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.And here was another first: She didn't want to.She, the tireless one, was tired of having to be somewhere on Monday.From waiting on tables to selling shoes to investigative reporting, she'd had it with Mondays."Is that all there is to life?" she whispered."An endless series of Mondays?"It's time to get a cat," she said, disgusted by her self-pitying mood."At least then I won't be talking to myself all the time."Outside, it was raining -- the fourth soaker that week -- and inside, it seemed damp and chill, even for late June.Emily pulled her ratty chenille robe around her more tightly and sipped her tea, trying not to think about either Lee or Fergus.She had the Newarth phone book open to the white pages.It was time to think about Kyle Edwards.Chapter 19There were thirteen Edwardses, none of them a Kyle, in the Newarth phone directory, and on Saturday afternoon Emily called them all.The responses ranged from "No Kyle here" to "Who wants to know?" But when she reached Timothy Edwards, she reached pay dirt.Timothy Edwards had a nephew named Kyle who was living in Cambridge—the last anyone heard anyway.An operator gave Emily a number, and she called it, fingers dancing over the phone with excitement.At the other end a laid-back voice answered."Yeah, this is Kyle Edwards," he said in a not unfriendly way."Mr.Edwards, this is Emily Bowditch.I'm writing a feature story for the Boston Journal about Talbot Manor in Newarth.I understand from my research that you had some connection with the place?""Hey, no kidding? The manor, huh? I lived there for a couple of years."Yes, she thought ecstatically, punching a victory fist into thin air."That's what I thought," she said in a carefully calm voice."I came across some old term papers of yours there.""So what's up?" he asked."Has someone made me their heir? If so, thanks but no thanks.No one needs a white elephant like the manor in their life.""Well, you can sleep easy, then," she said, laughing."No one's left it to you.No, I'm just doing profiles of people who've lived there, from the original owners up to the present.I wonder if I could meet with you and get some of your thoughts.It wouldn't take long.""Sure.What about this afternoon? You in town?""I live in Charlestown—""Close enough.Can you be in Cambridge tomorrow?""Nothing to it; I have to go to the Coop anyway," she lied.They agreed to meet at the Tangiers coffeehouse in Harvard Square at two in the afternoon.Emily hung up.That was when she saw Fergus appear alongside her desk.At least, trying to.But his image was indistinct, blurry at the edges.Emily rubbed her eyes; it was as if a film were covering them.She blinked and tried again, but the image remained dim and unfocused.The only thing she could see well were his eyes, which seemed to burn with more indignation than ever.He looked hurt and angry and -- something new -- anxious."Fergus!" she cried, panicky herself now."You're not coming in clearly!" She jumped up in alarm."Mother o' God," he snapped, "I ain't a TV!"She wanted to run and get him a glass of water, or help him to her bed so that he could lie down, or fan his face with a magazine.Or give him ammonia salts.Or CPR.But there was nothing she could do, nothing.She could only stand by helplessly while he closed his eyes and took on a look of intense concentration that left her feeling weak-kneed.Whatever it was that Fergus did, it brought him back into sharp focus.The brown of his vest became distinct from the gray of his pants, and the little details, like the four flaps on his vest, became visible once more.But the effort seemed to cost him; he looked exhausted."What's happening?" Emily asked faintly, feeling wan and exhausted herself.It was as if they were bound by a common blood supply.He shook his head."I don't know; this is new." He made a dismissive gesture, as if he didn't want to talk about it."Who is this Kyle Edwards?" he asked in a still-unsteady voice.Emily told him about the bound packet of airmail letters from France that she'd noticed in the drawer of the desk in the tower."They were written in a young girl's hand, postmarked Paris, and the penmanship was distinctly European.Okay, it's a wild hunch, but I think Maria Salva wrote them to Kyle when she was a teenager."A tired smile softened the strained features of Fergus's face."Wild hunch? A flying leap into the great unknown, I'd call it.""You've got to have more faith in me," she insisted, hurt.A surge of deep emotion for him rippled through her, sending color into her cheeks; she was remembering every word of his impassioned protest of the week before.Obviously, if anyone had faith in her, Fergus did."Sorry.That was a dumb thing for me to say," she admitted
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