I felt puzzled, and leaned in to Fredward's personal space. "Did they have cameras in the eighteen-fifties?" I whispered.
Fredward smiled his crooked smile. "Bella, these are paintings."
I nodded without breathing.
"This is a story for Carbomb to tell... Will you tell it?" Fredward asked. I twisted all the way around to see Carbomb's reaction.
He met my glance and smiled. "I will," he replied. "But actually I already mentioned that I have a lot to do. The hospital called this morning—Dr. Sick is taking a snow day," he added, grinning at Fredward now.
It was a strange combination to absorb—the everyday concerns of a smalltown doctor stuck in the middle of a discussion of when they first used cameras to photograph London.
It was also unsettling to know that he spoke aloud only for my benefit.
After another warm smile, served up just for me, Carbomb left the room.
I stared at the little picture of Carbomb's hometown for a long moment.
"What happened then?" I finally asked, staring up at Fredward, who was was watching me. "When he realized what had happened to him?"
He glanced back at the paintings, and I looked to see which image caught his interest now. It was a larger landscape in dull fall colors— an empty, shadowed meadow in a dark dark forest, with a dark craggy peak in the dank distance.
"When he knew what he had become," Fredward said quietly, "he rebelled against it. We all did. He tried to destroy himself. But that's not easily done."
"How?" I didn't mean to say it aloud, but the word broke through my shock.
"He jumped from great heights," Fredward told me this, his

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Chapter 16

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