Read Nature's Shift for Free Online Page A

that that the contents of the casket really were the residue of her cremation, or because I had any cynical reservations about identifying post-cremation ashes with a person, but simply because we had to presume. All we could actually see was a casket. We had to imagine its contents.
    Would it have been better if we had been able to see her, rebeautified by the embalmer’s art, lying on a silk cushion in a human-sized box? I doubt it—but the presence of the casket did serve to emphasize the mystery still surrounding her death. It did imply, however unreasonably, that there had been, and still was, something to hide.
    In all probability, no one else in Britain would have been able to hide the circumstances of a death, in spite of all the legal and moral restrictions associated with the New Privacy, but the Ushers were true masters of the game of virtual invisibility. What they did not want to be known remained unknown; that was all there was to it.
    The ceremony did not last long. It was over in ten minutes less than an hour, although a few minutes were left thereafter for silent contemplation. No one broke ranks while Rosalind was still standing there, head bowed. I thought for a moment or two that she was going to measure out the hour exactly, to the second, but she had too much style for that. The silence only lasted three minutes before the moment of suspension was officially ended, and Rosalind slipped into a new style of discourse to thank us all for coming.
    She didn’t apologize for the fact that no refreshments had been laid on, and that there was no be no “wake,” but she did invite everyone to explore Eden at their leisure. She didn’t say so, but the implication was that breathing the atmosphere of that sacred place was bound to reward the soul more lavishly than any supply of food and alcohol. As for filling the stomach—well, that was a vulgar business best left to the hidden recesses of the New Privacy.
    The family then began to filter out as they had filtered in—except for Rosalind, who marched along the aisle to the main entrance, and stationed herself on the threshold in order to shake the hand of everyone in the audience, and thank them for coming.
    That took a long time. Because Professor Crowthorne and I were a lot closer to the back than the front, we could have made a dash for it and got out into the open, sweet-scented air in less than five minutes, but neither of us was in a mood for dashing, and neither of us was in a hurry to look into Rosalind’s eyes. A full fifteen minutes of awkward silence had elapsed before we were impelled forward by the ebb tide of the multitude and found ourselves on the threshold.
    I let the professor go first.
    â€œProfessor Crowthorne,” said Rosalind, who might have needed a subtle earpiece to remind her who some of our fellow mourners were, but gave every indication of recognizing Magdalen’s former tutor at first glance. “Thank you for coming. Magdalen always spoke very highly of your enthusiasm as an educator, and the support you gave her when she first left home.”
    Apart from the “always,” I figured that it might almost have been true. The professor did have enthusiasm as an educator; he might be a poor communicator in other respects, but when it came to waxing lyrical about his subject, he was a human dynamo. It went with the territory; I was in a position to understand that now. He would also have done his utmost to lend Magdalen moral support when she found herself in a strange institution, far from home—even though she already had the support of her loving brother.
    â€œPeter,” said Rosalind, moving on before I was quite ready. She seized the hand that I held out reflexively, but instead of the curt and tokenistic pressure she’d afforded to the professor, she actually hung on to mine. “Thank you for coming. I need to talk to you. I’m busy just now, as you can see, but