When he reached the Inn, Leslie, his little assistant, was waiting up for him. With a small cry of shock, she greeted him and quickly took the torn coat from him. She held his hand as they climbed the stairs.
"Oh, so warm," he said, "so very warm."
"Yes, sir, and the milk." There stood the tall glass by the bed. He drank it down. She was loosening the buttons of his shirt.
"Thank you, my dear, my little dear," he said. "Sleep, Mr. Ash," she said.
He fell heavily on the bed, and felt the big feather comforter come down upon him, the pillow plumping beneath his cheek, the entire bed sweet and soft as it caught him and turned him in the first circle of sleep and drew him downward.
The glen, my glen, the loch, my loch, my land.
Betrayer of your own people.
In the morning he ate a quick breakfast in his room, as his staff prepared for an immediate return. No, he would not go down to see the Cathedral this time, he said. And yes, he had read the articles in the papers. St. Ashlar, yes, he had heard that tale, too. And the young Leslie was so puzzled.
"You mean, sir, that's not why we came here, to see the shrine of the saint?"
He only shrugged. "We'll be back someday, my dear."
Another time perhaps they would take that little walk.
By noon he had landed in London.
Samuel was waiting for him beside the car. He was cleanly attired in his tweed suit, with a fresh, stiff white shirt and tie, and looked the diminutive gentleman. Even his red hair was combed decently, and his face had the respectable look of an English bulldog.
"You left the gypsy alone?"
"He left while I slept," Samuel confessed. "I didn't hear him go out. He's gotten clean away. He left no message."
Ash thought for a long moment. "Probably just as well," he said. "Why didn't you tell me that the women were gone?"
"Fool. I wouldn't have let you go if there had been any women. You should have known. You don't think. You don't count the years. You don't use reason. You play with your toys and your money and all your fine things, and you forget. You forget and that's why you're happy."
The car carried them away from the airport and towards the city.
"Will you go home to your playground in the sky?" Samuel asked.
"No. You know I won't. I have to find the gypsy," he said. "I have to discover the secret in the Talamasca."
"And the witch?"
"Yes." Ash smiled and turned to Samuel. "I have to find the witch, too, perhaps. At least to touch her red hair, to kiss her white skin, to drink the scent of her."
"And--?"
"How will I know, little man?"
"Oh, you know. You know you do."
"Then let me in peace. For if it's to be, my days are finally numbered."
Six
IT WAS EIGHT o'clock when Mona opened her eyes. She heard the clock strike the hour, slowly, in deep, rich tones. But it was another sound that had awakened her, the sharp ring of a phone. It must have been coming from the library, she reasoned, and it was too far away from her and had been ringing far too long for her to answer it. She turned over, nestling into the big velvet couch with its many loose pillows, and stared out the windows into the garden, which was flooded with the morning sun.
The sun was coming in the windows, actually, and making the floor amber and beautiful to look at right before the side porch.
The phone had stopped. Surely one of the new staff around here had answered it--Cullen, the new driver, or Yancy, the young boy about the house who was always up, they said, by 6:00 a.m. Or maybe even old Eugenia, who stared so solemnly at Mona now, every time their paths crossed.
Mona had fallen asleep here last night, in her new silk dress, right on the very couch of sin where she and Michael had done it together, and though she had tried her best to dream of Yuri--Yuri, who had called, leaving a message with Celia that indeed he was all right, and he would be in touch very soon with all of them--she had found herself thinking about Michael, thinking about those three tumbles, and how they'd been, very forbidden and perhaps the best erotic fling she'd scored so far.
It was not that Yuri had not been marvelous, the lover of her dreams. But the two had been so careful with each other; it had been lovemaking, yes, but in the safest way imaginable. And it had left Mona wishing that she had been more forthcoming on that last night about her usual rampant desires.
Rampant. She really loved that word. It suited her. "You are running rampant." That was the kind of thing Celia or Lily would say to her. And she would say, "I treasure the compliment, but I do get the point."
God, if only she'd talked to Yuri herself. Celia had told him to call First Street. Why hadn't he done it? She'd never know.
Even Uncle Ryan had been irritated. "We need to talk to this man. We need to talk to him about Aaron."
And that was the really sad part, that it was Celia who'd told Yuri, and maybe nobody else in the world knew what Aaron had meant to Yuri, except Mona, in whom he'd confided, preferring to talk than to make love on their one and only stolen night. Where was he now? How was he? In those few hours of passionate exchange, he'd proven intensely emotional, black eyes glittering as he'd told her in stripped-down language--the very beautiful English of those for whom it is a second tongue--the key events of his tragic but amazingly successful life.
"You just can't tell a gypsy something like that, that his oldest friend's been run over by some maniac."
Then it hit her. The phone had been ringing. Perhaps that had been Yuri, and no one in this place could find her. No one had seen her come in here last night and collapse on the couch.
Of course, she'd been utterly captivated by Rowan, and had been since the first moment yesterday afternoon when Rowan had climbed to her feet and begun to speak. Why had Rowan asked her to stay here? What did Rowan have to say to her, to her alone, and in private? What was really on Rowan's mind?
Rowan was OK, that was certain. All afternoon long and into the evening, Mona had watched her gain strength.
Rowan had shown no signs of lapsing back into the silence that had imprisoned her for three weeks. On the contrary, she had taken easy command of the house, coming down alone late last night, after Michael had gone to sleep, to comfort Beatrice and persuade her
to go up to bed in Aaron's old room. Beatrice had been leery of subjecting herself to "Aaron's things," only to confess finally that curling up in his bed, here in the guest bedroom, was exactly what she wanted to do.
"She'll smell the scent of Aaron all around her," Rowan had said to Ryan, almost absently, "and she'll feel safe."
That wasn't a normal comment, Mona had thought, but surely that was the trick of seeking your mate's bed after a death, and people had talked about mat cure for grief being very good. Ryan had been so concerned about Bea, so concerned for everyone. But in Rowan's presence he had had the air of a general, all seriousness and capability, in the presence of the Chief of Staff.
Rowan had taken Ryan into the library, and for two hours, the door open for anyone who cared to stand in it or listen at it, they'd discussed everything from the plans for Mayfair Medical to various details about the house. Rowan wanted to see Michael's medical records. Yes, he seemed as sound now as he had been the day she met him. But she needed the records, and Michael, not wanting to argue, had referred her to Ryan.
"But what about your own recovery? They want you to go for tests, you know," Ryan had been saying as Mona came in for a final good-night.
Yuri had left his message at Amelia Street just before midnight, and Mona had experienced enough hate, love, grief, passion, regret, longing, and excruciating suspense to finally wear her out.
"I don't have time to take these tests," Rowan had been saying. "There are much more important things. For instance, what was found in Houston when you opened the room where Lasher had been keeping me?"
At that point Rowan had stopped because she'd seen Mona.
She'd risen to her feet as if she were greeting some important adult. Her eyes were brilliant now, and not so much cold anymore as serious, a real important distinction.
"I don't mean to disturb you," Mona had said. "I don't want to go home to Amelia," she'd said sleepily. "I was wondering if I could stay here--"
"I wish you would stay," said Rowan without hesitation. "I've kept you waiting for hours."
"Yes and no," said Mona, who would rather have been here than home.
"It's unforgivable," said Rowan. "Can we talk in the morning?"
"Yeah, sure," Mona had said, with an exhausted shrug. She's talking to me like I'm a grown woman, thought Mona, which is more than anybody else around here ever does.