THE LOVE TALKER

Chapter 1


Once upon a time there was a nice big girl named Laura. She had rosy cheeks and nut-brown hair and three dimples, one in one cheek and two in the other. This nice big girl (no, she was not a nice little girl; she was five feet nine inches tall and weighed one hundred and twenty-seven pounds) . As I was saying, this nice big girl lived in a nice little house. (It was little, even if it wasn’t a house. It was actually an apartment, the kind they call an efficiency; so you see, it was very little indeed.) One winter day she was sitting by her window watching the snowflakes make pretty patterns on the pane when there was a knock at the door. A messenger dressed in blue, with gold braid, had brought her a letter. Little did she know it then, but the letter was from the elves, inviting her to visit them in their woodland haunts.

An hour after the mailman had handed her the special delivery letter Laurie was still sitting by the window staring at the big fat snowflakes. Instead of thinking pretty thoughts about their exquisite patterns she was wondering how many more inches the snow-beleaguered city of Chicago was due to get this time. She swore aloud, in language unbecoming a nice girl, big or little. What evil imp had possessed her to select Chicago as the place in which to write her dissertation? Why not Florida or California, for God’s sake?
There had been sensible reasons for the decision. The chance to sublet a friend’s apartment, at a reasonable rent; the proximity to the university, with its excellent library. And there was the real reason: Bob. Bob was majoring in philosophy at the university. Bob was big and blond and adorably homely… and selfish and lazy and arrogant. She had not discovered that he possessed these additional attributes until after they had tried a brief experiment in communal living, and she thanked heaven that some residue of common sense, and the terms of her lease, had persuaded her to keep her own tiny apartment. Well, she should have known better. No doubt Bob’s field of study had given her a false impression. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find that a budding lawyer or doctor or business executive was a ravening chauvinist in sheep’s clothing, but philosophers were supposed to be gentle, rational, and fair-minded. She should have remembered Nietzsche and the Superman, Plato’s views on slaves, women, and other inferior creatures, and similar philosophical aberrations.
The storm-gray skies were so dark that she could see her face reflected in the window glass, and its malevolent expression and dim transparency suggested something out of a horror story — a windblown demon, pausing in its flight over the cities of men to perch for a moment and leer in at her window. A doppel-gänger, the phantom double of the soul, whose appearance portended danger and death. The externalization of her own evil thoughts, grimacing and glowering at her….
Laurie’s wide mouth curved in a smile of amusement, and the reflected features changed from diabolical to benign. Malevolence sat strangely on her face; it was round and pink and healthy-looking, with big brown eyes — the Morton brown eyes, so dark they looked black in most lights — and a generous, full-lipped mouth. Normally her mind was as healthy as her face; hostile thoughts were alien to it. She had spent too much time thinking up rude descriptions of Bob. At least the letter had given her something new to worry about.
Laurie should not have been staring out the window. She had a towering pile of notes on the table, on the left side of her typewriter, and a stack of virgin typing paper on the right side. She should have been working. Instead, she reached for the letter and read it again.
The beautiful, Spencerian handwriting was a little tremulous, but that was not surprising. Great-Aunt Ida was getting on. She and Laurie shared a birthday, so it wasn’t hard for Laurie to figure out the old lady’s age. Ida had been sixty-eight the year Laurie was sixteen. She had spent most of that summer at Idlewood, and they had had a joint birthday party. So Ida was now seventy-five.
Her mind was as sharp as ever, though. The meticulous grammar and formal phrasing learned in Ida’s long-ago school days were still faultless.
“My dear Laura,” the letter began. “Far be it from me to place an additional burden on your time; I know the demands of a scholar’s life and realize you must be ‘burning the midnight oil’ with your books.”
Laurie grinned again at that. She had been burning the midnight oil, all right, but not with her books. How typical of her great-aunt to enclose that phrase in quotation marks, as if it were a bit of daring slang.
“However,” the letter continued, “it has been some weeks since we last heard from you, and naturally we are concerned over your well-being. I trust you do not leave your apartment after dark. The news broadcasts these days horrify us with their accounts of violence in the cities. I wish you would seriously consider coming to us to finish your dissertation. Our library is excellent, as you know; your old room is waiting for you; you would have the advantages of healthy country air and good food, instead of the sandwiches on which you no doubt subsist. I cannot believe you would patronize establishments of the sort we see on television; surely the waiters and waitresses constantly singing and dancing in the aisles would be enough to disturb one’s digestion, even if the food were edible, which I understand it is not.”
Laurie’s grin broadened. Did Ida really suppose that the overworked employees of McDonald’s and Roy Rogers’ burst into song whenever someone ordered a hamburger? The old lady had never set her sensible oxfords inside such a place. Indeed, the very idea of Ida, or Uncle Ned, or dear fluttery Aunt Lizzie munching french fries at a fast-food restaurant set Laurie’s imagination reeling.

So they wanted her to return to the old family homestead, safe from the dangers of the city. Naive as they were, they watched enough television to be aware of those dangers, including some Ida was too proper to mention. Wouldn’t they just love to have her there at Idlewood, firmly under their collective thumb, supervising her diet and her “young men,” as they had done when she was sixteen! Remembering some of the young men Ida had considered suitable, Laurie rolled her eyes heavenward. Hermann Schott, for instance. Ida had mentioned that Hermann was still at home, still unmarried. Heaven save her from Hermann, and from Great-Aunt Ida’s matchmaking habits.
And yet… Her cynical smile softened as the memories flooded back. There might be worse fates than spending a few months at Idlewood; many advantages to balance the horror of Hermann and his kind. Idlewood had been her summer home for over ten years, and she loved it as much as the old people did.
The stone house had stood on the hilltop for more than two hundred years. Walls three feet thick resisted the cold winds from the western mountains; cedars and pines formed a protective barrier around it. The first Morton to come to Maryland, fleeing the harsh retaliation of a Hanoverian king, had carried his Stuart loyalties and his threadbare kilt to the new world, his only wealth the cut-glass goblet with the Stuart rose, which had been used to drink the forbidden toast to Bonnie Prince Charlie. In the fertile farmlands of western Maryland he had won a grant of land and founded a family. Unlike many a feckless Highland cavalier, Angus Morton had been a hard worker and a shrewd businessman. He and his descendants had prospered. In the early part of the twentieth century Idlewood had been one of the great studs of Maryland, producing two Derby winners. The lovely blooded horses no longer graced the white-fenced pastures, but the original grant of over three hundred acres remained. Fields and pastures had been leased to neighboring farmers, but acres of tangled woods were untouched, giving sanctuary to Uncle Ned’s beloved birds and animals. No hunter ever carried a gun onto the Morton property. The local people knew that Ned haunted the woods like a benevolent troll, and that he was perfectly capable of smashing an expensive rifle to tatters against a rock if he caught someone violating his No Trespassing signs. Despite his age — Laurie realized he must be nearing seventy-eight — he was in superb physical condition, probably because he spent most of his waking hours out of doors.
Ned had been the first one to welcome her to Idlewood. He had been a hale and hearty sixty-three then; she had been a bewildered, unhappy eight-year-old. Arriving at the bus station in Frederick, she found herself handed over by the driver to a terrifying apparition — a tall, burly, red-faced man in high laced boots and a heavy plaid shirt, who towered over her scrawny frame. But when he leaned down to take her hand she saw that the brown eyes behind his steel-rimmed glasses were soft with an emotion he was too reticent to express; and his big, hard fingers were very gentle as they clasped hers. They continued to reassure her as he led her toward the door, although he was muttering to himself in angry tones.
“…little thing like that, come so far alone… always was irresponsible… birds make better mothers than Anna!”
Even at eight, Laurie had known why her mother had sent her away. Her parents were both actors; lots of her friends had several daddies and mommies. Dad and Mother were getting a divorce, and they didn’t want her around while they went through the process, which Laurie knew must be unpleasant. “Breaking up,” they called it, and they certainly had smashed a lot of dishes while they discussed it. No doubt, Laurie had thought, the divorce itself involved an awesome amount of broken crockery. But until Uncle Ned’s muttered criticism of her mother Laurie had harbored a vague, nagging feeling that she might be at fault in some way. His blunt comments swept away guilt she hadn’t even known she possessed.

So the ride to Idlewood, which she had dreaded, became a pleasant experience. A city child, Laurie had never seen such wide, rolling fields, or a sky so broad and blue. Black-and-white cows, all in a row along a fence, peering interestedly at her, made her giggle. Uncle Ned hardly spoke to her, which was good; most adults asked such silly questions, and she never knew what to answer. He whistled through his teeth, a most fascinating sound; Laurie determined to ask him how he did it. Long before they reached the tree-lined drive that led to the house she had decided she liked him. Then — the wonder of that moment would never be forgotten — she found out he was a magician.
He stopped the car under a canopy of green boughs and opened the door. With a gesture that cautioned her to be still, he walked away from the car and began making strange chirping noises. Something moved among the trees. Before Laurie had time to be frightened, a deer and two fawns stepped delicately onto the grassy bank.
From one of his pockets Uncle Ned took a handful of grain and held it out. The fawns danced skittishly; but the doe walked up to Ned and ate from his hand.
The moment had imprinted itself on Laurie’s mind, not with the vagueness of most childhood memories, but as brilliant and perfect as a tiny scene from an illuminated manuscript — the vivid emerald green of the summer leaves washed with sunlight, the soft brown velvet of the doe’s coat, the bright reds and blues of Uncle Ned’s shirt. When the animals finally left, in a flash of lovely movement, Laurie’s chest ached from holding her breath.
“Teach you how to do that,” Ned had remarked, as he got into the car. “Takes patience. But you can learn.”
Reluctantly Laurie returned from that glowing memory picture to snow and gray skies and the boring realities of adulthood. Had any child ever had a more magical introduction to a place? No wonder she had thought of Idlewood as her private fairyland — Oz, Middle Earth, Avalon, Narnia, a land where the animals could talk and no one ever grew old.
But the aunts and Uncle Ned were getting old. Ned was seventy-eight, Ida three years younger. It had taken Laurie some time to get over her awe of the stately, gray-haired lady who had addressed her, from the first, as an adult. Ida, who never admitted weakness or asked for help, had done so now, in the letter Laurie held. It was not a direct appeal; but knowing her great-aunt as she did, Laurie was able to read between the lines.
“Please consider this suggestion seriously, Laura. I feel I must warn you that you will find some of us sadly changed. Your Uncle Ned continues in excellent health, and I have nothing of which to complain, considering my age. I only hope I will be taken before my mind fails. As you know, your Aunt Elizabeth has always been subject to fancies; but this latest affectation exceeds everything. Fairies in the woods, indeed!”
With this incredible statement the letter ended. Ida’s signature was squeezed onto the bottom of the page.
Laurie knew quite well that her meticulous great-aunt would never have concluded a letter so awkwardly if she had been her usual calm, controlled self. There must have been another page, or part of one, in which Ida had enlarged on Lizzie’s fancies, but for some reason the old lady had decided not to send it.
Aunt Lizzie, the baby — now seventy years old…. Aunt Lizzie had always been something of a problem to her strict, literal-minded elder sister. Ida was the only one who called her Elizabeth.
Again Laurie’s memory returned to the past — to the first visit. Her eight-year-old mind had still been bemused by the magic of the deer when they reached the house to find both aunts waiting at the door. Ida, grave and tall in her sober dark dress, had shaken her hand and greeted her formally, but Lizzie had emoted enough for two people. She immediately dropped to her knees and enfolded Laurie in her arms, dripping tears all over her. Marshmallows, chiffon, goosedown pillows, whipped cream… Lizzie was all the soft, sweet, gooey things Laurie had ever known, coalesced into the shape of one plump old lady. Aunt Lizzie called her “darling” and “sweetheart,” and hugged her a dozen times a day, and stuffed her with cookies when Ida wasn’t looking. Lizzie was “the domestic one.” She cooked superbly, she embroidered and crocheted, and she made Laurie inappropriate, exquisitely stitched Kate Greenaway dresses, tucked and trimmed with lace and ruffles. Laurie would have preferred jeans, but she wore those dresses without a word of complaint.
And now, at the tender age of seventy, Lizzie had finally flipped. That was what Ida’s terse hints meant.
Aunt Lizzie’s fancies were a family tradition. Over the years she had enjoyed every psychic fad from spiritualism to a firm belief in flying saucers. Once, when investigating astral projection, she had hypnotized herself so thoroughly that it took a doctor to snap her out of it. Another time she had hired a strange young man from a local college to erect a tower from the top of which electrical impulses would be beamed toward distant galaxies, in the hope of getting return greetings from Arcturus. (“But, Aunt Lizzie, why Arcturus, of all places?” “Oh, I don’t know, darling; it just seemed like the logical spot, don’t you think?”) The doctor had to come again, two years later, when Aunt Lizzie, attempting some form of yoga, had found herself unable to get her foot out from under the opposing elbow. Laurie’s favorite fancy was the reincarnation bit; Aunt Lizzie, having concluded that she was the reborn soul of an ancient Egyptian princess, had gone jingling around the house in gold jewelry, draped in a sheet, emitting cryptic sentences in what she fondly believed to be the tongue of Ramses and Tutankhamon. She had bought a dictionary and a grammar and had taken up the study of hieroglyphs, which she scribbled on every flat surface in the house.

