Genny wrote them at the foot of Mother's bed.
She used Mother's board across her knees and Father's best pen, which she'd carried out of the house in the ten minutes along with the notebooks. Across the top of a clean page she wrote TERMS in capital letters, and underlined it twice. Then she looked up at Mother.
"Go on," said Mother.
"You go on," said Genny. "You know what to ask for."
"I know what I'd ask for," said Mother. "You're the one who's going to make him sign it."
Genny looked at her for a long moment. Then she bent her head over the page.
We worked on them all day.
"Number one," said Genny. "Me and Garnet stay together. Always. Same home, same rooms, same everything. Nobody separates us for any reason."
She wrote it. Then she frowned at it and crossed out for any reason and wrote for any reason whatsoever, including medical, educational, or security. Mother watched her do it and didn't say anything, but something moved at the corner of her mouth.
"Number two. No tests. No assessments. No programs." Genny looked at me. "Assessment: pending. That stays pending forever."
"Number three," I said. "Mother's treatment."
Genny's pen stopped.
"Every week," I said. "For the rest of her life. Never withheld. Never delayed. Not for any reason. Not because of anything I do or don't do, out there." I looked at Mother. "She's the dependent of Project personnel from the day I sign. And she stays one even if I—" I stopped.
"Even if you don't come back," said Genny flatly, writing.
"Even then."
Genny wrote it. She underlined not because of anything Lucas does twice.
Mother didn't say anything. She'd turned her face toward the window.
"Number four," said Genny, without looking up. "Mother lives with us. Same home. Not in a hospital. Not on a different floor." Her pen scratched. "Number five. We choose our own staff. If we don't like someone, they go."
"Number six," I said. "A call every week. To wherever I am. And if they miss one—"
"You come home," said Genny.
"Number seven. Medical records. All three of them. Every test, every scan. Not a slate with nice graphs. The real numbers. To me."
"And to me," said Genny.
I looked at her. She looked back.
"And to Genny," I said.
She wrote it.
"Number eight," said Garnet.
She was lying on her stomach on the end of the bed beside Mother's feet, with her chin in her hands. I'd thought she was only half listening.
"We can leave," she said. "Whenever we want. If we don't like it in the dome. And Mama can come too, and they have to give her enough medicine to take with her. And nobody stops us."
Genny's pen stopped.
She looked at Garnet for a long moment. Then she looked at Mother.
Mother had turned back from the window. She was looking at Garnet too, with an expression I couldn't read.
"That's the most important one," Genny said quietly.
She wrote it down, and underlined it three times.
There were more.
The house in the valley stays exactly as it is. The field stays. The scarecrow stays. The stones stay. Nobody comes into the valley without the family's permission.
Once a year, the family goes back to visit Father's stone. With an escort, if they want one. Without, if they don't.
Before I leave for Avalon, I see Dr. Halloway in a room and ask her anything I like, and she answers.
"And the bakery," said Garnet.
Genny opened her mouth.
"I want to go to the bakery," said Garnet firmly. "Mama's one. It's a condition."
Genny closed her mouth. After a moment she wrote it down. Garnet may visit the bakery on the ring street by the east locks.
"And ice cream," said Garnet.
"No," said Genny.
"Once a week."
Genny looked at Mother for help.
"Write it down, darling," said Mother.
Genny sighed through her nose, exactly the way Mother did, and wrote Ice cream (weekly) at the bottom of the page in very small letters.
That evening, I added one line, at the bottom, in my own hand.
The young man who brought my father the folder. If he is alive, he is to be released from whatever has been done to him, and left alone.
And then Mother held out her hand for the pen.
Genny gave it to her. Mother took the board onto her own knees, slowly, and under my line, in her round, right-leaning hand, pressed hard into the paper, she wrote one more.
The full text of the Accord, given to Lucas Dask before he leaves for Avalon.
She handed the board back to Genny.
"He won't sign that one," she said.
"Then why ask?" said Genny.
"Because I want to watch him not sign it," said Mother.
He came the next morning.
He stopped in the doorway, the way he always did, until Mother said come in, Halvard. Then he sat in the chair at the foot of the bed with his cane across his knees, and Genny got up from the corner and handed him the board.
