from a long day-sleep, and found Cheta polishing the table. It was the furnishing from the hotel which they had used in the seance, its surface scratched into a peculiar pattern.
Cheta stood aside.
Rachaela poised by the table, staring down at it.
The seance glass, in rushing from letter to letter, had ripped a path upon the table. And yet she saw now—the reason they had kept it—the scratching also spelled a word: zegnajcie .
"Cheta," Rachaela said. "This. What does it mean?"
Cheta said at once, "Good-bye."
Then they carried the chess board, loaded with its figures, back between them, and set it over that good-bye.
When Cheta had gone, Rachaela was alone in the room. The Scarabae dinner would not be for another hour, for afterlight still lingered through the glorious windows of walled gardens, roses, palaces upon hills. And through this window above the table, where the knight kneeled before the forest and the burning tower.
Good-bye.
Now she had glimpsed their true power. Oh yes. At last.
They could command things and elements, and people. The cars in the mist, the vast hotel, this house, prepared for them against their coming.
And yet, they beat like moths against the tempest of life. Strong, thin, black moths with eyes of obsidian. How great the storm, how small, how small, the Scarabae.
CHAPTER 7
ON SATURDAY MORNINGS, ABOUT TEN-thirty, the milkman always came. And so, although she was hoovering, with music turned up loud, Julie Sawyer heard the knock.
The problem was with the milkman; if he failed to rout them out on Saturday, he would return at six a.m. on Sunday and bang and shout. Julie tried to avoid this, but sometimes she overslept on Saturdays. Terry was useless, naturally, he just pulled the covers further over his ears and burrowed down into the pillow. He was up there now, asleep overhead in the larger of the two small upstairs rooms. And although Julie had been making as much noise as she could, she knew in her heart he could slumber through the disco beat and Hoover, even when she cleaned the carpet around the bed.
She could create a noise cleaning the bathroom too, of course, and this sometimes did disturb him, unrhyth-mic crashes of shampoo bottles and Jif falling in the bath, the Niagara of water and chug of the tank.
Saturday was the only day she had time to clean, and then she sometimes left it, what with the shopping and the launderette, or if they went out. Today the chore had to be done, because Terry had asked Blackie over. Blackie was all right. But Lucy and Jenny would come too. Julie had mixed feelings about it, she always had.
Generally, when things got going, it was not so bad. In fact, she liked it, sometimes. But then, again—
At the thud of the knocker—the bell no longer worked—Julie switched off the Hoover and pushed her short black hair back. She was slim and small breasted with rather large feet, and she wore stained jeans and a cotton top. She let the music center go on playing, a reassuring thump, thump, thump , and went out with her purse into the narrow hall.
Through the wavered glass of the door she could not see anyone. Had the bastard already gone?
Julie flung the door open and there was the milk sitting on the doorstep. There was no sign of the milk float. She had missed him. Sod it.
Outside the front door of the end-of-terrace house, was a five-foot patch of weeds, and a dustbin. Just inside the gate stood a girl, about ten years younger than Julie. She had a lot of very black hair.
"Mrs. Watt?"
"No," said Julie flatly.
"Yes," said the girl, quietly and distinctly, "she lives with her daughter."
"You've got the wrong house," said Julie Sawyer. She jerked her bitten thumbnail at the next house along, the first of the adjacent row beyond the gap. "Try her. She might know." Knock the old cow up and waste her time.
Julie was going to close the door, but the girl walked forward. Her clothes were good, particularly the leather jacket.
"I've come a very
Cheta stood aside.
Rachaela poised by the table, staring down at it.
The seance glass, in rushing from letter to letter, had ripped a path upon the table. And yet she saw now—the reason they had kept it—the scratching also spelled a word: zegnajcie .
"Cheta," Rachaela said. "This. What does it mean?"
Cheta said at once, "Good-bye."
Then they carried the chess board, loaded with its figures, back between them, and set it over that good-bye.
When Cheta had gone, Rachaela was alone in the room. The Scarabae dinner would not be for another hour, for afterlight still lingered through the glorious windows of walled gardens, roses, palaces upon hills. And through this window above the table, where the knight kneeled before the forest and the burning tower.
Good-bye.
Now she had glimpsed their true power. Oh yes. At last.
They could command things and elements, and people. The cars in the mist, the vast hotel, this house, prepared for them against their coming.
And yet, they beat like moths against the tempest of life. Strong, thin, black moths with eyes of obsidian. How great the storm, how small, how small, the Scarabae.
CHAPTER 7
ON SATURDAY MORNINGS, ABOUT TEN-thirty, the milkman always came. And so, although she was hoovering, with music turned up loud, Julie Sawyer heard the knock.
The problem was with the milkman; if he failed to rout them out on Saturday, he would return at six a.m. on Sunday and bang and shout. Julie tried to avoid this, but sometimes she overslept on Saturdays. Terry was useless, naturally, he just pulled the covers further over his ears and burrowed down into the pillow. He was up there now, asleep overhead in the larger of the two small upstairs rooms. And although Julie had been making as much noise as she could, she knew in her heart he could slumber through the disco beat and Hoover, even when she cleaned the carpet around the bed.
She could create a noise cleaning the bathroom too, of course, and this sometimes did disturb him, unrhyth-mic crashes of shampoo bottles and Jif falling in the bath, the Niagara of water and chug of the tank.
Saturday was the only day she had time to clean, and then she sometimes left it, what with the shopping and the launderette, or if they went out. Today the chore had to be done, because Terry had asked Blackie over. Blackie was all right. But Lucy and Jenny would come too. Julie had mixed feelings about it, she always had.
Generally, when things got going, it was not so bad. In fact, she liked it, sometimes. But then, again—
At the thud of the knocker—the bell no longer worked—Julie switched off the Hoover and pushed her short black hair back. She was slim and small breasted with rather large feet, and she wore stained jeans and a cotton top. She let the music center go on playing, a reassuring thump, thump, thump , and went out with her purse into the narrow hall.
Through the wavered glass of the door she could not see anyone. Had the bastard already gone?
Julie flung the door open and there was the milk sitting on the doorstep. There was no sign of the milk float. She had missed him. Sod it.
Outside the front door of the end-of-terrace house, was a five-foot patch of weeds, and a dustbin. Just inside the gate stood a girl, about ten years younger than Julie. She had a lot of very black hair.
"Mrs. Watt?"
"No," said Julie flatly.
"Yes," said the girl, quietly and distinctly, "she lives with her daughter."
"You've got the wrong house," said Julie Sawyer. She jerked her bitten thumbnail at the next house along, the first of the adjacent row beyond the gap. "Try her. She might know." Knock the old cow up and waste her time.
Julie was going to close the door, but the girl walked forward. Her clothes were good, particularly the leather jacket.
"I've come a very
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