Sylva was bound here come hell or high water, and Rachel had found out way too late that what belonged to Ephram always came back. Rachel's dying here was Anna's only chance. Because Ephram would find out where Anna was, that gift of the Sight would shine like a ghost beacon in a night sky.
'And my father?' Anna said. 'Do you have any pictures of him?'
'Folks don't keep pictures around here, especially of them that want to stay dead. You ever heard of poppet magic? Where they steal your face and then steal your soul? You're the only one that can free them from Ephram.'
'What do I care?' Anna said. 'The dead will still be dead, and I'll still have nothing. At least if I die at the manor, I'll have a warm place to haunt.'
Sylva let the tears come. That was a mighty fine weapon to have around. Anna fell for it, came close, hugged her.
'Rachel gave up her life so you could get away,' Sylva whispered into Anna's ear. 'If Ephram takes Rachel now, you'll lose her forever. And them that's bound to the house, not all of them are touched by sin. Like that girl ghost, Becky, you saw on your first night here. Tree fell on her, right out of the blue. That child never hurt a fly. If anybody's spirit deserves to be set free, it's hers.'
Anna clenched her fists. 'What am I supposed to do? I'm just one person. I'm weak, I'm dying, my soul's not in such hot shape in the first place. How in the hell am I supposed to believe? '
'You gotta follow your heart, Anna.' Sylva went to the window. 'Sun's about to set. You know what that means.'
'Yeah, yeah, yeah. The blue moon.'
Sylva crossed the room, stooped slowly, silently cursing Ephram for knotting up her bones and wrinkling her skin. She put a hand on Anna's shoulder, let a tear gather in her eye, then said, 'You just follow your heart. That's what believing is all about.'
Sylva gave her another hug, and this time Anna returned it, held on with a desperation that might have been born of a lifelong loneliness. Sylva finally let go and stepped back. 'You'd best get back to the house, now. Miss Mamie's waiting.'
Anna went out into the darkening forest. The wind was sharp, cold enough that the early dew was already turning hard. This was a night of frost, Sylva thought. A night for the dead.
She closed the cabin door and went to the mantel, caressed the folded cloth, and offered up ashes of prayers for its contents.
'You gentlemen are early,' Miss Mamie said. 'Just enjoying the view,' Paul said, feet propped on the rail, a glass of the house wine in his hand.
'A lovely sunset,' she said.
Adam looked out at the edge of the world, the ridges capped with molten gold, the slopes rippling with alternating folds of color and shadow. The wind carried the promise of change, the air ripe with the last bittersweet odors of autumn. Maybe that was why he'd been so morose the last couple of days. Winter always felt like death to him, a gray wasteland to be endured, much like the nightmare from his childhood. And he'd blamed Paul for it, that seasonal shift that brought unease deep inside him.
'Aren't you glad you stayed, Mr. Andrews?' Miss Mamie said to him.
Adam and Paul exchanged glances. 'Yes,' Adam said. 'I tend to get a little melodramatic at times. Right, Paul?'
'Sure, my little poppet.' He patted Adam's hand, what Miss Mamie might take as a sign of moral support instead of a romantic gesture. 'We're having the time of our lives.'
Paul turned to Miss Mamie. 'Is it okay if I bring my video camera up? This scenery is to die for.'
Miss Mamie smiled. 'Why not? I think tonight will be quite memorable, and well worth preserving.'
Lilith came by, refilled Paul's glass, offered wine to Adam, who held up his hand in polite refusal. 'No, thanks. I'm driving.'
Miss Mamie's laughter carried on the wind. 'Oh, you're a funny one. No wonder Ephram is so fond of you.'
'Speaking of whom, I'm surprised there are no portraits of him on the widow's walk,' Paul said.
'This was one of his favorite haunts, back when he was alive. He loved nothing better than a good party, especially under the full moon.'
The Abramovs were seated against the railing near the impromptu bar, tuning their instruments. The drop in temperature affected the wood, and they had to constantly adjust the tension of the strings. As they ran through several series of scales, the shifting pitch gave the music a discordant, atonal quality.
'The Abramovs have promised an original duet,' Miss Mamie said. 'Written just for the occasion. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have preparations to attend to.'
After she left, Adam leaned forward in his chair and gripped the widow's walk, daring himself to look over the side to the small slanting roof above the portico, and to the hard arc of driveway sixty feet below. To the spot where he had died. He swallowed and closed his eyes, leaned back in the chair.
'What's the matter, Princess?' Paul asked. 'You've gone pale.'
'Shouldn't have had that second glass of wine.'
'How am I ever going to turn you into a party girl if you can't hold your liquor better than that? The night is young.'
'Yeah, but I feel a hundred years old.'
Paul patted Adam's knee. 'You stay here and rest your ancient bones, then. I'm going to get my camera.'
'And probably sneak a few hits off a joint?'
Paul gave that irresistible, mischievous grin. 'Makes me creative. And all the rest.'
'Save some for me.'
'You haven't changed a bit, no matter what they say.' Paul looked around leaned forward and kissed Adam on the cheek. 'Like the lady said it's going to be a night to remember.'
Adam watched as Paul crossed the widow's walk and slipped through the trapdoor. Lilith and the dough-faced cook were setting up a buffet table. The Abramovs had returned their instruments to their cases and now stood near the railing, talking to the Mediterranean woman, Zainab. Smoke drifted from the four chimneys, rising above the trees that surrounded the manor.
Adam hunched into his chair, shivering. He wouldn't mind a fire right now. Fall was dying and winter was coming on. Cold and gray and suffocating. Too bad this night couldn't last forever.
Sweat poured from Mason like blood from a shotgun wound, his muscles screaming as he ran the fluter under the slope that would be one of Korban's cheeks. He rammed his gouge down across the wooden shoulders with his left hand. He had never carved with both hands at the same time before, but anything was possible now. The wood seemed to peel away as if shucking itself. They were in a hurry, both he and his statue.
The voice came from the bust again, the voice that had been urging him onward, driving Mason into a frenzy of chiseling and chopping and planing. It had scared him at first, but now the voice was just that of another instructor, albeit the most demanding one Mason had ever worked under.
This was the most demanding of critics.
The tunnel was waiting if he failed.
The dark crib and the rats and his mama with the squeaky voice and long gray tail.
'More off the shoulder, you fool,' said the bust.
Mason looked at the bust, at Korban, his creation, his first masterpiece. The lantern on the table threw the left side of the bust into shadow.
The wooden lips moved again. 'Hurry. They're waiting.'
'Who?' Mason's syllable was a whisper. The air of the basement was charged with an eerie static. The hairs on the backs of his hands tingled. Flames roared up the central chimney on the other side of the stone wall.
'Get on with it, sculptor.'
'I need to rest.'
'You'll have plenty of time to rest later.'
Mason laid his tools on the table, wiped his brow, sagged to the concrete floor in exhaustion. Then he saw Korban's painting of the manor, the one someone must have altered while Mason wasn't around. Because the