It had all been very entertaining and harmless. True, Aunt Lizzie had limped for a few days after the doctor finally got her foot out from under her elbow, but that had only been a slight sprain. Lizzie had a restless, imaginative mind; it was childish in the same sense that children’s minds are unconfined by convention, open to wonder. That very quality had made Aunt Lizzie a wonderful companion for a small girl, and she had unquestionably shaped Laurie’s mental development. She had supplied Laurie lavishly with fairy tales and books of fantasy; the two of them had told each other ghost stories by the light of the dying fire in the parlor, and had scared one another half to death.
So Laurie was not surprised that her aunt should be pursuing fairies. She had tried everything else, and “the little people” were in fashion. The bookstores had several new books on the subject — not, as one might expect, in the juvenile section. Gnomes and fairies and the fantastic worlds of Tolkien and Richard Adams were quite respectable hobbies for intelligent adults.
No, the alarming thing was not the subject itself, or Lizzie’s interest in it. It was Ida’s reaction. She had never been other than scornfully contemptuous of Lizzie’s fantasies; neither had she ever been particularly worried by them. She was worried now. Her concern was implicit in every guarded word, in the very handwriting of her letter. The fact that it had been sent special delivery was a cry of alarm in itself. The Mortons didn’t have to worry about money, but they did not waste pennies. They were still Scots at heart.
Laurie switched on a lamp. It was only four o’clock, but the sky outside was night-dark with winter. Two more hours until the telephone rates changed. She had her own share of Scottish blood, but in her case frugality was necessary; she was supporting herself, and a graduate student’s stipend left no cash for extras. Anyway, Aunt Ida would have a fit if she wasted the money.
As she sat staring at the telephone, it began to ring. The strident shrilling sounded abnormally loud in the silent room. Laurie reached for the phone, and then hesitated. Once before, after a quarrel, Bob had called her and made extravagant promises, which she had been stupid enough to believe. She didn’t want to go through that again. The phone insisted. Reluctantly, Laurie picked it up.
Her heart jumped at the sound of a masculine voice, but even before she had said, “Yes,” in reply to the questioning, “Laurie?” she knew it wasn’t Bob.
“You sound funny,” the voice said. “Didn’t you ever have those adenoids taken out? Or is it just your corn-fed Midwest accent?”
Laurie removed the telephone from her ear and stared at the mouthpiece. Then she replaced it.
“Who is this?” she demanded.
“Break, my heart,” the unfamiliar voice moaned. “She has forgotten. And I had hoped I had left an indelible impression. Dear sibling, don’t you know your one and only brother?”
“Doug?”
“Have you other brothers? I didn’t think so, but with Mother you can never be entirely—”
“Really, Doug!”
“Prissy as ever. How long has it been, sister mine? Five years?”
“Longer than that,” Laurie said.
She remembered only too well. The summer she was sixteen, when she and Ida had celebrated their July birthdays with high revelry.
Doug had been seventeen, going on ten; preparing for college in the fall, and insufferably superior as only a boy that age can be. He wasn’t her brother, he was her half-brother, a souvenir of Anna’s first marriage. After Laurie was born her mother had decided that the joys of motherhood were overrated; she had not had other children. Which was a good thing, Laurie thought, if Doug was a specimen of what Anna produced. His father had received custody of him after the divorce, and he was supposed to spend his summers with Anna; which meant, as in Laurie’s case, that he spent them at Idlewood with the Mortons. For six or seven summers she had seen a good deal of him, and had hated every moment of the time they spent together. After he started college he managed to visit Idlewood for a week or so every year, but somehow these visits had never coincided with Laurie’s increasingly infrequent trips east. Normal sibling rivalry had been intensified by other factors, quite obvious to her now. She had no memories of Doug except unpleasant ones.
Doug stuffing himself with cookies so there would be none left for her (and he never even got sick, which added insult to injury); Doug beating her at Scrabble, Parcheesi, and Monopoly every time they played, and jeering at her for being stupid; Doug teaching her to play football, and tackling her every time she got her hands on the ball. It was many years later before she discovered that kicker and passer were supposed to be exempt from late hits.

“How did you get my number?” she demanded.
“Ida.”
“Why did you….? Oh.” Her mind, usually so quick at putting the pieces together, was slow today. “You got a letter from her too?”
“Right. She sounded so worried I thought I’d better call her.”
“I was about to telephone her myself,” Laurie admitted. “Though I can’t figure out why she’s so upset.”
“She’s upset, all right.” Doug’s voice deepened portentously. “My letter was sent special delivery.”
Laurie couldn’t help laughing.
“Mine, too. So being richer or not as cheap as I am, you called her. What did she say?”
“Not much. You know how she is about long-distance calls. I had a hard time convincing her I wasn’t on the verge of death, and when she found out I was okay I had an even harder time keeping her from hanging up on me. I couldn’t get much out of her. But I’ve decided to take her up on her invitation. I don’t like the sound of things, and I want to see for myself.”
“You really think the situation is that serious?”
“Yes, I do. All the more so since you tell me she sent you the same distress signals. I won’t go into laborious detail about why I think so; you know the old girl as well as I do. You and I are the only ones who care about them. The only ones Ida would call on for help.”
“I know.”
“So,” Doug went on rapidly, “I figured I had better call you. There’s no point in both of us going if you’re tied up with work. I mean, if it’s hard for you to get away… No point in both—”
“Tom Sawyer,” Laurie interrupted.
“Huh?”
“The old ‘don’t help me whitewash the fence’ technique,” Laurie muttered. “Never mind. I don’t suppose you are aware of your own foul subconscious motives. How is it you can take time off to go chasing little green elves? I thought you were working for a firm of architects in Atlanta.”
“No, no, nothing so plebeian. I’m my own boss. Left Banks, Biddle, and Burton to start my own show.”
Laurie grinned fiendishly.
“Aha. You’ve got no clients.”
The ensuing silence vibrated with unexpressed emotions. Then Laurie heard a muffled sound that might have been, and in fact was, a laugh.
“Got it in one,” Doug said. “I’m starving. If I don’t accomplish anything else, at least I can fatten up on Lizzie’s cooking. You coming or not?”
Laurie glanced at the window. It was frosted over, but the hiss of sleety snow was clearly audible.
“I’m coming.”
“I could pick you up at the Baltimore airport… when?”
“I’ll call you back after I’ve made a reservation.”
“Good. If I’m not in,” Doug said grandly, “just leave a message with my secretary.”
He hung up before she could ask the obvious question: if he was broke, how could he afford a secretary?

The following afternoon, when Laurie’s plane took off from O’Hare, it was snowing again. She was glad she hadn’t waited any longer; a little more of this, and by nighttime the airport might be closed. She settled back in her seat, beamed at the stewardess, and ordered a drink. The pilot announced that it was raining in Baltimore, and that the temperature was forty-three. Rain! Forty-three! Practically tropical, by Chicago standards. A further source of satisfaction was the fact that her phone had been ringing as she locked the door of her apartment, and some psychic sense told her that the caller was Bob. She hoped it had been, and that he would continue to call an empty apartment and wonder where she was.
However, as the plane descended for its landing at Baltimore, Laurie was conscious of a mounting discomfort. She knew its source. She hadn’t seen Doug for years, and she had detested him. Modern psychology had relieved her of any old-fashioned need to love her brother; all the same, she was nervous about seeing him again. She wondered if she would recognize him.
Nor did she. Her eyes passed over the tall, sandy-haired man in the leather jacket, though her basic instincts registered his appearance with approval. He knew her, though. Before she had time to look further, she was enveloped in a leathery embrace, her nose mashed against a shirt front smelling of tobacco, aftershave, and… Chanel Number Five? As he held her at arms’ length, caroling joyful greetings, she saw the smudge of lipstick on his collar and understood the perfume. She also understood how Doug could afford a secretary.
“Dearest sister,” Doug murmured, and pulled her toward him again. This time, prepared, she fended him off with a hard hand against his chest.
“You’ll never see any of these people again,” she said coldly, indicating the passing throngs. “Why put on a show for them?”
“Why not? Gives them a warm, happy feeling about the nuclear family which, as we all know, is in serious trouble. I’d know you anywhere, dear. Same plump face, same buckteeth…. Too bad nobody in our family believed in orthodontists.”

“I have been told,” said Laurie, “that the teeth give me a piquant air. I’m so glad your acne didn’t leave bad scars. I mean, in a dim light I can hardly see them.”
“Good, good,” Doug said approvingly. “Hit back. You’ve toughened up, haven’t you? You used to cry.”
“With rage.” Laurie found her arm tucked chummily in his as they walked toward the baggage area. He was tall; the top of her head only reached his chin. Yet somehow their strides seemed to match quite well.
They left the terminal with Laurie’s bags, and Doug gestured.
“That’s my car.”
It was a low-slung sports car, bright red, adorned with extra strips of chrome and waving antennas. Standing by it, his hands on his hips, was a uniformed policeman.
“Yours?” he demanded unnecessarily, as Doug whipped the door open and slung Laurie’s suitcases in the back.
“Shore is, suh,” Doug replied, with a candid smile. “Part of it, leastways; the bank still owns ever’thing ’cept the fenders.”
Bemused by his sudden lapse into a corny Southern accent, Laurie let him shove her into the car.
“Mah li’l sister,” he informed the policeman. “Purty as a daisy, ain’t she?”
He closed the car door. Laurie promptly rolled down the window. She didn’t want to miss a syllable.
“Don’t you know you aren’t suppsed to park here?” the policeman demanded, indicating a very large, very conspicuous sign that read, “No parking. Driver must not leave vehicle.”
Doug’s face drooped like that of a disconsolate hound.
“Oh, gee whillikers. Ah shore didn’t see that there. Been so long since Ah seen sis, Ah jest run in there…. You go ’head and give me a ticket, officer. Ah don’t want no special privileges, no, suh.”
The officer looked from Doug’s sad brown eyes to the Georgia license plate.
“Okay,” he said gruffly. “Come on, son, get it out of here.”
“Yes, suh! Ah shore thank you, suh!”
The car slid sedately along the ramp toward the exit.
“Of all the con artists,” Laurie exclaimed. “You should have been a lawyer instead of an architect.”
“Believe me, dear, an architect has to do a certain amount of conning. Good thing I was the star of my college dramatic society.”
“Must have been a small college. Even Mother isn’t as bad as that.”
Doug chuckled complacently.
“Yes, she is. Anna got where she is — wherever that may be — by means of other talents than dramatic ability. Never mind her. Tell me about yourself. What are you doing these days?”
Laurie had learned to be defensive about her specialty, which was domestic life in the Middle Ages. People usually reacted with ill-concealed mirth, or with outrage: “You mean my taxes are paying for somebody to study where they put the privies in medieval castles?”
However, Doug accepted her belligerent, one-sentence statement soberly, and asked several almost-intelligent questions. Only one of the questions was critical, and she had to admit it was a reasonable criticism. “Why Chicago? I don’t know much about your field, but I didn’t think they had one of the great departments in that subject.”
“Oh, I have all the material,” Laurie explained rapidly. “And I can always get copies of anything I might have missed. What I needed was a computer, and a central library.”
“Oh. But why—”
“Tell me about yourself,” Laurie suggested.
As she had expected, that subject occupied them for the rest of the drive. The day was overcast, the highway shining with wet; they had passed Frederick before she caught her first glimpse of the mountains, lining the horizon ahead like heavy clouds, mist enshrouding their gently curving flanks. They were soft, low mountains, time-worn and tired, unlike the jagged peaks of the Far West. The spots on the windshield changed from water to small white dots — not the big, threatening snowflakes that had engulfed Chicago, but delicate, secretive. Doug broke a brief silence to say, with obvious satisfaction, “They’re predicting a couple of inches of snow tonight.” Laurie knew he was thinking of the old house surrounded by sweeping, spun-sugar lawns, the dark pines frosted with white.
Night had fallen by the time they turned off the highway onto the twisting, roller-coaster road that led through the tiny hamlet of Thurbridge to Idlewood. The road was slippery with snow. When they turned into the driveway between the tall stone pillars, Laurie saw the lights of the house shining through the pine branches like scattered yellow fireflies.
“Stop,” she said.
“What for?” But he did as she asked. When he switched off the engine the silence was almost deafening — not just the absence of sound, but a quality complete in itself, echoing in ears which had become accustomed to the continual background rumble of a large city. The headlights stabbed into the darkness ahead, but on either side blue-black night pressed against the windows.
It was at this point on the driveway that she had seen the deer, so long ago. Laurie had the feeling that the animals were there now, loitering just beyond the light, in the security of darkness: a ring of unwinking, watching eyes. The thought was not entirely comfortable. She shivered; and Doug, with an uncanny effect of reading her thoughts, said, “Spooky place at night, isn’t it? No wonder the old lady is seeing ghosts and goblins.”

