he would give unto them likewise —
Spence was so lost in his writing, lost as he had not been in years, that he didn't notice when Bridget walked nude and steaming into the room. He worked feverishly, his tongue pressed against his teeth. The gift was returning, flowing like blood through forgotten veins. He didn't know whom to thank, Bridget, Korban, or some unseen Muse.
He'd worry about that later. For now, the words car-ried Spence beyond himself.
CHAPTER 5
Anna looked down at her plate. The prime rib oozed juices and steam, and ordinarily would have been tempt-ing enough to chalenge her vegetarian principles. The softly boiled broccoli sprouts and red potatoes had eli-cited several exploratory stabs of her fork. The apple pie's crust was so tender it flaked all over the china plate. As she watched the sugary lava of the pie filling flow between the crumbs, she wondered what it would be like to worry about dieting. She glanced across the dining room at Jefferson Spence and saw no hesitation in that man's fork. She took a few hasty mouthfuls of the vegetables, then pushed the food around a little so it would look as if she had eaten wel. The way Miss Mamie fussed over dinner proceedings, Anna almost felt guilty about not appreciating the food.
The dining room was a long hall just off the main foyer. The room contained four tables, a long one in the center occupied by the people that Anna secretly thought of as "the uberculture." The other, smaler ta-bles were relegated to the corners. Apparently Miss Mamie had tried to match people of similar interests when she made out the seating charts. That meant putting all the below-fifties at the smaller tables. Anna was sitting with Cris and the dark-skinned wo-man whom Anna had seen carrying a camera earlier. To her left was the guy she'd talked to on the porch, the sullen sculptor. Though his face was plain, something about his green-brown eyes kept drawing her attention. A secret fire buried deep. Or maybe it was only the reflection of the two candles that burned in the center of the table. Or an il-lusion created by her own desperate solitude.
Cris had mumbled a prayer before dinner. The dark-skinned woman had also bowed her head. Anna wasn't compelled to join in their ritual and instead took the opportunity to study their faces. The sculptor had kept his head down but his eyes open. Then Anna had seen what he was looking at: a fly circled the edge of his plate, dipping a tentative feeler into the brown gravy.
She'd hidden her smile as he surreptitiously tried to blow it away. When Cris said, "Amen," he quickly whisked his cloth napkin out of his lap and waved it with a flourish. The fly headed toward the oil lamps that burned in the chandeliers overhead. Anna watched its flight, and when she turned her attention back to dinner, the sculptor was looking at her.
"Darned thing was about to carry off my dinner," he said. "Evil creature."
"Maybe it was Beelzebub," she said. "Lord of the flies."
"Beelzebubba's more like it. It's a southern fly."
Anna laughed for the first time in weeks. Her table-mates looked at them with furrowed brows. The man introduced himself to them as Mason and said he was a retired textile worker from the foothills. "I'm also an aspiring sculptor," he said. "But don't confuse me with Henry Moore or anything."
"Didn't he play James Bond?" Cris asked.
"No, that was Roger Moore."
He politely waved off the wine when the maid, Lilith, brought the carafe around. Anna took a glass herself, though she had no intention of taking more than a few sips. The conservatism that came with a death sentence had surprised her. When you only have a litle time left, you try to heighten your experience, not dul it. Her eyes wandered to Mason again. He was watch-ing Lilith as if he was interested in more than just a sec-ond helping of hot rols. She was both annoyed and surprised when a flare of jealousy raced across her heart. She despised pettiness and, besides,
Spence was so lost in his writing, lost as he had not been in years, that he didn't notice when Bridget walked nude and steaming into the room. He worked feverishly, his tongue pressed against his teeth. The gift was returning, flowing like blood through forgotten veins. He didn't know whom to thank, Bridget, Korban, or some unseen Muse.
He'd worry about that later. For now, the words car-ried Spence beyond himself.
CHAPTER 5
Anna looked down at her plate. The prime rib oozed juices and steam, and ordinarily would have been tempt-ing enough to chalenge her vegetarian principles. The softly boiled broccoli sprouts and red potatoes had eli-cited several exploratory stabs of her fork. The apple pie's crust was so tender it flaked all over the china plate. As she watched the sugary lava of the pie filling flow between the crumbs, she wondered what it would be like to worry about dieting. She glanced across the dining room at Jefferson Spence and saw no hesitation in that man's fork. She took a few hasty mouthfuls of the vegetables, then pushed the food around a little so it would look as if she had eaten wel. The way Miss Mamie fussed over dinner proceedings, Anna almost felt guilty about not appreciating the food.
The dining room was a long hall just off the main foyer. The room contained four tables, a long one in the center occupied by the people that Anna secretly thought of as "the uberculture." The other, smaler ta-bles were relegated to the corners. Apparently Miss Mamie had tried to match people of similar interests when she made out the seating charts. That meant putting all the below-fifties at the smaller tables. Anna was sitting with Cris and the dark-skinned wo-man whom Anna had seen carrying a camera earlier. To her left was the guy she'd talked to on the porch, the sullen sculptor. Though his face was plain, something about his green-brown eyes kept drawing her attention. A secret fire buried deep. Or maybe it was only the reflection of the two candles that burned in the center of the table. Or an il-lusion created by her own desperate solitude.
Cris had mumbled a prayer before dinner. The dark-skinned woman had also bowed her head. Anna wasn't compelled to join in their ritual and instead took the opportunity to study their faces. The sculptor had kept his head down but his eyes open. Then Anna had seen what he was looking at: a fly circled the edge of his plate, dipping a tentative feeler into the brown gravy.
She'd hidden her smile as he surreptitiously tried to blow it away. When Cris said, "Amen," he quickly whisked his cloth napkin out of his lap and waved it with a flourish. The fly headed toward the oil lamps that burned in the chandeliers overhead. Anna watched its flight, and when she turned her attention back to dinner, the sculptor was looking at her.
"Darned thing was about to carry off my dinner," he said. "Evil creature."
"Maybe it was Beelzebub," she said. "Lord of the flies."
"Beelzebubba's more like it. It's a southern fly."
Anna laughed for the first time in weeks. Her table-mates looked at them with furrowed brows. The man introduced himself to them as Mason and said he was a retired textile worker from the foothills. "I'm also an aspiring sculptor," he said. "But don't confuse me with Henry Moore or anything."
"Didn't he play James Bond?" Cris asked.
"No, that was Roger Moore."
He politely waved off the wine when the maid, Lilith, brought the carafe around. Anna took a glass herself, though she had no intention of taking more than a few sips. The conservatism that came with a death sentence had surprised her. When you only have a litle time left, you try to heighten your experience, not dul it. Her eyes wandered to Mason again. He was watch-ing Lilith as if he was interested in more than just a sec-ond helping of hot rols. She was both annoyed and surprised when a flare of jealousy raced across her heart. She despised pettiness and, besides,
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