usually gives essay questions, I think you may be able to find something to write about the Renaissance, don't you?”

Kate's face brightened. “Right!” She reached over and poked Darrell with a pencil. “That won't be so bad, will it?”

Darrell smiled automatically. “Yeah, not so bad.”

Kate grabbed Darrell's shoulder and shook it a little. “What are you thinking about? You haven't eaten anything and I don't think you've said more than a few words in the past hour.”

Darrell stood and slid her chair back into place at the table. “I'm not very hungry, that's all. I'll see you guys later. I've got to go study.” She stuck her books under one arm, grabbed her tray with the other hand, and left the table, hardly noticing the puzzled glance exchanged by Kate and Brodie.

Over the course of the next week, Darrell spent most of her spare time in the library. She even gave up time in the art room to spend reading and making notes about Leonardo's life. She read how he professed to have no use for women and how his mother had been a servant girl named Katerina with whom he had little or no relationship.
Federica was right. A mother who abandoned him and a father who paid little attention. No wonder he was so rude.

However, much of what she found in the library proved unsatisfactory, and it irritated her to see how often the authors of history textbooks were wrong about the simplest details of everyday life. She read about the china dishes used in Italian kitchens and scoffed, remembering Kate's busy morning labouring over sinks full of pottery
and earthenware and the endless stream of wooden platters they had to wash after the evening meal. She even laughed a little when reading about the elaborate underwear said to be worn by the nobility of fifteenth-century Florence. But for the most part she felt just one emotion.

Frustration.

Frustration that there was so little available about the man who interested her most. She read tedious tomes about the history of the period, and the Medici family who sponsored many wonderful artists of the era, including Leonardo for a time. But she couldn't find a single source of information written by someone who knew Leonardo. Really knew him — knew how he spent his days, knew his low regard for girls and women, knew his passion for his art and what his deepest thoughts revealed.

When she ran out of resources in the library, Darrell turned to the Internet. She didn't want to share her ideas with Kate, so she used the school computers to find out more. Initially, she was thrilled to discover more information about Leonardo's notebooks on-line, but the euphoria of this discovery was dashed when she examined the collections and found many had been cut up or lost by his friends and heirs.

I know he wrote about time travel. He told me he was going to invent a machine to travel through time. It must be here somewhere!

Kate and Brodie were immersed in their own studying but still teased Darrell, saying they never saw her anymore. It was true — she had stopped going to the study room altogether, instead spending all her time in the
library or the computer lab, poring over documents. Twice she had to be summoned to write an exam, and on the Friday before Thanksgiving weekend, she only just managed to turn her art portfolio in to Mr. Gill on time.

“Haven't seen much of you in the studio lately,” he remarked, as she handed him the folder, its cover still damp and redolent of fresh ink. “Been studying for exams?”

Darrell nodded. “I've — been a bit too busy for art, I guess,” she said, averting her eyes.

Mr. Gill frowned. “Don't bury yourself so deeply in your studies that you can't find time for your art, Darrell,” he said, his voice stern. “It's a huge part of who you are.”

Darrell had nodded mutely and left the room. But she thought about the conversation later that night as she lay, feeling like a stranger in her own bed at home in Vancouver, staring unseeing at the ceiling.

A huge part of who I am.
The memory left her heart bleak.
And just who am I? A kid with one leg. A kid with no dad. A kid who likes art, but who cares about that? It's only a way to forget about my leg and my dad.

And as the autumn moon rose to cast its thin glow across her bed, she caressed the idea that had been driving her since her return from Florence. She looked down at the bulge her left foot made under the covers and the flat expanse of bedclothes where her right foot should be.
What if he did find a way to make a time machine? What if it was among the lost papers? I know where he kept his notebooks — he showed me. I know he wanted to discover the secret of time.

From her end table, she picked up the stick Delaney had dropped on her as she lay on the floor of the lighthouse. The intricate carvings were long lost, though thin lines still traced across its worn and dirty surface. Still, there was no doubt in her mind. She knew it for what it once was. For the first time, she had brought something home with her, even if it no longer resembled the beautifully carved walking stick it once had been.

She sat up in bed, no longer seeing her legs, or the covers, or the silver moonlight. All she could see were eyes from another time. Leonardo's eyes, staring at her — thinking about her — as she disappeared through a hole in time.

She had to go back to find out just how much he knew.

The next morning began her first full day home for the long weekend, but Darrell waved off her mother's offer of a shopping trip and caught the bus to the main branch of the Vancouver Public Library. Faced with the size of the Renaissance section, her head reeled. This one section dwarfed the entire library at Eagle Glen.

I've got to start somewhere.
She pulled out the first book in the stacks.

