Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

Again she stumbled, and since they were at that time descending a staircase, the lawyer's grip on her arm prevented what might have been a nasty fall.

"Watch where you are going," he muttered.

Marianne began to feel dizzy again. She attributed this sensation to the latest shock she had received, but had no intention of using it as an excuse for sympathy.

"These slippers are too large." she said. "But I asked you -"

"Not surprising that they should be. Her Grace insisted on purchasing them and the other garments without having the least idea of the appropriate sizes. She seems to have done remarkably well, in general. I suppose she will pretend that she obtained your dress size from the ghost of David Holmes."

It was clear that he was trying to change the subject because he regretted the question that had given Marianne her first clue as to what was in store for her. Why, she thought, with a flare of anger, his soft words mean nothing. He does not trust me at all.

At the foot of the staircase they turned to the left and followed another corridor into the depths of the mansion, coming, at last, to an open doorway.

The first sight of the chamber within made Marianne gasp. It was not its magnificence that affected her, though the decor employed only the richest materials. There was not a trace of color in the room. Hangings, rugs, walls were of the same unrelieved white. Crystal chandeliers and sconces, ornaments of ivory and glass gave the room a frosty glitter that lowered the actual temperature by many degrees. Even the wood of the furniture had been overlaid in silver or mother-of-pearl.

Marianne did not need to be told that this was the scene of her purported father's occult activities in Devenbrook House.

A circular table in the exact center of the room, covered with snowy damask that fell in ample folds to the floor, was surrounded by several chairs upholstered in white velvet. The Duchess was already seated. With an imperious gesture she indicated that Marianne should take the chair at her right. The doctor moved along the wall loosening the heavy silver cords that held back ivory damask draperies. As each section of fabric fell into place across the window, the room sank deeper into an absence of light which was not so much darkness as an eerie, pallid shadow.

For a brief time the Duchess sat quietly, her head bowed as if in prayer. Then she lifted her eyes toward Marianne and the girl felt a cold, unpleasant thrill run through her. The strange light stripped colors of their warmth; the old woman's face was as bloodless as that of a corpse. Only her eyes burned with fanatical fervor. Not until much later was Marianne able to understand the emotion that filled them. It was hunger – insatiable, greedy desire. Though she did not fully comprehend, the intensity of that desire could not help but fill her with the gravest sensations.

"Do you understand what we are doing, my dear?" the Duchess inquired.

The gentle, familiar voice was reassuring – but it was also startling, coming from that frightening face. Marianne felt peculiar. The blood seemed to be slowing in her veins, her heart to beat less rapidly.

"No," she murmured.

"Open your heart," the Duchess whispered. "Invite them to enter. They are there, just beyond the veil of the senses – thronging, hoping for contact. Empty your mind and heart of all but thoughts of love."

Marianne did not find it difficult to empty her mind. Indeed, her thoughts seemed to be dissolving into an inchoate mass. It was rather a pleasant sensation.

"One moment." Carlton's deep voice cut through the fog that filled her head. "I would like to see Miss Ransom's hands on the table."

"Roger, Roger." The Duchess shook her head sadly. "Very well; we will clasp hands."

She extended her shapely white fingers. Marianne took one of her hands and the doctor took the other. The girl's right hand was clasped by Carlton.

Thinking thoughts of love was not as easy as Marianne had supposed. Dutifully she first considered her father and tried to squeeze out a tender memory or two. All she could conjure up was a vision of the Squire as she had last seen him, flat on his back in bed, with the counterpane rising to a hump over his stomach and his ruddy face peering around it like a harvest moon behind a winter hill.

Deciding that her father had not the face or the figure to inspire romantic visions, Marianne tried to think of something else. Very faintly, through the thickness of window glass and curtains, she heard a trill of birdsong. After that the silence was absolute. Her ears began to ring.

Two loud, distinct raps echoed through the stillness. The Duchess's hand contracted, squeezing Marianne's fingers painfully, but neither pressure nor sound disturbed her dreamlike reverie. In a voice vibrant with repressed emotion the Duchess said, "Is someone here?"

A single rap replied. Then the table began to move.

It tilted violently once and then settled into a steady rocking motion. Marianne had the sensation of swaying in tempo with it.

The lawyer's hand was like a vise, locking hers, but she scarcely felt his touch. Her head had become detached from her body. It was floating several inches above her neck. The sensation was very odd. She heard a soft moan and wondered if it had come from her neck or her head.

"She is going into a trance," the Duchess exclaimed, in a thrilling whisper. "Marianne, can you hear me?"

A sharp staccato creak replied.

"For pity's sake, Honoria," the doctor exclaimed.

"Be still! Marianne… whoever you are … speak to me!"

Marianne tried to oblige. No words came from her lips. She was floating in a crystalline underwater world, lifted up by the limpid liquid, swaying with the gentle current. The table continued to rock, until all at once, with the impact of a thunderbolt, something flashed in the dim light and fell, striking the tabletop with a solid thump. The table stopped moving. On it lay a small carved bust barely eight inches in height, with the frosty glitter of ice. Despite the dimness of the room and the transparency of the rock crystal, Marianne recognized the carved features. The empty eyes seemed to stare directly into hers; the delicate mouth was curved in a smile. The carving, which had apparently materialized in midair over the table, was of David Holmes.

Marianne made a rude, gurgling sound and, for the second time in an hour, fainted.

Her awakening was a nightmarish repetition of the earlier recovery, and she wondered hazily if the entire episode, culminating in that shattering materialization, had been merely a feverish dream. The same rosy draperies surrounded her, the same fingers touched her wrist, the same gruff voice demanded, "Drink this."

Here, however, the pattern changed.

"Oh, do stop fussing, Horace," the Duchess exclaimed. "She needs only peace and rest. Such exhaustion often follows the trance state; I have seen it before."

"Balderdash!" was the emphatic reply. "Today's young ladies fall into a faint on the slightest provocation. Sheer affection and tight lacing, that is all. If I have said it once, I have said it a hundred times -"

"Yes, my dear doctor, you have," Carlton interrupted. "Do you feel that this is not a counterfeit swoon, then?"

At this Marianne closed her eyes and kept them closed. She was still giddy, but beneath her physical distress, a feeble anger stirred. They were all talking about her as if she were incapable of hearing or responding. Even the Duchess treated her like a new toy.

The discussion continued. The Duchess insisted that Marianne had not fainted, but gone into a trance; the doctor declared that her pulse rate and pallor and other symptoms were suggestive of a faint; and the lawyer interjected skeptical comments and questions. Finally the doctor let out a roar. "This must stop. We are bickering over this unfortunate young woman as if she were a bone and we a pack of hungry dogs… I beg your pardon, Honoria!"