Once more he holds the metal shard within the cat's-eye of flame that sputters atop the candle; once more the shard grows smoky, blackened, and turns red. He lays it on the straw and scratches another sign.
Another step. There are always steps to follow, rules to be observed. Funny, that he of all people should have to play by the rules. The visitor must find it funny too. The Old One has not seen the visitor, not for more than a century, but he knows what must be happening: somewhere in the Jersey hills the process has begun. It will continue now, advancing ever more quickly, ravenous as a flame.
The flame spreads outward and licks against the metal. He holds it forth again. The signs he's scratched so far are intricate and tiny – tiny like the visitor, seemingly insignificant, easy to overlook.
But tomorrow at this time, once he's gotten the woman to perform the Ghavoola, the White Ceremony – why, then the thing will be free to advance a step up the ladder…
He places the metal shard back on the mat, whispering another word as he scratches the third and final sign. It is hard to repress a smile. Even though he knows how it all must end, he feels a certain excitement at what is to happen now. Already the woman has performed a useful service; she has played the proper messenger. But now it it time for her to garb herself in white, step forward, and assume her rightful role.
The metal is still hot, still glowing. Smiling, the pain streaks curving on his cheeks, he picks it up with the pliers and touches it to the tip of the severed finger hanging around his neck.
The finger twitches, as if recoiling from the heat.
He pulls the metal away and examines it, turning it over and over before him. The shapes scratched on its surface gleam evilly in the lamplight.
He whispers the Fifth Name. The blade is ready.
July Ninth
He arrived at seven that evening, exactly when he'd said he would. More than an hour of daylight still remained, but the sun was hidden behind a row of buildings and the avenue was dark beneath their shadows. 'I'll wait for you down here,' he shouted into the intercom. 'I've got the car tonight.'
The car? Then perhaps they'd be driving somewhere outside the city – what a relief that would be, on a night as hot as this. Crossing her fingers, she hurried down the hall toward the elevator.
Behind her she was leaving an apartment full of work. She had meant to spend all day on Rosie's project; she'd been absolutely determined to complete the task today, for earlier this week he'd provided her with a formidable array of new journal articles and reports with a host of arcane-sounding titles – Seventeen Years among the Sea Dyaks of Borneo (London, 1882), Holiday Customs in Malta, with Sports, Usages, Ceremonies, Omens and Superstitions of the Maltese People (Valletta, 1894) – but it had been so enervatingly hot in the apartment, even with the windows open, that she'd lain in bed as if drugged until afternoon and had put off starting work till just a few hours before. Hours of reading still awaited her tomorrow; she'd have to spend all day catching up.
Somehow, despite the pay, her initial enthusiasm for the project had waned. The papers had proven to be less interesting than she'd hoped, and Rosie, too, had continued to show surprisingly little interest in her summaries, barely glancing at them except to praise them mechanically and make out her paychecks, never once quizzing her on the material. The entire project had begun to seem more and more like busywork.
It felt good to escape the stuffy apartment, just as it was going to feel good to get out of the city. The thought of escape was so welcome, in fact, that it almost made her forget how unwell she'd been feeling all day. But as she pressed the button on the wall and waited for the elevator to ascend, the throbbing weakness in her legs reminded her that she would have to make this an early night. She'd been having stomach cramps since morning, and now it seemed as if a metal band were tightening round her head. Her period was due, and as she stepped into the elevator she felt the familiar heaviness, a fullness in her stomach, breasts, and thighs. A good thing the dress Rosie'd given her was so loose. It was too loose, in fact, obviously fit for someone with a bigger frame than hers; though whoever'd altered it had made the hem awfully high. Still, she told herself, I have to wear it, I simply couldn't say no; after all, it was a gift.. .
Rosie wasn't waiting for her in the hall, nor was he on the front steps when she emerged. She looked in vain for him until a horn sounded farther up the block. She recognized the car and, dimly, the little pink smiling face inside. He was waving.
