Crescendo

Gideon's hand moved then, reaching up to play with the loose silvery hair which blew in a cool wind.

They touched each other in a silence which was free of emotion. Gideon drew her down on the bed and she sighed. All their movements had a sensual delicacy which in the dream was like a slow-motion film, each caress precise and studied, with the con­sciousness of an action often repeated.

His mouth moved on hers and she began to tremble, her hands holding the black head. Gideon suddenly rolled on top of her, pressing her down into the bed.

There was an ache inside her body, a burning dissolving sweetness which was also pain. Gideon lay on her, breathing hoarsely now, so that the roughly drawn sound of his intake of air filled her ears. His mouth touched her throat. He kissed her shoulders quickly, hurriedly, each touch of his mouth moving onward, downward until his face was buried between her breasts, then he was moving against her restlessly, his hands sliding down her body.

She opened her eyes as though her lids were heavy. Gideon's head lifted and his eyes were blind in the moonlight although his eyes were open. The pres­sure of desire seemed to be forcing itself against the inside of her skull, fountaining into her head from deep within her body.

They were neither of them saying a word. Their limbs moved in naked smoothness, clinging. Marina ran her hands down his long, smooth back and felt the tension of his muscles tighten, then Gideon gave a wild, harsh moan and they were melting, their arms around each other, their faces cheek to cheek, their breathing sharp and agonised with pleasure.

She revolved in waves of passion, hearing his cries like echoes of her own, questioning nothing, un­afraid and unsurprised. The release came like drowning. She sank, slackening, a long sigh on her lips, and Gideon lay on her, shaking. It seemed a long time before either of them moved again.

Then she was floating again, her arms around his neck. He kissed her gently and laid her down. The dream folded like a flower at nightfall.

When she woke up the dream came back into her mind at once, sharp as a thorn, and her face flowered in hot colour. She put her hands over her eyes, shamed and horrified. She had never had such a dream in her life. Through her fingers she saw the dolls staring bolt-eyed at her. Disapproving, prim, they sat with turned-up toes in the morning sun­light.

'It didn't happen,' she said to them crossly. 'Can I help my dreams?'

What were dreams? The adventures of the sub­conscious when it was freed by sleep? During the day the conscious mind kept tight hold of the body, reining it like a troublesome horse, but in sleep it lost its dominance and the subconscious poured from its hiding place like smoke, like a genie from a bottle.

'Stop staring at me!' Marina said to the dolls, and

jumped out of bed. Her skin this morning felt cool and alive. She was aware of a relaxation of some tension. Dressed, she went downstairs and Gideon was reading over a cup of coffee, his black head bent. He looked round, smiling casually, and she felt her face colour at the sight of him, but there was no answering consciousness in his features. If he knew! she thought, trying to make herself as calm as he was, somehow smiling back at him. 'I heard Mr Grandison moving half an hour ago,' he said. 'I took him some coffee, but he isn't coming down. He feels tired.'

She looked worried. 'He isn't ill?'

Gideon glanced at her. 'He's in his seventies It f can't be expected he'll leap around like a spring lamb.'

She gave a little sigh. 'Don't!' Grandie was her whole life. She could not bear to think of him as being old.

Gideon looked at her carefully. 'I don't think you need to fret. He's still very healthy. Apart from his " rheumatism he's sound for years. But pain is tiring, Marina, and he's in constant pain.'

'I know.' She sat down and looked at him un­happily. 'It's so awful not being able to do anything - about it.'

'You are doing something about it,' Gideon said gently. 'Just by being yourself. -Grandie is living through you. When he listens to you playing he's living again.'

She knew that and was worried by it. Grandie hoped for too much from her. He burdened her with the pressure of his hope. He set her an im- possible standard. Nothing short of perfection, and Marina was afraid of failing him.

Gideon was watching her. Their eyes met and she had a curious feeling that he could read her thoughts. It was not the first time she had felt that. He touched her hand briefly.

'He's very proud of you. You've given his life new meaning.'

His voice had a quiet authority. He sounded as if he knew exactly how Grandie felt, knew things she did not see how he could know.. He was a stranger to them, yet he spoke as one vested in authority. Marina frowned.

'Tell me the truth, Gideon.'

Her voice pleaded and he stared at her without a flicker of expression.

'What do you mean?'

She gestured with her pale hands. 'What is the truth? Have you and Grandie met before? I'm not stupid—I know there's something strange going on since you came.'

He got up and looked at her searchingly. 'Marina, do you trust me?'

Eyes widening, she stared into the hard dark face. There was the slightest pause. Then she said with a sigh, 'Yes.'

She did trust him. How could she fail to do so when his eyes were so cool and steady, his mouth strong and firm? He was a man on whom one could trust, her instincts told her that.