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tiptoed over to the Council office to make sure no one was in there, even peeked into the little room that held the radio, a Mainland contraption used to contact the Traders.
    "We'd better leave as soon as someone comes back from dinner," Medford whispered. A Carpenter could be excused a little youthful curiosity, but not a Runyuin.
    Upstairs in the auditorium, Medford pulled a stool over to the Book's wooden lectern and began to turn the huge pages. He could feel the centuries that lay on them like dust. There had to be a place that talked about the Unnameable. But how to find it in a book a foot thick?
    One of the older, printed pages at the front of the book offered Capability C. Craft's cure for a bad chest cold. Medford remembered it well—he could still smell the cloth, soaked in oil and hot pepper, that Boyce had wrapped around his chest that time.
    Another page, handwritten in the back by some early Islander, spelled out the Transition ritual.
The First Daye of the Sowing Moone, bring together in Towne Hall all Children of 14 yeare ...
    When Prudy took a turn on the stool, she hadn't been up there five minutes when she sucked in her breath. "This may be it," she whispered. "
Thou and the Unnameable,
it says. What a strange way to put it."
    "Just read it," Medford whispered, looking over his shoulder.
    "
If it hath no Use, it needeth no Name, and wilt do thee no Harm,
" Prudy intoned, her nose two inches from the page. "We know that already.
Turn thy Back and 'tis gone. The Unnameable is another thing entire. Take care, or
thou
shalt be Gone.
"
    "We've heard that, too."
    "But there's more," Prudy said. "
Beware, lest thou stare at the Nameless thing for too long. Thou, and only thou, canst Transform the unnamed to the Unnameable. And then in Truth thou shalt be Gone.
"
    Downstairs, the front door creaked open. Floorboards squawked and the Council office door closed. "That," Prudy said, heaving the Book shut in defeat, "makes no sense at all."
    Sense or no, Medford thought as they crept outside, he'd better stop staring at Nameless things. And the ones under his bed ... he'd destroy them and make no more.
    Medford was so busy thinking about this, walking down the sidewalk at Prudy's side, that he didn't notice when the moment he'd been dreading crept up on him.
    "Let's take bread and cheese to Bog Island and talk about all this," Prudy said.
    He almost said, "Aye, let's." But then he remembered Boyce, just that morning.
    How would he explain to Prudy why he couldn't go to Bog Island? If the words existed, they weren't anyplace where Medford could reach them.
    One more time couldn't possibly hurt, could it? Of course not. He'd think of a way to tell her. Later.
    They went to Prudy's house for provisions. Prudy's mother, Clarity Potter, was sitting at the kitchen table, yawning.
    "Art thou just getting up?" Prudy asked, the disapproval in her voice verging on Rude Speech to a Parent, expressly forbidden by the Book.
    "I worked late last night, dear one," Clarity said, smiling at her sleepily. "Until past four of the clock."
    "Why canst thou not work in the day?" Prudy muttered, opening the ice chest to look for cheese.
    "
Let not the Sunset curtail thy Usefulness,
" Clarity said. "'Tis in the Book."
    "
Rise afore the Sun that thy Day be of Use,
" Prudy retorted. "Here's the bread, Medford. Slice it thick."
    "Going to Bog Island?" Clarity asked, as if Prudy hadn't spoken so harshly.
    "I ... I don't know," Medford said. What if Clarity talked to Boyce later and said where they were going?
    Prudy shot him a questioning glance. She looked like her mother—pale hair, blue eyes, broad face, rosy softness over stone—but their expressions right now were opposite. Clarity was drowsily sipping milky tea out of a mug she'd made herself, her hair in a loose bun, blotchy red cheeks the only sign that she was not at peace. Prudy chopped cheese with sharp, sullen strokes, back straight, braids aquiver.
    "Why are you so angry