though in good taste. It included a shower stall, a sunken, marble tub, thick, red shag carpet, a double sink, a revolving mirror between the sinks, a television set in a wall recess and a case of bath oils, perfumes and powders. It was nearly as large as the average living room.
By contrast, she was surprised at how small the dining room was, for it was no larger than the bath, with a table to seat four, buffets along two walls, two out-sized oils on the other walls, and just enough room to sit down and eat and be served in comfort. When she commented on what appeared to be an architectural mistake or eccentricity, she elicited smiles from both Lydia and Alex.
“It's the smallest of three dining rooms in Owlsden,” Lydia told her.
“Three?”
“They were never meant to be used simultaneously, though,” Alex said, grinning.
Lydia said, “This is the intimate room for small dinners, while the dining area across the hall is meant to service anywhere from eight to twenty. Upstairs, on the second level, a grand dining room for large affairs has not been used in a great many years. It can comfortably seat a hundred people, a hundred and twenty in a pinch. But I'm not much for entertaining. In fact, I'm not really that crazy for Owlsden itself. I thought it was a monstrosity of poor taste when I was a little girl, and I've never changed my opinion. I am, however,
As the dinner was served — beef stroganoff over rice, a salad and two kinds of wine, as Lydia said, “to help you taste the food more completely' — she was introduced to Mason and Patricia Keene, a middle-aged couple who took care of the kitchen, meals, serving and all related household chores. The woman was slim and attractive with large, round eyes like circles of soft gray velvet, while the husband was balding and somewhat like a stereotyped high school English teacher. Both seemed quiet and even withdrawn, though very polite and efficient.
The conversation flitted from topic to topic as they ate and was never marked by an embarrassing silence. Indeed, Katherine thought, it was almost as if the three of them had known each other for years and were accustomed to spending many evenings together immersed in conversation.
Dinner finished, they retired to the drawing room again where they were served coffee by Mason Keene and tiny fruit-nut cakes by Patricia. Somehow, without later being able to recall just what had lead her into it, Katherine mentioned the strangled, tortured cat and the Satanic markings she had found on the barn floor.
“How awful!” Lydia said. “It's the worst possible welcome I can imagine.”
“Michael Harrison warned me to be careful of such things,” she said. “He said that if I ever came across anything like that I was not to hang around it for fear the Satanists would return.”
“Silliness!” Lydia said. “What would they return for?”
“Perhaps they wouldn't appreciate my mucking around in their chalk drawings and disturbing the body of their sacrifice—”
“Don't listen to Harrison,” Alex said. The disdainful tone had come back into his voice, stronger than it had been before. “These so-called Satanists are probably a few local teenagers playing some silly games to keep the adults up in the air.”
“But killing animals is more than a game — that's ugly mischief.”
“Still, some teenagers can be ugly when they want,” Lydia said.
“I suppose.”
Lydia picked up one of the last pieces of cake and took a dainty bite from it. When she had chewed and swallowed, she said, “Anyway, even if it isn't a prank, one can hardly take Satanists seriously. I mean, all those ghostly chants at midnight, drawing chalk circles and trying to summon demons, selling their souls… It's so absurd that it's nearly funny.”
“I guess,” she said, though she did not like the way they were so quick to belittle the notion of danger.
“Don't let Harrison upset you,” Alex said, smiling at her over the last of his coffee, white trails of steam rising in front of his face so that it looked, at odd moments, as if he were staring at her through an ethereal veil. “He never has been one for responsibility. His approach to the Satanists pretty much matches his irresponsible behavior in other ways.”
“Really, Alex,” Lydia said, “you don’t have to be that hard on the boy, do you?”
“I don't like him,” Alex said flatly. His dark eyebrows pressed together over his nose as he frowned, and his lips were compressed as tightly as two pencil lines.
“I think he seems a fine, capable young man,” Lydia said imperiously, as if the subject were now closed.
“You're generous with everyone,” he said. “Far too generous.”
Katherine wished she could derail this most recent line of the conversation and get back to more pleasant topics. She had noticed, all through the evening, that Alex Boland tended to look upon the gloomy side of things, tempering his mother's bright and cheerful outlook on nearly every subject. His put-down of Michael Harrison, whom Katherine had liked a good deal, was like a black cherry on the top of his vaguely unpleasant fault-finding.
Lydia looked at her wristwatch for the first time that evening and said, somewhat surprised, “Goodness, it's going on eleven o'clock!” She smiled at Katherine and said, “I guess that's s certain proof that we are going to get along well together — I didn't notice a dull, dragging moment all evening long.” She stood up, dusting her hands together. “And I'm afraid that I have not been at all thoughtful. You haven't even been shown your quarters yet — or given a chance to rest. You must be enormously weary after a day of driving in this weather.”
“I do feel ready for bed,” Katherine admitted.
“I'd imagine the covers are turned down,” Lydia said. “Your private bath contains extra linen and towels, but Yuri can show you all of that.”
“One thing,” Katherine said.
“Yes?”
“I'd like to know what time I'm expected to be up and around in the morning and if—”
Lydia said, “No trouble there. I rise at eight-thirty or nine o'clock in the morning — neither country-early nor rich-late.” She chuckled, a sixty-four-year-old woman who looked fifty and acted thirty-five. “I'm usually ready to dictate a few letters or clear up some other business by ten-thirty or so. If you're available then, that's fine.”
“Marvelous!” Katherine said, unable to contain her enthusiasm for the relaxed schedule.
In the orphanage, the morning began promptly at seven o'clock, rain or shine, no matter what the season, except for Saturday when there was no school, no crafts and no church services. Then, you could sleep until nine or nine-thirty before the maids wanted in the rooms. In college, she had worked part time, odd hours. The job and her regular classes had precluded any lazy mornings. This position, then, was going to turn her into an idler if she were not careful — but a happy idler, anyway.
“Well, Yuri will show you to your room. He has already placed your bags there.”
When Katherine turned toward the arch, she discovered that the squat servant was waiting for her, framed by the arch as he had been framed by the massive front doors when she had first seen him earlier in the evening. He was smiling, all of his fine, white, pointed teeth showing. She had not heard his approach, and she barely heard his invitation as he said, “If you will come this way, Miss Sellers, I'll show you to your quarters.”
“Goodnight,” Katherine said.
They replied in kind as she passed through the arch in Yuri's wake, and Alex wished her a special “good sleep.”
She followed Yuri up the dimly lighted main staircase which was entirely of polished teak, so dark that it was almost black, so expensive that she did not want to consider the cost. Lydia's father had certainly been a show-off with his fortune. It was clear why Lydia, even as a child, had looked upon Owlsden as a monstrosity.
Her room was at the end of the corridor on the north wing, second floor. It was nearly as spacious as the drawing room in which they had spent most of the evening. The bed was a massive four-poster without a canopy. The ancient headboard contained twelve cleverly concealed drawers and storage slots which Yuri pointed out to her, one by one, smiling as she murmured her approval of the ancient craftsman's fine work. A crimson bedspread lay across the sheets, and two goose-feather pillows were plumped beneath it at the base of the headboard.
The furniture on both sides of the bed — a hutch, triple chest, a large easy chair with a matching footstool, a full-length mirror on a stand that permitted it to be spun about or tilted at nearly any angle, a vanity and matching bench, two nightstands each with a lamp— was equally dark and massive and lasting in appearance, but it was comfortable furniture that she would soon feel at home with.
The bath which adjoined her bedroom contained a shower stall and a sunken tub and was quite as elaborate
