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Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley

Ghostlight (33 page)

BOOK: Ghostlight
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Love was all very well, but it certainly wasn't enough to bring somebody back from the dead; if it was love alone that mattered, surely there would be thousands—millions—of the dead come back to comfort grieving loved ones. Love alone could not explain Thorne's presence.
If he really were here. If this wasn't the self-delusion of a woman heading full-speed for a world-class nervous
breakdown. Her very conviction could be a symptom of her sickness.
What proof did she have? What proof could she get? Something tangible—or, failing that, some information only Thorne could have, something that she could check. What had he been doing in her room anyway?
Oh, of course—he wants his jewelry back. It's still in the car with
Venus Afflicted.
I'll have to get it for him
… she found herself thinking.
And maybe her unquestioning acceptance of Thorne's reality ought to be the most frightening thing of all.
TRUE LIES
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
 
 
 
“AUNT CAROLINE
TOOK VENUS AFFLICTED
AWAY with her that night. She's the only one who could have. But why? Tell me why!”
A drumming in the distance, like the clamor of approaching hooves.
“You're a bright girl, Truth. You've got all the facts. You've even got the book. You figure it out.”
Not horses
—
“But—” Truth protested, even she felt herself
—
—jerked out of sleep to find herself lying abed, dizzy and dazed, and the hammering having followed her into the world.
“The door,” she said at last, pleased to have figured this out with a brain that seemed to be full of butterflies.
“I'm coming,” she said. She glanced at the clock. Nine o'clock.
Nine o'clock in the morning?
an outraged part of her mind protested. She'd had less than four hours' sleep—no wonder she was so disoriented.
“Truth?” Gareth called through the door. “There's a big truck here with six crates—they say they're for you.”
 
Ten minutes later Truth, hastily dressed and far from awake, was standing in the foyer looking out the drive at a white truck standing in the drive. Three four-foot-high crates stood on her gravel, and a fourth was being gingerly downloaded from the truck's ramp. All four of them were stenciled FRAGILE and THIS SIDE UP and MARGARET BERESFORD BIDNEY INSTITUTE—DO NOT DROP.
Dylan had come through for her. This was the equipment she'd requested.
“Somebody's got to sign for this. Are
you
Ruth Jourdemayne?” the driver demanded, as if it were a question he was tired of asking.
Truth recognized him vaguely—this was the usual freight service the Institute used; she'd seen the driver before. She felt a pang of relief that Dylan hadn't come himself. What could she say to him;
“Hi, Dylan, I've had a long talk with my dead father and you were right all along”
?
“Truth
Jourdemayne,” Truth corrected. She reached for the clipboard.
“Good morning,” Julian said.
Unlike Truth, Julian had made no effort to get dressed; he wore a paisley silk dressing gown over black silk pajamas, and his black hair fell across his forehead in an unruly comma. He narrowed his eyes in the bright morning light and looked at Truth, raising an eyebrow quizzically.
“The Institute seems to have sent the equipment I asked for,” she said superfluously. A fifth crate joined the other four on the gravel. Truth looked down at the clipboard in her hands.
“They have wonderful sense of timing.” He raised his voice slightly. “You can bring them inside. We can open them at a more civilized hour,” Julian added to Truth.
“Hey, fella, all they told me to do was bring 'em here—they didn't say nothing about anything else,” the driver said argumentatively.
Julian went completely still.
“
Oh
boy,” Gareth said, very softly. Truth glanced back at Julian. She didn't need any psychic powers to know that the level of tension in the foyer had soared—all she had to do was look at Gareth's face.
Julian took a few steps forward, until he was standing at the edge of the steps. As he passed Truth he plucked the clipboard from her hands. The morning sun turned his hair to a black halo, blinding as a raven's wing.
“But I'm sure you won't mind bringing them inside?” Julian said pleasantly. “You certainly can't expect the lady to carry them inside by herself, can you?” There was nothing in the words, in the even, measured voice, to make what Julian had said so frightening. But Truth
was
frightened. And so was Gareth.
“Hey, mister, I didn't mean to—It's just extra, that's all.”
“The Institute—” Truth began.
“Naturally I'll take care of any additional charges,” Julian said, smiling. But Truth wasn't comforted, and when she glanced around, she saw that Gareth had fled.
“There now,” Julian said turning back, all mildness once more. “An improvement, anyway.” He stifled a yawn. “Gareth, is there room …”
Julian only just then seemed to notice that Gareth wasn't there, and once more Truth felt that sharp bolt of tension.
“Gareth …”
Julian said, very softly.
“Why don't we put it in the library?” Truth said quickly. “Some of it's going to be used there anyway.”
“Fine. They can put them all there.”
 
Truth watched as the first of the six crates was brought up the steps with planks and dollies. She went ahead, into the library, leaving Julian in the front hall.
The room looked odd and unfinished without the portrait of Thorne Blackburn looming over it. She wondered what Julian had done with the damaged painting—she hadn't thought to ask him about it last night.
The crate was wheeled in, and Truth gave instructions that they should place it in the middle of the floor and move the tables back if they had to. While the workmen were doing that, she stepped back to the doorway.
And saw Gareth come toward Julian, unwillingly, like a small boy being dragged. Saw Julian's smile widen—and his hand flash up in a vicious backhand slap that left Gareth staggered. The sound was loud, flat, and final.
Truth flinched back inside the doorway, putting her hand to her own jaw in sympathetic reaction. Why had Julian done something like that?—Gareth was the most harmless creature she knew!
The workmen trundled out of the library, going for another crate. After a moment, Truth steeled herself and peered out of the door again.
Julian stood there alone. He looked toward her inquiringly, and for the first time Truth really felt the tug and flow of the sleeping mind of Shadow's Gate as it eddied around her, bent on its own fulfillment. Using them all as tools.
After all, what she'd seen had probably been some part of the Blackburn Work. And if Gareth didn't like the way he was treated, as far as Truth could tell he was perfectly free to leave.
And maybe what she'd seen hadn't happened at all.
Julian walked over to her.
“You're looking peaked this morning,” he said, putting an arm around her. The warmth of his body was palpable through the thin layers of silk he wore, the heat passing from his body into hers, and she was close enough to smell the faint skin-warmed scent of his cologne.
“I'm just … not a morning person,” Truth floundered. The awareness of the thin layers of silk as they shifted
over Julian's bare skin was maddening; a painful eroticism that replaced the confusion of her rough awakening and her earlier fear. It would be so easy to respond to his subtle invitation; to raise her hand to stroke his cheek; to follow where he led.
When the workmen came back with the second create it was almost a relief.
 
