There was silence too. Particularly that of the moon. Hanging sideways over an island in the Pacific. Gleaming like a cup of honey over an ancient temple in Rome. Rippling in a puddle in a rubbish-choked gutter.
Oh, the moon.
Everywhere the same and yet different, and so worth finding as it traveled overhead each night, scoring the passing days in the sky.
In this rush of life, Death felt the strange pain of love, something that had once been so unbearable but now felt an indelible part of her. She realized something as their lives filled her. To love: She’d had the power all along.
And this love between Henry and Flora … at first, it was a small, uncertain thing, like the glow of the morning sun on the horizon. And then it was its own wild animal, bucking against the world and anything that threatened it, so hot it could burn and sometimes did. And then it was quiet, as quiet as a snowfall, covering everything, certain of its place, even as it was certain it could not last forever.
And then, everywhere all around and inside her, it was still. Flora’s and Henry’s hearts had stopped. Which one beat last, Death could not tell. It felt as if they’d ceased their work at the same moment. Death hoped that was so, that neither had to spend a moment without the other.
She laid down their hands. Gently, even as that no longer mattered, it still felt the only way to let go.
The room was dark. And then there was the hiss of a match and the slow, steady spread of light. Love had lit a candle.
“No two flames are alike,” he said.
“Some are,” Death whispered. “Some are exactly the same.”
He held out the paper to her. The one she’d written on in blood and tears so many years ago. The ink had faded. You could hardly read what it said anymore. But she remembered. She always would.
Flora.
Henry.
She reached for the paper. And as they touched hands, she gave him a gift: all of her memories of Flora, so that her player would continue within him. She hoped Love would not mind that she kept Henry and his perfect heart for herself. And for the first time, even as it was lost, the Game was also won by both Love and Death. For in this way, the players lived on.
Love touched the corner of the paper to the candle. He flung the burning scrap into the air. It flared, split apart, and fell to the ground, petals of a fiery rose. It smelled of smoke and lilies and blood and ash, and it made Death weep once more, tears as black as the hollows of space. But she did not mind this time, because she felt so full, not just of life, but of that other thing.
“Shall we?” Love offered Death his arm. She took it. They walked together into the living room.
“I can’t bear to leave just yet,” Death said, her strength returning.
“We have all the time in the world.” Love found a record. He laid it on the player. The music started again, scratchy from age, but so sweet and beautiful and deep.
Someday.
And there, in the darkness, Love and Death and the ones inside of them danced until the song was done.
And then, when all around was silent and still, they disappeared.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have had years of love and support from my editor, Arthur A. Levine, as well as the rest of the crew at Scholastic: Nicholas Thomas, Emily Clement, Cassandra Pelham, Andrea Davis Pinkney, Becky Amsel, Nina Goffi, Antonio Gonzalez, Tracy van Straaten, Elizabeth Starr Baer, Bess Braswell, and Lizette Serrano.
My literary agent, Sarah Davies, is a voice of support and sanity. Likewise, the book has benefited from the professional attentions of Jill Corcoran and Elizabeth Law, as well as Jordan Brown, Anne Ursu, and Denise Hart Alfeld. I’m privileged to work with my film agent, Josie Freedman.
Katy Cenname helped me with insight into the pilot’s mind. Larry Wixom provided helpful specifics about the Staggerwing. Milt Hinton’s thrilling bass music kept me company as I wrote, and Playing the Changes by Milt Hinton, David G. Berger, and Holly Maxson filled me with admiration and respect for musicians during the Depression and beyond. Jackson Street After Hours by Paul de Barros and Eduardo Calderon provided insight about the African American jazz legacy in the Pacific Northwest, and the Northwest African American Museum fed my imagination with real stories. All of the inevitable errors are my own, though, along with any insensitivity, misunderstanding, or other failure of language.
Thanks go to my friends who’ve either read drafts, written alongside me, or talked me through the challenging parts of the story (and a whole lot else): Jesse Klausmeier, Emily Russin, Jolie Stekly, Kat Giantis, Patti Pitcher, Sofia Headley, Justina Chen, Holly Cupala, Samantha Berger, Robin Mellom, Sara Wilson Etienne, Brenda Winter Hansen, Liz Mills, Jaime Temairik, Cori Barrett, Lish McBride, Marissa Meyer, Jennifer Longo, Mary Jane Beaufrand, Sean Beaudoin, and Jet Harrington.
Thanks also to the extended Brockenbrough, McClure, Wilde, and Berliant families.
And especially to my very own family: Adam, Lucy, and Alice. If I know love at all, it is because of you.
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First published in the US by Scholastic Ltd, 2015
First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2015
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Ltd, 2015
Copyright © Martha Brockenbrough, 2015
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eISBN 978 1407 16232 4
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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The Game of Love and Death Page 28
