G Malliet - Death and the Lit Chick

"I rather think it's part of Edith's job to keep that type away from Tom," said Mrs. Elksworthy.

"What an odd couple they make," said Annabelle. "She and Tom."

"Without a doubt," said Mrs. Elksworthy. "The miracle is that anyone as unpleasant as Tom Brackett managed to attract a mate in the first place. And yet those two have been together a donkey's age, content to all appearances. At least, Tom seems content. Edith merely seems flattened into quiescence."

"The spy who loved me," said Winston.

"I've also heard he was a schoolteacher," said Annabelle, "which is tremendously difficult to imagine, unless it was in a juvenile detention center. And that he was an actor at one time, but I think that's a story that's become mixed up with a screenwriting stint out in Hollywood. Certainly I've heard most often he was a spy, presumably for our side."

"He was just bloody rude to Rachel Twalley tonight," said Winston. "Not to mention poor Edith. Anyone for another drink before I go?"

Portia thought Winston seemed unusually nervy this evening-unlike the mellow, somewhat melancholy self he most often projected. Probably more of the fallout from Kimberlee's award, she decided.

Donna, having just rejoined them, may have noticed the shift in mood, too. She suddenly asked the group, "Did I tell you the bar used to be part of a priest's hole? They converted it when the hotel opened."

"Converted?" said Annabelle. "No pun intended, I presume. I read somewhere the castle has the requisite ghost, too."

"The Lady in White. Oh, yes, indeed," said Donna. "Most thrilling. It's a woman killed by a jealous wife while her husband was away. Or was it the wife who was killed? I always get it mixed up. Anyway, this had to have been… oh, I don't know. Sometime during the Crusades or later. She wanders the halls in a white gown-or so they say. I've not seen her. They do say only those who die young become ghosts. I think it must be true-they've left behind so much unfinished business."

This led to a swapping of macabre stories of ghosts and hauntings, on which Joan Elksworthy seemed to be an expert. From there, the conversation criss-crossed Scottish history and then, by some strange byway, arrived at the merits of Meryl Streep. Was she a great actress or merely a talented mimic?

"Oh, please," said Annabelle. She flattened her voice, shrieking a perfect imitation: "The dingo ate my baby!"

Everyone, laughing, took a turn trying out the phrase.

St. Just stole a look at his watch. It was early-just past 9:30. He had sat for the most part in silence, listening, and observing the others-one in particular. A crack of nearby lightning caused him to look over to the window. Kimberlee had slipped out of the room at some point; Jay sat alone, apparently lost in thought, staring into his drink.

St. Just, with a glance at Portia as he stood to leave, sighed. He just missed seeing her fleeting look of disappointment at his departure.

Portia left the group around a quarter to eleven as the party was winding down. Rachel Twalley and the Scottish dignitaries had departed long before-Donna Doone had left the library briefly to activate the button that would close the drawbridge behind them.

Portia stole a peek into the sitting room where Tom and Edith, Quentin Swope, and B. A. King sat watching the telly. She waved them goodnight as she passed.

Walking upstairs, Portia saw a figure she couldn't make out just ahead of her, at the curve of the staircase. Oh, my, she thought, grinning to herself. The famous shadowy figure of Magretta's novels. Whoever or whatever it was, she saw it pass by an angular form that could only belong to Winston Chatley.

At that moment, the lights went out. Disoriented, Portia stumbled, grabbing at the railing just in time to keep her balance. The darkness seemed to stretch ahead forever as she stood frozen, unable to decide whether to go up or down.

Great, she thought. All that's missing is Bella Lugosi creeping down the hallway.

She heard, faintly, a man's voice saying, "Kimberlee?"

Soon afterwards, the same voice was at her elbow.

"Are you all right?"

The flare of a lighter hissed into life and a ghostly, disembodied face, lit from beneath, appeared-the face of a gargoyle.

"Winston?" she said faintly. "Yes, I'm fine, thanks. Power outage, it looks like."

"Damn!" The lighter went out. "Sorry, the metal gets too hot. I can't keep it lit very long. What do you want to do? Go up or down?"

"Do you think you could bring up some candles from the dining room?"

"Good idea," he said. The lighter shot into flame again as he started down, calling, "Kimberlee, can you hear me?" He turned back to Portia. "That's odd. She was just here. Wait for me."

He returned perhaps ten minutes later, his features again lit eerily from underneath, this time by candlelight. Black shadows played under his dark eyes. Portia had called out Kimberlee's name once or twice in the meantime, but had gotten no response.

Winston handed one candlestick to Portia and they continued up the stairs. They had reached the hallway of the next floor when he asked, "Where has Kimberlee gone?"

"I don't know," said Portia. "I couldn't see or hear anything and she didn't reply when I called to her. I assume she found her way to her room somehow."

Just then a door off the hallway creaked open. St. Just peered out, wearing one of the hotel's white bathrobes over blue-striped pajama bottoms, a book under one arm.

"I've just been trying to read by the fire," he said. "It makes you wonder how our ancestors weren't blind by the age of thirty."

"Most of them were dead of battle, disease, or childbirth well before that became a problem," she said. Seeing the cover of his book, she added, " Baudolino? How are you enjoying that?"

"I've been reading it for two years now," he said. "Every time I get to chapter three I get interrupted by something at work. Then I have to start over."

Just then there was a rumble of thunder followed shortly by a brilliant flash of lightning. The trio having moved into the room to escape the cold of the hallway, Portia crossed over to a window and looked out into the night. She saw Donna Doone far below, moving across an inner courtyard. What on earth could she be thinking, to be out in such a storm? In the light cast by the moon Portia could see she was holding a candle, long extinguished by the wind.

"Do you want to join me for a drink?" Winston asked St. Just. "Maybe just until the power is restored?"

St. Just shook his head, stifling a yawn.

"I'll just finish the chapter and be asleep again in ten minutes. It was only the hubbub that woke me up."

They wished him good night and continued making their slow way down the hallway, the wind outside wailing as it whipped around the turrets.

Suddenly, Portia didn't want to be alone in her room.

"I think I'll go down and find a book to read," she told Winston. "I forgot to bring anything with me and the only reading material I have is the conference program."

"Bound to cause nightmares," he said, nodding somberly. Then he gave her one of his sudden sweet smiles that took the edge off his saturnine looks. She smiled back.

Just then they both noticed a dark apparition hovering at the foot of the main staircase. As they approached, the specter resolved itself into Donna Doone.

"The bartender says we're all trapped inside," she told them. "The drawbridge over the moat is run by electricity, you see."

"Don't the ropes work mechanically?" asked Winston.

Donna shook her head. "That rope-and-pulley thing is there only for show. But they think they'll have the generator working soon. What's odd is the backup system seems to have blown as well. Meanwhile, it's eat, drink, and be merry in the bar, but I've had a sufficient amount. I'll see you all tomorrow."