that the brandy would allow. It was a sad effort, but she still protested. “I don’t like it here when the lights are off. There’s a bad shadow in the corner that gets very hot and then very cold.”
“No, not here. This room would give anyone a cauld grue . Come along.”
He helped her up with brisk efficiency. His hands burned on her arms. It felt like her muscles were melting. First her arm, then her back and then her legs. He was better than a heating pad.
She followed him back out into the entry hall—the one laid out for a Frankenstein revival. They walked over to the main staircase. It spiraled like an infinite corkscrew, punching its way up through the center of the stone house.
“The beanstalk,” she breathed. “I knew there had to be one.”
“Can you manage these? The other stair is almost impassable as yet.”
“Yes.” But she made no effort to climb. Instead, she looked up at the gallery that ran along the second floor of the house. After a slow inspection failed to turn up the strange vampirelike creature or any man-eating giant peering down at them, she turned back to Tristam and asked again: “Am I dreaming?”
He shook his head in a gesture more of sorrow than of negation and then scooped her up in his arms. Karo uttered a faint protest about being picked up like a load of dirty laundry, though she was quite filthy enough to fit the bill, and then relaxed in his embrace when he didn’t throw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He carried her easily against his chest just like an angel or hero should.
“Take me—I’m yours!” She giggled daringly. “Where are we going?”
“To bed. After I tuck you in, I’m going to call the doctor. He lives just down the road.”
They were walking down a long hall. Karo couldn’t make out any details, but the walls were obviously embellished with myriad long, lumpy things. Muskets perhaps? Or flails.
“He can’t come,” she reminded him. “There’s a tree in the road and my car is in the way.”
Tristam English remained patient. “There’s another road to Doctor Monroe’s house.”
“Oh, then I can go get my car,” she pointed out.
“Yes, but not just yet. I want the doctor to have a look at you.”
“I’m not hurt. It’s just scratches.” She glanced down at her shirt and was relieved to see that it was again opaque. “The daisies are gone. I’m all dry now.”
Tristam just smiled at her and shook his head.
They arrived at a set of double doors. Karo looked closely at the intricate carving six inches from her face. The indelicate relief looked a little bit like satyrs chasing naked, Rubensesque women, but that couldn’t be right. Belle Ange was a historic building. All historic buildings in Virginia were dignified and beautiful. Knowing this fact, she squinted harder, trying to make the figures change into cherubs or fruit.
Nope. They were definitely satyrs chasing—and sometimes catching—impossibly big-breasted women.
“These doors are ugly and tasteless. Do you think they were made that way on purpose?” she asked, no longer bothered by her own disjointed conversation.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Why?”
Her host crossed the semidarkened room and deposited her on the double bed without answering. She sank into the satin duvet. Karo stared up at the silk canopy in big-top colors of purple and red, and momentarily forgot her question about the carvings on the door. “Wow! It’s like the circus.”
“More like a bordello. I’ve come to the conclusion that the Vellacourts all have what I will generously call ‘eclectic taste,’ ” Tristam answered. He knelt while he slipped off her shoes, pausing to study the small hole in the right one and then peeling down her torn wet sock with great care. Karo decided to allow the familiarity since he wasn’t leering like that strange man in the library.
And his hair was so lovely—like an angel’s, she thought, her concentration fracturing yet
“No, not here. This room would give anyone a cauld grue . Come along.”
He helped her up with brisk efficiency. His hands burned on her arms. It felt like her muscles were melting. First her arm, then her back and then her legs. He was better than a heating pad.
She followed him back out into the entry hall—the one laid out for a Frankenstein revival. They walked over to the main staircase. It spiraled like an infinite corkscrew, punching its way up through the center of the stone house.
“The beanstalk,” she breathed. “I knew there had to be one.”
“Can you manage these? The other stair is almost impassable as yet.”
“Yes.” But she made no effort to climb. Instead, she looked up at the gallery that ran along the second floor of the house. After a slow inspection failed to turn up the strange vampirelike creature or any man-eating giant peering down at them, she turned back to Tristam and asked again: “Am I dreaming?”
He shook his head in a gesture more of sorrow than of negation and then scooped her up in his arms. Karo uttered a faint protest about being picked up like a load of dirty laundry, though she was quite filthy enough to fit the bill, and then relaxed in his embrace when he didn’t throw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He carried her easily against his chest just like an angel or hero should.
“Take me—I’m yours!” She giggled daringly. “Where are we going?”
“To bed. After I tuck you in, I’m going to call the doctor. He lives just down the road.”
They were walking down a long hall. Karo couldn’t make out any details, but the walls were obviously embellished with myriad long, lumpy things. Muskets perhaps? Or flails.
“He can’t come,” she reminded him. “There’s a tree in the road and my car is in the way.”
Tristam English remained patient. “There’s another road to Doctor Monroe’s house.”
“Oh, then I can go get my car,” she pointed out.
“Yes, but not just yet. I want the doctor to have a look at you.”
“I’m not hurt. It’s just scratches.” She glanced down at her shirt and was relieved to see that it was again opaque. “The daisies are gone. I’m all dry now.”
Tristam just smiled at her and shook his head.
They arrived at a set of double doors. Karo looked closely at the intricate carving six inches from her face. The indelicate relief looked a little bit like satyrs chasing naked, Rubensesque women, but that couldn’t be right. Belle Ange was a historic building. All historic buildings in Virginia were dignified and beautiful. Knowing this fact, she squinted harder, trying to make the figures change into cherubs or fruit.
Nope. They were definitely satyrs chasing—and sometimes catching—impossibly big-breasted women.
“These doors are ugly and tasteless. Do you think they were made that way on purpose?” she asked, no longer bothered by her own disjointed conversation.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Why?”
Her host crossed the semidarkened room and deposited her on the double bed without answering. She sank into the satin duvet. Karo stared up at the silk canopy in big-top colors of purple and red, and momentarily forgot her question about the carvings on the door. “Wow! It’s like the circus.”
“More like a bordello. I’ve come to the conclusion that the Vellacourts all have what I will generously call ‘eclectic taste,’ ” Tristam answered. He knelt while he slipped off her shoes, pausing to study the small hole in the right one and then peeling down her torn wet sock with great care. Karo decided to allow the familiarity since he wasn’t leering like that strange man in the library.
And his hair was so lovely—like an angel’s, she thought, her concentration fracturing yet
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