her…?”
“Hush.”
The picture revolves cautiously as I lean forward, close to the smoke; the fire draft burns my face. I am peering out of the mirror, into the room, absorbing every detail, filling my mind with the girl. This girl. The one I have waited for.
Slowly she turns, drawn back to the mirror, staring beyond the reflections. Our eyes meet. For the second time, the watcher becomes the watched. But this is no threat, only reconnaissance. A greeting. In the mirror, she sees me smile.
She snatches something—a hairbrush?—and hurls it at the glass, which shatters. The smoke turns all to silver splinters, spinning, falling, fading. In the gloom after the fire dies, Sysselore and I nurse our exultation.
She is the one. At last.
I will have her.
IV
Fern devoted the following morning to final preparations and thank-you letters, which she, being efficient, penned beforehand. Then there were long phone calls—to the caterers, to prospective guests, to Marcus Greig. Will, not so much unhelpful as uninvolved, removed Gaynor from the scene and took her for a walk.
“What do you make of it all?” he asked her.
“Make of what?” she said, her mind elsewhere. “You mean—that business of Alison Redmond? Or—”
“Actually,” said Will, “I meant Marcus Greig. Who’s been talking to you about Alison? Fern tries never to mention her.”
“Gus Dinsdale,” Gaynor explained. She continued hesitantly: “I don’t want to be nosy, but I can’t help wondering…
Was
her death really an accident? You’re both rather—odd—aboutit.”
“Oh no,” said Will. “It wasn’t an accident.”
Gaynor stopped and stared at him, suddenly very white. “N-not Fern—?”
Will’s prompt laughter brought the color flooding back to her cheeks. “You’ve been thinking in whodunits,” he accused. “Poor Gaynor. A Ruth Rendell too many!”
“Well, what
did
happen?” demanded Gaynor, feeling foolish.
“The truth is less mundane,” Will said. “It often is. Alison stole a key that didn’t belong to her and opened a Door that shouldn’t be opened. I wouldn’t call that an accident.”
“Gus said something about a
flood
?”
Will nodded. “She was swept away. So was Fern—she was lucky to survive.”
Gaynor felt herself becoming increasingly bewildered,snatching at straws without ever coming near the haystack. “I gather Fern was ill,” she said. “They thought—Gus and Maggie that she would have told me, only she never has. Some sort of post-traumatic shock?”
“Shock leading to amnesia, that’s what the doctors said. They had to say
something
. She was gone for five days.”
“Gone?
Gone where?”
“To shut the Door, of course. The Door Alison had opened. The flood had washed it away” He was studying her as he spoke, his words nonsense to her, his expression inscrutable. She could not detect either mockery or evasion; it was more as if they were speaking on different subjects, or in different languages.
“Can we start again?” she said. “With Alison. I was told—She was a girlfriend of your father’s?”
“Maybe,” said Will. “She slipped past Fern for a while. But she wasn’t really interested in Dad.”
“What did she do?”
“She stole a key—”
“I mean, what did she do for a living?”
“She worked in an art gallery in London. At least, that was what you might call her cover.”
“Her cover? She was a
crook?”
“Of course not.” He smiled half a smile. “Well, not in the sense you mean.”
“In what sense, then?”
“She was a witch,” said Will.
She looked for the rest of the smile, but it did not materialize. The narrowing of his eyes and the slight crease between his brows was merely a reaction against the sun. His expression was unfathomable.
After a pause that lasted just a little too long, she said: “Herbal remedies—zodiac medallions—dancing naked round a hilltop on Midsummer’s Eve? That sort of thing?”
“Good Lord no,” Will
“Hush.”
The picture revolves cautiously as I lean forward, close to the smoke; the fire draft burns my face. I am peering out of the mirror, into the room, absorbing every detail, filling my mind with the girl. This girl. The one I have waited for.
Slowly she turns, drawn back to the mirror, staring beyond the reflections. Our eyes meet. For the second time, the watcher becomes the watched. But this is no threat, only reconnaissance. A greeting. In the mirror, she sees me smile.
She snatches something—a hairbrush?—and hurls it at the glass, which shatters. The smoke turns all to silver splinters, spinning, falling, fading. In the gloom after the fire dies, Sysselore and I nurse our exultation.
She is the one. At last.
I will have her.
IV
Fern devoted the following morning to final preparations and thank-you letters, which she, being efficient, penned beforehand. Then there were long phone calls—to the caterers, to prospective guests, to Marcus Greig. Will, not so much unhelpful as uninvolved, removed Gaynor from the scene and took her for a walk.
“What do you make of it all?” he asked her.
“Make of what?” she said, her mind elsewhere. “You mean—that business of Alison Redmond? Or—”
“Actually,” said Will, “I meant Marcus Greig. Who’s been talking to you about Alison? Fern tries never to mention her.”
“Gus Dinsdale,” Gaynor explained. She continued hesitantly: “I don’t want to be nosy, but I can’t help wondering…
Was
her death really an accident? You’re both rather—odd—aboutit.”
“Oh no,” said Will. “It wasn’t an accident.”
Gaynor stopped and stared at him, suddenly very white. “N-not Fern—?”
Will’s prompt laughter brought the color flooding back to her cheeks. “You’ve been thinking in whodunits,” he accused. “Poor Gaynor. A Ruth Rendell too many!”
“Well, what
did
happen?” demanded Gaynor, feeling foolish.
“The truth is less mundane,” Will said. “It often is. Alison stole a key that didn’t belong to her and opened a Door that shouldn’t be opened. I wouldn’t call that an accident.”
“Gus said something about a
flood
?”
Will nodded. “She was swept away. So was Fern—she was lucky to survive.”
Gaynor felt herself becoming increasingly bewildered,snatching at straws without ever coming near the haystack. “I gather Fern was ill,” she said. “They thought—Gus and Maggie that she would have told me, only she never has. Some sort of post-traumatic shock?”
“Shock leading to amnesia, that’s what the doctors said. They had to say
something
. She was gone for five days.”
“Gone?
Gone where?”
“To shut the Door, of course. The Door Alison had opened. The flood had washed it away” He was studying her as he spoke, his words nonsense to her, his expression inscrutable. She could not detect either mockery or evasion; it was more as if they were speaking on different subjects, or in different languages.
“Can we start again?” she said. “With Alison. I was told—She was a girlfriend of your father’s?”
“Maybe,” said Will. “She slipped past Fern for a while. But she wasn’t really interested in Dad.”
“What did she do?”
“She stole a key—”
“I mean, what did she do for a living?”
“She worked in an art gallery in London. At least, that was what you might call her cover.”
“Her cover? She was a
crook?”
“Of course not.” He smiled half a smile. “Well, not in the sense you mean.”
“In what sense, then?”
“She was a witch,” said Will.
She looked for the rest of the smile, but it did not materialize. The narrowing of his eyes and the slight crease between his brows was merely a reaction against the sun. His expression was unfathomable.
After a pause that lasted just a little too long, she said: “Herbal remedies—zodiac medallions—dancing naked round a hilltop on Midsummer’s Eve? That sort of thing?”
“Good Lord no,” Will
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