Down a Dark Hall by Lois Duncan Page B

then in a lower voice asked, “Did she say anything—the woman in Sandy’s room?”
    Kit was surprised at the question. “Why do you ask that?”
    “Well . . . just to get the end of the story.”
    “I don’t think she did. At least, Sandy didn’t tell me so. What do you care if you’re so sure it was a dream?”
    “Sandy reacted by screaming,” Jules said. “I thought perhaps it was at something the woman had said to her.”
    “She was frightened,” Kit told him, “simply by the fact that the woman was there . Can’t you imagine what it would be like to wake up in a room where you thought you were all by yourself and find somebody
     standing by your bed, looking down at you? And the cold—I felt that myself. When I went into the room this great wave of cold
     air came sweeping over me, and Sandy was blue with it. When I touched her hand, it was like ice.”
    “Look, Kit,” Jules said, “there just couldn’t have been a stranger in Sandy’s room. How could she have gotten there? The gates
     to Blackwood are always locked at night, and so is the building itself. Nobody is going to climb straight up a wall to come
     in a window. And even supposing that was possible, how did she get out again so quickly when you came bursting in the door?
     Did she have wings?”
    “The locked door—the cold air—”
    “I told you, the door was undoubtedly stuck. And, of course, the air in Sandy’s room was going to be colder than the air in
     the hallway. She probably had her window open.”
    Jules leaned over and put his hand on Kit’s. It was a nice hand, warm and strong with long, fine fingers, and it felt good
     upon hers.
    His voice was suddenly gentle. “Blackwood is an old mansion, magnificent, of course, but heavy with atmosphere. Old places
     are inclined to be that way. You have to get used to this place gradually. I had some dreams myself the first week or so after
     we came here.”
    “You did?” Kit asked, surprised.
    “Sure. What would you expect? I’m not used to living in a place like Blackwood. I’m fresh out of music school. I’ve been living
     in an apartment with a couple of other guys. I’ve spent my vacations with my mother at her various schools, but other than
     that I’ve pretty much lived my own life. When she wrote and asked if I would come to America with her to teach in her new
     school, I wasn’t too sure I wanted to. Then she told me more about the school—how special it would be and the kind of students
     she would have here—and I decided to give it a try.
    “When I got my first glimpse of Blackwood, I couldn’t believe it. I still don’t know how my mother was able to locate such
     a spot. The place has its own vibes. You just have to get used to them.”
    “And you’re used to them now?” Kit asked him.
    “I like them. I feel—different here. I play better. I appreciate things more.”
    “Do you still dream?”
    “Well, yeah. Some. Everybody dreams.”
    “Jules.” Kit tried to smile at him. “You make everything sound so sensible and normal. You must think I’m an idiot.”
    “I don’t think that at all,” Jules said quietly. “I think you’re smart. And pretty. Sometimes I wish that I’d met you somewhere
     else, under another set of circumstances. That I wasn’t your teacher. But—” He gave her hand a quick squeeze and released
     it, “we’ll just have to take things as they are. And the way they are right now, we’ve wasted half the class period chattering.
     Are you ready to play for me?”
    “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Kit said with a sigh. “I probably have as little talent as anyone you’ll ever have as a student.
     Don’t you get bored listening to me plow through pieces like ‘Happy Leaves’ and ‘Swinging on the Gate’?”
    “I don’t get bored,” Jules told her. Then, after a pause, he lowered his voice. “You do have talent, Kit. Maybe someday you’ll
     realize how much. There are all sorts of talents in the world,