Ghostlight (38 page)

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Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley

BOOK: Ghostlight
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“Noblesse oblige,”
Dylan said, but that was as pointed a remark as he made the entire time.
The enforced civility of the situation also gave Truth time to rein in her emotions and
think.
She couldn't just go to Julian demanding the return of
Venus Afflicted
without admitting she'd had it in the first place, and that would mean admitting that she'd brought it to Shadow's Gate and kept it hidden while he'd practically begged her for it.
She just couldn't.
Cut your losses and leave
, a Thorne-like voice whispered inside her.
You didn't have the book two months ago; you don't need it now. Cut your losses and run.
“The most dangerous place on earth for an unprotected medium is a haunted house,”
Dylan had told her.
“You're not like the others, baby. You're special—you're my daughter,”
Thorne's voice repeated.
No. She could not simply confess. And the only reason to do so would be to gain Julian's help in recovering
Venus Afflicted
, something she was not sure that she could count on.
Truth studied Julian through her lashes, but he was chatting amiably with Dylan and seemed not to notice. Could she find the book herself?
Maybe. She'd have the house and the night to search, after all—she knew exactly where all the house's inhabitants would be, and for how long too. Midnight to six in the Temple, and you could drop a bomb outside the door without disturbing anyone inside.
Except for Michael, but in her need to do
something
to recover Thorne's book, Truth glossed over that problem to herself. She'd take care of Michael when the time came. She'd find the book, take it back, and leave. Tomorrow morning she could try again to get Light to go with her—perhaps the final ritual wouldn't take place at all.
But if, with Ellis injured, Julian wasn't planning to continue the actions of the Circle, how could she go looking for her book?
 
Dylan left after lunch, driving his small brown Datsun down the road to the gate. Truth and Julian stood together on the steps, watching him go.
“I'm glad he's gone,” Julian said. “I felt like a nervous freshman being interviewed by the Dean. I wonder if I passed?”
“I've never seen anyone who acted less like a nervous freshman,” Truth said, leaning against him. Julian put his arm around her waist, in a proprietary way that Truth no longer questioned. It was remarkable how guiltless she felt, considering that she intended to burgle Julian's room that very night. Of course, she didn't intend to steal anything, but that didn't make any difference, did it?
“It's my years of practice,” Julian said, turning her toward him. “For a while I was wondering if I had a rival in Dr. Palmer—do I?”
“Of course not,” Truth said, turning faintly pink. Julian had no rival—and no peer. He took her arm and led her back inside.
“Then come away with me, fair Incomparable—we'll put a gridle round the globe in considerably more than half an hour, find out all of Thorne's little secrets, and—Who knows?” He smiled down at her as he closed the front door behind them.
“Julian, what about the Work? I mean, Ellis isn't going to be able to work with you tomorrow night, even if it's only a few bruises.”
“Which it isn't,” Julian said, walking with her back into the parlor. “A skull fracture at the very least. I'm going down there to straighten out the bill, and possibly they'll have more information for me.”
He picked up a glass paperweight from the mantelpiece and stared into it as if the information about Ellis's condition might be there.
“But what about the Circle?” Truth persisted. Julian turned back to her.
“Oh, one of the others can take on Ellis's part—we've had to double so many roles already that everyone knows everyone else's. Gareth can do it. We'll manage. I'm not putting this off for another year just because of—” he broke off. “I must sound terribly callous,” he said with a small, self-deprecating smile.
“No. Just dedicated.” Truth felt indecently relieved—they
would
be in the Temple tonight after all.
“I'm afraid, though, that I must—oh, not withdraw, but defer our invitation to become one of us. There's no more time. But perhaps I can persuade you on our travels.” Julian's smile grew warmer.
“I—” Truth faltered.
She'd meant to tell him plainly that she had no intention of going to England with him; that she didn't think a romance with him was something she could comfortably handle; that right now her duty was to her sister and her work.
“Who knows?” Truth said instead, and the warm thrill
of possibility made her skin tingle in a rush of surging blood.
 
Julian drove down to Poughkeepsie to settle arrangements with the hospital. He did not ask Truth to accompany him, and she did not ask to go with him. She went looking for Light instead, although she'd changed her mind—she didn't intend to even try to convince Light to come away with her. If Ellis's removal was a strain on the Circle's workings, Light's defection would bring its activities to a screeching halt. She'd always known that—Light was their trance medium—but before Ellis's injury she'd hoped there was a chance of convincing Light otherwise. Now she knew that was impossible. The Circle's incompleteness was too nakedly exposed. To lose Light was to fail utterly.
And while Truth wasn't sure that was such a bad thing, she wasn't sure she could get Light to agree. Julian wanted this ritual to happen so desperately, and Light owed him so much—and so did Truth.
And what was he going to do Tuesday morning, when the world was still as it had been and he saw it had all been for nothing?
If it was …
Truth sighed, caught between rationality and the compelling beliefs of the reborn Circle of Truth. Light would go with her Tuesday morning. She was sure of it. She'd take her away from here, and then …
Truth shrugged. She'd worry about that on Tuesday.
 