“Fairies and elves,” Laurie corrected. “That’s what I wanted to—”
“Same thing. Spooky.”
“Come on, now. You can’t call elves—”
“Elves are second cousins to ghouls and goblins,” Doug insisted. “You and Lizzie used to read those yarns…. I remember one night by the fire; it was a rainy, dreary night, and she was telling ghost stories. There was one about a severed hand that crawled around on its fingers, like a spider. Scared me into fits.”
“Did it really?” Laurie said, pleased.
“There was another one,” Doug went on. “A poem. Funny thing…”
“What was funny about it?”
“Funny peculiar, not funny ha-ha. It was about two girls named Laura and Lizzie. Odd coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“No, I wouldn’t. What poem?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten it. ‘We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruit….’”
“‘Who knows upon what soil they fed, Their hungry, thirsty roots.’ Of course I remember it, but I’m surprised you do. It’s called ‘Goblin Market.’ I had forgotten the names of the little girls, that’s all.”
“Hard to explain why some things stick in your mind,” Doug said. “Compared to the other horrors Lizzie fed us, that was relatively innocuous. But it gave me the cold shivers.”
“I don’t see why. The theme is common in folklore; ordinary mortals aren’t supposed to eat fairy food, it destroys them. But that poem had a happy ending, as I remember. Good little Lizzie saved careless little Laura from the ill effects of the fruit she bought from the goblins. Or was it vice versa?”
“All the same, it gave me the cauld grue,” Doug insisted. “Damned unwholesome things, fairy tales. Let’s get out of here. I’m starting to see things skulking in the shadows.”
“Wait,” Laurie said, as he turned the key in the ignition. “I wanted to talk to you about Lizzie.”
“What’s to talk about? The reason we came was because we didn’t know enough about the situation to discuss it.”
“Yes, but—”
“I’m starved,” Doug said, and put his foot on the gas.
“Chicken,” Laurie said. Doug pretended not to hear.
They came out of the trees to see the house ahead, looming high on its small hill. Every window was ablaze with welcome; the carriage lamps on either side of the front door showed the exquisite tracery of the fanlight, which was one of the house’s unique features. They also showed a tall figure in boots and plaid jacket, wielding a broom. Uncle Ned, seventy-eight years old, was making sure they wouldn’t slip and hurt themselves on the steps.

Chapter 2


Doug applied himself to Aunt Lizzie’s cooking as if determined to prove that his claim of imminent starvation was not exaggerated. Lizzie had told him he was too thin, but then she always said that; she had told Laurie the same thing, and Laurie was sadly aware that the sedentary, snowed-in winter months had not improved her figure. Oh, well, she told herself, I can’t start dieting now; it would hurt Aunt Lizzie’s feelings. Besides, Lizzie’s chocolate cake, frosted lavishly with whipped cream and decorated with black walnuts and cherries, was too good to resist.
The table was magnificent, set with the old family china and silver. Candles glowed and fresh flowers filled the massive silver bowl in the center of the table. The heavy damask cloth was the one used on major holidays; it had been especially woven in France for Great-grandfather Morton, and it incorporated the family crest amid its pattern of thistles and Stuart roses.
Laurie leaned back in her chair and looked at her brother, who was finishing his second piece of cake under Aunt Lizzie’s approving eye. He certainly was not too thin. A little on the lean side, perhaps, but “a fine figure of a man,” as Ida had called him.
The candlelight was kind to the faces of the old people. At first glance they did not seem much changed. As long as Laurie had known them they had been wrinkled and gray-haired. To an eight-year-old, they had seemed as old as Time itself, and it was hard to get any older than that. But as she studied their faces Laurie realized that the years had taken their toll.
Ned had held up well. Leather, once tanned, does not change much until the final disintegration sets in, and a lifetime out of doors, in all weather, had hardened her great-uncle years before. His dark eyes were more sunken and his eyebrows a shade or two lighter than when she had last seen him, but he was still in remarkable physical condition.
Lizzie had gained a few pounds, which wasn’t surprising, since she enjoyed her own cooking as much as anyone else. Some years before her hair had turned suddenly from streaked brown to snow white. As always, it was beautifully coifed. She was wearing an astonishing garment — a caftan of crimson sari silk, shot with gold and trimmed along the swooping sleeves with wide rows of gold braid and sequins. She had preened herself like a plump sparrow when Laurie admired the gown, and had whispered in conspiratorial tones, “I got the idea from Miss Taylor. So becoming to those of mature figure, don’t you think?”
Ida had always been as gaunt and rigid as her sister was plump and soft. She still carried herself well, despite the arthritis that showed most visibly in her twisted fingers; but the signs of strain were there, in the tightness of her mouth and the purple stains under her eyes. Lizzie might be cracking up mentally — though as yet Laurie had seen no signs of it — but Ida was the one who was suffering physically.
When even Doug had eaten his fill, Lizzie rose grandly to her full five feet height, her crimson draperies billowing.
“We will have coffee in the drawing room,” she announced.
“We will if Douglas will be kind enough to carry the tray,” Ida said drily. “What possessed you to use that old silver, heavy as lead—”
“We always use Great-grandmother Emily’s silver service on festal occasions.” Lizzie’s pursed lips trembled. “You know that, Ida. You know we always—”
“I’ll get the tray,” Doug said hastily, as Lizzie’s eyes overflowed. “Glad to. I’ll even help Laurie clear the table.”
“Thanks a heap,” said Laurie.
“No need for that,” Uncle Ned said. “Jeff does that. In the morning. Leave it.”
From under the table, like a second to the motion, came a muffled bark. Ned glanced guilelessly around the room, as if trying to locate the source of the sound.
“I know that dog is under the table,” Ida snapped. “And I know you have been slipping it food. Disgusting habit. I am certainly not going to leave food on the table to be gobbled by that creature.”
“She’s too well trained to do that,” Ned said.
Laurie, sitting at her uncle’s right, had also been aware of the dog’s presence. Its head had weighed warm and heavy on her foot, and occasionally a moist tongue had swabbed her ankle. She lifted the cloth and looked under. The dog, a handsome golden retriever, grinned amiably at her, its plumy tail swishing. Uncle Ned always had a dog, but this was one she had not yet seen. His old Lab, Regina, had died the year before.
“Jeff?” she asked. “He looks as if he’d be happy to clear the table.”
“Oh, no, dear, that’s Duchess,” Lizzie said in shocked tones; and Laurie remembered that her uncle’s dogs were always female. “You know Jefferson. Oh, perhaps you don’t. But we have written about him, surely.”
“I’d forgotten his name.” Laurie said. “Your handyman?”
“Oh, much more than that,” Lizzie exclaimed. “Jefferson is one of the family. He’s a darling boy, he really is. I don’t know how we’d have managed without him the last few years. We feel so fortunate to have found him. Good help is very difficult to get these days. He does everything for us.”
“Helps the girls in the house,” Ned added. “ ’Course I don’t need much help with the outside work. Strong as a horse.

Nice to have an extra pair of hands for some chores, though.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting this paragon,” Doug said.
“Oh, well, naturally we expected him to join us this evening,” Lizzie said. “But he is so sensitive, so understanding. He said he had an appointment, but I know he didn’t, he just felt that this first evening we might like to be alone, just the family. Which is absurd, because he is practically one—”
“Hmph,” Doug said. He glanced at Laurie and looked hastily away, but not before she had seen, and correctly interpreted, his expression. Jealous. Well, she thought sardonically, so am I. My own fault; if I’d spent more time with them the last few years… She turned to Ida.
“I remember, of course,” she said. “You’ve all told me how good he has been. I had forgotten his name.” (And, she added silently to herself, we won’t ask how I could have forgotten it, mentioned as often as it was.)
If she had hoped for a cool note of criticism, to mitigate the general aura of infatuation that surrounded the absent Jefferson, she was disappointed.
“There is no reason why he should not dine with us on ordinary occasions,” Ida explained. “Just the three of us — and he is so helpful about clearing up. In this day and age social distinctions are out of place. And Jefferson is no common person. He is writing a book.”
“Is he really,” Laurie said. “What about?”
“It is a novel,” Ida explained.
“The great American novel?” Doug’s tone was sarcastic, but the old lady took the comment seriously.
“Most probably it will be. We must not expect immediate recognition, however. As Jefferson has said so often, modern literature is in a sad state. Critics praise the trash and ignore what is healthy and sound.”
“Uh-huh,” Doug said.
“With all due deference to Jefferson, I think I will clear the table,” Laurie said, pushing her chair back. “You three go into the parlor; Doug and I will deal with this, and bring the coffee.”
Once the old people were out of the room — followed, obediently but reluctantly, by Duchess, who cast wistful glances over her furry shoulder as she retreated — Doug began stacking plates with reckless disregard of their age and fragility.
“Who is this creep?” he demanded.
“Jefferson Banes,” Laurie said. Strangely enough, the name came quite readily to her now. “Didn’t they write you about him? He came just after I was here the last time. It was a relief to me they found him; the Petersons got too old to work, they went to live with their daughter.”
“Yeah, they wrote about him. But I thought he was just the usual local man of all work, not some languishing genius.”
“He may or may not be a genius, but I don’t know why you should assume he languishes.”
Doug dumped his stack of plates on the counter.
“They talk about him as if he were a saint. He’s wormed his way into their confidence.”
“Worming and languishing,” Laurie said, in tones of mock horror. “What other vile habits can this monster exhibit?”
“Jefferson Banes. Silly name. Sounds like a villain in a murder mystery.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Listen, you don’t like it any better than I do. I saw your face when they were raving about him.”
“Maybe I don’t. But at least I know my attitude is unreasonable. For heaven’s sake, don’t antagonize the man, will you? If he gets mad and quits, we’re in trouble. Lizzie is right; finding live-in help isn’t easy, and they couldn’t go on living way out here without someone to keep an eye on them.”
“All right, all right. I will be very cool.” Doug lowered his voice. “Have you had a chance to talk to Ida?”
“No. You?”
“No, too much general conviviality. Lizzie looks okay, don’t you think?”
“Yes. But, you know—”

“Wait a minute. I’d better continue clearing the table or they’ll wonder what we’re talking about in here.”
Doug was back almost at once with a handful of delicate goblets bunched in his hands like beer steins.
“Well?” he demanded. “What were you going to say?”
“Isn’t it a little peculiar that Aunt Lizzie hasn’t talked about her latest kick? Usually when she has a new hobby she can’t think about anything else. And if Ida is right, this one has really grabbed her.”
“Hmmm.” Doug rubbed his chin. “You’re right. I remember the time she went in for spiritualism. I had barely walked in the front door before she had me at the dining-room table with a Ouija board spread out in front of us. She wanted to find out if I was psychic.”
“Were you?”
Doug grinned. “She got a couple of fascinating messages.”
“Doug, you are really the most—”
“Don’t leap to conclusions. The spirit of George Washington told her not to have any truck with spiritualism. I — sorry, George — said he was sick and tired of being dragged away from his game of pool to pass on idiotic messages about birds and flowers and love.”
“Pool?”
“Well, they had billiards in the eighteenth century,” Doug said. “George always struck me as the sporting type. Lizzie didn’t bat an eye; she agreed that he had a point.”
“Watch out,” Laurie said. “Here she comes.”
Thanks to her size and her habit of voicing her thoughts aloud, Lizzie’s approach was never inaudible. Doug and Laurie were busily at work when she billowed into the kitchen, asking, in somewhat pointed tones, if there was something she could do to help.

