Christy chattered her teeth in response. He crossed the room to pick up a patchwork quilt that lay on the sofa and threw it around her.
“Not much help till you get out of those wet clothes. But it will do for now. I think this will be over soon.”
“How long have you been putting up lightning rods, Victor?” she asked, pulling the quilt up to her ears.
“Most of my life. When it’s done properly, it’s an art. I’ve made the connections on Nona’s house practically invisible. When I do a good job it doesn’t show, so of course nobody looks up and tells me how beautiful it is. But when the house stays safe in storms, I know I’ve done what I do best.”
The storm appeared to have brought him to life, so that he seemed a different man—expansive on the subject he knew so well, and less suspicious and guarded. From what Oliver had said, he had reason to be guarded. However, she had stood enough of shivering wetness.
“It’s stopping now, isn’t it?”
“Hard to tell. The wind can change in a minute and then everything comes crashing back.” He listened intently. “Maybe we can chance a fire now. It’s still raining too hard to go out.”
To Christy’s relief, he busied himself at the hearth, lighting wood already stacked, now and then pausing to listen to make sure the storm hadn’t returned. In a few moments the kindling caught and flames speared upward, crackling yellow and red. Christy pulled over a stool and sat as close as she could to the warmth and cheery brightness of the fire.
“In a little while I’ll make a dash for Nona’s,” she said, shedding the quilt. She’d given up any thought of communing with the crystal for a while. That would have to wait until she was dry and comfortable.
“First we talk,” he told her abruptly, and dragged a bench over, to join her at the fire.
“This isn’t the time for talking,” she said, suddenly uneasy.
“It’s the time. Maybe it’s the only time we’ll have alone. You need to listen because you’re the one with the gift.”
“What do you know about that?”
His smile was slyly amused, more like a grimace. “I listened out on Nona’s deck last night.”
“All right.” Christy gave in. “What do you want to talk about?”
“It’s about seeing Deirdre in the woods in her white dress. I said what I did because I wanted to reassure Donny. Somebody needed to support him. And he believed he saw her.”
“You mean you didn’t see anything after all?”
“Oh, I saw someone in a white dress like Deirdre’s all right. But it wasn’t Deirdre.”
She stared at him, reaching cold hands toward the fire. “Go on.”
“I always watch the way people move—and that wasn’t Deirdre.”
“But Donny said she just drifted away in the mist.”
“When I saw her she was walking toward me and she didn’t move the way Deirdre did. Deirdre was like a dancer. On tiptoe! This person was more awkward. When whoever it was turned and ran, I knew it wasn’t any spirit. She—he—it—didn’t want me to come too close.”
“Who do you think it could have been?”
Victor reached forward with the poker and prodded a chunk of wood, so that sparks flew upward. “I couldn’t begin to guess. That dress is a loose, cover-up sort of thing. Like a tent.”
“A caftan?” Christy asked.
“I suppose. Anybody could have been under it—man or woman. Donny saw what he wanted to see—what he made up inside his own imagination, because he wants his mother to be alive.”
“You didn’t see a face?”
“No. There was a hood pulled over the head—white like all the rest.”
“Why have you told me all this?” she asked.
“Because you’re the one who will find out what happened—what is happening. You’re already on the road and you won’t stop now.” He stood up with his back to the fire, looking down at her. You won’t stop because it’s your way—your road—to help Hayden and Donny.”
His eyes seemed darker with the fire-shine behind him—a deep, dark blue, and very wide and open, as though they searched her mind, her spirit.
“I’m not sure what I can do,” she told him, letting the dark fire of his eyes hold her own gaze. She felt a little spacy, as though he might be hypnotizing her—perhaps influencing her mind for some purpose of his own.
She pulled herself out of the spell she’d begun to feel and stared into the fire, where a log fell, sending more sparks up the chimney. Away from the fire, the rest of the cabin seemed dark and chill, with shadows that flickered unsteadily up the walls.
