Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

"You are lovely," she said.

"One more thing." Around her neck the Duchess hung the gold locket that contained David Holmes's picture.

Then they went down together.

Marianne's new calm was sorely tested when she saw Roger Carlton's face change, at the sight of the satin wedding dress. But the doctor was magnificent. He behaved as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, or was expected to happen. He talked, he told bad jokes, he flirted with the Duchess. Somehow he got them through the first bad minutes until Carlton revived and made spasmodic attempts to join in. Lady Annabelle did not make her appearance until they were ready to go in to dinner. She looked almost undressed without a cat in her arms; the orange hairs clinging to the front of her green velvet gown suggested that she had held Horace until the last possible minute, and Marianne had a sudden insane vision of a maid wrestling the animal away before allowing her mistress to leave the room. Perhaps it was the absence of her favorite companion that made her so ill at ease; she sat in silence, moving her hands restlessly and blinking her eyes until Marianne yearned to shake her.

She was unable to eat. The time had come upon her so quickly that she felt cheated; she wanted more time to think, to plan. But perhaps it was just as well. How could one plan for the unimaginable?

When the port was brought in, the Duchess rose. "Tonight we will go out together," she said in a calm, clear voice. "Horace, give me your arm, please."

Speechless, the doctor complied. The two went out, arm in arm.

Marianne turned to Carlton. "What are we going to do? We must do something."

"Do nothing." His eyes held hers. "Say nothing, do nothing. Whatever impulse may strike you, whatever force may compel you – resist it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but -"

"Always 'but.' " He smiled at her. He seemed in the grip of some strange excitement, but his smile was free of malice, the smile of a friend.

"Roger," Lady Annabelle said plaintively, "I don't feel well. Something is going to happen. Something bad. I don't know how I know that, but I do. Must I come with you?"

"I would like you to. Do you mind? You never have before."

"But this is different. At least let me bring Horace."

"Now, Lady Annabelle…" Carlton let out a brief, unamused laugh. "After all, what does it matter? They say cats are in tune with occult forces; why not?"

"Thank you, thank you." Lady Annabelle trotted out.

Carlton offered Marianne his arm. "Cheer up," he said. "The worst is yet to come."

"You have some scheme in mind," she said, as they walked along together. "Tell me what it is. I am half insane with worry."

"You have some distance to go before you break," was the seemingly callous reply; but Marianne sensed that it was not meant in a derogatory sense, and she was pleased. "I can't tell you," he went on rapidly – for they were approaching the White Room. "I do have an idea – but it is so wild, so unlikely that I can scarcely believe it myself; and even if it is true, it gives me no real guidelines by which to act… Trust me."

She had no opportunity to reply. They were at the door.

The room felt cold, despite a blazing fire and the illusory warmth of lamps and candles. The doctor pushed aside one of the draperies and looked out.

"It is a wild night," he said gravely. "God help any poor soul abroad in this winter darkness. Honoria, in the presence of your friends, I make one last plea. Do not do this."

"I will and I shall," was the calm reply. "Horace, dim the lights."

Lady Annabelle's breathless arrival added a touch of comedy to the otherwise macabre scene. She came in sideways, her shoulders hunched, though Horace's huge orange tail hanging down over her arm made futile any attempt to hide his presence. The Duchess did not comment, however, and Lady Anna-belle sidled crab-fashion into a chair.

No one suggested forming a circle or holding hands or any of the other controls usual to such meetings. As the light gradually dimmed, Marianne watched Carlton. His face grave, his eyes abstracted, he seemed deep in thought. She had not often seen him in a serious mood, and she thought it became him.

The doctor put out the last light and shifted the heavy screen before the fire. Marianne heard the creak of leather and deduced that he had taken a chair next to the screen rather than stumble across the room in the dark.

In the silence she heard the wind crying like a lost child. Remembering Carlton's warning, she clenched her hands and determined to follow his advice.

The doctor's voice suddenly exclaimed, "Nothing is going to happen. Honoria, I beg -"

A long, drawn-out sigh broke into this speech. It was followed by a loud intake of breath that went on and on until Marianne thought it would never end. When at last the expiration followed, it too was abnormally extended. The deep, slow breathing continued for several seconds before Marianne realized that it issued from Roger Carlton. His head had fallen forward onto his breast.

"Roger?" the Duchess exclaimed in utter astonishment.

"What?" the doctor cried. "What is it?"

"Be still! Not another sound!"

Carlton's body jerked convulsively. His head fell back against the high carved back of the chair.

"He is entranced," the Duchess exclaimed. "I never knew -"

From Carlton's lips came a voice that did not sound like his – a strained yet penetrating whisper.

"Murder… will out. After years… murder…"

Somewhere in the room someone's voice caught in a harsh gasp.

"Vengeance…" Carlton's voice droned. "Vengeance is mine…"

"What are you saying?" the Duchess whispered. "Who are you? David – David, is it you?"

A breath of icy air blasted the room, sending the heavy draperies billowing furiously. With a blasphemous oath the doctor leaped from his chair and sent the screen toppling over. The fire leaped up, fanned by the wind; and in its light Marianne saw a tall figure standing in the window. It might have been male or female; it wore a long, shrouding black garment, and its head was covered. With the snowflakes swirling madly around it, it resembled some elemental spirit, born of the darkness and the storm. It lifted one arm and swept off its hat. The light shone on a cap of silvery fair hair.

The doctor shrieked like a mortally wounded animal. "Damn you! Have you come from Hell to haunt me? How many times must I kill you?"

Arms extended, fingers crooked, he plunged in a headlong rush toward the figure in black. It stepped nimbly to one side as he came at it; still shrieking curses, the doctor rushed out into the storm and was gone.

The man in black closed the windows and put out an arm to stop Carlton, who had gone in pursuit.

"You will only endanger your own life, my friend, by following. You had better stay."

Calmly, like a well-trained servant, he moved along the wall lighting the lamps. In their swelling glow Marianne saw him clearly: a tall, thin man, no longer young; his hair was not fair, but completely white.

When he removed his cloak, tossing it carelessly toward the chair, she saw that he was wearing the collar and cassock of a Catholic priest.

Carlton pressed his hand to his head. "I could not find him in this storm," he muttered, looking at the window. "It is too late now."

"It was already too late for him, long before this," the stranger said. "You will find him in the morning. It will be soon enough. You know where he has gone."

"To the waterfall, you mean?" Carlton said dazedly. "He did not kill you, then?"

"He tried." The stranger brushed the clustering curls from his high white forehead. A livid scar twisted from hairline to temple. "He did me a service, though he intended harm. My doubts and questions ended. All was made clear to me. I had found my true vocation and I followed it."