the views from the van window, how the rocky slopes dropped hundreds of feet on either side. They'd disembarked at a narrow wooden bridge that seemed to be the only connection between the civilized world and Korban Manor. The suitcases and bags were loaded onto a horse-drawn wagon and the guests had to walk the rest of the way to the manor.
His first step on the bridge was like a leap of misplaced faith. He'd almost lost the sausage biscuit he'd had for breakfast, even though he'd kept his eyes fixed straight ahead and a sweaty palm on the bridge rail. The great gap of space surrounding him, the soft wind rising from the valley, and the lost weight of the world hundreds of feet below all pressed against his skin. His chest clenched the breath out of his lungs and he tried to tell himself that acrophobia was an irrational fear. But only one thought kept his legs moving: this was one of those paths to success, a strait gate and narrow way that all true artists had to navigate, this scared-sick stagger was leading him closer to recognition.
Before he knew it, he was on solid ground again, though he had to lean against a tree for a moment to let the blood return to his brain. Then he joined the others on the dirt road, following in the wake of the wagon, passing through a dark forest that could have harbored any number of endangered species. The other guests chattered and laughed, as smug as tourists, and Mason wondered whether they'd even noticed the isolation of their new milieu.
Then the forest ended and Korban Manor stood before them like something out of an antique postcard. The open fields fell away to a soft swell of orchard, a patchwork of meadows, and two barns stitched together with fencing. The manor itself was three outsized stories high, tall the way they were built in the late 1800s, six Colonial columns supporting the portico ceiling at the entrance. Black shutters framed the windows against the white siding. Four chimneys puffed away, the smoke swirling through the giant red oaks and poplar that surrounded the house.
Atop the roof was a widow's walk, a flattened area with a lonely railing. He wondered if any widows had ever walked those boards. Probably. One thing about an old house, you could be sure that somebody had died there, probably a whole lot of somebodies.
A painter or photographer would probably kill for the view the widow's walk afforded. Mason might even commit a lesser crime for the privilege, except he knew he'd grow dizzy with all that open air around him and that deadly depth stretching below. At least he'd have an opportunity to study Korban Manor's intricate scrollwork from the safety of ground level.
He fought a sudden urge to pull a hatchet from his satchel and swipe it across Ephram Korban's disquieting smirk.
'You look like you could use an eye-opener,' came a voice beside him. It was Roth, the photographer who had shared a seat with him on the van. The man spoke with a clipped and not entirely authentic British accent, alcohol on his breath. A martini was poised in one wrinkled hand.
'No, thanks,' Mason said.
'It's afternoon, and we're all grown-ups here.' Roth's eyes crinkled beneath white eyebrows. His face was sharp, thin, and full of angles. Mason saw it as a natural sculpture, the weathered topography of skin, a crag of a jawbone, the eroded plain of forehead. He had a bad habit of reducing people to essential shapes and forgetting that some sort of soul might exist within the raw clay of creation.
'I don't drink.'
'Oh, you a religious nut?'
'I'm not any kind of nut, as far as I know. Except for that part about hearing God's voice in a burning bush.'
Roth laughed and drained some of the martini. 'Don't get your knickers in a twist. You're terribly young to throw in with this lot,' he said, nodding toward the people that Miss Mamie was greeting. 'What's a pip like you doing on a getaway like this?'
'I'm here on a grant. North Carolina Arts Council and Korban Manor.' Mason looked at the fire again. No faces swirled among the bright colors. No voices arose, either. He forced himself to relax.
'A real artist, eh? Not like these,' Roth said, rolling his eyes toward Miss Mamie's well-dressed guests. 'Most of them need an artists' retreat like they need another mutual fund. A bunch of tweeds whose highest endeavor is gluing dried beans to a scrap of gunny-sack.'
Another critic. Passing judgment on the unrevealed talents of others. At least they'd paid their own way, unlike Mason. 'What part of England are you from?'
'Not a pint of Brit in me,' he said. 'Was over there in the military for a while and picked up a little of the accent. Comes in handy with the birds.' He winked one of his smoky gray eyes.
'You came here to shoot, I suppose.' Mason had dated a girl at Adderly who'd had a book of Roth's work. Roth did nature, wildlife, architecture, and the occasional portrait. He couldn't touch the gritty glamour of Leibovitz or the visceral sensibility of Mapplethorpe, but his photographs possessed their own brand of blunt honesty.
'I got bankrolled by a few magazines,' Roth said. 'I'm to do some house-and-garden stuff, scenic mountain shots, that sort of tripe. I do want to shoot that bridge, though. Highest wooden bridge in the southern Appalachians, they say.'
'I believe it. Makes me spin just thinking about it.'
'You bugged by heights?'
'Where I come from, the highest building is two stories, if you don't count silos. I can handle stairs okay, but I'm not much good on a ladder. Looking down three hundred feet-'
'Drop-off like that one on every side,' Roth said, taking another drink, relishing Mason's face going pale. 'Korban liked his isolation. Wanted his place to be like one of those European castles.'
Roth lifted a toast toward Korban's portrait. 'Here's to you, old sod.'
Mason's satchel was getting heavy. He was anxious to get settled in, finish planning the pieces he wanted to work on. And Roth's accent was annoying.
A pretty woman in black came down the stairs, her dress just short of authentic Goth, a lace shawl over her thin shoulders. She appeared to be a receptionist of some kind. She led a couple away from Miss Mamie's group. The man was in his fifties, double-chinned, wearing a scowl, the woman blue-eyed with a clear complexion who could have walked off the cover of Seventeen. They went up the stairs together, the man clearing his throat, his enormous jowls quivering.
'Might get him later,' Roth said. 'Maybe at a roll-top desk with a quill pen in his hand. I'm not keen on personality work, but I could get a tidy bundle for that.'
'Who?'
Roth smiled as if Mason had just fallen off a turnip wagon. 'Jefferson Spence.'
'You mean the Jefferson Spence? The novelist?'
'The one and only. The last great southern writer. Faulkner and O'Connor and Wolfe all rolled into one, if you believe the jacket copy.'
Mason watched the writer labor up the stairs. 'What's he need with an artists' colony?'
'Fodder. You don't know much about him, do you?'
'Never read him. I'm more into Erskine Caldwell.'
'One critic called Spence's style 'stream-of-pompousness.''
Mason laughed. 'Well, it was nice of him to bring along his daughter.'
Roth shook his head. 'I suppose you don't read the tabloids, either. That's not his daughter. That would be his latest, I presume.'
Miss Mamie's voice rose, her laughter filling the foyer. To her right stood a small, dark-haired woman, about Mason's age. Mason stared at her two seconds longer than what could pass for polite interest because her cyan eyes were startling. She met his gaze, gave him a half smile, then turned her attention back to Miss Mamie.
Roth had noticed her, too. His eyes were as bright as a wolf's. 'Cute bird.'
Mason pretended not to hear. 'Excuse me. I've got to stretch my legs a little.'
Roth gave a faux gentleman's salute and went to refill his drink. Mason adjusted the satchel strap across his shoulder and went toward the open door. The wagon was gone, the squiggles of its tracks leading toward one of the barns, dark heaps of horse manure dotting the sandy road. The Korban Manor brochure had delighted in the fact that no motor vehicles would be around to 'disturb creative impulses.' Likewise, no distractions such as television, telephone, or electricity existed at the estate. A regular Gilligan's Island, Mason thought, only without the canned
