Threshold by Caitlin R. Kiernan Read Free Book Online Page A

make her stop, still no idea what she should say, so “Hi,” out fast, and maybe the girl will just keep walking, she thinks, maybe afraid Dancy’s a beggar and wants spare change, weird albino panhandlers nailing people in the goddamn public library these days and she’ll keep going until she finds a security guard to toss Dancy out on her ass.
    But that isn’t what she does, not this tall girl, turns around instead, turns around, and her eyes are green. “Hi,” she says, trying to meet Dancy’s gaze and trying not to stare at the same time, have your cake and eat it, too, and “Hi,” Dancy says again. The girl’s beginning to look confused, and Dancy’s trying hard to think what comes next, but she never dreamed this part, so no idea what to say to a total stranger, and “Can I help you?” the girl asks, shifts the box under her arm and Dancy almost sees what’s inside.
    “What’s in the box?” she asks, none of her business but that’s the first thing that comes to mind and she takes it, probably as good a start as any since she can’t tell the girl the truth and looks will only get you so far.
    “Oh,” the girl says, maybe the slightest hint of relief in her voice because she has an excuse to turn away for a second, a moment to look in the box like she doesn’t remember what’s there, and “Just some old papers,” she says. “Some old manuscripts. Some of my grandfather’s old manuscripts that I’m giving to the library.”
    “He doesn’t want them anymore?” Dancy asks, and the girl frowns, soft frown, but Dancy knows that she’s said the wrong thing even if she doesn’t understand exactly why. And before she can apologize, I’m sorry or That’s none of my business, is it? the girl isn’t frowning anymore, is looking straight at her like she’s some normal girl who’s asked some perfectly normal, inconsequential question. “He’s dead,” the girl says, that matter-of-fact, like she was telling Dancy it was hot outside and it was going to be hot again tomorrow. “He died last week, and I thought this stuff would be safer here.”
    “Oh,” she says. “Oh, god. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean, I mean, I shouldn’t have even . . .” but the girl is shaking her head and, “No, it’s okay,” she says. “You couldn’t have known, could you?” And Dancy repeats the same question in her head, Couldn’t I have, shouldn’t I have known that? “But they’re just some old papers,” the girl says again. “Some things I cleaned out of his office, and I’m taking them over to the archives.”
    “My name’s Dancy. Dancy Flammarion,” one hand out to shake, and for a moment the girl acts like no one’s ever tried to shake hands with her before. She shifts the weight of the box again and this time Dancy hears the papers shuffling inside when she does. “I’m Chance,” she says back and finally takes Dancy’s hand, squeezes a little too hard when she shakes it. “Chance Matthews,” and Dancy smiles, trying to look friendly, trying not to look like a street crazy in her dirty clothes, her tangled hair.
    “Chance,” she says. “How the hell did you get a name like that?”
    Chance Matthews shrugs once and not exactly a smile for her, but at least the girl isn’t frowning anymore, and “Nobody ever told me,” she says. “I guess they just thought it was a good idea at the time.” Another glance at the Campbell’s tomato soup box, and “This stuff is really getting heavy,” she says. “I was on my way to the elevator,” and she releases Dancy’s hand, then, points at two shiny brass elevator doors at the end of a short hallway past the escalators. “The archives are over in the old building, and the crosswalk’s up on the third floor.”
    Dancy apologizes for making the girl stand there with the heavy box of papers, runs on ahead to hit the UP button, her duffel bag swinging back and forth, dangerous canvas pendulum as she runs. A bell dings loud and the doors