The evening meal was tense and edgy, as fraught as the new storm boiling up over Storm King Mountain. Julian wasn't back, but he'd called from Poughkeepsie—Ellis was in guarded condition, and Julian would return in time for the evening's ritual. The next to last.
Michael was gone also, without explanation, though
no one commented on it. Perhaps he made them as uneasy as he did Truth—though he and Irene had seemed to be close.
Truth closed her eyes wearily. Who could she believe—
what
could she believe? Everyone couldn't be telling the truth—their stories were too contradictory.
“Poor Ellis,” Irene sighed again, “I told him those stairs were treacherous.”
“They wouldn't have been, if he didn't drink like a fish,” Fiona snarled. “I don't care if he's hurt; I'm glad he's gone—I never liked him anyway.”
“Spoken like a true lady,” Hereward drawled. Fiona glared poisonously at him.
“It's nice to see we're all getting on so well in the master's absence,” Caradoc said. He was wearing a pale gold silk suit and an open shirt, almost as if, with Julian gone, the responsibility of high fashion devolved upon him. He toyed with the signet ring on his right hand and did not touch his food.
“What do you expect?” Donner said irritatedly. He was so quiet Truth was always surprised when he said anything. She got the impression his fellow Blackbur-nites did not impress him much. “We're all exhausted. Six hours of ritual every night, four hours minimum of prep, more damn Latin and Greek than any of us has ever seen, and Julian pushing—” he broke off, as if what he had been about to say was too far from favorable.
And in fact, Truth thought, he
did
look tired. They all looked tired, even Fiona. No, more than tired.
Drained
, as if someone were building … something … out of their very life force.
“And Julian pushing,” Hereward agreed. “Sometimes I think he'd do it all by himself if he could.”
“But he can't, so he doesn't,” Caradoc said, and that seemed to dispose of the matter.
 
 
Truth had set her travel alarm for midnight, just in case she fell asleep. It was key wound, and did not seem to be afflicted with the troubles that beset other clocks at Shadow's Gate, although her wristwatch had stopped long since. But in any case there was no need—she sat bolt upright and wide awake as the minute hand swept the hours away.
She used the time to review her working notes. She could have sent them away with Dylan, but what was the point if the grimoire wasn't going with them?
The truth was, Truth admitted to herself, that she hadn't wanted to give her notes to Dylan—not now. He'd only use them as a further excuse to meddle, to involve himself in what was happening here at Shadow's Gate.
She didn't know if she wanted to protect him, or punish him, or keep all the glory for herself—but she knew she didn't want him here. Not until tomorrow night had come and gone.
Outside her windows, rain drummed on the glass and the out-thrust roofs below. The storm had broken after she'd gone upstairs, but electrical power seemed to be holding for now, and she had a candlestick and candles ready to hand, just in case. The rain was a steady accompaniment to her reading, and far-off thunder prowled the Hudson River hills.
It had rained that night too: The 1872 fire had been so easily contained because it had been raining all day, soaking the earth and trees and protecting them from the sparks and flames. Otherwise the fire might have spread and devoured acres.
It had rained in 1969, for Thorne's final ritual. Irene had told her how the storm had blown open every door in the house.
It had been clear all week. Clear … and quiet.
And now it was raining again. Storming.
Truth looked at her key-wound travel clock, the most dependable timepiece remaining to her. Eleven forty-five.
She'd wait another half hour to be sure, and then she'd search their rooms one by one for what had been taken from her.
She wiped damp palms on the legs of her chinos, nervous now. It had been so much easier when the possibility of meeting Elijah Cheddow in these halls simply hadn't existed. And though it was only a small possibility, it was enough to make her uneasy—and if Thorne showed up again she'd probably just die of fright.
If Thorne showed up, she could just ask him who had the book—and the necklace and the ring. They'd been gone too, when, after Dylan had left, she'd finally thought of checking on them, but by then she'd been too whipsawed by events to be properly angry. Let Thorne worry about them—he said they were his.
But the book—
that
she had to have.
That
wasn't Thorne's—not any longer.
At twelve-fourteen there was a crack of thunder right overhead and all the lights went out. Truth merely snorted and lit her candles. But the clinical, rationalistic bravery she felt inside the room was harder to maintain once she got out into the hall with her wavering candle. She'd seen things that could not be—and talked to them too. It was harder to be brave knowing what could happen.
Or maybe bravery consisted of going on even when you knew
exactly
what could happen.
 
She wasn't sure where Michael slept—or even if he'd come back yet. If she did enter his room by mistake, she'd just tell him she was lost. Let him call her a liar if he chose—it was a plausible enough story, given what they both knew about Shadow's Gate.
And perhaps … But no. She shook her head. She could expect no help from Michael Archangel, for whatever reason.
She started with Irene's room. She'd come to love Irene, and didn't believe Irene would steal from her, but
a perverse need to be fair made Truth feel that
everyone's
room must be searched, likely candidates for thief or not.
She found nothing—only clothes and makeup and earrings, a handwritten herbal that looked nothing like the book she sought, personal things. A picture of Thorne with Katherine and Caroline Jourdemayne, kept lovingly in a little leather case. A silver pendant of the same symbol as the gold one on Thorne's amber necklace.
She did Light's room next, on the same principle, and found even less, though confirming once more that Light had an outrageous sweet tooth.
She came back to the second floor. She'd search the rooms that were occupied first, the empty ones last. Then the rest of the house. If she had time.
And hope she didn't run into Michael.
But she didn't. Perhaps he wasn't back, though Truth knew too little about him to speculate where he might have gone. The room she thought was his was empty, though often she wasn't sure whose room she was in until she found something to identify the occupant.

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