Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (78 page)

 
          
Poor
child; it was obvious from what she'd left unsaid that Sally really had no
other place to go now but to her ancestral home, and to scare her with tales of
backwoods demons might simply drive her further into the "Reverend"
Matthew Hay's clutches.

 
          
It
was easy enough for Colin to maneuver her into extending him an invitation to
visit the house at Witch Hill soon; he salved his conscience for the duplicity
by inviting her and Brian to dinner as his guests. And he tried not to worry
about what might happen to Sally, here where the witch-blood ran close to the
surface and an ancient decadence seemed to seep from the very bedrock of the
land.

 
          
It
was fairly late when Colin got back to his cabin, but he phoned Claire anyway.
It only took a ring or two for the phone to be answered. "Moorcock
residence."

           
"Is that you, Claire? It's
Colin."

 
          
Claire
had arrived in Madison Corners at the end of April and settled quickly into the
Moorcock household. Colin had warned her that they might be called upon to act,
and now he was glad he had.

 
          
"You're
lucky you got through," Claire said. "Rowan's been on the phone most
of the evening. I gather the upcoming senior prom is a matter of the keenest
interest locally." She sounded amused.

 
          
"I
don't doubt it," Colin said. "And to think I wondered if I was
calling too late. Speaking of interesting, you'll never guess who I ran into
down at the supermarket today."

 
          
They
would have to be circumspect in their conversation: one of the country customs
Arkham preserved was that of the operator-assisted party line, and no telephone
conversation was ever really private.

 
          
"Who?"
Claire asked dutifully.

 
          
"Sally
Latimer. You remember her
—
her father was one of my tenants back in
New York
?"

 
          
"Of
course I do," Claire said, and Colin could tell from the change in her
voice that she had picked up the implications of that "was" easily.
"But I'm glad you called. Uncle Clarence has been demanding that we have
you to dinner ever since he found out you were here. How about tomorrow?"

 
          
"I'll
be there," Colin promised. "Good night, Claire."

 
          
The
Moorcocks occupied a rambling old white farmhouse about a mile from the old
graveyard on Witch Hill, but the house seemed almost to belong to a different
world.

 
          
The
three generations of Moorcocks were a nineties-style family; Rowan's father
Justin was Clarence Moorcock's grandson. Justin's father, like so many men of
that generation, had died in
Vietnam
, leaving his son to grow up
fatherless
—
and, sometimes, motherless. In the wake of his divorce,
Justin, a professional software designer, and his then fourteen-year-old
daughter Rowan had moved from Boston's Back Bay back to Madison Corners.

 
          
Colin
parked his rented Chevy in the driveway beside Clarence's old Ford pickup,
Justin's sleek BMW, and eighteen-year-old Rowan's practical
Toyota
. Rowan was already waiting
in the open doorway for him, wearing the universal teenage uniform of ragged
jeans and rock-band T-shirt.

 
          
"Good
evening, Mr. MacLaren," Rowan said dutifully. There were dark circles
under her eyes, as if she hadn't been sleeping well.

 
          
She
had earphones slung around her neck, and a Walkman in her back pocket. It was
the first time he had seen her since the funeral of her great-aunt, and for a
moment Colin wondered how the girl managed to look so much like every other
teenager when the nearest shopping mall was no closer than
Boston
.

 
          
"Good
evening, Rowan," Colin said. Odd to think that many of his students had
been near her age.

 
          
He
stepped inside the door of the old farmhouse and felt a faint frisson of
tension. There was trouble here, and whatever it was, Claire had not felt comfortable
mentioning it over the phone.

           
"Pot roast tonight," Rowan
said, as if changing a painful subject. "Claire's cooking. Right through
there. 'Scuze me
—
gotta go change." She turned and galloped up the
stairs, fitting the headphones back on her head as she went.

 
          
Colin
stared after her for a moment, wondering what the problem was
—
intergenerational tension,
or something darker?

 
          
Whatever
it was, he'd know soon enough. Colin headed in the direction Rowan had
indicated.

 
          
In
the kitchen Claire was making last-minute preparations for dinner. Clarence sat
at the kitchen table, overseeing the proceedings with satisfaction.

 
          
"Colin,"
he said, getting to his feet. The hand he offered was still heavily callused
from decades of farmwork, and even at eighty-something, his grip was strong.
"Good to see you again. Where did Rowan get to? Did she let you in?"

 
          
"I
think she had to go and change," Colin said diplomatically.

 
          
Clarence
grinned. "I'm too old and too crotchety to see girls come to the dinner
table wearing pants. As Claire here will tell you."

 
          
"Oh,
yes. Uncle Clarence is quite a tyrant," Claire agreed easily, sliding a
tray of biscuits into the oven.

 
          
"When
the biscuits are ready, we eat," she said, taking the lid off the roasting
pan and expertly levering the roast out onto a platter.

