He was weeping because he realized he couldn't remember his mama's name. But sorrow didn't matter now, neither did the pain, nor the nails in his flesh, nor the missing hand, nor the dust filling his lungs, nor the creeping night. Even Old Leatherneck was nothing, just a distant jungle ghost, a cobweb, an echo.
All that mattered were the miners' rails and that turn in the bend, and the tunnel opening into a deeper, airless blackness. A black beyond the colors of pain.
She was waiting. With company.
Johnny Cash was right, and the encyclopedia was wrong.
The snakes did crawl at night.
CHAPTER 4
Mason was tired from his walk along the wagon trails. He'd spent the afternoon trying to clear his head, relishing the solitude and quiet of the mountain forest that surrounded the estate. Out there, under the ancient hardwood trees, nobody had any expectations of him. He didn't have to be a hot new artist, he wasn't the repository for his mother's hopes and dreams, he had no obligation to prove his worth to the world's most unforgiving father. On the grounds of Korban Manor, he was just another loser with a bag of tricks.
The foyer was nearly empty when Mason returned to the manor just before sunset. He nodded at an elderly couple who wore matching jackets, their shirtsleeves laced, drinks poised. Roth and a dark-skinned woman were talking, Roth miming as if he were snapping a photograph. The gaunt maid stood at the foot of the stairs, hands clasped behind her back, staring at the portrait of Korban. Mason waved to Roth and crossed the room, careful to avoid looking into the fireplace. He was afraid he'd see something that probably wasn't there.
He touched the maid on the shoulder. She spun as if electrocuted, and Mason stepped back and held his hands apart. 'Sorry to startle you. Are you the one showing us our rooms?'
She forced a smile and nodded. Mason squinted to read the brass nameplate fixed to her chest. Lilith.
'Name, please?' Her voice was barely above a whisper. Roth's laughter boomed from the other end of the room, no doubt fueled by one of his own jokes.
'Jackson,' Mason said.
'Mr. Jackson, you're late.' She tried a smile again, but it flitted across her pale face and settled into the shadows of her mouth. 'Second floor, end of the south wing.'
'I hope we've got bathrooms,' he said, trying for bumpkin humor. 'I know we're supposed to go back in time, but I didn't see an outhouse anywhere.'
'Shared baths for adjoining rooms only,' she said, already heading up the stairs. 'You have a private bath. Follow me, please.'
Mason took a last look back at the fireplace, then at Korban's giant face. Even with dead eyes and confined to two dimensions, the man had charisma. But then, so had David Koresh, Charles Manson, and Adolf Hitler. And Mason's father. The gallery of assholes. Mason shook his head and started up the stairs. Lilith hadn't offered to carry his satchel. Maybe she'd noticed how possessively he clung to it, or maybe the chivalry and manners of the nineteenth century still held sway here.
Lilith glided over the oak treads with a swish of her long dress. If she was going for big-city Goth, she certainly had the sickly complexion for it. She moved with a grace that belied her brittle features. Judging from her bony hands and the angles of her skull, Mason expected her to clatter when she walked.
The second floor was as grand as the first, with the same high ceiling and wainscoting. A pair of chandeliers hung above the great hallway, each with cream-colored candles stuck in a silver ring and surrounded by crystal teardrops. Astral lamps burned at eye level every twenty feet, the flames throwing enough light to shrink the shadows along the wood trim. Rows of three solid maple doors lined both walls, and oil landscapes were set at intervals between the rooms. The art was of high quality, all of manor scenery. One of the paintings was of the wooden bridge that Mason and the guests had crossed, and the image brought back memories of his light-headed panic. It, like the other paintings, bore no artist's signature.
Huge portraits of Korban, with different lighting effects than the one in the foyer but possessing the obligatory scowl of the era, hung at each end of the hall.
'Nice paintings,' he said to Lilith.
'Mr. Korban lived for his art. We all did.'
'Oh, are you one of us?' He meant it as humor. Either he was too worried about his imminent failure as a sculptor or she was preoccupied, but the joke fell as flat as canvas.
'I used to be,' Lilith replied.
They passed an open door and Mason looked inside. Jefferson Spence's bulk was overwhelming a wooden swivel chair as the writer unpacked papers and spread them across a desk. Miss Seventeen was nowhere in sight. Mason noticed that the room only had one bed, then quickly looked away, chiding himself for being nosy.
Lilith led him before a door at the end of the hall. It creaked as she pushed it open. She stood aside so Mason could enter, her eyes on the floor.
'Thanks,' Mason said. His battered suitcase, a Samp-sonite with electrician's tape holding the handle together, was already inside the room. The suite was large with a king-sized wooden poster bed, cherry desks, matching chestnut bureaus, and round-topped nightstands. Tall rectangular windows were set in the south and west walls, and Mason realized the room would get sunlight throughout the day. That was a luxury at a place that had no electricity. The setting sun suffused the room with a honey-colored warmth.
'Wow. This must be one of the better rooms,' he said.
The maid still waited outside, as if afraid to breathe the room's air.
'It's the master suite,' she said. 'It used to be Ephram Korban's bedroom.'
'Is that why his portrait's on the wall?' Mason said, nodding to the painting that hung above the bedroom's large fireplace. It was a smaller version of the painting that hung in the foyer, of a slightly younger Korban. The eyes, though, were just as black and bottomless, and the faintest hint of a smile played across those so-cruel lips.
'Miss Mamie chose this room especially for you,' Lilith said without emotion. 'She said you've come highly recommended.'
Mason tossed his satchel on the bed. The tools clinked dully together. 'I hope I can live up to her expectations.'
'Nobody has yet.' Lilith still waited outside the door. If she was joking, there was no sign of it in her wan face.
'Uh, I don't know much about places like this,' he said, putting a hand in his pocket, falling back on his 'Aw, shucks' routine. He'd learned that people were more forgiving if they thought he was a dumb hick because their expectations were lower. He achieved the same effect with his southern drawl, though that was mostly unintentional. He secretly suspected his success at Adderly had been due to the sophisticated instructors' amazement that a country rube could break the confines of his heritage and actually compete in the ranks of the cultural elite. 'You might think I'm stupid, but am I supposed to tip you?'
'No, of course not. And Miss Mamie would kill me if you tried.' Lilith managed a smile, relieved at being dismissed. She was even attractive, in a nervous, pallid way, like a princess whose head was due to roll. She wasn't as pretty as the stuck-up woman with the cyan eyes, but Lilith probably wasn't contemptuous of artists if she herself was one.
Lilith pointed to the door on the west wall. 'The bathroom's in there.'
'Fine.' He sat on the bed.
'Is that all?'
'Unless you want to take off my shoes for me.'
She took a hesitant step forward, staring at the floor.
'Hey, I was just kidding.' He gave a laugh that sounded like a horse choking on an apple.
Lilith flashed her feverish smile again, then said, 'Dinner's at eight sharp, Mr. Jackson. Don't be late. Miss Mamie wouldn't like it.'
Then she was gone. Mason turned his attention once more to the furnishings. A lamp stood on each