“Did you like Deirdre?” Her sudden question came as a surprise to Christy herself—prompted by some inner voice?
“I don’t know,” he said. “She couldn’t be counted on. She was like smoke, and you could never be sure from one minute to the next where she’d be or what she’d do.”
“Do you think she’s dead?”
“I only know that someone was masquerading in her dress.”
“Will you tell Hayden?”
“Somebody will,” he said cryptically, and glanced out a window. “You can leave now,” he told her abruptly. “It’s stopped raining.”
Victor Birdcall ceased talking as suddenly as he’d begun. It was as though he’d closed a door and shut himself away from her. Reluctantly, she left the fire. In spite of Victor’s strangeness, heat and light made the hearth seem a safer place than the cold, shadowy room.
She could see through the windows, however, that the sky had lightened, with clouds shredding away and nearby mountains turning green again. Mist rolled into the folds, soft and fluffy as cotton, making the crests float like the etched hilltops in a Japanese print. When she reached the door, Christy turned back.
“You ought to know,” she said, “that Oliver Vaughn has been investigating you. He has learned where you’ve been for the last few years and why you were there. He’s telling everyone.”
When he faced the light, Victor’s eyes were no longer dark but that intense blue again, and the lids came down to narrow them. He said nothing at all.
“I think you ought to know that Oliver wants to take some action against you,” she went on, a little fearful because he’d turned silent and distant. “I don’t know whether Hayden believed him or not, but he told him to stop talking.”
Christy had taken her hand from the doorknob, and Victor reached past and pulled open the door. He made no response to anything she’d told him, but merely waited for her to leave. She went quickly out onto the wet path with its patches of red mud. Now she ran without looking back, and once she slipped, smearing herself with red.
Nona was waiting for her on the front deck, and she shook her head in reproach. “You shouldn’t be out in a storm like that!”
“I know.” Christy was out of breath. “Victor rescued me.”
“Good for him! Take off your shoes, Christy—don’t tramp that stuff into the house. Then go and take a hot bath and change into something dry. I’ll bring you tea and honey, and we’ll talk about a few things.”
More talk! She wanted only to be alone where she could let whatever was clamoring to be released by the crystal come through. It was ready to speak to her now and she wanted to listen.
Deirdre was right to be afraid of me. Now she’s gone—in the mist and rocks and rainbow, where she always belonged.
The dress must be got rid of, and I think I know how. There is a game I can play—perhaps a deadly game. But that’s the kind that always fascinates me.
7
Nona’s advice was sound. After a hot bath Christy felt warm and human again. The water ran faintly red before she was through—a distressing color, and too symbolic, as though her veins had bled. She washed every trace from the tub and dressed in dove-gray slacks and a blouse of pink checks. Now she was ready for
the crystal.
She carried the little pouch outside to the rear deck. Chairs and table were wet from the storm and she wiped them with a towel and sat down. This was where she had first seen Donny, but the long deck was empty now and shadowed by the dripping canopy of green treetops close to the house. A patch of blue shone between branches where the sky had been washed clean. All around, drops pattered from leaves, as though it were still raining. In the woods below, where the sun slanted through, tree trunks shone with their own golden-brown light—well-spaced trees, with leafy, red-gold earth between—the leaves left over from many autumns. High above, wind still rushed through the treetops, scattering wetness, and Christy sat quietly, entranced by the overhead ballet. The pattern of the dance seemed almost choreographed, with the nearest treetops bending green heads in one direction, while those behind, as if stirred by a different current, bent the opposite way.
The thought of Victor Birdcall was sharp in her mind. A strange man. For a time she’d felt comfortable with him, even safe. She’d listened to his talk about storms and lightning, and she was glad he had told her that the figure seen on the path had not been Deirdre. Then, when she talked to him about Oliver, he had changed into someone more ominous and frightening. She’d sensed that he was a man of deep passion, but even when he was angry she couldn’t believe he was a murderer.