 
          
"I
don't need this at all," Justin complained good-naturedly, ladling gravy
over his potatoes and carrots. "It isn't as if I were doing anything more
strenuous than sitting at a computer all day."

 
          
Rowan
had reappeared, wearing a denim skirt and plain white blouse, to fetch Justin
from the converted shed that served him as his workroom.

 
          
"Rowan
and I cooked it," Claire said with joking menace. "You'd
better
eat
it."

 
          
Colin
gathered that usually Rowan and the housekeeper shared the cooking chores:
from what Claire said, Rowan had made the scratch-biscuits and the pies for
dessert, and Claire had contributed the Moffat family's recipe for pot roast.

 
          
Conversation
at dinner was general.

 
          
The
land was no longer a working farm, but Clarence still kept up with the farm
news, and Claire had been helping out Joann Winters, the district nurse, and so
had some harmless snippets of local gossip to contribute. There was still
another week of school to run, but by now the minds of the graduating class
were firmly fixed on the senior prom and the class trip to the "big city":
Boston
,
Massachusetts
.

 
          
And
Clarence, it seemed, was far from reconciled to Rowan's decision about college,
especially since it seemed her choice had fallen to an out-of-state school.

 
          
Taghkanic.

 
          
"If
you must go, what's wrong with Miskatonic, grandchild? Martha and I both went
there. It's a good school
—
and you could live at home."

 
          
"Well,"
Rowan began. Her father darted a minatory glance at her, and the girl changed
her mind about what she'd been going to say. "I guess I'd just like to go
somewhere else," she muttered, staring down at her napkin.

 
          
"I
ran into an old friend yesterday in the Food King," Colin said, to change
the subject. "You remember that I mentioned I'd met Sally Latimer yesterday,
don't you, Claire?"

 
          
Colin
quickly related Sally's dismal news, drawing exclamations of sympathy from
Claire and the Moorcocks. "So she's staying at the old family house until
she figures out what she's going to do."

 
          
"Witch
Hill? Brrr
—
! I'd rather bunk in at the Bates Motel," Claire said
honestly. "Well, she's dumped that little twerp Roderick, at any rate. I
never could stand him
—
one of those nitpicking managing sorts who can only feel
safe so long as he's feeling superior."

 
          
"The
young man I met last night seems to be rather nice," Colin said. "Local,
too
—
Brian
Standish?"

 
          
"Knew
the mother
—
a Phillips she was. Town girl," Clarence said, and the
temporary awkwardness passed off.

 
          
Clarence
departed to his bed immediately after supper, claiming the privilege of age and
wishing Colin a very good evening. Justin had lingered to make a bit of polite
conversation, before admitting that there really were one or two things he
needed to finish up before FedEx came tomorrow morning to pick up the code.

 
          
Rowan
stayed as long as her father did, but as soon as Justin had left, Rowan swore
she wanted to do the dishes before finishing up her homework and retreated
quickly to the kitchen, leaving Colin and Claire alone in the parlor, where a
potbellied stove took the edge off the chill.

 
          
"When
I was her age, I'd do anything rather than the dishes," Colin said.

 
          
"Me,
too," Claire agreed. "Rowan's a good kid. She just hasn't been
feeling herself lately."

 
          
"So
I gathered. What was all that at dinner about? It seems like an argument
that's been going on for a while."

 
          
"Oh,
it isn't really that much of anything. Of course Clarence wants Rowan to go to
Miskatonic, but both she and Justin are dead set against the idea. Last week
Rowan told Uncle Clarence that she didn't want to go to Miskatonic because she
didn't want to be either a housewife or a necromancer, and I'm afraid things
were a bit strained after that. Clarence is fond of her, but she's his
great-granddaughter, and in his day women didn't have that many choices. Not
that even Clarence wants her to marry any of the local product, of course. I
gather things have gone downhill around here in the last sixty years or
so."

 
          
"I'm
not surprised," Colin said. "I didn't want to go into it at the
table, but there's just something a little too pat about the way Sally's family
died. She got the letter about Witch Hill the day she buried Paul, poor girl.
Worse, she seems to have met Matthew Hay, and that puts her up to her eyebrows
in the Church of the Antique Rite, whether she knows it or not."

 
          
"Auditioning
her for the part of the next High Priestess
—
or the last one?"

           
Claire guessed, and shuddered.
"Wasn't she a Sara, too? Poor Sally! She must think she stepped into a
time machine, coming here. I've only been here a few weeks, and I've already
heard more than enough Old Lady Latimer stories
—
the woman seems to have
been a cross between Morgan LeFay and Cruella DeVille!"

 
          
Colin
stared broodingly into the flames visible through the door of the stove.
"I only wish I knew how much Hay knows
—
or believes. The likeness is
devilishly close; there are some drawings in the Special Collection that might
almost be photographs of Sally. . . . But I've known that girl since she was
eight years old; I can't imagine her going along with the Antique Rite's nasty
nonsense."