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said: “What does ‘inestimable’ mean?”
    “Something whose worth can’t be estimated,” he said.
    “In one hand I hold a stone that contains more power than anyone has ever possessed, and its fruits are sweet but the aftertaste is bitter. In my other hand I hold a book the wisest seek to read, and its fruits are loathsome but it gives the reader wings.”
    I said: “Why are you holding them behind your back?”
    “Because the sight of them might influence you,” said the man. “Now you must choose. Think carefully, because much hangs on your decision.”
    It was difficult. Because I wanted to have all the power in the world, and make Neil Lewis disappear, and never go back to school again. But I also wanted to find out what the secret was that even the wisest seek to read. And I would definitely like to have wings. And there was a moment when I thought perhaps I shouldn’t choose at all and should go away through the long grass and not look back.
    But I didn’t. I said: “I’d like the stone please.” And when the old man took his right hand from behind his back and gave it to me, it glinted many colors in my palm and I felt myself swell and become heavy, and when I spoke I thought it had thundered.
    It could have been a long time or it could have been a short time that passed, I couldn’t tell but I know that I said: “Could I look at the book?”
    The old man pursed his lips. I thought he wasn’t going to let me. But finally he said: “All right. But you can’t touch it,” and he brought a small brown book from behind him. The spine was coming away and the pages were dog-eared, and when he opened it it was full of letters I had never seen before.
    I said: “Why are the pages wrinkled?”
    And the man said: “They are wet with the tears of all those who have tried to read it and failed.”
    Suddenly I felt cold. “Would I have been able to?” I said.
    He smiled. “We will never know now.”
    And then I woke up. But it wasn’t morning. It was dark and I was shivering. The air was stirring and full of the sound of beating wings.
    I pulled the blankets higher and wriggled down. I shut my eyes and tried to find the old man. I wanted to ask him about the aftertaste of the stone. But the air was no longer filled with gnats and dandelion clocks. It was filled with feathers, as if someone had shaken a giant pillow somewhere above my head, and as I watched, the feathers grew thicker.
    It wasn’t easy to see with the air so full of swirling. I sheltered beneath the tree in the middle of the field as the air got colder. The stone grew hot in my pocket and I warmed my hands on it, but soon it grew too hot to hold and I had to put it on the ground, and it grew brighter and brighter while all around the world grew white.
    *   *   *
     
    W HEN I WOKE it was morning. The air was still and it was heavy. It pressed close to me like a blanket, and the blanket was cold. I got out of bed. I pulled back the curtains. And the whole world was white.

The First Miracle
     
    I STARED AT the snow and wondered if I was still dreaming. But the houses weren’t made out of cardboard and the people weren’t made out of clay: Mr. Neasdon was trying to start his car, Mrs. Andrews was peeping through her curtains, little kids were building a snowman, and the dog from number 29 was lifting his leg against a heap of snow and trotting off to the next. I blinked and it was all still there. I pinched myself and it hurt. I sat on the bed and looked at my knees. Then I got up and looked out the window again. Then I pulled on my clothes and ran downstairs and opened the front door.
    The snow wasn’t cotton wool or pipe cleaners or felt. It was real. I turned my face to the sky. Whiteness sealed my eyes and my lips. The cold was like silence around me. I went back inside.
    The back door crashed as Father came into the kitchen. His cheeks were red and his mustache bristled. He put down a bucket of coal and poured himself tea.