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bare truth about Lady Laura.
Adam identified himself and apologized for the lateness of the call, then gently
related what he had been told. The maid supplied sparse details in a voice close to
breaking - how Lady Laura had died shortly before four o'clock that afternoon,
slipping away peacefully in the middle of an afternoon nap. Her eldest son and
other members of the immediate family were now all gathered at the house.
Funeral arrangements had not yet been decided.
It was the expected scenario for a death in a noble family. Nor did the death itself
come as any surprise to Adam, whose long-time friendship had widened to
include professional attendance when Laura Kintoul first learned of her terminal
illness. He requested a brief word with the earl in order to convey his
condolences, along with his willingness to render any personal service the family
might require.
Then he rang off with the promise to call by Kintoul in the morning.
As he laid the receiver gently back in its cradle, he found it increasingly difficult
to hold at bay his own feeling of sudden loss, coupled with a fleeting twinge of
doubt, that perhaps he had not done all he could.
/ knew this was only a matter of time, he thought. Perhaps I should have been
there. To which another part of himself responded, All had been done that
needed to be done. Laura was ready to make this journey. You yourself opened
her eyes to the way& .
A sound in the hall outside the library recalled him to more practical
considerations, and things needing doing for one still living. Seconds later,
Peregrine appeared hesitantly at the library door, shuffling in outsized velvet
slippers bearing Adam's heraldic crest and wrapped up in a quilted blue dressing-
gown at least two sizes too large for him. He said nothing as he allowed himself to
be steered numbly to a chair beside the library hearth.
He was still deathly pale from cold and the trauma of the afternoon and evening.
He was also terrified. Feigning unconcern, Adam went to the drinks cabinet in
the comer and poured two stiff measures of whiskey into cut crystal tumblers. He
gave Peregrine a reassuring smile as he pressed one into his chilled hands.
"Here - drink this," Adam advised. "I've just rung Kintoul House. Let me get a fire
going, and we'll talk about it."
He put his own drink on the mantel and bent wearily to the hearth, slipping a
fire-starter briquette under the kindling already laid and lighting it with a long
match. When he had nursed it to a healthy blaze, he took back his drink and sat
opposite Peregrine.
"I spoke to Anna, Lady Laura's maid," he said quietly, in answer to the artist's
look of shrinking inquiry. "Of course she confirmed what you told me earlier. But
you mustn't mourn for her. She travels now in bright company."
Peregrine's eyes flew wide at this calm statement of assurance.
"What do you mean?" he demanded shakily. "You speak as if you know." "I do."
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r r
"But - how can you know that? Who - what are you, anyway?"
Adam schooled his expression to one of bland neutrality, wondering just how
much Peregrine was seeing.
"You know my name. You see my face," he ventured.
Confusion and fear flared again in Peregrine's taut face.
"Yes," he whispered. "That's part of what frightens me. Oh, God, if only I could
stop seeing!" he moaned, shaking his head. "If you have some kind of power - if -
if you're some sort of - of wizard or something - for God's sake, lift this curse!"
His eyes were feverish bright, his hands clenched so tightly around the tumbler
that Adam feared he might crush it.
"I told you, it isn't a curse!" he said sharply. "And I haven't the power to make you
stop seeing, even if I had the authority. Before we carry this conversation much
further, though, you're going to have to try to relax." He jerked his own glass
pointedly at the one in Peregrine's hand. "I wouldn't want to have to pick glass
out of your very talented hands, if that shatters. If the whiskey isn't to your
liking," he added more gently, "I can give you a sedative."
Peregrine blanched and shook his head, alarmed, but he did loosen his death-grip
on the glass.
"N-no, please. No sedative. That only makes matters worse. If I take pills, I lose
what little control I have left over this vision of mine."
"Then you do have some control."
Peregrine gave an unsteady, mirthless laugh.
"You're humoring me, aren't you? You think I really have gone mad."
"No, I am genuinely interested to hear what you have to say," Adam said
truthfully. "But if I'm to help you, you must make up your mind, here and now, to
be absolutely candid with me - however outrageous you may think you sound! I
promise not to judge - but I have to know. It's a leap of faith, I realize - you hardly
know me - but I can't help you unless you do your part."
Adam waited. Peregrine stared at him for a long, taut moment, totally motionless,
then breathed out a long sigh, running a hand over his face and through his
drying hair, dislodging his glasses.
"I'm sorry. I - there's really never been anyone I could talk to, about this. Where
shall I start?"
"The beginning is usually best," Adam replied. "When do you first remember -
seeing1?"
Peregrine swallowed painfully, removing his glasses for a moment to rub the back
of his hand across his eyes. Then he put the glasses back on, to stare down at the
whiskey in his tumbler. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]