Jamintha (9 page)

Go ahead, Jane
, the voice whispered.
It's there …

I gazed up at the wooden galleries running around three sides of the room. There was no staircase, no apparent way to reach the galleries. How was one to reach the books on the second and third levels? I moved without actually being aware of it. Something seemed to be pulling me, leading me over to the southwest corner of the room. I stopped in front of the shelf, peering at the books without seeing them, and then I ran my hand down the wood, locating the tiny knob, pressing it, stepping back. There was a heavy groaning noise, and dust spilled down and floated in the air as the shelf swung outward.

I stepped into the tower. It was a vast circular hollow with a rickety iron spiral staircase curling up into the darkness. Eddies of cold, clammy air swirled around me as I started up the staircase, my footsteps ringing on the flat metal steps, echoing up and reverberating against the circular stone walls. There were tiny slit windows, invisible from outside, letting in just enough light to prevent total darkness. The walls were damp, festooned with dark green fungus, and the air was as cold as ice water. Slowly, moving like a sleepwalker, I climbed, passing the first landing. My skirts rustled with the sound of whispers as I climbed on up to the second landing and stopped. My head was throbbing, and my heart beat rapidly as I groped along the stone wall in the semi-darkness.

I pressed the knob. Groaning like a live thing, the wall swung slowly outward, unseen hinges creaking raspily. Directly in front of me now was the wooden gallery. I moved out onto it. On one side were the shelves, on the other was a frail wooden railing and dust-filled air. The gallery was not wide, no more than five feet across, and the floorboards seemed to dip as I walked across them. The books up here were damp with mildew, literally falling apart, and cobwebs hung down from the ceiling, swinging lightly in the currents of air coming from the tower. I moved along, oblivious to the dangerously creaking wood, oblivious to the cobwebs, and my heart pounded painfully.

Go on, Jane, go on
, the voice urged me. Although I couldn't really hear the words, I sensed them, and I sensed the urgency. There was a loud tearing sound as though nails were being pulled from the wall, and I felt the floor shaking under my feet.

“What in
hell
are you doing up there!”

Something snapped. Black wings rushed over me, and I closed my eyes, my knees growing weak. I swayed, seizing the railing, and then the darkness lifted and I came awake with a start. I was stunned, petrified with fear. I realized where I was, but I had no idea how I had come to be there.

“Have you lost your bloody
mind!
” Brence Danver yelled.

Space yawned before me, a frail railing all that separated me from it. Waves of dizziness sweeping over me, I peered down through the shadows. I could barely see his upturned face far below. I gripped the railing, my knuckles white. I was trembling violently, and the dizziness increased, causing my head to whirl. I was going to faint. I tried to call out, but no sound would come.

“
Christ!
” he yelled. “Don't move. Don't make a move!”

I closed my eyes again. I was in a whirling void, currents of clammy air sweeping over me, my body beginning to grow limp. I could see myself hurtling through space and crashing to the floor two stories below. I willed myself to hold on. My hands grew damp with perspiration. The wooden railing seemed to slip and slide under my palms. I could hear footsteps ringing with a sharp, metallic clang in the tower, but the sound was far, far away, drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in my veins.

He stepped onto the gallery. It seemed to tilt forward and down, pulling away from the wall.

“Let go of the railing,” he said. His voice was level, but there was a note of panic barely under control.

I opened my eyes cautiously. My shoulders were trembling. I looked out at the great empty space and down at the floor so far below. I could see the tattered carpet and the ghostly white shapes of covered furniture. The gallery seemed to sway under my feet as he took another step.

“Let go of the railing!” he repeated, no longer trying to conceal the panic. “Move back against the wall. Move carefully.”

“I—I can't,” I whispered hoarsely.

Still gripping the railing with moist hands, I turned my head to look at him. He was thirty feet away, edging toward me with his body against the wall of shelves. Rotten lumber creaked with protest against his weight. A board splintered under his foot, pieces crashing down. He grabbed hold of the shelves to keep from falling. Several books tumbled down, great clouds of dust rising like smoke. Brence Danver coughed, clinging to the shelf. His face was white, the skin stretched tautly over those magnificent cheekbones.

