emotions were, except when under the naked gaze of Ephram.
'It's going to be lovely,' Mason said, standing in the doorway of his room, eyes puffy, hair disheveled. 'You want to come in?'
She and Ephram had spent many precious nights here, hours that seemed even sweeter with the distant years. But the room disturbed her because it always bore the stink and taint of Sylva, as if the walls still harbored the memory of Ephram's sin. She could forgive, all right. All women could forgive, that was how love worked, but she would never forget. Even if Ephram let her live to be a thousand.
Mason held open the door, and she peered past him to the fireplace, the dew drying on the windowsill, the smiling face of Ephram on the wall.
'I only have a moment,' she said. 'I'm busy preparing for the party.'
'Party?'
'The blue moon party. It's something of a tradition at Korban Manor. Your presence is required.'
'Sure. I guess I could spare the time.'
'Not too much time, I hope. I know you're dedicated to your work.'
'That reminds me. Do you know anything about that painting of the manor in the basement?'
Rage filled Miss Mamie, burned her, scorched her like her dead husband's love. She no longer cared if Mason saw the flames in her eyes. He couldn't escape anyway. He was as trapped here as she was.
She forced a smile, the good hostess. 'Master Korban, I'm afraid. He once fancied himself a painter.'
The anger opened a dark tunnel in her heart, the conduit through which Ephram kept his hold over her. An icy wind blew from the mouth of the tunnel, freezing her chest. Ephram's threat and Ephram's promise. He needed her fear as much as he needed the emotions of the others. She only wished her love was all he required. But love by itself was never enough.
'He was gifted.' Mason must not have noticed her torment. She was good at hiding it, after all these decades.
'One of his greatest sorrows was that he never finished it,' she said. 'There's something melancholy about an artist's final work, even when the artist's talents are ordinary and mortal. One always hopes to make an impression that will live on after death.'
'Our vanity,' Mason said. 'And I reckon it's what drives us crazy. Because we know we'll never achieve perfection.'
'Perfection.' Miss Mamie didn't need the painting before her in order to remember. She could close her eyes and see the house, the lighted windows, the low clouds, the widow's walk. She could taste the breeze that had blown from the northwest, crisp from its journey over Canadian tundra. String music quivered in the air, smoke poured from the chimneys as it rose into the round eye of the moon. And Ephram called them up, fetched his spirit slaves, and sent them after Rachel Faye Hartley.
Ephram didn't like his own family keeping secrets from him. Rachel had fled, leapt to her death from the widow's walk. Rachel had taken her secrets to the grave, but carried them back from the grave as well.
The hurt rose inside Miss Mamie, consumed her in a blaze of hatred. Ephram and Sylva were bound by blood. His illicit family would always hold the biggest place in his everlasting heart, no matter what sacrifices Miss Mamie made. No matter how deep her devotion. And that painting, the one Ephram called his work in progress, was an eternal reminder.
She turned away, into the hall, the portrait of Ephram close enough to touch. 'That painting should have been burned long ago,' she said.
'Anna said her mother was in the painting.'
'Forget Anna. You're to think only of your statue.'
'Anna says she's never been here before. How could Korban have known? He's in the painting, too. And somebody who looks like you.'
'Illusions,' Miss Mamie said. 'Never trust an artist, because dreams lie and visions are temporary.'
'Can I trust anybody?'
'Trust your heart, Mr. Jackson. That's the only thing worth believing in.'
'My heart is getting pulled in three different directions.'
She studied the young man's face. He was a lot like Ephram in some ways, stubborn and proud, afraid of weakness and failure. But Ephram had taken matters into his own hands, determined to leave none of his work unfinished. Obsessed with controlling his world. 'I guess you'll just have to tear your heart into enough pieces to go around. As long as the biggest piece goes into your statue.'
'Don't worry. I'll make you proud. I'll make them all proud.'
'I'm sure you will. See you tonight. Don't be late.'
The door closed. Miss Mamie touched the locket that hung around her neck. When Ephram wore flesh again, he would prove that love never died. Sylva, Rachel, Anna, Lilith, and all the others would be forgotten, would be the embers of memories, fading, dying, and at last, lost to darkness. While Miss Mamie and Ephram burned on, together forever.
Anna sat on her bed, huddled in a blanket. The room had grown cold during the afternoon, the temperature falling as the fire burned low. She found herself staring at Ephram Korban's portrait, searching his face for genetic features that had been passed down to her. Korban, Rachel, Sylva. And somewhere in there, a faceless father, who'd slipped her off the mountain, abandoned her with only a first name, and died rather than return to the mountains. By his own hand and noose, according to Sylva.
She had drifted for so long, rootless and unconnected, and now she belonged to too many people. Her bloodline was too crooked, the generations skewed by whatever magic slowed the ravages of time here at the manor. Because if Sylva was a hundred and five, and Anna was twenty-six, then Rachel had died less than three decades ago. Or maybe when you died, you were ageless, and the years no longer counted.
There was a knock and Cris entered. 'Hi, girl, what's up?'
'Just brooding.'
'Hey, that's no way to spend an artists' retreat. Leave that to the idiots who think it's okay to starve for art. Or to pigheaded photographers.'
'Ah, what's the point?'
'That's exactly the point. If it doesn't matter, if it's all a solo wet dream, then why not enjoy yourself?'
'Maybe you're right. I'm taking things a bit too seriously.'
'That's the spirit.' Cris slipped into the bathroom, paused at the door. 'Excuse me. Time of the month. Full moon tonight.'
'So I hear.'
'And a big party on the roof. Miss Mamie says it's not to be missed. If Mason's there, maybe you'll get lucky.' Cris winked, then closed the bathroom door. Anna pulled the blanket more tightly about her shoulders.
When Cris came out, she rummaged in her dresser for a sweater. 'Hey, did you mess with my sketch pad?'
'I haven't been here today.'
Cris held it up. Scrawled across a large sheet of paper, in slashing strokes of red crayon, were the words Go out frost, come in fire.
'Maybe it was one of the servants,' Anna said. 'A reminder note to put more wood on the fire.'
'It's getting cold, all right. October in the mountains. If it wasn't for the falling leaves, I think I'd rather have Rio. See you tonight.' Cris waved and left, tying her hair back in a ponytail as she went.
Anna watched the grain of the door as it swirled and bent inward. A shape superimposed itself against the dark oak panels. A pale hand, holding a bouquet, the woman with desperate eyes. And that one whispered word, 'Anna.'
Resting in peace was apparently not allowed for either the dead or the living.
CHAPTER 21
Mason wished he'd brought a lantern, since the afternoon had grown suddenly dark, heavy clouds sweeping