By the time they were done, most of the rest of the household was roused and Truth could see why the carriers had been so reluctant to do the work of bringing their load inside. By the time the last crate had been set to rest, all three men were sweaty and red-faced.
“Would you like some coffee before you go?” Truth said, feeling guiltily responsible.
“All I want is to get out of here, lady, so if you'll just sign this—” The driver held out the clipboard one more time. Truth took it.
“Maybe you ought to have them unpacked first and check for damages?” Julian suggested with malicious sweetness. Beside him, Caradoc snorted.
Julian leaned against the doorway, holding a steaming mug of coffee. He'd taken the time to dress while the crates were being moved, and now looked formidably casual in a collarless linen shirt and a dark Armani suit.
The driver looked at Julian; a hopeless hostility in his eyes, like a dog cornered by a leopard.
“I'm sure they're fine,” Truth said quickly. “And if they aren't, I have no way of knowing just by looking.” She scribbled her signature on the top sheet and handed the clipboard back. The driver took it and hurried out.
“Drive safely,” Julian called after him cheerfully.
“Julian, that was mean,” Truth said, torn between reproof and a sneaking admiration for the deftness with which Julian had gotten his own way—and a little of his own back.
“A confession,” Julian said, sipping from his mug. “I hate thieves, particularly stupid ones.”
“Thieves?” Truth said, surprised. She'd expected Julian to say “bullies.”
“He was stealing services you had a right to expect and keeping the potential labor for himself. He wished to charge an additional fee for bringing the crates into the house, but I somehow suspect that of hardly being the terms of the original delivery agreement. Extortion, plain and simple.”
When Julian explained it that way it seemed flawlessly logical.
“I guess you're right,” she said reluctantly.
“What Man is capable of, Man has a right to do,” Caradoc said. “The Blackburn Work.”
“But,” said Truth, confused to be arguing philosophy at this early hour, “that means the driver had the
right
to cheat me.”
“If he could,” Julian agreed meditatively. “But he couldn't.”
“Breakfast,” Caradoc announced, making it a general invitation. He ambled off, leaving Truth and Julian alone.
Julian smiled at her.
“But enough Jesuit logic. Come; we're here, we're—God help us—awake, it's beautiful morning, and my time is my own until this afternoon. What would you like to do?” Julian asked invitingly.
Truth looked through the open doorway at the crates. “I suppose that duty calls,” she said reluctantly.
“You'll at least join me for breakfast, stunning Monsieur Hoskins inexpressibly,” Julian said. “Oh, and give Gareth your keys, will you? The car's still there, I noticed.”
“I can move it myself after breakfast,” Truth said. “I have to get some things out of it anyway.”
And that way I'll know where it is—if I need it in a hurry.
“Fine.” Julian's smile did not indicate that his will was being crossed in any way. “After breakfast, then. Gareth will show you where to put it.”
 
Four hours' sleep was enough to give her at least the illusion of restedness for a few hours, and good food could offset some of the fatigue. Julian seemed to be a believer in hearty breakfasts in any case; he seated Truth at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and returned from the kitchen a few minutes later balancing two high-piled plates.
Though Caradoc had mentioned breakfast, he was nowhere to be seen, and Truth wondered where he'd gone.
And she wondered, in some small ungracious part of her mind, if Gareth would have a bruised cheek the next time she saw him.
“Here we are,” Julian said, setting one of the plates in front of her. “Not everyone eats breakfast at Shadow's Gate, but Mr. Hoskins stands ready to abet those who do.”
“Oh, Julian—I can't eat all this!” Truth protested, looking at ham, omelette, fresh fruit, and muffin. It appeared that in addition to supplying breads and coffee, Mr. Hoskins cooked breakfasts to order.
“Certainly you can,” Julian said, forking up a bite from his own plate. “Your body's a machine; do you expect it to run without fuel?”
“You make it all sound so simple,” Truth said protestingly.
“Just as I expect you'd make—what was it? Statistical parapsychology?—sound simple. It all depends on what you know.”
What I know is that I don't know very much,
Truth said to herself.
Caradoc and Gareth came in together. Gareth headed for the kitchen, returning a moment later with a plate piled high with ham and biscuit sandwiches dripping
with butter and maple syrup. He proceeded to demolish the food with an easy efficiency that Truth admired.
There was no bruise.
“When everyone else gets up I can have them help you with getting the stuff set up—if that's what you call it,” Gareth said between bites.
“Everyone being Hereward and Donner,” Caradoc said, “as Ellis isn't likely to be any help. To put it mildly.”
“Ellis is all right,” Gareth said, in good-natured defense of his absent comrade. “And if you want to move your car into the back …” he added to Truth, letting the sentence hang.
BOOK: Ghostlight
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