again.
“Are you really British?” she asked his bent head. “You sound British, and I’ve been hoping that you really are. I want to work for a real Englishman.”
“Yes, I’m all ‘Rule, Britannia,’ tea and scones and the Union Jack. But I’ve lived in the States for a number of years. I hope you don’t mind the defection. After all, my ancestors did their part in the crusades and all. And I was born there.”
“No. Me, too.” She giggled, aware that her answer sounded strange. She tried to explain. “I used to live in Europe with my parents. My dad’s a historian. I am, too. Sort of. Art.”
“I know. That’s why I hired you. Let’s see. Your father would be Alex Follett.”
“You know my dad?” Karo was pleased.
“I’ve read some of his work in the Journal of Military History . I’m also a bit of an airplane buff.”
“He likes to write about war planes. Plenty of war in Europe. Plenty of war back here, too, but the wrong era. No planes. Just soldiers. I thought I saw some hanging in the tree out front, but it was just Spanish moss. Only, Spanish moss isn’t technically a moss,” she observed. Then politely: “Do you like Virginia?”
“Love it, except for the weather. Stand up, please.” He set her on feet long enough to pull down the covers on the bed. The lovely duvet slipped off onto the floor with a soft puff. She wanted to slide after it. It looked so soft and nest-like as it puddled on the rug.
“In you go now. I’d undress you, but I think we’d best wait for the doctor in case…Try and rest, Karo. I’m going to call Doctor Monroe but then I’ll come right back. I have to use the land-line. My cell gets no reception inside the house. I might as well be on the far side of the sun.”
“I’m really not hurt,” she told him again. “Tell the doctor I don’t want a shot.”
“Be a good girl,” was all he said before turning out the light and half closing the ugly, obscene door. His footsteps grew soft and distant and then disappeared.
Karo shut her eyes and slid immediately into a deep sleep that was haunted by strange yellow eyes and wicked satyrs that ravished her under a sky filled with weeping birch trees and a moon that looked like a bloodshot eye. She was, somewhere in the recesses of her convoluted brain,quite surprised to find that she was enjoying herself. This might have been because the faun that finally caught her looked a lot like Tristam English. He even tasted like a coconut macaroon when she bit him on the shoulder.
Chapter Three
An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little
before it will explain itself.
—Charles Dickens
Dawn on the morning after was a gray-green malevolence. It bulled its way through the lace sheers on the second floor of windows seeking someone to molest, and an ancient birch, stripped by the storm of all sheltering foliage except a stubborn green creeper that clung to its host like grim death, did little to impede the sun behind the light lace. The intrusive glow finally reached Karo’s goose down pillow, and then, apparently satisfied with its location, remained unmoving until Karo felt compelled to open an unappreciative eye and face the smug new day.
She groaned. She knew exactly where she was and had a painfully clear recollection of her appalling behavior the evening before. She was little comforted by the fact that her new boss had been unfailingly courteous, or that bizarre circumstances had contributed to her inexplicable behavior. Karo, more like her mother than she would ever admit, almost always practiced good manners. Massive shock was not an adequate excuse for behaving like an all-around nitwit, as Karo was certain she had.
She had a dim but utterly realistic vision of trying to sink her teeth into Tristam’s strong shoulder and making yummy noises. This had happened when he returned with the white-haired stranger and helped her to sit up in bed. She had been dreaming of a Bacchanalia where guests
“Are you really British?” she asked his bent head. “You sound British, and I’ve been hoping that you really are. I want to work for a real Englishman.”
“Yes, I’m all ‘Rule, Britannia,’ tea and scones and the Union Jack. But I’ve lived in the States for a number of years. I hope you don’t mind the defection. After all, my ancestors did their part in the crusades and all. And I was born there.”
“No. Me, too.” She giggled, aware that her answer sounded strange. She tried to explain. “I used to live in Europe with my parents. My dad’s a historian. I am, too. Sort of. Art.”
“I know. That’s why I hired you. Let’s see. Your father would be Alex Follett.”
“You know my dad?” Karo was pleased.
“I’ve read some of his work in the Journal of Military History . I’m also a bit of an airplane buff.”
“He likes to write about war planes. Plenty of war in Europe. Plenty of war back here, too, but the wrong era. No planes. Just soldiers. I thought I saw some hanging in the tree out front, but it was just Spanish moss. Only, Spanish moss isn’t technically a moss,” she observed. Then politely: “Do you like Virginia?”
“Love it, except for the weather. Stand up, please.” He set her on feet long enough to pull down the covers on the bed. The lovely duvet slipped off onto the floor with a soft puff. She wanted to slide after it. It looked so soft and nest-like as it puddled on the rug.
“In you go now. I’d undress you, but I think we’d best wait for the doctor in case…Try and rest, Karo. I’m going to call Doctor Monroe but then I’ll come right back. I have to use the land-line. My cell gets no reception inside the house. I might as well be on the far side of the sun.”
“I’m really not hurt,” she told him again. “Tell the doctor I don’t want a shot.”
“Be a good girl,” was all he said before turning out the light and half closing the ugly, obscene door. His footsteps grew soft and distant and then disappeared.
Karo shut her eyes and slid immediately into a deep sleep that was haunted by strange yellow eyes and wicked satyrs that ravished her under a sky filled with weeping birch trees and a moon that looked like a bloodshot eye. She was, somewhere in the recesses of her convoluted brain,quite surprised to find that she was enjoying herself. This might have been because the faun that finally caught her looked a lot like Tristam English. He even tasted like a coconut macaroon when she bit him on the shoulder.
Chapter Three
An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little
before it will explain itself.
—Charles Dickens
Dawn on the morning after was a gray-green malevolence. It bulled its way through the lace sheers on the second floor of windows seeking someone to molest, and an ancient birch, stripped by the storm of all sheltering foliage except a stubborn green creeper that clung to its host like grim death, did little to impede the sun behind the light lace. The intrusive glow finally reached Karo’s goose down pillow, and then, apparently satisfied with its location, remained unmoving until Karo felt compelled to open an unappreciative eye and face the smug new day.
She groaned. She knew exactly where she was and had a painfully clear recollection of her appalling behavior the evening before. She was little comforted by the fact that her new boss had been unfailingly courteous, or that bizarre circumstances had contributed to her inexplicable behavior. Karo, more like her mother than she would ever admit, almost always practiced good manners. Massive shock was not an adequate excuse for behaving like an all-around nitwit, as Karo was certain she had.
She had a dim but utterly realistic vision of trying to sink her teeth into Tristam’s strong shoulder and making yummy noises. This had happened when he returned with the white-haired stranger and helped her to sit up in bed. She had been dreaming of a Bacchanalia where guests
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