Ghostlight (29 page)

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Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley

BOOK: Ghostlight
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“Yes. Thorne liked to work during storms; he said the power was easier to manipulate then. But the storm that night … Well, the doors blew open and of course the candles we were using went out—it was the wind, you see. We tried to turn on the lights, but there was a power failure because of the storm, and by the time we got the flashlights and sorted everything out, Thorne was gone and Katherine was dead.”
“So he could just have run off?” Truth said uncertainly. But even if the police weren't still looking for Thorne after a quarter of a century, Julian would have been—and Julian, Truth was willing to bet, would have found him.
“That's what the police said, and I'll grant them, they did give the old place a good turning out, and of course we did nothing to stop them. We couldn't,” Irene added with an apologetic laugh. “It was Thorne who owned the place, you see—they called the rest of us squatters and said we had no right to be here. Arrested us too, they did, all but Caroline, though in the end they had to let most of us go, after Johnny's da had got through with them. But took Debbie's baby away from her, poor girl, and when they told her she was an unfit mother she hanged herself in her cell. All so long ago,” Irene said mournfully.
The “Debbie” that Irene spoke of must be Debra Winwood, Light's mother, and Johnny would be Jonathan
Ashwell, whose father had been quite as rich and well connected as Irene's scattered narrative reported. But what a horrible thing to do! Truth felt her anger rise in defense of that long-ago helpless girl, even though common sense said there might be another side to things than the one that Irene knew.
“What about the other children?” Truth asked.
“Pilgrim ran away the night of the storm. He was a wild boy; nobody but Thorne could ever make him mind; he must have been uncontrollable after Thorne … was gone. They caught up with him while the rest of us were still being held; we heard that much. The poor wee thing was only eight; I don't know whatever happened to him. Caro tried to make them give him to her but they wouldn't, and she tried at least to keep both you and Light, but—oh!—the pigs—as we called them then—were out in force, determined to stamp out the massed forces of the ungodly: thirty hippies working magick in a big old house.”
Irene paused, looking off into the distance. When she spoke again, her voice was taut with remembered anger.
“All the children were taken away—there were more than just Thorne's, and some of their parents were legally married and all. It didn't matter. It was six months before Caro got you back, and that was only through friends in high places, so I imagine. It was in the American papers, so I got to see the clippings even after I was sent home, but she came to me while I was still in jail and asked me to stay away and keep the others away—from you and from her. I think she already knew she had a fight on her hands.
“The other children, I don't know what happened to them. I'm not really sure about most of what came after they gave up on the murder charges; I was deported back to England. Silly buggers labeled me an ‘undesirable alien,' and you know
that
doesn't come out of your file
easily. Why, from that day to this I haven't been back to America.”
Irene sighed again and shook her head. “Oh, it's caused me more than a bit of trouble down the years, but Thorne was worth it, all of it.” She smiled reminiscently, in a fashion that once would have angered Truth but now only made her sad.
“I don't know how Julian ever got the Minister to issue me a new passport and American visa and all,” Irene went on in a faintly troubled tone, “but he managed something, the dear boy. I was down in Brighton—the seaside crystal-ball-and-teacup trade, you know, and even if my powers aren't what they once were I can still read a heart-line to some purpose. I'd even kept in touch with the Circles still doing the Blackburn Work—oh, we were snubbed royally in our day, by the O.T.O. and the Golden Dawn both; they thought Thorne wasn't serious enough, but after he'd gone there were enough people Thorne had touched with his work to carry on, after a fashion—Smoothing the Path, at least, even if without
Venus Afflicted
no one could Open the Way. Until Julian, of course—”
Truth let Irene ramble gently on, all the while thinking furiously. One thing stood out clearly through Irene's reminiscences—that Thorne Blackburn's body had never been found. Irene had said that he'd disappeared, not died.
“So Thorne could still be alive?” she finally asked.
Irene stopped, interrupted, and stared at her. Finally she gave a little startled laugh. “No! Thorne still in the world? Oh, Truth, I can't tell you anything, truly, but I tell you: no. If you're thinking he'd run off that night, it isn't true.”
Irene hesitated, as if debating whether her conscience would withstand the bending of a confidence. Finally she drew a deep breath. “He never left that room, not by
door nor window. I was there and I'm telling you. And that's
all
I'm telling you.”
 
At Irene's insistence, Truth went back to her room, promising to lie down at least for a few hours. Already the midnight conversation with Thorne Blackburn was receding into unreality; it was hard to believe it had ever happened.
But she did believe that Thorne was here. Somewhere. Somehow. And because she was a scientist by inclination and training, the fact that he was here was not enough. She wanted to know why.
Why here? Why now? Why
her
?
Despite herself Truth fell asleep, and when she awoke it was early afternoon, She felt rumpled and grubby from sleeping in her clothes, but a vigorous application of cold water to her face brushed away some of the cobwebs, and she thought she might as well continue with what she'd come here for, difficult though it was to keep her mind on her original goal now—reviewing Julian's collection of Blackburniana and making notes for her biography.
If Blackburn truly was English, maybe she could prevail on Dylan to see if any of Dylan's friends in England could turn up anything on Thorne's early life. Or maybe even trace him through the passport office.
Passport. If the British government had indeed revoked Irene's—and the American government her visa—how
had
Julian gotten both of them back for her?
Maybe Irene had just been misinformed, Truth decided dubiously.
As her mind turned over approaches to her subject, Truth changed clothes, defiantly layering the velvet vest over a white cotton blouse and dark slacks. If she wasn't going to run from a ghost, she was damned if she'd back down for Fiona's tantrums. And Julian had pretty well put an end to those, if Fiona had any sense at all.
But does she? Ah,
there's
the question
… Truth thought wryly.
A rebellion from her stomach reminded Truth that she'd missed breakfast, and that if she was going to run short on sleep she at least needed food. She remembered from her undergraduate days that sleepless nights of study had been fueled largely by take-out pizza and fistfuls of candy bars, and although she wasn't willing to go quite that far, a hearty lunch wouldn't come amiss. When she left her room, she headed for the dining room.
 