The rest of the evening was spent watching television. Ida mentioned that there was an excellent classical-music concert on public TV, but Lizzie refused to miss her favorite sex-and-violence crime show. She squeaked with delighted horror every time one of the “cops” hit one of the bad guys, and although Ida pretended to knit, her aristocratic nose in the air, she watched too, out of the corner of her eye. Ned, his hands folded across his flat stomach, seemed to doze.
Promptly at ten o’clock Ida rolled up her knitting and rose stiffly to her feet.
“Bedtime,” she announced. “You two young things may sit up if you like, but we old folks need our sleep.”
“Me too.” Doug rose, yawning and stretching. “Uncle Ned and I are going out at the crack of dawn to look for beavers or something. I’m bushed. Must be the country air.”
“Sleep will be good for you,” Ida said fondly. “Laura?”
“You go on,” Laurie said. “I’ll lock up.”
She had hoped her eldest aunt might take this excuse to linger and tell her of the family trouble. But Ida went out with the others, and after a short interval the old house settled drowsily for the night.
Laurie sat staring at the TV screen without hearing a word of the talk show going on. She was conscious of the same warmth and sense of homecoming the house always gave her. But tonight something was different. Under her feeling of drowsy content, an awareness of something obscurely wrong stirred and shifted through the currents of her thought.
Finally she switched off the TV set, checked the doors and the thermostats, and went upstairs. The broad, shallow steps, worn by generations of Morton feet, squeaked faintly as she ascended. The bedroom doors were closed, but when she stopped on the landing she could hear Uncle Ned’s lusty snores and a weaker, younger echo from behind the door of Doug’s room.
She was about to go on up to the next floor when something soft brushed her ankle, and such was her state of mind that she let out a muffled yelp. Looking down she saw a tawny, sinuous form winding around her feet. Ida’s Siamese cat was sixteen years old, and still going strong.
“Sabrina,” she whispered. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Sabrina’s aristocratic jaws parted. She let out a strident Siamese yowl.
“Sssh!” Laurie cautioned. “Do you want to come upstairs with me? Do you want to go to Aunt Ida?” Sabrina made it clear that she preferred the latter alternative. Carefully Laurie turned the doorknob. As soon as the door was open a few inches Sabrina slid through the gap without so much as a thank you.
Laurie went on up the stairs. Her room was on the third floor. Formerly an attic, it had been remodeled, when she became a regular visitor, into a young girl’s dream room. The slope of the roof was so steep that only a very small person could make the most of the space, and even in adolescence it had been necessary for Laurie to roll out of bed instead of sitting up first. She hoped old habits would reassert themselves, so that she wouldn’t brain herself in the morning.
Though the room was never used except by her, it was fresh and neat and warm as toast. The house was heated by radiators, which had never been extended to this attic, but registers set in the floor let the heat from below rise, to be trapped under the insulated ceiling. The only windows were at the end, on either side of the huge stone chimney. Their deep sills were piled with cushions. The frilly bedspread, the fluffy rug, and the Peter Rabbit prints had been selected by Aunt Lizzie, years ago. Laurie’s tastes had altered, but she would not have removed a single rabbit.

After getting into her nightgown she looked for a book on the shelves that had been set under the eaves. Like the prints, the books were treasures of her childhood, and they suited her nostalgic mood; but she had not realized that so many of them were fairy tales. The Oz books, all twenty-six of them, and the other Baum titles; the Lang fairy books, all the way through the spectrum, from blue to yellow; Japanese fairy tales, African fairy tales, Swedish fairy tales; Andersen and the Brothers Grimm, George MacDonald’s Goblin books; Peter Pan, of course, and Pinocchio. She had always hated Pinocchio. What a little horror he was, sniveling and whining, lying and cheating — a fine hero for a child’s book. Monstrous, in fact….
Wind rattled the window frame. Laurie glanced uneasily over her shoulder. Except for the reading lamp by the bed, which she had not yet switched on, the lighting was dim, muffled by ruffly shades and painted globes. One shadow looked like a face with an elongated nose. As she watched it, another strong draft set the curtains to swaying, and the shadow moved.
Why was it that as a child she had never been conscious of the dark, sinister side of the familiar fairy tales? The Grimm stories were retellings of dismal old Teutonic legends. Even the more innocuous stories had terrifying passages — dragons, witches, trolls. Doug was right; elves and ghouls were second cousins, citizens of a world beyond the boundaries of the reasonable universe.
And dear sweet old Aunt Lizzie had fed her on those horrors. Lizzie had selected most of the books, except for a few moral tales contributed by Ida, and if there was a fairy tale Lizzie had missed, her niece couldn’t find it. The old lady had kept abreast of the modern contributions to the field too — Lloyd Alexander, C. S. Lewis, Tolkien.
Yes, the collection seemed complete. There were occasional gaps on the shelves, though, and Laurie wondered whether Aunt Lizzie selected her bedtime reading from these books. She wouldn’t be surprised. She certainly could not picture the Mortons reading Updike or Saul Bellow. They knew the names of the various parts of the human body, but they were not accustomed to seeing some of those words in print.
Laurie decided she was not in the mood for fairy tales. She shifted position to another section of bookshelves. Here were books of another type — old-fashioned and, in their way, just as unrealistic as the fairy tales; but at least they were not replete with goblins. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm rubbed shoulders with Daddy Long Legs and the masterpieces of Frances Hodgson Burnett. Laurie selected Little Lord Fauntleroy, wondering if that angelic small boy was really as revolting as she remembered.
Little Ceddie was that revolting. Dearest, his mama, was even worse. Skimming rapidly, and grimacing, Laurie finished the book in record time. Contemptuous as she was of the saintly Cedric, she could understand the appeal of books like this. Virtue was so seldom rewarded in real life that it was nice to read a book in which it not only triumphed, but was endowed with immense wealth, ducal coronets, and the fatuous adoration of everybody in the neighborhood.
She put the book on her bedside table and switched off the light.
Young Cedric’s adventures should have been soporific, but Laurie found herself wide awake. For a time she lay staring up at the ceiling, only a few feet above her face. As her pupils expanded, the room seemed to fill with pearly light — reflected moonlight, surely. The snow must have stopped. Sleep continued to elude her, so she got out of bed and went to the window. The view was so lovely that she wrapped her robe around her and climbed up on the window seat.
It had been one of her favorite retreats in childhood. Cocooned in cushions, she had sat there for hours, reading or dreaming. The window looked out over the trees, across the wide gardens toward the woods. Sure enough, the snow had ended. The wind hurried the last straggling clouds along. A remote sliver of moon rode high above the treetops, silvering the blanket of snow on the lawn. The boxwood hedges and sweeping fir boughs were frosted with white, glittering with faint crystalline sparkles. Beyond, like a dark enclosing wall, the trees sheltered the old house as they had done for centuries. There were no other houses visible; no man-made light broke the serenity of the night.
At last Laurie began to feel sleepy. She was about to get into bed when she saw something strange.
It was only a small point of light; but it shone where no light should be, deep among the dark pines. The land was posted. Surely no local hunter would dare to trespass; Uncle Ned’s sentiments about hunting were well known, and his influence with local judges was considerable.
As Laurie stared, the light changed color. From a clear white, it burned rosy red, then flared with blue and emerald green, before turning to a soft ethereal lavender. With each shift of color the light moved, rising and falling like a firefly. But no firefly changed color or position, with such quick, dartling motions. Occasionally the spark of light was momentarily obscured, as if it passed behind a bough or a tree trunk. Finally it soared high and went out.

Laurie continued to look for several minutes, but the light did not reappear. She wrapped the robe closer around her shoulders. The room felt very cold.
She fell asleep immediately, and dreamed that the Tin Woodman, no longer smiling and gentle, but a steel-bodied robot with flailing clublike arms, was chasing her down the Yellow Brick Road. The bricks were crumbling. Grass grew between them. Each green tendril was alive and edged with sharp sawteeth; they lashed at her ankles, uttering tiny wordless screams of mad rage as she fled.
She woke sweating and panting, and lay staring up at the rafters until the reality of waking removed the horror of the dream. She had no trouble falling asleep again; this time she dreamed she had pushed Little Lord Fauntleroy into a mud puddle. His black velvet suit was all nasty and dirty, and his weeping face was that of her brother.
Smiling, Laurie rolled over and sank into profound, satisfying slumber.

Chapter 3


The view from her window next morning was even more beautiful than it had been the night before. Fence posts, twigs, and branches were sheathed in a crystal coating of ice that scintillated like diamonds as the sun struck it. Laurie knelt on the window seat, enjoying not only the winter scene but the thought of Doug tramping through the cold in the darkness before dawn. He had not been a nature lover even as a child; the leather jacket and the sports car and a few other unmistakable signs of decadence assured Laurie that he would not find Uncle Ned’s frigid vigils any more to his taste now. Leisurely she dressed and went downstairs.
The aunts were in the kitchen. Once the keeping room of the manor house, it retained the stone walls and massive fireplace of its original design. The mantel was a single walnut beam, several feet thick. Lizzie had placed pewter plates and rough pottery along the shelf, and had mounted a musket below. The musket was not a family heirloom. Lizzie had bought it at an antique shop, to the consternation of Uncle Ned, who saw nothing ornamental, as he put it, about weapons of killing. He had been even madder when he found out the musket was loaded, with ball and black powder. It had not occurred to Lizzie that a spark from the fire below might set the gun off. It was pointed straight at a window — one of those that retained some panes of the precious original glass. But, as Ned sarcastically remarked, chances were that the gun would have exploded first, mangling everyone in the immediate neighborhood. The ball and powder had been removed, but the musket was still in place; a compromise which indicated with some accuracy the relationship between Ned and his younger sister.
Ida was seated at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. She gave Laurie a wintry smile and a stiff “Good morning.” Lizzie was puttering around the room, wiping an already immaculate counter. She flung herself at Laurie with a greeting as emotional as if she had not seen her for years, and asked her what she wanted for breakfast. Laurie turned down pancakes, a mushroom omelette, and eggs Benedict; then, as Lizzie’s lip began to vibrate ominously, she hastily agreed that baked eggs in cream would be fine, along with toast and jam. The bread would be homemade, she knew, and so would the jam.
Lizzie was wearing jeans that morning — custom-made, no doubt, for no store-bought Levi’s would have swathed her ample hips so neatly. They were topped by a garment almost as incredible as the one she had worn the night before. It was bright mustard yellow, embroidered from neck to shirttail with violently colored flowers and birds. A belt of heavy silver links studded with cabochon amethysts more or less confined it around the region of what should have been Lizzie’s waist. She looked like a giant improbable tropical bird as she trotted from refrigerator to counter to stove, emitting breathless little bursts of chirping song.
Knowing Lizzie would be preoccupied for a while, Laurie sat down at the table and started on the chilled fruit cup her aunt had had waiting. Ida sipped her coffee. She didn’t smoke or drink, but coffee was her vice; she often had ten cups a day. Laurie noticed that her aunt’s hand trembled slightly as she lifted the cup; the shadows under her sunken eyes were even more pronounced in the morning light. Too much coffee? Laurie resolved to speak to Ida about it — but not now, with Lizzie listening. The elderly relatives guarded their weaknesses jealously, and resented criticism.
“Are Doug and Uncle Ned still out?” she asked.
“Yes. Heaven knows when they will return. Ned has no sense of time when he is out of doors. Did you sleep well, my dear?”
“Beautifully.” Laurie remembered her nightmare, but decided it was not a fit subject for conversation. “Oh, Auntie” — as Lizzie placed a heaped plate before her—” that looks divine, but I can’t eat so much!”
“Oh, honey, of course you can. You’re pitifully thin! No more than skin and bones!”
“You’ll want coffee,” Ida said gruffly, and rose to get a cup.
“I’m going to need exercise if I go on eating this way,” Laurie said. “Maybe I’ll take a walk later. By the way, I saw the strangest light in the woods last night. All colors of the rainbow, moving around—”
A crash interrupted her. Turning, she saw her eldest aunt, gray-faced and rigid, standing over the fragments of one of the cherished Spode cups which had been in the family for six generations.
“How careless of you, Ida,” said Lizzie. A frown ruffled her brow briefly, then was replaced by a beaming smile. “I’m so glad you saw them, Laurie. I felt sure you would sooner or later, because you are sensitive to such things, just as I am; but I did not hope they would come for you so soon.”
“They? Who? What? No, Aunt, don’t do that — let me—”
Laurie started to rise. Ida, gathering crisp shell-like fragments, waved her back into her chair.
“My carelessness, my task,” she said, quoting an adage Laurie had heard often in her youth.
Humming, Lizzie went to the cupboard for another cup and saucer.
“Tell me about the light,” Laurie said.