As she neared he car he jumped out and ran around to the other side to open the door for her, just as if the old Chevy were a coach and four and she the princess he'd been waiting for all his long life. He himself appeared rather dapper in a blue-and-white seersucker suit, though she believed she noticed an odd little streak of red just below his ear. It looked like lipstick; perhaps the old scamp had a woman somewhere.
'You look absolutely ravishing, my dear,' he said, eyeing her up and down. 'That dress suits you perfectly. I only wish I were forty years younger!' His eyes twinkled. 'And I'm glad to see you wore your nice white shoes, that's very sensible of you. I knew you were a sensible girl.'
He's being silly, she thought, but she felt a rush of pleasure at the attention. 'Actually, the shoes belong to Rochelle,' she said. 'I'm surprised she didn't take them with her. They're a little too big for me. I had to put tissue paper in the toes.'
'That's my girl!' He beamed. 'I'm sure Rochelle won't mind. And just look at you, you're a vision – a vision all in white.' With a mock-courtly bow he took her arm, about to help her into the car, but suddenly he paused, just as she was bending to get in. 'Uh-oh,' she heard him say, 'this will never do.'
She straightened up and saw that he was frowning. Though he quickly averted his eyes, she realized he'd been staring at her hips. He was obviously embarrassed. She studied herself nervously, already worried about her period. Clearing his throat, he leaned toward her and spoke in a near whisper. I think, Carol, that with a dress as thin as that one, you might be better advised to wear, shall we say, undergarments of the same color.'
She looked down and blushed. He was right. The pink panties she was wearing showed clearly through the thin fabric of the dress.
Even as a voice inside her said And what if they do? They look sexy, she heard herself stammering apologies to him as if she'd committed some terrible faux pas. 'I'll run up and change right now,' she said. 'It'll only take a minute.'
She hurried back toward her apartment, hot with embarrassment, aware of his eyes watching her as she climbed the front steps. Upstairs in her bedroom, feeling like a little girl who'd been naughty and didn't know why, she removed the panties and slipped on a pair of white ones from her drawer. There, she thought, standing before the mirror, now I really am a vision in white… She checked once more in the mirror, half afraid that the delta of red hair below her stomach might be showing through the filmy cloth; but no, she was pale as a statue.
He was still standing by the car when she came back down the steps and seemed so genuinely pleased to see her that her mood brightened again. He hadn't really meant any harm, she told herself, he hadn't meant to embarrass her; it was really her own fault. And he hadn't been looking at her lecherously, not at all, he was just a prissy old grandfather type who wanted her to look her best.
'Wonderful,' he said, 'that's a considerable improvement. Now I know that I can take my little girl anywhere'.'' He helped her into the car and began to close the door. 'Whoops, watch your fingers now.
Don't want you to lose any!'
She tugged her dress down as she sat waiting for him to get in. She hoped there'd be no more remarks about her clothes and was determined to change the subject. I can take my little girl anywhere, he had said; perhaps it would be someplace fancy. She would love a fancy place tonight, with white tablecloths and roses, dark red roses, a vase of them on every table.
'Are you going to tell me where we're going,' she asked, as he climbed in beside her, 'or will it be a surprise?'
He turned the key, and the engine sputtered to life. 'As a matter of fact, he said, a little smile playing about his lips, 'we're going someplace special tonight, in honor of our first fortnight together.'
'Oh?'
'Yes,' he said, watching her out of the corner of his eye as he pulled out into the street. 'Tonight I'm taking you to Coney Island.'
He had been joking, of course, at least in part. As soon as he'd seen the uncertainty and disappointment on her face – disappointment she hadn't been able to hide – he'd laughed and explained that, in fact, their destination was a charming little Scandinavian restaurant near Cobble Hill in Brooklyn, where he'd already made reservations.
But afterward – after a delicious meatless meal with homemade chocolate cake shared between them, and
