Folly by Laurie R. King Read Free Book Online Page A

one end, cool brass jacket flaring into the base at the other. A simple thing, really, awaiting a tap in just the right place. She wondered if she shouldn’t number them, carve Roman numerals in their soft nub ends so she could tell them apart, but that seemed too much like the list making that marked her worst periods, so she warmed them some more and then arranged them back in their triangle, three on a side, good little soldiers.
    The tent surrounding her was brand new, ordered from a catalogue along with half the kitchen equipment and waiting for her in Friday Harbor. Petra had helped her raise it, making it clear that this was about the coolest thing ever, while Tamara looked on in growing disbelief that anyone could possibly consider it shelter. The air inside smelled of water-proofingchemicals and the wrinkles in the canvas and the mesh windows were still crisp from the packing box. Rae had been glad to find all the poles in with it.
    Rae Newborn’s family was not the sort to indulge in a camping holiday. The closest she’d been to the tenting life was a week with Alan in a canvas-roofed cabin in Yosemite. It had been cold. It was cold now. The walls shifted of their own accord, shivering when the air brushed against them. All the flaps were tied snugly across the windows, but the door was still crimped in spots, and lay against the opening unevenly. Someone outside could, by a stealthy approach and sinking to his knees, peep in at her where she sat at the desk.
    Rae reached behind her to pull the hammer from its belt holster, placing it squarely on the desk in front of her.
    There’s no one out there.
    The canvas shivered again; a twig or pinecone hit the peak of the roof with a slap. Rae’s body tightened against the noise. She started in on the breathing and visualization exercises that would encourage the muscles to relax, wondering all the while
Why did that twig hit the tent? Was it a twig or was somebody throwing something, and will the next step be a branch scratching the wall even though there aren’t any branches for six feet in any direction and after that a knock or a noise like a key tapping on glass only there’s no glass window in a tent maybe the Watchers’ll just lean against the canvas lean in and push against my space here pushing in on me until the aluminum tent poles bend and the walls
—
    She stood up so abruptly the chair toppled over, then reached for the control of the hanging kerosene lamp. Its bright glow faded, the shadows grew soft and then dimmer, until with a small
pop
the light died.
    This had always worked at home, the cocooned feeling of being in the dark so those Watchers in the light couldn’t see in. What she had failed to take into account was that her campsite had no floodlights, no means of throwing up a barricade of light in the compound outside. Just the moon.
    That was stupid, Rae
, she berated herself.
Now you’ll have to wait until Ed comes to get enough lights to hang up outside, half a dozen ought to do it, but not kerosene, that wouldn’t be too safe. Propane ought to be better although what a racket they’ll make, and how long does a lamp burn on a propane canister, anyway? No good if I had to go out in the dark and change the canister, maybe the lamps could be put on one of the big canisters like I’m using for the stove, harder to hang but
—
    “You’re not going to do that,” Rae said aloud. The tent seemed to agree, relieved that it was not about to be set beneath a spotlight. Ridiculous—trees strung about with dangling propane tanks. Everyone in the islands would come to see it. Planes would divert to look down at her.
    It’s dark. Get used to it.
    Rae felt her way over to the cot, and from there to the bedside table (two crates of builders’ reference books) that held clock and flashlight. She picked up the heavy metal tube, but instead of thumbing it on, she stood in the dark tent, listening and watching. The moon was still too low in the sky