“Light? Oh, yes. It must have been Queen Mab herself; her aura is particularly brilliant and colorful. I have not yet been privileged to see her, but several of her lesser ladies-in-waiting have consented to be photographed.”
Laurie now had occasion to bless her youthful interest in fairy tales. The speech would have made even less sense than it did without that background.
“The queen of the… fairies,” she said, gulping over the last word.
“She is sometimes called Titania, but that is erroneous,” Lizzie said blithely. She poured coffee with a steady hand. “Her consort, of course, is—”
“Oberon,” Laurie said automatically. “Auntie, stop talking for a minute, will you? Did you say photographed? You don’t mean you actually have—”
“Oh, dear me, yes. Haven’t I mentioned them?”
“No, you have not.” Laurie’s tone was sharper than she had intended. Her aunt’s vague, dithering statements, many of them prefixed by that characteristic, long-drawn-out, meaningless “oooh,” had never irritated her more. The sight of Ida, grim and speechless as one of Notre Dame’s lesser gargoyles, did not improve her temper.
Lizzie’s pink mouth quivered.
“You sound so hard, darling,” she murmured.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m just very — very — interested.” Laurie knew it would not be politic to confess that she had already heard about the fairies. “Do tell me more, Aunt Lizzie.”
“Oh, there isn’t much to tell,” Lizzie said, turning back to the stove. “I do wish those men would return. Poor Douglas will be starved. Ned is so inconsiderate when he—”
“Auntie. You’re teasing me. Tell me about — uh — Queen Mab. And the photographs.”
“Oh, I thought I had told you. Dear me, I am becoming forgetful. Old age, perhaps.”
“You’ll never be old, Auntie,” Laurie said. A muffled snort from Ida echoed the sentiment, but Laurie thought her aunt didn’t mean it in quite the same way.
Lizzie’s sunny smile reappeared.
“You’re sweet to say so, darling. I feel that age is in the heart, not in the body, don’t you? I did wonder if perhaps this blouse might not be just a teeny bit too youthful. I found it in a little shop in Georgetown; the Indians of Guatemala — or is it Honduras? — they embroider so beautifully, poor souls, and are so poorly paid that one feels guilty, really, in only paying—”
Laurie gave up, but only for the moment. Perhaps Lizzie had changed her mind about talking because of Ida; the older sister’s silence fairly vibrated with hostility, and Laurie felt sure she had already expressed herself forcibly on the folly of Lizzie’s latest fancy. She would have to try another approach, when she and Lizzie were alone. Toward that end she said slyly,
“I adore the blouse, Auntie. It suits you perfectly. I’ll bet you’ve got lots of pretty new clothes. When can I see them?”
Twice a year, spring and fall, Lizzie made a pilgrimage to Washington, stayed overnight in a hotel, and spent two days shopping at Saks, Neiman-Marcus, Garfinckel’s, and the boutiques of Georgetown. On those occasions she went berserk, buying anything that caught her eye, whether it suited her age and figure or not. It usually didn’t. Yet there was some truth in Laurie’s kindly flattery. Lizzie didn’t look as frightful in the youthful garments as one might have expected. She enjoyed them so much that her very joie de vivre made them seem appropriate.
Lizzie’s eyes brightened. “I’ve been dying to show off my new wardrobe, darling. Ida is no fun at all. She has such dull tastes.”
“Great. And,” Laurie added guilelessly, “you can show me the photographs of… the photographs. Did you take them?”
Lizzie looked as if she regretted her moment of candor, but it was too late for her to deny her statement. “Oh, no,” she said, with a giggle. “You know how I am about machinery, sweetie.”
“Who did take them?” Laurie persisted.
“Not I,” said Ida grimly.
“I didn’t think so. Who?”
“Ooooh!” Lizzie pounced, her full sleeves flaring; Laurie was reminded of an overweight parrot settling onto its perch. From under the table Lizzie took a limp ball of fluff. Its colors were a gorgeous sable-and-silver blend; its fur was long and soft. It dangled limply from Lizzie’s pudgy hands, its green eyes half closed.
“Here’s mama’s Angel Baby,” Lizzie said fondly. “You haven’t said hello to Angel Baby, Laura dear.”
“I haven’t met Angel Baby.” Laurie took the cat. It felt as if it had no bones at all. Opening its eyes a trifle wider, it looked at her and began to purr. Laurie was not flattered. The bland contempt in the cat’s expression belied the purr. “I thought you had a white cat.”

“Sweetums.” Lizzie’s eyes welled with tears, all in an instant, as if twin spigots had been turned on in her head. “Dear Sweetums passed on last year, Laura. This is her great-grand-daughter.”
“How is Mrs. Potter?” Mrs. Potter’s prize Persians were famous. Lizzie had always gotten her cats from that source.
Before Lizzie could answer, Angel Baby turned suddenly from a hanging, miniature boa to a length of fur-covered muscle. With the agility of a flying squirrel she soared from Laurie’s lap to the windowsill, leaving a long bleeding scratch on Laurie’s arm.
“Angel Baby always knows when the dog is approaching,” Lizzie explained calmly. “She does not get on at all with Duchess.”
The door opening onto the stone-floored entryway banged, and after a few moments the men appeared, accompanied by Duchess.
“Get that wet dog out of here,” Ida exclaimed, as a friendly but undeniably damp tail swished her calves.
“I dried her,” Ned said. “Lie down, Duchess. Lie down, I say!”
Pretending deafness, Duchess considered her options. Laurie was an attraction; but then a movement on the windowsill caught her eye and she leaped toward it. Angel Baby arched her back and spat. Duchess’s flailing tail knocked a chair over. Uncle Ned’s shouts of “Down, I say!” mingled with Lizzie’s agitated shrieks.
The animals’ encounter ended with a howl from Duchess and the abrupt departure of Angel Baby, who sailed across the kitchen, cursing, and disappeared into the dining room. Duchess lay down, put one paw over her nose, and moaned.
“Damn cat,” said Uncle Ned equably.
“If you would train that ill-bred dog to leave my cat alone she would not get scratched,” Lizzie said.
“Just wants to be friends,” Ned said. “Your cat’s a snob.”
“Home sweet home,” said Doug, grinning.
“And it’s so good to have you home!” Her annoyance forgotten, Lizzie enveloped him in fluttering embroidery. “Now, Douglas, sit down, and I’ll have your breakfast in two shakes. You, too, Ned — though you don’t deserve it.”
She went to the stove. Ned got a bottle and a bit of cotton from a shelf and ministered to the bleeding nose of Duchess, who submitted to the attention with fatuous pleasure. Either the dog was so good-natured she didn’t mind the scratch, or else she was so used to such injuries that they had become part of the daily routine.
Taking a chair next to Doug’s, Laurie said out of the corner of her mouth, “See any little elves out there?”
“Just Uncle Ned.” Doug indicated the old man, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor talking to the dog. Her head cocked, her ears alert, Duchess listened with an appearance of profound interest. Doug grinned and shook his head. “I’m the one who’s getting old,” he confided, in the same low voice. “Have they always been like this, or am I just more conventional?”
“Both, probably. We’ve got to talk.”
“Right.”
“How about a walk after — whatever the next meal is?”
“Are you kidding?” Doug’s voice rose in a howl of outrage. Lizzie and Ned went calmly on with what they were doing, and Doug continued, “I’m going to take a nap. I froze several essential parts of my anatomy and pulled half the muscles in my body this morning. We must have walked twenty miles.”
“About four,” Ned said, without looking up. “You’re out of condition, boy. Stay awhile. I’ll get you in shape.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Wash your hands and sit down, Ned,” Lizzie said, stepping over the dog. “Here you are, Douglas; now eat it up, every bite, and don’t dawdle, or it will be time for lunch.”

Incredible as it might seem, lunch did follow on the heels of that late breakfast; and when it was over Laurie was in no condition to insist on a walk, much as it might have benefited her. The elderly Mortons always rested in the afternoon. Ned, who had long since established squatters’ rights to the library, called his siesta “working on my notes,” though everyone knew he dozed in the big leather armchair by the fire, with his dog asleep at his feet.
Laurie had planned to follow Lizzie to her room for a cozy chat — and a look at the famous photographs — but, as if she suspected some such plot, Lizzie scuttled out of the kitchen as soon as the meal was over. Laurie would have settled for a confidential chat with her eldest aunt, but Ida also made her escape. Conscious of an uncomfortable cramped feeling in her midsection, Laurie cleared the table and filled the dishwasher. Then she went upstairs, and into Doug’s room.

He was lying across the bed, fully dressed. As she entered he lifted his head slightly.
“You could knock,” he suggested.
“You wouldn’t have answered.”
Like her own, Doug’s room had not changed since childhood. Uncle Ned’s hand was apparent in the decor here; even Lizzie had tacitly conceded that he had a prior right with a boy child. Audubon prints and animal paintings adorned the walls. The wide, low bed had a spread with figures of jungle beasts, lions and tigers and zebras, in colorful profusion. The books shelves contained every book ever written about animals, plus the hearty, innocent boys’ books of Uncle Ned’s youth. The Boy Explorers in the Jungles of Africa, The Young Aviators in France….
Laurie sat down on the bed beside her brother. A muffled voice issued from the head half concealed between Doug’s outstretched arms.
“We can’t go on like this.”
“Like what?”
“Eating.” Doug rolled over, moaning faintly. “I’m sick. Lizzie cries if I turn down second helpings.”
“I know, I know.” Laurie stretched out beside him. “Did you ask Uncle Ned about the Good People?”
“The who?”
“The elves, the pixies, the Men of Peace, the—”
“Oh. Yeah, sure I did.”
“Well?”
Doug propped himself on one elbow. “God’s winged creatures are a far greater wonder than any imaginary elves. Why the hell Lizzie can’t concentrate on the miracles of nature instead of fairy tales I do not know, but if that is her interest, why don’t you all leave her alone?”
“Is that a quote?”
“Straight from Uncle Ned. He may have a point.”
“I’m afraid not.” The ache in Laurie’s stomach was subsiding. She felt warm and comfortable and drowsy, but conscience would not be quelled. “Aunt Lizzie has pictures, Doug. Photographs.”
“Have you seen them?”
“No. You were right, she’s acting funny — not funny-weird, as usual. Unusual. She started to tell me about it, and then all of a sudden she clammed up. I spoke a little sharply. Maybe she realized I wasn’t going to play this particular game with her. But she did say she has snapshots.”
“So?” Doug’s voice was slow with encroaching sleep.
“So…” Laurie shook off the contagion and forced herself to stay awake. “Lizzie said she didn’t take the pictures, and I believe that; you know how she is about what she calls machines. She operates that electric stove, with its dozens of buttons, like a hotshot pilot, but she won’t touch anything mechanical outside of the kitchen. Don’t you see? Photographs mean a camera. A camera means a human being, taking the pictures. Somebody is playing tricks on Aunt Lizzie.”
“Uh-huh…” As he lay outstretched, his arms over his head, his shirttail out, his ribs were temptingly exposed. Laurie jabbed her forefinger into his side.
“Wake up. You said it yourself, Doug — this fantasy isn’t like Lizzie’s usual games. Someone is taking advantage of her. We have to find out who took those pictures.”
“I know who it was.”
Laurie jabbed him again, harder. This time he let out a groan of protest and slapped her hand away.
“What a sadist you are,” he mumbled. “I know about the photos. Ned told me. And I know who took them. It was a kid.”
“A what?”
“A child, a youth, a young person. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure which of the children took the pictures. There are three of them. Three sweet, adorable little girls. Name of Wilson.”
“Wilson. Don’t they live near here? I seem to remember a mailbox a few miles down the road.”
“Ned said they were neighbors. Around here that means a mile or two away. Do you remember the family?”
“The name is familiar, but I don’t remember children. I would, if we had played with them.”
“Not likely. They are much younger than we, my aged sib. The youngest just started kindergarten this year. She has,” Doug added, “big blue eyes, golden curls, and a lisp.”
“A lisp,” Laurie repeated blankly.