“Don't—” I said. “You'll fall—”

He grimaced, dark blue eyes glaring at me. He took a deep breath and let go of the shelf, turning around so that his back was against it. Stepping over the books and the splintered floorboard, he edged along another ten feet. The gallery sagged. I could feel it pulling away from the wall. Brence stopped, his shoulders hunched up against the shelf.

“Please,” I whispered. “Go back.”

“Shut up!”

I was paralyzed, too terrified to move. At any second the gallery was going to tear completely away from the wall, hurling us both to the floor in a shower of splintered wood. Brence closed his eyes and continued to edge along. His white shirt was covered with dust.

He was no more than six feet away now. He leaned against the shelves, his chest heaving. It was several seconds before he could catch his breath. He stared at me with vivid blue eyes. I could see him trying to master his own fear.

“Let go of the railing,” he said firmly. “Move back against the wall very slowly.”

“I—I can't do it. I can't move. My knees—”

“Do as I say!” he shouted.

I turned loose of the railing. My knees buckled. I pitched forward with a faint cry, darkness claiming me. My arm seemed to be pulling out of the socket. I crashed back against the shelf as he jerked me away from the void. He held me, pressing his body against mine as books spilled down from the shelves with choking explosions of dust. The gallery rocked and swayed and grew still. I could feel his heart thumping.

“We're going to edge back to the door,” he said quietly. “I'll hold on to your hand.”

“I can't do it,” I whispered. “I almost fell. I—”

“Listen, you bloody little fool, I've risked my neck to get this far. You'll do exactly as I say, do you understand?”

“Let me go. Save yourself—”

“Stop being melodramatic! If it were going to fall, it would have fallen already. There's no real danger now that you're away from the railing. I'm going to lead you to the staircase, luv, or I'm going to slap you unconscious and
carry
you. Which will it be?”

“I—I'll try,” I said meekly.

He flattened himself against the wall and reached for my hand, gripping it tightly as he began to move. His strong hand seemed to crush my own. Flesh and bones folded up painfully under that grip, but I was hardly aware of it. The floor sagged, groaning and creaking with each step we took.

“Watch out for the hole,” he said sternly.

There was a hole about two feet square where the floorboard had fallen through, the edges jagged with splinters, tattered books around it. Brence moved on, pulling me along beside him. The door was twelve feet away now, and the floor was sturdier there. We moved more quickly. He stepped through the opening and gave my arm a savage jerk, pulling me after him. I flung my free hand out, accidentally touching the knob. The bookshelf creaked loudly, closing behind us.

“Now! I want an explanation of—”

That was all I heard when the darkness closed in, smothering me …

I opened my eyes cautiously, my head aching with a dull, throbbing pain. I was lying on an overstuffed brown velvet sofa with worn, shiny nap. The room was snug, intimate, a small study with a rolltop desk, a large, comfortable chair that matched the sofa and a tall golden oak bookcase bulging with beautifully bound volumes. A fire burned in the sooty white marble fireplace across from the sofa. The Persian carpet had faded blue and gold and black patterns, and dark blue curtains hung at the single window. I sat up, moaning softly, wondering where I was.

Brence Danver stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He had washed and changed into a fresh white silk shirt and gray trousers. His black hair was disheveled, one curling wave draped over his brow.

“You're awake, I see,” he said brusquely.

“Where are we?”

“My retreat. This is where I do my drinking. I think it used to be your father's study. Those are his books.”

“How did I—”

“You fainted. I carried you here.”

“You
carried
me?”

“You blacked out completely. I almost broke my back getting you here. I didn't think you'd want anyone else to know about your little escapade so I slung you across my shoulders.”

“You told no one?”

“It's our secret,” he said.

