More wind.
More snow.
She watched them both, watched the woods, thought about the bonfire she had seen from this window, the dancing figures, the wolflike tracks in the snow…
She washed her nylons in the sink, hung them on the shower rail to dry, painted her nails, nibbled at an apple.
She found herself at the window again, attracted like a moth to a flame, staring at the site of the bonfire which was now covered with snow and as unremarkable as the rest of the land.
She remembered Yuri saying that they had singled her out as the next convert to the beliefs which the cult held dear, that certain spells would be cast and that she would not be able to resist, that she might very well become as they…
More wind.
More snow.
In the evening, when darkness had dropped across the snowscape without diminishing the speed of the falling flakes, she went downstairs to the library to choose a book from its richly stuffed shelves. The downstairs was as quiet and chilled as the second floor corridor had been, as if there were no one else in Owlsden but Katherine — or, even more exactly, as if this were not a house at all, but some ancient monument, a burial vault of pyramidal splendor. After twenty minutes of choosing one volume only to replace it when she leafed through it, she found a light romance which seemed just the thing to take her mind off the events in Owlsden. She was stepping out of the library into the downstairs corridor when the telephone rang, crying like a wounded bird in the dead silence.
It rang twice before she picked it up from the table only a few steps to her right. “Hello?”
“May I speak to Miss Sellers, please?” It was Michael Harrison.
“This is me, Mike,” she said.
“Katherine?”
“Yes.”
He sighed, relieved. “I was afraid that you'd be outside — or that they might not put you on the line.”
She laughed softly. Just hearing his voice had done wonders for her, had recalled his warmth, the friendliness of his companions at the cafe — and had recalled, not least of all, the way he looked at her and the way he had kissed her only the night before.
She said, “Why shouldn't they let me talk to you? Do you think they're all conspiring against me or something?”
He paused too long for comfort and said, “Not Lydia, anyway.”
“And what's that supposed to mean?”
“I'm afraid to tell you,” he said, “for fear you won't believe me, that you'll get angry with me.”
“Never,” she said, surprised at the boldness in her tone.
Again he paused, considering his choice of words. “If I were to have the Rover up there at eleven this evening, do you think you could have your luggage outside, waiting for me — without letting anyone know what you are up to?”
“Michael, this is hardly a time for jokes that—”
“No jokes.”
She thought a moment, said, “
“You know how Alex is prejudiced against me,” he said.
“Only too well.”
“I hope you also understand that I would never talk against him just to ruin his character or for spite. I would not behave the way he does.”
“I know you well enough to understand that,” she said.
“Then understand that I fully believe what I'm about to tell you is the truth.”
“Tell me, then, for heaven's sake!”
Michael took a deep breath as if to fortify himself for the explanation, or as if he still was afraid she might not believe him. “I have some fairly convincing evidence that Alex Boland is a member of that Satanic cult which has been causing so much trouble lately.”
“Alex?” she asked, stunned at the possibility. She had been willing to consider his friends — but not the son of her employer himself. Those who did awful things were always strangers, not people you knew. People you knew were better than that, unable to commit crimes. Or was that nothing more than her optimism working against her again?
“Alex,” he confirmed. “And not only does it seem that he's a member of the cult, but that he's the head of it, the chief priest.”
“I can hardly see why—”
“These people don't need reasons that normal people would understand,” Michael said. “They operate in another dimension altogether, on a plane of lesser sanity.”
“Still—”
“Think, Katherine!” he demanded. He sounded desperately concerned for her. She remembered the kiss, the way he had been so protective about her in the cafe… “Think of all that's happened in Owlsden since you've come there — including Yuri's murder. Doesn't it seem likely that someone in the house is a cultist?”
“You mean — Alex might have—”
“Killed Yuri.”
She did not reply.
She
All that she could think of was Alex Boland's unpleasantly negative outlook on life and the strange, pessimistic conversation of his closest friends…
“Are you there, Katherine?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be ready by eleven?”
“It won't be easy. Couldn't we wait until morning… ” Even though she was frightened badly, she did not want to admit that what Michael had told her might be true.
“Then leave your bags,” he said. “Just come along with me and look at the evidence. If you don't think it incriminates Alex, I'll take you right back to Owlsden. But I don't believe you'll want to go back, not after you see what I've seen.”
“Can't you tell me on the phone?” she asked.
“It loses its dramatic impact that way. I'm not taking any chances on under-selling this to you. I want you to see it, to be as frightened as I was — as I am.”
“I'll be outside at eleven,” she said.
“Not in front of the house.”
“Where, then?”
“At the top of the ski slope,” he said.
“You can bring the Rover up that way?”
“As easy as the road,” he said. “Maybe easier.”
“I'll be there.”
“Take care.”
“I will.”
“Eleven.”
“Sharp,” she said.
She hung up and turned around to go upstairs, the book in her hand forgotten now, and she confronted Alex who stood only a dozen feet away, as if he had been listening.
“Going out?” he asked.
His eyes seemed darker and more intense than ever.
“In the morning,” she said, thinking fast. She tried desperately to remember how much she had said, what details he might have learned from hearing one side of the conversation. “If Lydia doesn't have anything for me to