“Yep. I have heard of lisping villains — didn’t Peter Lorre lisp? But not a golden-haired, five-year-old lisping villain.”
“But, Doug, that’s impossible. A five-year-old couldn’t take pictures.”
“She could with one of those new cameras designed for the simple-minded. Aim, peer, and push the button.” Doug yawned. “I don’t know why you’ve so uptight about this. The snapshots are probably pictures of humming birds or blurry configurations of leaves or—”
A soft tap on the door interrupted him. He called, “Come in.”
The door opened, a single tentative inch, and Ida’s voice said, “Douglas? Are you asleep?”
Doug winked at Laurie.
“No, Aunt, I’m not asleep. Come in.”
“I don’t want to disturb you.”
“I was just resting,” Doug said resignedly. “Struck down by an excess of calories.” He drew himself to a sitting position, and Laurie added, “Come in, Aunt. We were just—”
The door, which had been edging coyly open, banged back against the wall. Framed in the doorway like one of Rembrandt’s more formidable matrons, her respectable gray hairs bristling, Ida glared.
“Laura! What are you doing there?”
“Nothing.” Laurie sat up. “I mean, I was resting and talking to Doug—”
“Get up off that bed immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Laurie found herself on her feet without knowing quite how she had gotten there. She met her aunt’s eyes. She had nothing to hide, but somehow she felt obscurely guilty.
After a moment Ida’s erect frame sagged and her cold eyes softened.
“I beg your pardon, Laura. I did not mean to speak so sharply. I came to ask Douglas if… I will speak with you later, Douglas.”
The door closed softly.
“Well!” Laurie dropped into a chair. “What was that all about?”
“Can you ask?” Doug fell back into a recumbent position. “Male and female, reclining…”
“But you’re my brother!”
“That makes it worse.”
Laurie leaned forward and peered distrustfully at Doug’s averted face. His cheeks were crimson, but she was fairly sure the emotion that warmed them was not embarrassment. More likely suppressed amusement.
“You’re disgusting,” she said.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t find that out right away. Well, I’m awake, damn it. What do you propose to do?”
“That’s obvious, isn’t it? Interview the Wilson girls and inspect the photographs, not necessarily in that order.”
“Want me to do something?”
“You? Do something? Heaven forfend,” Laurie said, with awful sarcasm, “that I should intrude upon your congenital laziness. Try to talk to Ida, will you? You always were her favorite.”
“Aunt Ida always liked me better than you,” jeered Doug, from under the arm he had flung over his face.
“Well, she did. That’s okay, I can handle it; she loves me too, but you’re the boy. Male chauvinism is not restricted to men.”
“Um,” Doug said sleepily.
“I’m going for a walk,” Laurie said.
Out of deference to the elderly sleepers she did not slam the door, but her fingers ached with the desire to do so. She knew Doug had fallen asleep the moment she left the room.

One good thing about Chicago winters was that they provided a person with the necessary equipment to survive cold weather. Laurie had brought her boots — heavy, high, hideously expensive. In the silence of the drowsing house she assumed outdoor wear, tied her scarf over her head, and went out. She would not have objected to the company of a large friendly dog, but Duchess was nowhere to be seen. No doubt she was sharing Uncle Ned’s blameless slumbers in the library.
Laurie went down the steps and across the lawn, her boots crunching through the thin crust of snow. The sky overhead was translucent blue, the sunlight was brilliant; but it lacked warmth. Following the path, she passed through the gate into the pasture, closing it carefully behind her.
The marks of booted feet preceded her — Uncle Ned and Doug, no doubt. The woodland paths were kept clear of undergrowth, so she had no difficulty walking, but the tangled boughs overhead cast shadows across the way. Glancing up she saw a buzzard hovering lazily. It was looking for carrion. At least in Uncle Ned’s domain its prey would not have been trapped or wounded by the hand of man.
Despite the cold air she was warm from exercise when she reached the birch glade and sat down for a rest. This was Uncle Ned’s favorite place. He had shaped the fallen trunk of a majestic walnut into a rustic seat. Laurie sat motionless, and slowly the life of the forest, sent into hiding by her approach, timidly reasserted itself. Birds swooped and darted: the brilliant scarlet of a male cardinal, followed by his more subdued mate; a black-and-white red-crested woodpecker; flights of busy brown sparrows and juncos. Ned’s bird-feeding station, in the center of the clearing, was soon assaulted by hungry throngs. A brown squirrel, ignoring the tidbits Ned had set aside for his kind, tried to swarm up the post toward the feeder, and was driven away by an indignant blue jay. The jays were rude, aggressive birds, but their beautiful azure plumage pleased Laurie’s eye, and she had a certain sympathy with their strutting as sertiveness. In a hard world, you had to push to get ahead.
The air was too cold to allow her to become sleepy, but as she sat watching the birds, the peace of the woods surrounded her and she began to relax. Maybe Uncle Ned was right. This brilliant, busy display was as enchanting as any fairy tale, and the wonder of winged flight was a miracle. What was wrong with letting Lizzie seek her own wonders?
Time passed. The early winter twilight was reddening the sky before Laurie felt a change in the atmosphere. A sound somewhere off in the woods scattered the swarming birds. The squirrel vanished with an indignant flip of his tail; two rabbits nibbling at carrots on the edge of the clearing twitched white scuts and disappeared amid a rustle of dry leaves.
Laurie knew the sound had been a natural one — the fall of a clump of snow, perhaps, from a weighted branch. All the same, her heart began to beat a little faster. The silence and the sudden disappearance of life forms was eerie. Twilight gathered along the aisles of the pines. The shadows of the trees stretched out grotesquely across the snow, and the minuscule patterns of small feet seemed suddenly purposeful, a maze outlined by some alien intelligence. A flicker of movement to her left made her start. Her eyes dilated. Surely that shape was…
It was only a small snowmound, shaded by dusk and surmounted by a tuft of dried grass, but for an instant it had resembled a dwarfed, semihuman shape, peering with malignant bright eyes over a hump of shoulder.
With a muffled curse at her own unsavory imagination she rose stiffly to her feet. No wonder Lizzie thought she saw fairies in the woods. It didn’t take much imagination to shape natural forms into something alien; and if one’s eyesight was not quite twenty-twenty and one’s perception blurred by age and a lifelong addiction to fantasy… The woods were strange places, especially as night drew in. High time she was getting home. She had not intended to stay so long.
She started off across the clearing, slamming her booted feet through the crusted snow with the deliberate intention of making noise. As she lifted one foot to step over a log she heard an echo of her progress somewhere in the distance and paused, boot poised, a prickle running down her back. Something was coming — something heavy and quick…. “Has some survival of an earlier age survived in the deep woods?” she inquired aloud, mocking her own fancies. “Some halfhuman monster men call….”
A dark shape bounded out into the clearing and launched itself at her. Suspended on one foot, Laurie was caught off balance. She toppled over onto her back and the monster nuzzled her throat, emitting hot, panting breaths.
“Oh, get off, will you?” Laurie gasped, pushing at the dog. “You are the worst-trained beast I’ve ever met, even worse than Ned’s usual dogs. Get off!”
“There you are.” Laurie saw her uncle standing over her. “Thought you might be lost.”
“I’m not lost, I’m prostrate,” Laurie said. “Where’s the brandy keg?”
Her uncle chuckled appreciatively. Dragging the ecstatic dog from her prey with one hand, he reached into the capacious pocket of his jacket and brought out a flask.
“I carry the brandy. Makes better sense. But don’t you tell Ida.”
Laurie didn’t really want any brandy, but Uncle Ned looked so pleased that she joined him in a swig. She suspected her aunt probably knew about the flask; she knew about everything that went on. But if Uncle Ned liked to think he was putting one over on his strict sister, more power to him. Forbidden fruit always tasted sweeter.
They started for home. The dog ran rings around them, crashed off into the woods and reappeared, her tongue lolling, as if playing hide and seek.
“She doesn’t bark much, does she?” Laurie said.
“Not a barkin’ dog,” Uncle Ned said calmly.
Laurie glanced at him. His craggy profile was reddened by the sunset and the cold air. He was wearing a bright scarlet cap, with an absurd pom-pom on top; his shaggy brows, lined cheeks, and faint, enigmatic smile made him look like a blown-up version of a gnome or a brownie — some creature totally attuned to its natural environment. Once she would have thought of him as a friendly giant, but now his shoulder was almost on a level with hers.
Moved by a sudden rush of affection, she wanted to take his arm, but she knew better. Uncle Ned was as shy of physical contact as the animals he loved. But he must have caught something of her emotion; he turned his head to smile at her, then looked away. They went on in amicable silence, side by side.

Chapter 4


Lizzie, in the throes of one of her more complex menus, gave Laurie an abstracted greeting and refused her offer of help. Like other creative artists, she preferred to work alone. Shedding boots and coat, Laurie went on stocking feet along the hall and into the parlor.
It was the most formal and, in some ways, the most beautiful room of all. The woodwork and the carved paneling around the mantel were painted a soft blue-green. Curved arches framed the bookshelves that flanked the fireplace. The heavy satin draperies were of a deeper, richer turquoise, and the Aubusson rug repeated this color, complemented by floral designs in navy, rose, and buff. There was no sound in the high-ceilinged room except for the crackle of the fire on the hearth, and at first Laurie thought she was alone. Then she saw that one of the long, high-backed sofas in front of the fireplace had an occupant. Stretched out at full length, his shoes uncouthly displayed against the soft brown leather, Doug slept.
Laurie sat down on the opposite sofa and regarded her brother fixedly. After a moment she realized that her stare was returned. One of Doug’s eyes was open.
“Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t do it,” he said lazily.
“I’d have dropped something on your stomach if I could have found an object hard enough,” Laurie confessed.
Doug chuckled. “Remember the time Aunt Ida sent you to wake me, and you threw her cat at me?”
“Mmmm. It’s one of my most satisfying childhood memories.”
“I had the scars for years.” Doug rubbed his flat stomach thoughtfully.
“So did I, emotionally. Ida gave me a lecture on cruelty to dumb animals.”
“Funny, how their pets reflect their personalities. Ida has always favored Siamese, hasn’t she?”
“I’m not so sure. About the animals reflecting their personalities, I mean.” Laurie stretched her legs and wriggled her toes, basking in the warmth of the fire. “Ned’s dogs are big sporting types, but they are always undisciplined and friendly. Siamese cats look aristocratic and aloof, like Ida, but actually they are strident and hammy. Lizzie’s Persians are much more snobbish — which she certainly is not.”
“All right, but you have to admit her latest is a weirdo. Any cat named Angel Baby has two strikes against it, but this is one spooky feline. It strolled in here a while ago, purring like crazy, and curled up on my stomach, nice as you please. When I reached down to stroke it, it let out a shriek, stuck all its claws in my navel, and took off.”
“Angel Baby is weird all right,” Laurie agreed. “Maybe it saw the fairies too…. Have you talked to Ida?”
“Haven’t had a chance.”
“You haven’t tried hard, have you?”
“Not very. Damn it, I’m relaxing. I’ve had a hard winter.”
“Sure you have.”
“Well, how about you? Get any further with your investigation, Mrs. Holmes?”
“Well…”
“Not willing to admit we’re on a wild-goose chase? Ah, well.” Doug sighed, folding his arms under his head. “Who cares? I’m glad I came, anyway. We ought to check in with the old folks now and then.”
Laurie was facing the door, so she saw her aunt before Doug did. Stately in garnet velvet, Ida was carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Laurie jumped up to take it from her.
“Thank you, my dear. Where is Douglas?”
“Resting,” Laurie said. Doug’s face appeared over the back of the sofa.
“Hi,” he said. “Sorry, Aunt, I didn’t see you.”
“That’s quite all right.” A gleam of affection warmed the stern contours of Ida’s face. “You need your rest, working as hard as you do.” Unseen by her aunt, Laurie made a rude face at her brother, who widened his eyes and beamed seraphically. Ida turned, and Laurie hastily straightened her countenance. “We are changing for dinner, Laura. There is plenty of time; your uncle is not here yet.”
“Plenty of time” meant just the reverse, as Laurie knew.
“I’ll hurry,” she said and went upstairs at a trot. Admittedly she needed a shower and a change of clothing after her trek through the woods, but she had forgotten that the aunts sometimes went formal for dinner. When one dined solo on tuna-fish salad and crackers, or á deux on beer and pizza, one did not don trailing skirts and the family jewels.
Speaking of jewels… Having showered and put on the dinner dress she had had the foresight to pack, she reached for the small leather case that held her own jewelry. The only decent pieces she possessed were the ones her aunts and uncle had given her. A pearl ring on her sixteenth birthday — pearls are suitable for young girls — a watch when she graduated from high school, bits of turquoise and coral at intervals…. What had Ida been wearing? Something rather opulent in a subdued way. Garnets? Ida did not deck herself gaudily as her sister did. Everything she wore was in impeccable taste, but it was not cheap.

