"I know, Miss Paget. Are you perhaps going to make me some very sad children now?"
"I don't know if I can."
"Make what you want. I'm behind you. Don't make sad children. Too many other artists do that well."
He started to rise, slowly, the signal of dismissal, and he wasn't surprised when she rushed to her feet.
"Thank you, Mr. Ash," she said again, reaching for his hand--his huge, long-fingered hand. "I can't tell you how much ..."
"You don't have to."
He let her take his hand. Sometimes people didn't want to touch him a second time. Sometimes they knew he wasn't a human. Never repelled by his face, it seemed, they were often repelled by his big feet and hands. Or, deep in their subconscious, they realized his neck was just a little too long, his ears too narrow. Humans are skilled at recognizing their own kind, tribe, clan, family. A great part of the human brain is organized around merely recognizing and remembering types of faces.
But she was not repelled, merely young and overwhelmed, and anxious over simple transitions.
"And by the way, Mr. Ash, if you don't mind my saying it, the white streaks in your hair are very becoming. I hope you don't ever color them out. White hair is always becoming on a young man."
"Now, what made you say that, Miss Paget?"
She flushed once more, but then gave in to laughter. "I don't know," she admitted. "It's just that the hair is so white, and you're so young. I didn't expect you to be so young. That's what is so surprising--" She broke off, unsure; he had best release her before she tumbled too quickly into her own imagined failures.
"Thank you, Miss Paget," he said. "You've been very kind. I've enjoyed talking with you." Reassurance, blunt and memorable. "I hope to see you again very soon. I hope you'll be happy."
Remmick had come to spirit the young woman away. She said something else hastily, thanks, avowals of inspiration and determination to please the whole world. Words to that sweet effect. He gave her one final sober smile as she went out and the bronze doors were shut behind her.
When she got home, of course, she would drag out her magazines. She would do addition on her fingers, maybe even with a calculator. She would realize he couldn't be young, not by anyone's count. She'd conclude he was past forty, and carefully fighting fifty. That was safe enough.
But how must he deal with this in the long run, for the long run was always his problem? Here was a life he loved, but he would have to make adjustments. Oh, he couldn't think of something so awful just now. What if the white hair really began to flourish? That would help, wouldn't it? But what did it really mean, the white hair? What did it reveal? He was too content to think of it. Too content to court cold fear.
Once again he turned to the windows, and to the falling snow. He could see Central Park as clearly from this office as from the others. He put his hand on the glass. Very cold.
The skating lake was deserted now. The snow had covered the park, and the roof just below him; and he noticed another curious sight which always made him give a little laugh.
It was the swimming pool on top of the Parker Meridien Hotel. Snow fell steadily on the transparent glass roof while, beneath it, a man was swimming back and forth in the brightly illuminated green water, and this was some fifty floors perhaps above the street.
"Now that is wealth and that is power," he mused quietly to himself. "To swim in the sky in a storm." Build swimming pools in the sky, another worthy project.
"Mr. Ash," said Remmick.
"Yes, my dear boy," he said absently, watching the long strokes of the swimmer, seeing clearly now that it was an elderly and very thin man. Such a figure would have been the victim of starvation in times past. But this was a physically fit individual--he could see it--a businessman, perhaps, snared by economic circumstances in the bitter winter of New York, swimming back and forth in deliciously heated and safely sanitized water.
"Phone call for you, sir."
"I don't think so, Remmick. I'm tired. It's the snow. It makes me want to curl up in bed and go to sleep. I want to go to bed now, Remmick. I want some hot chocolate and then to sleep and sleep."
"Mr. Ash, the man said you would want to speak to him, that I was to tell you ..."
"They all say that, Remmick," he answered.
"Samuel, sir. He said to tell you that name."
"Samuel!"
He turned from the window, and looked at the manservant, at his placid face. There was no judgment or opinion in his expression. Only devotion and quiet acceptance.
"He said to come to you directly, Mr. Ash, that it was the custom when he called. I took the chance that he--"
"You did right. You can leave me alone for a little while now."
He took his chair at the desk.
As the doors closed, he picked up the receiver, and pressed the tiny red button. "Samuel!" he whispered.
"Ashlar," came the answer, clear as if his friend were truly at his ear. "You've kept me waiting fifteen minutes. How important you've become."
"Samuel, where are you? Are you in New York?"
"Certainly not," came the reply. "I'm in Donnelaith, Ash. I'm at the Inn."
"Phones in the glen." It was a low murmur. The voice was coming all the way from Scotland ... from the glen.
"Yes, old friend, phones in the glen, and other things as well. A Taltos came here, Ash. I saw him. A full Taltos."
"Wait a minute. It sounded as if you said--"
"I did say this. Don't get too excited about it, Ash. He's dead. He was an infant, blundering. It's a long story. There's a gypsy involved in it, a very clever gypsy named Yuri, from the Talamasca. The gypsy would be dead right now if it weren't for me."
"Are you sure the Taltos is dead?"
"The gypsy told me. Ash, the Talamasca is in a dark time. Somethin
g tragic has happened with the Order. They'll kill this gypsy soon, perhaps, but he's determined to go back to the Motherhouse. You must come as soon as you can."
"Samuel, I'll meet you in Edinburgh tomorrow."
"No, London. Go directly to London. I promised the gypsy. But come quickly, Ash. If his brothers in London catch sight of him, he'll be dead."
"Samuel, this can't be a correct story. The Talamasca wouldn't do such things to anyone, let alone its own people. Are you sure this gypsy is saying true things?"
"Ash, it has to do with this Taltos. Can you leave now?"
"Yes."
"You won't fail me?"
"No."
"Then there's one more thing I must tell you right now. You'll see it in the papers-in London as soon as you land. They've been digging here in Donnelaith, in the ruins of the cathedral."
"I know this, Samuel. You and I have talked about this before."
"Ash, they dug up the grave of St. Ashlar. They found the name engraved in the stone. You'll see it in the papers, Ashlar. Scholars are here from Edinburgh. Ash, there are witches involved in this tale. But the gypsy will tell you. People are watching me. I have to go."
"Samuel, people are always watching you, wait--"
"Your hair, Ash. I saw you in a magazine. Are those white streaks in your hair? Never mind."
"Yes, my hair is turning white. But it's happening slowly. I haven't aged otherwise. There are no real shocks for you, except the hair."
"You'll live till the end of the world, Ash, and be the one to make it crumble."
"No!"
"Claridge's in London. We are leaving now ourselves. That's a hotel where a man can make a big oak fire in the grate, and sleep in a big old cozy bedroom full of chintz and hunter-green velvet. I'll be waiting for you there. And Ash. Pay the hotel, will you? I've been out here in the glen for two years."
Samuel rang off.
"Maddening," he whispered. He laid down the phone.
For long moments he looked at the bronze doors.
He didn't blink or focus when the doors opened. He scarcely saw the blurred figure who came into the room. He was not thinking, he was merely repeating the words Taltos and Talamasca inside his head.