She mustn’t think of Victor, however, or Hayden, or anyone else now. She must be quiet and empty her mind. The crystal was waiting. Once more she opened the silver drawstrings and took out the stone. Deirdre had treasured this, Donny said, and it ought to be able to tell her something. The faint pulsing was there again, and she could sense the power of the crystal’s spirit in her hand. It wanted to tell her something. Not everyone was sensitive to crystals, and she was glad she could respond.
Its faceted sides rose to a point, and she held it up to sunlight, so that rainbows sparkled in the stone. Then, as she turned the obelisk shape in her hands, something strange caught her eye. Some elusive shape seemed to move within the crystal as a shadowy image appeared in its very heart. It seemed to be a phantom that vanished as she turned the facets, only to reappear inside as a shimmering ghost that eluded her quickly at the slightest movement. No wonder Deirdre had treasured this, since it held a magic of its own at its very heart. She had heard of phantom crystals before, and she knew this to be rare and beautiful.
Ever since she’d touched Deirdre’s scarf and sensed its evil, her own power had seemed diminished—as if it had gone into frightened hiding. Now the spirit of the stone reached out strongly to restore her.
Leaving her chair, she moved slowly toward the far end of the deck in the direction of Hayden’s house—Deirdre’s house. Strangely, the stone in her hand seemed to grow colder, as though it didn’t want to go back to Deirdre’s room and the chest that had been its home.
Caught up in the strength of this feeling, Christy walked toward the other end, where the deck ran below the windows of Nona’s studio. At once the crystal responded and grew warmer in her hand—as though this was the direction she must take.
Just then Nona came through a lower doorway and stood regarding her for a moment. “What on earth are you doing?”
Christy held out the stone, shining on her palm. “This belonged to Deirdre. Donny would understand. I’m sure he’s played the old game of hot and cold. Now you’re getting close—now you’re far away!”
“Crystals certainly have natural vibrations and forms. Where did you get that one?”
“Donny gave it to me—from a chest in Deirdre’s room. He said it was a special treasure of hers. I have the feeling that it might guide me to her. Can you sense anything when you hold it?”
Nona took the crystal from her and turned it about in her fingers. “Sometimes the power speaks only to certain people. It seems inert to me. What happens when you hold it?”
Christy took it back. “When I move toward Hayden’s house, the stone cools in my hand. But when I walk the other way, it gets warmer. There’s something in that direction—something connected with Deirdre. I need to follow wherever it leads.”
“This isn’t the time. Let it go for now, Christy. You mustn’t go traipsing off in the wet woods by yourself. There are matters we need to talk about right away.”
She’d had too much of talk, Christy thought. The crystal was urging her to follow where it led, and she knew with growing conviction that the stone would bring her—if not to Deirdre, or to where Deirdre’s body lay—then to something that had to do with Deirdre. The trail should be followed before it grew any fainter. But before she could step off the end of the low deck, Nona put a hand on her arm. “Lili is coming and we need to get ready.”
Her aunt turned and went ahead into the house, and Christy could only follow, speechless. She didn’t recover until they were in the sitting-room area of Nona’s studio and she’d dropped onto the small couch, staring at her aunt.
“Have you actually talked to Lili?”
Turquoise earrings atremble, Nona stood with her arms folded. “Of course I didn’t talk to Lili herself! You know how she operates. Someone else always does dreary things for her, like making phone calls and travel arrangements. Her secretary phoned to let me know that reservations have been made, and that Lili will arrive tomorrow. We aren’t being consulted—this is an edict from on high. Fortunately, she’ll come without her usual entourage. She had that much sense, at least. She’s flying up from Palm Beach and her plane will be met in Charlottesville by a limousine that will bring her here. All she wanted of me was directions—which I had to give.”
“But why is she coming?”