When Laurie returned to the parlor her mind was still on the subject of jewelry, so she noticed, as she seldom did, the details of what her aunt was wearing. The gleaming burgundy velvet matched the sullen glow of — yes, it was garnets, a collar of intricately inlaid stones with a matching brooch and twin bracelets. Garnets weren’t particularly valuable, but these looked old. Maybe the Mortons did have family jewels. Lizzie had never flaunted anything like that; she preferred her gaudy, glittering costume jewelry.
Ida indulged in a glass of wine now and then, for the sake of conviviality. She was drinking port; the deep ruby color of the wine matched the highlights of her dress. As she sat in the firelight glow, her iron-gray hair set in the stiff marcel waves she had always favored, she was the picture of a handsome, dignified old lady, and her usually stern face was softer than usual as she listened to Doug’s chatter. She looked up when Laurie came in and smiled approval.
“Very nice, my dear. Sit down. Douglas will fetch you some sherry.”
Like pearls, sherry was considered suitable for young girls. Laurie hated it. She noticed that Doug held a tall glass filled with some liquid that was obviously not wine.
“Thank you, Aunt,” she said meekly.
Lean and casual in slacks and a sweater, Doug went to the mahogany sideboard where glasses and decanters were set out. Doug was not expected to dress for dinner. Admittedly he would have looked silly in a tuxedo while Uncle Ned, adamantly rural, appeared in his usual overalls. But, Laurie told herself, it was all part and parcel of the tired old mystique of male supremacy. Doug didn’t have to get dressed up; Doug could drink Scotch if he preferred it to sherry.
Ah, well, Laurie thought resignedly, taking the glass he offered her, love requires these little sacrifices. She took a sip of the pale amber liquid and gulped, thankful that Doug stood between her and her aunt. The liquid was the right shade, but it was not sherry. His face preternaturally solemn, Doug winked at her and turned away.
“I hope the sherry is not too dry, Laura,” her aunt said benignly.
“It’s very good.” Laurie took another sip. “I feel as if I ought to be helping Aunt Lizzie, though.”
“Elizabeth, as you know, prefers to be alone when she is cooking. And,” Ida added, magnificently ignoring the contradiction, “Jefferson is helping her.”
“Jefferson cooks, too?” Doug asked.
“He is very accomplished. And he will be joining us for dinner. I hope you do not mind. I assure you, he is a presentable young man.”
Laurie knew her aunt’s anxiety on this score was genuine. In Ida’s girlhood, when the house was staffed with bowing servants, none of them would have been allowed to sit down with the family.
“My dear aunt,” she said with a smile, “if it doesn’t bother you, it certainly isn’t going to bother us. After all, I worked as a waitress last summer.”
A spasm of pain crossed Ida’s face.
“I know that, dear. If I had been told in advance of your intention I would have taken steps to see that no such indignity was necessary. The very idea of a Morton being subjected to the rude jokes and pecuniary insults of lower-class persons—”
“They weren’t all lower class,” Laurie protested. “And it was honest work. I thought Great-Grandfather Angus believed in the ennobling effect of hard work.”
Doug crossed the room to take Laurie’s empty glass and administer a gentle kick in the shins. Don’t argue with her, the kick said.
“I am not criticizing your motives,” her aunt said. “Only your judgment. You are too young to realize that some persons — that certain men may assume — er—”
“I won’t do it again,” Laurie said.
“I am relieved to hear you say so.”
Uncle Ned’s entrance ended the lecture. Booted and overalled, his gray hair standing out around his face, he was as out of place in the stately room as a cow in a boudoir. Pausing only to smile at Laurie and nod at his sister, he made straight for the sideboard and poured himself his customary libation — four fingers of Scotch. He drank it without stopping, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down; then he drew a long breath of satisfaction and put the empty glass on the tray. He had done this every evening of his life, as long as Laurie could remember.
“When do we eat?” he inquired, wiping his mouth on a huge red bandanna handkerchief.
Crudities which would have produced a freezing criticism if someone else had committed them failed to rouse Ida when her brother was the culprit. Probably, Laurie thought with an inner chuckle, she had long since given up hope of reforming him.
“You know Elizabeth always takes a glass of sherry before we dine,” she replied. “She should be joining us shortly.”
Ned nodded. Hands in his pockets, feet wide apart, he took up a stance in front of the fireplace and looked around the room.

“Where’s Duchess?”
“Shut in the porch. I will not have that uncouth animal in here knocking over glasses with her tail and nibbling at the food.”
“What food?” Ned looked mutinous. “Got any of those little crackers? I’m hungry.”
Silently Ida indicated the table. Ned crossed the room in three clumping strides, swept up a handful of canapés, and crammed them into his mouth.
“Good,” he mumbled. “Can’t see why Duchess has to be excluded. She wouldn’t touch anything.”
Ida replied acrimoniously. Laurie leaned back and let her thoughts wander. She knew the argument would go on, unresolved and unresolvable, until someone interrupted it. On the sofa opposite, Doug was smiling, his eyes half closed. Time had turned back; it was as if they were ten years in the past, hearing the same voices saying the same things, surrounded by the familiar objects.
But things weren’t the same. No doubt, Laurie thought, it was her perceptions rather than the facts themselves that had altered. She had changed a great deal in the two years that had elapsed since her last visit. Her fondness for and gratitude toward the old people had not lessened in the slightest, but she was aware of practical points she had never considered before.
Ida and Ned were still arguing about Duchess when Lizzie came in. Her costume that night was the most bizarre she had worn yet, which was saying a good deal — a solid glitter of gold cloth trimmed with huge fake emeralds and rubies. The crimson and green sparks flared along the front of her flowing robes and weighted down the long sleeves.
But on this occasion Lizzie’s costume failed to hold her niece’s attention. Lizzie was not alone. Following her at a respectful distance was the handsomest man Laurie had seen for years. (She had never, even at the height of her infatuation, considered Bob good-looking.)
He was as dark as Bob was fair. His high cheekbones and thin, expressive mouth, his olive complexion, suggested Spanish or Italian blood. His proportions were so perfect that he looked taller than he actually was, and the casual, open-necked blue cotton shirt set off his broad shoulders and strong throat. His black hair was cut neatly but inexpertly, so that waving locks fell casually across his high forehead. More remarkable even than his physical handsomeness was the sheer animal vitality that set his black eyes snapping; a wave of almost palpable electricity filled the room when he entered it.
“…will certainly be overdone if we don’t eat soon,” Lizzie was saying.
“You’ve plenty of time for a little nip, ma’am,” the beautiful man told her. “Sit down and let us bask in the light of your gorgeousness.”
Lizzie giggled and obeyed.
“You forget yourself, Elizabeth,” Ida said. “You have not performed introductions.”
“No need.” Doug rose to his feet. Laurie noticed that he was holding himself erect, making the most of his height. Childish, she thought; he was half a head taller than the newcomer, but what did mere inches matter?
“You’re Jefferson, of course,” Doug went on. “I’m Douglas Wright. My sister, Miss… Carlton.”
Laurie was probably the only one who noticed the stammer before her last name. No wonder Doug had trouble with it; Anna’s habit of changing husbands had made it difficult for her children to remember what name they should answer to in any given year.
Doug’s attempt at a young-lord-of-the-manor condescension was a failure. Jefferson’s dark eyes moved in Laurie’s direction and went straight back to Doug.
“Hi, Doug,” he said. His voice was low and rich — black velvet, Laurie thought idiotically — but with an underlying roughness.
Without further courtesies Jefferson moved with the grace of a cat toward the decanters and poured Lizzie’s wine. He handed it to her with a bow and a twisted smile.
“Here you are, luv. Drink up.”
“Thank you.” Lizzie giggled.
Jefferson turned to Uncle Ned. “I checked out that sound in the car you were complaining about, sir. Just a loose rod. It’s okay now.”
His manner had changed, subtly but perceptibly; it was bluff, man-to-man talk, with a tinge of respect that held no shadow of subservience.
“Good.” Ned nodded amiably. “I quit driving a few years back,” he explained to Laurie. “Perfectly capable still, you understand; eyes are as good as ever. But you never can tell. Shouldn’t take chances. Might hurt something.”
Laurie knew he was talking about animals rather than people; once, when a squirrel had dashed out under the wheels, he had been unable to avoid it and had mourned for days.
“So Jefferson acts as your chauffeur?” she asked.
“Jefferson does everything,” Lizzie said fondly.
“Except cook,” Jefferson said. “But I’m learning — from the best.” He smiled at her. Lizzie simpered.
“Oh, one of the first lessons is not to let things get over-cooked. Come along, Jeff. We’ll serve.”
“I’ll serve, you just sit.” Jefferson took her hand and heaved her to her feet. He did it nicely, with no suggestion of effort, which was no small trick, considering Lizzie’s size. “I know how to do it with style. You taught me, didn’t you?”
As the youngest woman present, by quite a few years, Laurie did not rate an escort. She had to pull out her own chair, while Uncle Ned performed that service for Ida and Doug assisted the younger aunt. Jefferson had vanished into the kitchen. As soon as they were seated the door swung open and he appeared, effortlessly balancing a big tray. He served soup. Placing Laurie’s bowl before her, he gave her a quick sidelong look. He did not speak, or smile.
Laurie ate her soup. However, she never had the slightest recollection of how it tasted.
Doug insisted on helping clear away the first course, and after that things were more relaxed. He and Jefferson wove a complex pattern through the swinging doors, letting out warning shouts as they approached the barriers, and turning the remainder of the meal into a game. Laurie supposed that the food was excellent, as Lizzie’s cooking always was, but her taste buds appeared to be paralyzed.
After that first penetrating, smileless stare Jefferson did not look at her. He served the food, he ate, he complimented the aunts and teased Lizzie, he exchanged comments with Uncle Ned, without seeming effort. He even broke through Doug’s wary hostility with a compliment about Doug’s car, and they talked about engines and tachometers and other technicalities.
Laurie ate tasteless food and speculated. Whom did he remind her of? But it wasn’t difficult to trace his fictional antecedents — he resembled all the dark, brooding heroes she had ever read about. Heathcliffe, Rochester, Max… whatever his name was, the hero of Rebecca.
And still he refused to look at her.
Laurie was sure it was deliberate, and by the time the meal was over she was quite annoyed. They went back to the parlor for coffee. When Jefferson had served them and taken a modest place a little outside the circle around the fire, she turned to him.
“Aunt Ida tells me you write, Mr. Banes,” she said.
He stared at her for a moment, his dark eyebrows lowering. Then he grinned broadly, white teeth flashing like a toothpaste commercial.
“How well you put it, Ms. Carlton.”
Against her will Laurie felt her lips curve in an answering smile. He had caught the sarcasm in her question. Score one for him. No — score two. He had not taken offense. His voice had been amused, not malicious.
“What are you writing, exactly?” she asked.
“A book.”
“She means,” Aunt Lizzie explained, “what kind of book, Jefferson. Fiction, poetry, essays—”
“Oh, I see.” Jefferson pondered, his eyes downcast. He had very thick lashes. Miniature brushes, they shadowed his cheeks. “Well, now, I could synopsize the plot, but that doesn’t really give one the flavor of a book, does it? Rather like those trots one buys to get through English-lit courses. Besides, I haven’t figured out the ending yet.”
“It is a novel, then?” Laurie persisted.
“Yes. A historical novel. Set in fourteenth-century France.”
“But that’s my field,” Laurie exclaimed. “Medieval history.”
“I know.” The firelight set red sparks dancing in his eyes. “You have some devoted fans here, Ms. Carlton; they talk about you and your brother all the time.”
“How boring,” said Doug.