Ducking her mother's suggested activities, Darrell spent every day of the long weekend at the library. Her list of questions was so long she soon learned the name of every research librarian who was on shift when she appeared each day. Her best find was an old, leather-bound
tome depicting both images and text from a few of Leonardo's manuscripts.

The manuscripts were fascinating. Darrell read through reams of reproductions of Leonardo's work, held in collections from Milan to Britain to Paris. She even read, with some amusement, that Kate's nemesis, Bill Gates, was the only known private collector to possess one of Leonardo's manuscripts.

Studies of horses, mechanics, and geometry competed with long lists of notes on the subject of wind and water currents. Darrell saw a fragment of a sketch of a bird in flight that gave her a jolt of recognition and read that it had been taken from a diary of Leonardo's circa 1471. Confirming in her notes that he was born in 1452, Darrell realized she had met Leonardo when he was around nineteen years old, a mere two years before fame would begin to swirl about him and wrap him in its golden cape.

Though Leonardo's journals were well known for their strange mirror writing, Darrell realized she could read none of the Italian script, apart from the famous signature. Remembering her fluency in Italian while on the journey, she filed this information away for later use. If she did manage to find the secret to Leonardo's time machine, she would need to try to copy it down in English so she could put it into use more readily when she got back to the school.

Janice Connor drove in silence, and Darrell stared out the window, trying to ignore her mother's sideways
glances. A whole weekend in the library and she still had so much to learn.

“You've been so quiet this weekend, Darrell. Are you tired?”

Darrell's head jerked up, startled. “Oh — yeah — I guess so.” She coloured a little. “My mid-terms were quite hard, and I'm — well, I'm working on an important project, and it's been keeping me really busy.” She smiled at her mother. “So, yeah, I guess I am pretty tired.”

Delaney stirred in the back seat and rested his chin on the door. He gazed out the window with half-closed eyes, dozing.

Janice laughed, catching sight of the dog in the rear view mirror. “I guess you're not the only one who's tired. But try not to overdo it, okay?”

Darrell smiled and reached back to give Delaney a pat. His tail thumped in response.

“He's just recovering from a weekend with Norton,” Darrell said, with a grin.

Her mother nodded. “That cat keeps him pretty busy.” Delaney swished his tail and settled further into his spot on the back seat.

The rain lashed the windshield as they drove out of the city, but by the time they reached the highway it petered out and the sun began to break through the morning clouds.

“It's good to get away from all the noise in the city,” remarked Darrell. “I forget what it's like when I've been at school for a while.”

She leaned her head on the side window and wondered about fall in Italy. Would they have had snow or
would it be wet, like here? She compared this past weekend in the city, where thousands of people bustled along the crowded streets under multicoloured umbrellas, with her memory of houses lit by candles and oil lamps. She laughed aloud.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing. I guess I was thinking about how Vancouver is so different from anywhere else.”

Janice shot Darrell a quick glance as she drove down the nearly deserted highway. “You spent almost the whole weekend in the library. What's this big project you're working on?”

Darrell shrugged and turned a little pink. “Just — some stuff for the Renaissance fair we're having before Christmas. We've got to make it as authentic as possible, and I needed to look up some stuff on the Renaissance.”

Darrell's mother nodded. “I guess I'm more used to seeing you spend all your time with your head in a sketchbook.”

“Well, I still worked on my art a little. But I needed some fresh research material for this project I'm working on, that's all.”

Janice pulled into the long school driveway. “It's okay by me, sweetheart.” She glanced over at her daughter, speculation in her eyes. “Eagle Glen has changed you, y'know,” she said, her voice soft.

Darrell stiffened. “What do you mean?”

Her mother smiled. “I'm not sure. Some of your anger seems to be gone. But I can't put my finger on what's replaced it.” She drummed her fingers on the wheel. “Determination? Focus? I don't know.”

Darrell laughed, but her voice sounded hollow. “I don't know either, Mom.” She stared out her window at the bare cherry trees and the waning maples. The long weekend had flown by. Her mother had taken a day off to celebrate Thanksgiving by cooking an enormous turkey. But Darrell had spent the whole weekend formulating her plans, which gnawed at her like a tickertape running along the base of her brain.

What would her mother think if she found a way to change the past? Darrell stared out the window, imagining the look on her mother's face when she walked in the front door on two sound legs. Or even better, if she got carried in on the back of her wonderful, beautiful, perfect father, as if the accident had never happened. Okay — so her mom hadn't believed her father was wonderful or perfect. They were divorced, after all. But maybe Darrell could find a way to fix that, too.

“Thanks for bringing us back early, Mom.” Darrell flung her arms around her mother's neck as they stood near the front door of Eagle Glen. Delaney jumped out of the car and took off around the back of the school, his nose to the ground. “I can get a head start on my project, now.”