“Who knows? I wasn’t told. We’ll receive her as gracefully as we can, and find out what’s up. Mrs. Brewster, her secretary, had no instructions to tell me anything except that Liliana Dukas is to materialize here tomorrow. Of course this means that her Voices have spoken, and Lili does what they tell her. The feelings of more ordinary mortals seldom concern her. I wouldn’t mind if she used this advice she gets to guide her, but when she reaches out to govern everyone else, we part company.”
Even as she listened, Christy sensed the old ambivalence in her aunt. Nona often sounded impatient with Lili, and easily critical, yet under her bluster about her sister there could also exist a reluctant respect.
Unexpectedly, Christy found herself defending her mother. “I don’t think she means to be high-handed. She just sees her goal and goes for it in the most direct way possible. Maybe she’ll even be able to help us when she comes.”
Nona’s, “Humph!” sounded halfhearted.
Christy had carried the crystal inside the house, and now she slipped it into its pouch and closed her fingers over it. Be still for a little while, she whispered in her mind, and the pulsing impatience of the stone—that only she could feel—seemed to subside.
A sound from the studio end of the room—a cat’s mewing—startled them, and they looked around to see that Sinh had recovered sufficiently to climb the hill to Nona’s house. She sat erect as a temple statue before the painting in which Deirdre slipped away into the mist.
Nona moved toward the cat cautiously. “How on earth did you get in? There’s not a door open, or a window without a screen!”
Sinh turned her head with its dark, Siamese markings that she wore like a mask, and twitched her tail—that tail with the distinctive kink that some Siamese cats had carried throughout the centuries. Legend had it that a deity, wishing to punish, had once tied a kink in a temple cat’s tail, and the Siamese had carried it ever since. Sinh’s creamy coat looked much less rough and ragged by this time, so she must be giving it her own tongue treatment. As they watched, she began to wash her face—showing indifference to their presence, even though she’d asked for attention by mewing.
“Come, kitty-kitty,” Nona invited uncertainly.
The kitty-kitty gave her a scornful look from large blue eyes
.
“She knows I don’t like her,” Nona said helplessly. “I don’t mind ordinary cats, but this one puts on airs and gives me the creeps. Deirdre used to bring her to my studio sometimes, but she’s never come on her own, and with everything closed, I can’t think how she got in. We can’t leave her here. I don’t trust her not to be destructive when Deirdre’s not here to control her. But she’ll never let me pick her up.”
“Let me try,” Christy said. She knelt near the cat and began to speak soothingly. “Did you come to look for Deirdre, Sinh? She isn’t here, but we’re all looking for her, and we wish you could help us. Come now. Trust me, Sinh.”
Sinh stayed haughtily where she was, looking as if she occupied some special royal place—a temple cat indeed! Christy remembered the legend and felt uneasy. The cat Sinh had been named for had been the receptacle for it’s master’s soul, when his earthly body was abandoned in death. Was this why Christy could get no inkling of where Deirdre might be—because her spirit now resided in this small animal?
“Don’t do that, Christy!” Nona was watching her. “Whatever you’re thinking—don’t!”
Christy shook herself. “You’re only a cat-cat,” she told the Siamese. “Come here—I won’t hurt you, and you’re not going to hurt me.”
She held out her hands and the cat looked her over, making up its mind. It moved its thin body, slinking toward Christy and mewing plaintively.
“I know,” Christy said. “You’re looking for her. But Deirdre isn’t here with us. Come now—please.”
Apparently her tone was quieting, so that the cat allowed herself to be picked up and stroked. She clung to Christy’s shoulder, digging in with claws. Still whispering soothingly, Christy carried Sinh out to the front deck. When she detached her and set her on the ground, Sinh gave her a dismissing look and stalked off with dignity, lifting each paw carefully as though she disliked soiling it with red mud.
Now she would find her way back to the Mitchells’ or down to Floris and her llamas, and Christy returned to the studio. Her aunt waited before the Deirdre painting.
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