“Not at all. One of the reasons why the book is progressing so slowly is that I’ve had to do a lot of research. I feel,” Jefferson said earnestly, “that a historical novel should be true to fact, insofar as the facts are known.”
“Absolutely,” Laurie agreed.
“Maybe you can give me some tips, then. Seeing as it’s your field.”
“I’d be glad to.”
“Great.” Jefferson put his cup down and rose. Muscles rippled; Laurie tried not to stare. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get to my chores now.”
“Oh, don’t go just yet,” Lizzie said.
“Temptress.” Jefferson snatched her plump hand and raised it to his lips. “Get thee behind me, Miss Lizzie. Work before play. That was a super meal, by the way.”
He kissed her hand enthusiastically, restored it to its owner, swept the circle with an ingratiating smile, and went out.
“I’ll help him,” Laurie said.
“Oh, no.” Lizzie lifted a warning hand. “That is one of the little tasks Jefferson prides himself on doing. He won’t allow anyone to assist him.”
“But he has so much else to do.”
“Oh, and he does it all so well. Isn’t he sweet?”
“Nice fella.” Uncle Ned, in his favorite position before the fire, nodded solemnly. He leaned toward Laurie and said in confidential tones, which were clearly audible to everyone in the room, “He talks that silly way to Lizzie ’cause she likes it. But he’s sound otherwise. Good with his hands.”
There was a pause. Laurie realized that three pairs of eyes were fixed on her. They were waiting for her comment. Was it so important to them that an outsider should admire Jefferson? She said cautiously, “He seems like a treasure.” She knew she had said the right thing when three pairs of lungs emitted a long, blended sigh. And, she told herself, if Jefferson had happened to overhear, that patronizing comment would annoy him very much.
“He certainly is,” Ida said. “Without wishing to sound selfish, I must say that I hope his novel will prove to be very long.”
Laurie tried to catch Doug’s eye, and failed. He was slouched on the sofa, his hands in his pockets, his legs stretched out, his eyes focused on the tips of his shoes. She turned to Ida, who had taken out her knitting. Her busy needles flashed in the firelight.
“What are you making, Aunt? That’s pretty wool; such a lovely pale pink.”
“Pink for girls,” Ida said. “One of the neighbor children.”
Silence descended. Uncle Ned rocked back and forth, whistling softly under his breath. Doug sulked. Laurie had no doubt that he was sulking, though she was not sure why he was in a bad mood. Part of it was probably jealousy. He was accustomed to being the family pet, and now Jefferson seemed to have supplanted him. Well, the man has earned it, Laurie thought.
She looked at Lizzie, who was fussing with the cups on the coffee tray.
“Auntie, how about showing me your wardrobe? You promised you would.”
“No fair.” Jefferson had returned. Smiling, he took the cup Lizzie held out to him. “You can’t take my opponent away, Ms. Carlton. I owe her a million and a half already, and I insist on my revenge.”
“A million and a half what?” Laurie asked.
Lizzie chuckled. “Matchsticks. Isn’t that quaint? We play for matchsticks. Of course Jefferson is exaggerating the amount. But he will wager so wildly!”
Jefferson had taken a gameboard from the cupboard under the bookshelves. He opened it on the table in front of Lizzie and sank gracefully to a sitting position, his legs crossed.
“Checkers?” Laurie said in surprise.
“Most sophisticated game in the world,” Jefferson said blandly, setting out the pieces. “Okay, Miss Lizzie — black or red?”
“Oh, dear, it’s so difficult to decide…”
Doug rose. “I think I will run into town.”
“Of course, dear,” Ida said graciously.
“I’ll lock up when I get back. Now don’t you wait up for me.”
“I know better than to do that.” His aunt gave him a glance which, for her, might almost be described as roguish. “But don’t be too late, Douglas.”

No, ma’am.” He leaned over and kissed her wrinkled cheek. “Good night, all.”
Laurie followed him into the hall.
“What’s the idea of running out on me?” she demanded.
“Want to come along?”
“What for? The night life of Frederick is not exactly uproarious, as I recall.”
“You never knew anything about the night life of Frederick, you innocent creature. I’ll find something to do, don’t worry.”
“I’ll just bet you will. Why can’t you spend a quiet evening with the old folks?”
“I refuse to watch Jefferson play checkers. I mean, there are limits.”
“You mean, you don’t want to watch him ingratiating himself. You can’t stand being in second place, can you?”
Doug smiled smugly.
“Aunt Ida still likes me the best.”
“So far. She won’t be so crazy about you if you sneak off to the fleshpots of Frederick every chance you get.”
“You don’t understand. Aunt Ida expects a young man to sow a few wild oats. Listen, sweetie, I have carefully maintained relations with a few old buddies in town; Ida accepts that. But it wouldn’t do for you. Your suitors will have to call at the house, hat in one hand, corsage in the other.”
“Like Hermann Schott,” Laurie said gloomily. “Ida thought he was just the type.”
“Good old chubby Hermann. I remember him well.”
Laurie shied back as Doug made a gesture that might have ended in a hearty brotherly smack on the bottom. Doug started up the stairs.
“I don’t know what your gripe is,” he said. “You’re obviously having a sensational time. Go back in there and continue drooling over Mr. Rochester.”
“You’ve got your Brontë heroes mixed,” Laurie said. “You mean Heathcliffe.”
“Aha. You noticed.”
Laurie made a rude face at Doug’s retreating back and returned to the parlor.
Jefferson had lost another ten thousand imaginary matchsticks by the time the clock on the mantel chimed ten. Laurie had to admit he lost very cleverly — and it is not easy to cheat at checkers. He finished the final game and rose to his feet, shaking his head ruefully.
“Time I got back to my high-born heroine. Thanks, Miss Lizzie. Shall I leave the board? Maybe Ms. Carlton would care to give you a game.”
“I can’t afford to lose any matchsticks,” Laurie said.
“I don’t know why you are being so formal, Lizzie said, shaking her head in playful reproof. “I’m sure Jefferson won’t mind if you call him by his first name.”
“You may call me Laura,” said Laurie, as Jefferson turned toward her. “Prefaced, of course, by Miss.”
“She’s joking,” Lizzie explained.
“I see,” Jefferson said seriously.
“On the other hand,” Laurie went on, “I can hardly call you Mr. Jefferson.”
Jefferson grinned. “Make it Jeff.”
He held out his hand. After a moment, Laurie took it.

All the same, he was a little too good to be true. Hunched over the dressing table — which had surely not been that low a few years ago — Laurie brushed her hair and scowled at her reflection in the mirror. She had checked the kitchen before coming upstairs; it was immaculate, every surface shining like the mirror in front of her. What the hell, she asked herself, was a man like that doing out here in the country catering to the needs of three old people?
Well… maybe he was writing a book. She was in no position to sneer at the eccentricities of literary types, not when her thesis topic caused raised eyebrows or guffaws of hearty laughter. Jefferson was getting room and board — and what board! — in exchange for the chores he did. Lizzie had mentioned other help, including a professional cleaning team, so there wasn’t all that much to do. With a minimum of organization — and Jefferson looked capable of organizing his life well enough — errands and shopping and chauffeuring could be kept to a minimum. No doubt he had plenty of time for his great American novel.
He seemed genuinely fond of the old people. Some men were like that, Laurie assured herself — nice, kind to others. Perhaps he had lost his mother or grandmother early in his life and was giving the Mortons the sort of cherishing he would have given them. Perhaps he was an orphan and was enjoying the pleasures of family life.
Anyway, it was none of her business. So long as he did his job, his motives were his own affair.
Laurie decided she had better find an engrossing book and stop thinking about Jefferson. It was barely eleven o’clock — the shank of the evening — but she was in no mood to work, although she had dutifully brought some of her notes. She yawned. It must be the fresh air. She was tired, and she felt no envy of Doug, on the loose in Frederick.
Squatting down before the bookshelves, she looked with more favor on the collections of fairy tales. Maybe Doug was right; they had gotten too worked up about Lizzie’s latest kick. If Ida had been really worried about it she would have said something by now. After all, Ida was no spring chicken. Probably she had lost her temper with Lizzie one day and had dashed off those two letters… had told Jeff to make sure they were mailed… and he, misunderstanding her urgency, had sent them special delivery.
Laurie decided to start on the Oz books. She could read all the early volumes, the ones written by Baum himself, in a couple of weeks. It would be relaxing to read about a world removed in every way from the grim period of history she had been studying — a world without sex or violence or torture or betrayal. Even the Wicked Witch wasn’t particularly violent. She talked a lot, but she didn’t do much.
Her hand was on the spine of The Wizard of Oz when she noticed the book next to it. Her eye had passed over it the night before, noting only the word “fairies” in the title; now she realized that this was not one of the worn, familiar books of her childhood. Curious, she drew it out.
An Encyclopedia of Fairies. The back cover quoted a review from the Southern Folklore Quarterly, and other comments, such as, “a valuable reference book.” Not fiction, then. The book was new, its paper cover bright and unworn.
Opening it at random she saw that the entries were arranged alphabetically. “Grey Neighbors” — one of the euphemistic names for the fairies — was followed by “Grig,” which, the author remarked primly, was “rather a debatable fairy. The Oxford Dictionary gives the word as meaning a dwarf, or something small….”
Laurie raised amused eyebrows. No, not fiction. She turned over a few pages at random and, more and more intrigued, took the book to bed with her. She now remembered having read a review of this volume, or of one like it. The “little people” had always been a legitimate subject for folklore, of course. No doubt Lizzie had bought the book because of its title and had squirreled it away among the children’s library in order to hide it from Ida’s critical eye.
Laurie leafed through the book, finding some of her old favorites neatly classified and labeled. One that particularly delighted her was a version of the Rumpelstiltskin story. In this case the uncouth dwarf that saved the girl from her boastful folly was named Tom Tit Tot, and it was “a little black thing with a long tail, that looked at her right kewrious.” It twirled its tail rapturously every time the girl guessed its name wrong. It wasn’t Bill, or Sammle, or Methusalem. “‘Well, is that Zebedee?’ says she agin.”
“‘Noo, ’tain’t,’ said the impet. An’ then that laughed an’ twirled that’s tail till yew cou’n’t hardly see it.”
“‘Take time, woman,’ that says; ‘next guess an’ you’re mine.’ An’ that stretched out that’s black hands at her.”
“Wow,” Laurie said under her breath.
The girl got the name right next time, and the impet shriveled up and blew away.
Laurie went on to learn about “Trooping Fairies,” and the Pwca, a Welsh version of Puck, and “Queen Mab,” who was, as she had surmised, the queen of the fairies in the sixteenth and seventeenth-century stories. Then she came upon the Love Talker.
His other name was Ganconer. He appeared to maidens in lonely valleys and made love to them before fading away and leaving them to pine to death.

I met the Love Talker one evening in the glen,

He was handsomer than any of our handsome young men,

His eyes were blacker than the sloe, his voice sweeter far…

“Oh, bah,” Laurie said and closed the book. “Blacker than the sloe….” She wondered what a sloe was. It sounded very poetic. Probably a bug.
She did not want to read any more about fascinating supernatural male creatures with black eyes and sweet voices. Turning out the light, she went to open the window.