Lunch at Shadow's Gate seemed to be served buffet style, with the two sideboards cleared and set with a soup tureen and a variety of salads and cold meats. Apparently lunch, like breakfast, was a very casual affair, with people coming and going as they pleased.
When Truth came in, Ellis, Hereward, and Light were already seated at the table. Light had a plate filled with desserts at her elbow, and was poking desultorily at a bowl of soup. Her face lit up when she saw Truth.
“Oh, good! You're feeling”—she cocked her head as if she were listening, still staring at Truth, although Truth could see that her eyes had lost focus—“better,” she concluded a moment later.
“You're going to make yourself sick if you eat all that sugar on an empty stomach,” Truth found herself saying.
Ellis snorted, in a fashion that suggested he'd said the same thing. The water glass at his plate was half-full of an amber liquid that Truth was willing to bet wasn't iced tea. Light hunched her shoulders defensively and dropped the spoon back in the bowl with a splash.
“Oh, well,” Truth said hastily, “I don't suppose it matters what order you eat lunch and dessert in, as long as you do eat both of them.”
“Kids,” Hereward said to no one in particular. “Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em.” Light stuck her tongue out at him and he grinned at her. She pushed the
soup away and reached for a brownie, biting into it with triumphant satisfaction.
“There's sandwich makings over there, and soups and salad under the window. Coffee and dessert are set up in the kitchen—we're allowed the freedom of the sanctum at lunchtime because that's when Hoskins does the shopping,” Hereward told Truth.
She filled a plate at the sideboard and set it down in the place next to Light, then went into the kitchen in search of coffee. When she came back, a cup in one hand and a napkin full of still-warm cookies in the other, it was to see half her egg-salad sandwich gone and Light wearing a mischievously innocent expression.
“Hmp. I know a trick worth two of that,” Truth said, and paused to add a couple of slices of roast beef to her plunder. Light wrinkled her nose and turned back to her dessert.
Truth bit into the roast beef. It was delicious as all the food at Shadow's Gate had been, and just what her ravening stomach required. She sat down, and used her napkin to remove a smear of mayonnaise from Light's cheek. The protectiveness she felt toward her newfound sister was almost frightening in its fierceness.
“So. What are all of you doing this afternoon?” Truth asked cheerfully. She thought glancingly of the conversation she'd had with Caradoc—could it have been only yesterday?—about Magick being the art of personal transformation, a tool for the mind of Man that should not be circumscribed by the will of Church or State. Noble sentiments—but what was the reality?
“Temple's dark tonight, so we won't be working,” Hereward said, answering her question. “But most of us have lines to learn for the ritual tomorrow. Not the first time any of us has done it, but I'd hate to go dry in
théâtre sacré
,” he added.
The way Hereward spoke triggered a memory in Truth. “You're an actor, aren't you? When you're not—here?”
Hereward laughed. “Oh, I'm always ‘Here,' but you're right. I won't ask if you've seen me in anything, because you haven't, but—how did you know?”
“I dated a Broadway gypsy while I was in college. I remember he used to talk about the theater having dark nights—I thought it had something to do with the light bill.”
Hereward laughed. “No; just that it isn't in use. But I'll have to watch myself. I wouldn't want to give anything away.” His gray wolf-eyes watched her steadily, giving another layer of meaning to his words.
“Well at least, my dear fellow Guardian, you don't have to haul a bloody great sword around while you're rattling off
your
bit,” Ellis said. “I thought our Julian was going to put the thing through me last night.” He took a long drink of what was in his glass—sherry, Truth thought—and set it down again.
“Well, you
did
drop it,” Hereward said, his eyes still on Truth. “But that's what dress rehearsals are for, my dear Gatekeeper. And speaking of dresses, Truth, what
did
you do to little Fee, our Titian-tressed angel of compassion? I haven't seen her blow her cues as badly as she did last night since I've met her.”
Since he'd mentioned dresses, Hereward must know perfectly well what had happened, and Truth was damned if she'd provide him any more details.
“How long have you known her?” Truth asked instead. It was only after the question had been asked that she realized how interested she really was in the answer.
“The Circle's been working together for about a year. Both of us—Ellis and I—had experience with the Blackburn Work before, and of course Irene and Doc—that's Caradoc—did too, but I'm willing to swear that Fiona didn't know an Airt from an Epopt before she met Julian.” Hereward shrugged.
Airt
was Gaelic for “direction,” but in Fiona's defense,
Truth didn't have the faintest idea what an “Epopt” was either—only hadn't Thorne used the word? She looked inquiringly toward Ellis, but enlightenment was not forthcoming from that quarter.
“True—for what it's worth. There are times I think Thorne would have done us all a great service if he'd designed a magickal system that didn't rely so heavily on … female participation.” Ellis said.
“Why, Ellis. You talk as if you didn't
like
women,” Hereward said archly.
Ellis grimaced sourly. “All I'm saying is that the Blackburn Work is built around the Hierolator and the Hierophex, and they're both women.”

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