before Jamie put on whatever the hell
I laughed, but Hillary cleared his throat and warbled in his best falsetto—
Ralph gave him a thumbs-up. “Hope for the future! Yeah, that’s Axel’s new baby. He’s got some big backer in Italy, one of the DeLaurentises or somebody, wants to sink a bundle in it. That’s why we’re here—I’m doing the sets.”
Hillary and I glanced at each other. Anything connected with Axel Kern would be a plum assignment, and Ali’s father could have used the work. I stole a look at her. She seemed surprised by this revelation, but said nothing.
“Well, anyway, some kind of Big Do this weekend. Maybe catch some of you there.” Ralph stretched and began patting absently at the tools dangling from his waist. “Okay. Back to work. Jame, you seen my T square around here?”
“Nope.”
“What about my X-Acto knife?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Yeah, well, keep an eye out for ’em, okay?” He ambled across the room. “See you later, Hillary. Ali.” In the doorway he paused to flash me a grin. “Thalia.”
When he was gone Jamie sank into a chair. “God, I’m sorry.”
“He’s all right,” I said.
“Hey, he’s cool.” Ali gave Jamie a stoned smile. “Can he read auras? Harmony Shakti did that for me when I was over there last week.”
“Who’s Harmony Shakti?”
“Rachel Meyerson’s mother.” Hillary tilted his chair back and wedged his knees beneath the table. “A total fruitcake. Your father doesn’t seem like a
“Yeah, well, everything’s relative.” Jamie tapped the butter dish with the wrong end of a fork, his turquoise eyes a little too bright. “You oughta meet my mother.”
“Where’s she?” asked Ali.
“Getting her aura read somewhere down in Tennessee.” With a loud
Ali frowned.
“She dumped me and my father and joined a commune.”
“Cool,” breathed Ali. Hillary gave her a disgusted look.
“That’s a drag,” I said, but Jamie only sighed.
“I’m beat. I think I’ll crash for the night.” He eased from his seat, hands slung into his pockets. “Hillary, man. Thanks for the lift. Lynn—”
“Lit,” I said.
“—Lit. I’ll see you later.” He got halfway across the kitchen and stopped to look back at Ali.
“Hey,” she said, suddenly bouncing up, “where’s your bathroom? I gotta take a leak—”
“C’mere, I’ll show you.”
Hillary and I watched them go. We waited for Ali to return, but after a few minutes Hillary said, “I think they’ve gone to look at his etchings.”
“His aura.” I brushed the hair from Hillary’s eyes, and pointed at the front door. “Come on. I’m pretty beat, too.”
We went outside. Above us stars blazed, and the wind was no longer chilly but downright cold, sending acorns rattling down from the trees. The sound made me think of the horned man and I shivered, buttoning my jacket and wrapping my arms around Hillary.
“Well, gee, Charlotte.” He gave me a rueful smile and drew me close. “Isn’t it nice to make a new friend?”
“
We got into the car and I looked back at the cottage. All the windows were dark; the front door was shut. But as we pulled away Ralph Casson emerged. In one hand he held a hammer, swinging it lazily back and forth. The other cradled a long two-by-four like a shotgun. When he saw us he waved, raising the hammer in a triumphant pose.
“All power to the People’s Party, Comrades!”
“Right on,” hollered Hillary. The Dodge Dart groaned as it crept away, and crickets flew up around us like water spraying from a ditch. When we reached the bottom of the driveway Hillary grabbed my arm and squeezed it hard, the two of us giving the mountain a quick backward glance as the car slammed onto the paved road.
“This will end in tears,” said Hillary. He smiled but his eyes were grim. “Big fat fucking tears.” He gunned the motor and drove much too fast the rest of the way home.
6. Things Behind the Sun
IN HIS STUDY, BALTHAZAR Warnick stood in front of the window, gazing into the twilight of the Blue Ridge but seeing only the anguished face of Giulietta as she was led away by the agents of the Benandanti. When someone touched his shoulder he gasped, and held up his hand as though warding off a blow.
“Professor Warnick?”
He blinked. Beside him stood Kirsten Isaksen, the Orphic Lodge’s forbidding housekeeper. Her thin mouth was pursed, her customary scowl tempered with concern. “You have forgotten your supper, Professor. I’ve brought it up on a tray for you.”
Balthazar drew his hand across his eyes. “I’m sorry, Kirsten, I—”
“It is here.” Kirsten turned and busied herself with setting a heavy silver tray upon Balthazar’s desk, moving aside heaps of paper and a long, coiled parchment scroll.
Balthazar nodded, composing himself. “Yes, yes of course. Thank you, Kirsten, thank you very much—” He pulled an immaculate green paisley handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his thumb with it, wincing as blood welled from the cut left by the orrery. “Dinner looks very nice, and yes, I promise, I won’t feed it to the cat ever again—thank you, that’s very nice, you can bring my coffee up in a few minutes…”
He escorted her into the hall, Kirsten towering above him. When they reached the head of the stairs, she turned. “The coffee is already made, you may get it for yourself. I am going to Front Royal to see a movie. Good night, Professor.”
Balthazar watched her go downstairs, waiting until her brisk footsteps echoed into silence. Then he allowed himself the luxury of a long and heartfelt sigh, and returned to his study.
The salmon was, indeed, very good—Kirsten was a famous if imperious cook—the new dill fragrant as clover, the Tosca cake perfumed with almonds and heavy cream. He tried to force Giulietta’s memory from his thoughts and focus upon the long and irredeemably tedious recitation that was the first rite of the
