Peter Pritchard gave her an amazed look, then laughed and coughed behind his hand.
Nicholas gave one final fond thought to his huge bed upstairs with Rosalind naked on her back in the middle of it, perhaps beckoning to him, smiling, then took a resolute step toward the closed library door at the end of the long corridor.
"I leave the door open," Peter said, "but it always closes. Always. At first I was disconcerted, frightened to my booted heels, to be honest about it, but now—" He shrugged and gave Rosalind another smile. "You do not appear to be afraid, my lady."
"Oh, no, I adore singing," Rosalind said and gave the young man with the clever eyes and tousled bronze hair a sunny smile.
29
Silence, dead silence. Appropriate, Nicholas thought, given his grandfather was dead and really shouldn't have anything to say about it.
He and Rosalind stepped into the huge library, so shadowed and so long you couldn't see either end of it. It was rather narrow and there were more books than Rosalind had ever seen in a single library in her entire life, and that was saying something, given Uncle Douglas's immense library at Northcliffe Hall, not to mention Uncle Tysen's vast collection at the parsonage.
"Are there windows anywhere in this room?" she asked.
"Yes," Nicholas said and strode to the front end and flung back the thick dark gold velvet draperies. He looped the thick braided cords over golden hooks. Then he flung open the windows. Light and fresh spring air flooded into the room. He sucked in the blessed fresh air, then mined to say—
There was a moan.
Both Nicholas and Rosalind froze where they stood. I m sorry, I forgot to tell you," Peter said, now coming
into the library, "but I suppose he doesn't like the light. Perhaps if you've been dead a long time, you're quite used to the dark. If you wait a bit, those draperies will close themselves again."
Nicholas didn't look away from his grandfather's old wing chair that sat at an angle to the fireplace, perfectly empty. He said, without looking away from that chair, "Have you actually seen him, Peter?"
"No, I haven't."
Nicholas nodded. "Thank you, Peter. Leave us now."
"Er, you are certain, my lord? I worry that her l
adyship—"
"Her ladyship could face down a band of Portuguese bandits," Nicholas said, smiling. "She will be fine. Leave us, everything is all right. My grandfather returned because she was coming, that is what Block said, so let him meet her."
When Peter walked out of the library, he left the door open, a demonstration, Rosalind supposed. As they watched, the door very slowly closed itself.
"Well, Grandfather," Nicholas said to the empty chair, "it seems you're causing quite a commotion. I would just as soon not hear another moan, to be honest here. Come, speak to me and Rosalind. That's why you're here, isn't it? To meet her?"
Nothing but silence, then, a very soft old voice chanted in a singsong voice,
At last the girl comes home A girl who never belonged To her is owed the debt Well met, my lad, well met.
Nicholas would have fallen over if he hadn't been leaning against the mantelpiece. The debt, he thought, the bloody debt. He still didn't understand this debt business but it was deep inside him, spun out in the dream that had filled his youth, and with it the need to pay this debt. He looked at Rosalind . She was no longer the little girl in his dream, but she was his debt, this woman, now his wife.
The old voice sang again, from everywhere and nowhere, surrounding them, yet sounding hollow, puffed out of an old reed, ancient as yellowed parchment.
The little girl nearly died The monster nearly won The debt was paid by another But the race must still be run.
The wispy voice faded into the soft air and they were alone, quite suddenly they were utterly alone, and both of them knew it. The draperies remained open.
Rosalind sang softly into the still air, toward the empty wing chair,
I dream of beauty and sightless night
I dream of strength and fevered might
I dream I'm not alone again