I sat up, brushing my skirt down primly. The skirt was covered with dust, and I could feel patches of it on my damp cheeks. A braid had fallen undone, loops of hair spilling down over the nape of my neck. I knew I must look like a dirty urchin. Brence pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to me.

“Thank you,” I said.

He stepped over to the desk and rolled the top back, revealing an array of bottles and several glasses. He uncapped a bottle and poured a sparkling amber liquid into a glass while I wiped my cheeks and tried to fasten the braid back in place with the pins that hung loose.

“Drink this,” he ordered, thrusting the glass into my hand.

I stared at it with horror, my eyes wide.

“I have never touched spirits,” I said, “and I don't intend to start now—”

“Drink it!” he bellowed.

I gulped the liquor down hastily, emptying the glass in what must have been record time. Brence Danver watched me with a stern expression, but I could tell that he was amused. His lips curled up slightly at the corners, and he seemed to be holding back laughter. I set the empty glass down on the floor, lurching forward a little. Smooth liquid fire seemed to course through my veins, and the sensation was not at all unpleasant.

“I think I'm drunk,” I said in a faraway voice.

“The way you belted that down, luv, you'll probably pass out again.”

“You're mocking me, Mr. Danver.”

“That bother you?”

“You're a detestable person.”

“That's a helluva thing to say to someone who just saved your life.”

“You—what happened?”

“I was passing through the main hall. I thought I heard a noise in the library. I got there just in time to see you walking along the gallery as though it were solid ground. You moved like you were in a trance, luv. I thought you'd fall for sure when I yelled at you.”

I didn't say anything. The room seemed to spread, the walls expanding and waving like the sides of a tent. Colors and shapes blurred and merged together as dizziness overcame me, and it was a moment before I could focus properly. The spinning sensations diminished and I could see clearly, but I still felt lightheaded. Everything seemed cozy and warm. I wanted to go to sleep.

“I've seen plenty-a damnfool things in my life,” Brence Danver continued, “but that was the damndest, the most foolish. What the hell were you doing in the library, and what the hell were you doing up
there?
”

“I don't know,” I said quietly.

“You don't
know!
”

“I—something seemed to call me. I don't remember going up there. I was standing in the middle of the room, and then—and then you were yelling at me.”

“How did you know about the hidden staircase?”

“Please leave me alone,” I said.

Brence Danver stared at me, his hands resting lightly on his thighs, and then he stepped over to the big brown velvet chair and plopped down in it, swinging one long leg over the arm. The vivid blue eyes continued to peer at me with intensity. He seemed to expect me to go berserk and run screaming from the room.

“The old man said you were neurotic,” he said casually. “Personally, I think you're slightly mad. A person who'd do a damnfool thing like that ought to be put away.”

The lazy, nonchalant way in which he spoke them gave the words even more sting. I could feel my cheeks flaming and was barely able to restrain the extremely unladylike retort that sprang to mind.

“Tell me,” he said, “do you have these spells often?”

“To my knowledge it has never happened before,” I replied. My voice was as prim and controlled as I could have hoped, despite the anger and the fuzzy effects of the alcohol.

“To your knowledge? That's not very specific, is it? I understand you have a rather faulty memory. Hell, it could happen all the time and
you
still wouldn't know it.”

“You have no right to speak to me in that manner, Mr. Danver,
nor
do you have a right to pass any kind of judgment. If anyone should be put away, it's you. Your conduct is—is—”

“Dastardly?” he suggested.

“Deplorable!” I snapped.

“I suppose you're referring to the episode on the moors.”

“I am indeed.”

“I guess I should thank you. If you hadn't brought me back like you did, I might have died, I suppose.”

“That wouldn't have been such a great loss,” I said acidly. The anger seemed to have counteracted all the effects of the alcohol. Everything was sharp and clear.

“So the timid mouse has spirit? I like that. No, it wouldn't have been much of a loss, I confess, though a lot of ladies would have mourned for their handsome fellow. Still, it was rather grand of you to go to all that trouble. What exactly happened that afternoon?”