She'd copied it out fair the night before. Three pages, in her best square handwriting, every condition numbered, the important ones underlined. She handed it to him without a word and went back to her chair and sat with her arms folded and watched him read it the way a hawk watches a field.
Crane read slowly. Every word.
At for any reason whatsoever, including medical, educational, or security, he paused, and glanced at Genny over his glasses. She glared back.
At not because of anything Lucas does or does not do, underlined twice, he stopped. He sat very still for a moment. Then he looked up, not at Genny, not at me. At Mother.
Mother looked back at him.
He went on reading.
At We can leave whenever we want, and Mother comes too, with enough medicine to take, he stopped again. Longer.
At Garnet may visit the bakery on the ring street by the east locks, something happened to his face that I didn't understand. It was there and gone again in a second.
At Ice cream (weekly), he looked up at Garnet, on the end of the bed.
"That's an important one," she told him.
"I can see that," said Crane gravely.
Then he came to the last two lines. Mine. And Mother's.
He read mine twice. If he is alive. I watched him do it. Then he read Mother's.
He read it once.
And he sat very still, with the board on his knees, for a long time.
"I'll sign all of it," he said at last. "Except the last line."
Nobody in the room moved.
"Everything else," said Crane. "Every condition. I'll sign it now, here, and seal it with the Council's authority. Your sisters will be together. Your mother will be treated every week for the rest of her life, whatever you do. You can leave whenever you want. The young man—" A pause. "If he's alive, he'll be released. And Garnet may have ice cream." He looked down at the board. "But I can't give you the Accord."
"Can't," said Mother. "Or won't?"
Crane looked at her.
"Can't," he said. "It isn't mine. It's never been mine. There are perhaps nine people alive who've read the whole of it, and I'm one of them, and none of us has the authority to show it to anyone else." He held her eyes. "That's the truth, Dorothy. The other kind. I can't."
"Whose is it?"
He didn't answer.
Mother looked at him for a long, long moment. Her face didn't change at all.
"Then cross it off," she said quietly. "And sign the rest."
Crane took a pen from his coat, heavy and black with a silver band. He drew a single neat line through Mother's sentence. Then he signed the bottom of each page in his careful, small, scientist's hand.
Dr. Halvard Crane. Director, Office of Modified Affairs. Project AVALON.
He took out the brass seal on its chain and pressed it into each page beside his name, and where it touched, the paper went faintly gold.
He handed the board back to Genny.
She took it. She held it against her chest with both arms, like a shield. She didn't say thank you.
"Keep it safe," said Crane. "If any condition is ever broken, by anyone, you show them that page."
"I know," said Genny.
He stood, slowly, both hands on the cane.
"The training class begins in six days," he said to me. "Dr. Halloway says your mother can leave the hospital in four. I'll have the Halcyon Tower ready by then." He looked at Mother. "Sixtieth floor. Over the gardens."
Mother didn't say anything.
"If there's anything you need from the house," Crane went on, "a craft will take you back for it. Tomorrow, if you like. It can carry anything. Anything at all."
He paused at the door.
"It was a good list," he said to Genny. "Your mother would be proud of it."
"She is," said Mother.
Crane looked at her. For just a moment, something moved in his face that I'd never seen there before.
Then he went.
Nobody spoke until the sound of his cane had faded down the corridor.
Then Genny said, "He gave us everything."
"Everything we asked for," said Mother.
"Except one thing."
"Except one thing." Mother was looking at the board in Genny's arms. At the single neat line through her sentence. "Your father used to say: when somebody gives you exactly what you asked for, ask yourself what you forgot to ask for."
"We didn't forget anything," said Genny. "We asked. He said no."
"Yes," said Mother. "And now we know which thing matters."
She leaned back against her pillows and closed her eyes.
"Nine people," she said softly. "Nine people alive have read it. And he can't show it to anyone." A pause. "Not won't. Can't."
I thought about Crane in the chair a minute ago, reading Mother's line once and going still. The quarter-second when the whole man behind the glasses had simply stopped.
I thought about a line in a file. Partner. And another. Per the terms of the.
I took out notebook fifteen and turned past Bread, and Fish, and Mother, and Halvard Crane, and wrote a new line under them.
The Accord. Nine people. Can't.
I didn't know what it meant yet.
But I'd promised Mother I'd find out.