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Soundlessly, Phoebe Okada appears at Jane’s side. Jane’s body flies into a panic. She spends thirty seconds gripping the banister and trying to catch her breath.
“Did I scare you?” Phoebe whispers. “Sorry.”
Her face, free of makeup, is tired, unguarded, pretty. She’s wearing a silk robe tied tightly at the middle and is barefoot. Her toenails are turquoise and cute.
“Why are you here?” Jane whispers back.
“I heard the music,” Phoebe whispers.
“Charlotte’s music?” Jane whispers. “You heard Charlotte’s music all the way from your room?”
“Charlotte’s music,” Phoebe says. “I was walking and I heard Charlotte’s music. I sleep badly when my husband’s away. I worry about him.”
Jane remembers that one night, a long time ago—no! It was only last night, which seems amazing—Jane saw Phoebe and her husband, Philip, who’s a doctor, sneaking around with Patrick and a gun. Then Philip left the house. “Why do you worry?” says Jane. “Is your husband’s medical practice dangerous?”
“I program ciphers normally,” Phoebe says. “For Britain. Ciphers are my specialty. I’m a bit of a genius. God save the queen.”
Jane is pretty sure she hasn’t asked Phoebe anything about her profession, her level of intelligence, or the queen, but she can’t really remember. After “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away,” Octavian switches records and plays “I’m Looking Through You,” then “Norwegian Wood.” Then he mutters something about Charlotte and Abbey Road and Jane hears the opening strains of “Come Together.”
Jane pulls on the tassels of her hat. “I think I was meaning to go back to bed, but I can’t remember,” she whispers to Phoebe.
Phoebe also seems to be thinking hard. “My husband and I are British, but we’re helping keep the missing children safe. Remember? The little kid with Cook?” she says, then looks confused. “I mean, no. Never mind.”
“What are you talking about?”
Before Phoebe can go on, Octavian speaks again. His voice comes rough and raspy through the music.
“Charlotte was reading Frankenstein when she left,” says Octavian. “I’m keeping it here, still marking her place.”
“I know,” says Ravi.
“I’ve read Charlotte’s journals back to front,” Octavian says. “I can’t find any explanation for where she went.”
“I know, Dad,” says Ravi gently. “You’ve told me.”
“Charlotte wrote here that the house, with the unmatching origins of its parts, is a microcosm of the world. Do you think living on an island, in this big old house, made Charlotte pine for the world?”
“I don’t know, Dad. Could we talk about Kiran? She’s here. We can do something about her. She seems depressed. I’m worried.”
“I’d never have held Charlotte here if she wanted to travel,” Octavian says. “We could’ve traveled anywhere.”
Their voices go silent again. A good many songs go by. Jane thinks about the house being a microcosm of the world. She turns it over and over in her mind, she flips it back and forth, because it reminds her of something. It takes her a long time to place the memory.
“My aunt used to say,” she whispers to Phoebe, “that my body was a microcosm of the sea.”
“My massage therapist always says,” Phoebe whispers back, “that my body is a microcosm of the universe.”
“Or the multiverse,” whispers Lucy St. George, appearing beside them and causing Jane to jump a foot in the air. “Sorry,” she whispers. “Did I scare you? I was out walking. When I came in, I heard the music.”
“Charlotte’s music,” Jane whispers. “Charlotte. Oh, fuck,” she whispers, rubbing her ears hard, because now she notices that it’s happening again, that weird compulsion to say Charlotte’s name. Lucy St. George is dressed all in black, from her black knit hat down to her black sneakers, and smells like the cold. She’s tight and pale and ready as a bullet in the chamber of a gun; Jane can feel it. Jane studies Lucy, trying to focus on Lucy instead of on the choking colors of the library, instead of on Charlotte. Trying to process what Lucy said. Jane realizes Lucy has just come in from outside. Lucy is less muddled and bumbling than she, because Lucy’s been outside the house, breathing fresh air.
“What’s a multiverse?” Jane asks her.
“Oh,” Lucy whispers, pulling off her hat. Her smooth hair tumbles down around her shoulders. “It’s this theory Ravi likes to talk about. His mom is a theoretical physicist, you know. His real mom, not Charlotte.”
“Charlotte,” whispers Phoebe.
“Yes,” Lucy whispers, “Charlotte.”
“Multiverse?” Jane whispers, stubbornly not saying “Charlotte.” It makes her head ache, sharply.
“The concept of the multiverse,” Lucy whispers, “comes from the idea that every time something happens, everything else that could have happened in that moment also happens, causing new universes to break off from the old universe and come into being. So there are multiple versions of us, living different lives than the ones we live, across multiple universes, making every decision we could possibly make. There are versions of us we wouldn’t even like, and some we’d barely recognize.”
This stirs at something in Jane’s memory, but she can’t place it. Conversations about various realities and versions of lives. Things Kiran has said, and Ravi. It didn’t make sense then and it’s very confusing now. Jane feels like her own muddled and overstretched brain could be a microcosm of the multiverse. The ceiling is pressing down.
“God, I feel all over the place,” whispers Phoebe. “Like all my parts are spinning away.”
“Yes,” Jane says passionately.
“I’m dying to talk to Mr. Vanders,” says Phoebe. “He could help.”
“I talked to him today,” Jane says, remembering. “He says that the more we embrace our lack of cohesion, the better off we are.”
“That sound
s like Mr. Vanders,” says Phoebe wistfully.
“But this is different, isn’t it?” Jane says. “This weird feeling? Don’t you feel like it’s coming from outside us? Like, from the walls and the ceiling?”
Lucy St. George is winding and unwinding the bandage around her hand. “You know,” she whispers, “I get the feeling this house doesn’t like me.”
“Hm,” says Phoebe. “Do you get the feeling it can see everything we do?”
Lucy pauses. “If that’s true,” she says quietly, “I’m in trouble.”
“Why?” says Phoebe. “Did you do something the house wouldn’t like?”
Making no answer, Lucy continues to wind and unwind her bandage. Perhaps Octavian has reached the end of his playlist, because the next song Jane hears is the first song she heard, “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away.”
“Listen, Dad,” says Ravi, in a voice that’s patient, but pleading. “I know you love her, and it’s awful she left. I get it, and I’m sorry. But I’m done talking about it. I want to talk about finding some way to get through to Kiran. Some work she might like that we could hook her up with, maybe?”
“What about your own problems, son?” says Octavian. “Why aren’t you in the bed of your supposed girlfriend right now?”
Ravi releases a short sigh. “Lucy broke it off with me again,” he says, “and anyway, how’ll I ever see my father if I sleep at night? I’m worried about you too, you know. I wish you’d get dressed, go outside, go for a walk. Will you come for one now?”
“You’re a good boy, Ravi,” says Octavian. “You’re always trying to hide it. I’m sorry about Lucy.”
“Well,” says Ravi glumly. “I’m sure I’m too young to be in a serious relationship anyway.”
“Have you learned anything about the missing Brancusi?”
“No, and Vanny’s being so aggravating,” says Ravi. “It’s all ‘the gala’ this, ‘the gala’ that. I’m not even sure she’s notified the police.”
“Then notify them yourself,” Octavian says, “in the morning. It’s your house, and Kiran’s.”
