Scott Nicholson - The Manor

Miss Mamie would know, or maybe Lilith, who'd shown an interest in the painting. Perhaps he'd be allowed to take it to his room and hang it beside that portrait of Korban. A master and his domain.

He leaned the painting back against the cupboard. His own work was more important. That was the artist's first tenet. Creative duty first, everything else second.

Besides, Mama was watching.

His wood called to him in the language of the unborn. He answered, with chisel and claw, tooth and hatchet, sharp blade and hungry soul.

Adam found Miss Mamie after breakfast. She sat in a wicker chair in the study with her hands folded in her lap. She was dressed in forest green today, her decol-lette gown showing the pale expanse of her upper bosom. She had foregone her pearl necklace in favor of a black silk choker.

She lifted her hands, revealing some small pieces of wood spread across a cloth. She had a knife in one hand, bits of wood clinging to the blade. As Adam watched, she sliced a length of thick vine and began wrapping it around what looked like the torso of a doll. The doll's head looked like a knob of dark, shriveled fruit, the features stretched and distorted from the act of drying.

The Abramovs were at the far end of the study, away from the fireplace and the sunlight that poured through the high windows. They were playing a minuet in andante that was reminiscent of Mozart. Their cello and violin trilled in counterpoint, then shifted into a descending harmony. The rich notes vibrated against Adam's skin.

He sat on the sofa across from Miss Mamie and bowed his head in respectful silence. He watched the musicians' fingers glide over the strings. The duo increased their tempo, then went into the recapitulation, toying with the melody before finally sustaining the tonic and fifth notes as a finale. Adam joined Miss Mamie in applause.

"Bravo," she said. "How extraordinarily lovely. Ephram Korban would be pleased."

As the Abramovs started a new piece, Adam leaned over to Miss Mamie. "How are you today?"

"Just fine, Mr. Andrews. How do you like my little hobby? An old Appalachian craft, passed down by Ephram himself. They say when you whittle a poppet, you're building a house for a lost soul."

"Looks tough on the hands."

"But they make lovely gifts. What do you think of this one?"

She held up the gnarled figurine, the twisted limbs of vine making the poor thing look crippled. It was hideous, the eyes crude, one larger than the other.

"That's wonderful. I don't think Daniel Boone could have done any better."

"Are you enjoying your stay so far?"

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that. I've decided to cut my visit short. I have, um, pressing business to take care of."

Miss Mamie's brow darkened and she pursed her lips. She dropped the little wooden figure and it clattered off the hearth, the shriveled head rolling away. "Oh, dear, what a great fall," she said, so softly that Adam barely heard her.

Adam held up a hand. "I'm not looking for my money back. My roommate Paul will be staying on."

Miss Mamie looked out the window. A cloud must have passed over the sun, because the room grew darker. The Abramov melody shifted into a minor key and began twisting in agitato.

"Nobody can leave," she said.

"I know the van doesn't come back up for another couple of weeks. I was wondering if you could possibly make other arrangements."

"You don't understand. Nobody can leave. Especially you."

Mrs. Abramov's face clenched as she increased the tempo of her chaotic melody. There was little of the beauty that the couple had been squeezing out of the instruments only minutes before. Now the notes were more like tortured wails than music.

Adam looked out the window. "Can't one of the handymen take me down on horseback? I saw two of the guests out riding the other day."

"It's not time yet," Miss Mamie said, finally looking away from the window. Her eyes glittered with what Adam took to be anger. "The party is tonight. A lovely affair, up on the widow's walk under the full moon. It's something of a hallowed tradition at Korban Manor."

"I can pay extra for the trouble. I know what a bother this is."

Miss Mamie glowered and touched the locket that dangled unfashionably from her choker. "He-he doesn't want you to go."

"Paul?"

Miss Mamie seemed to recover just a little. "Black Rock is a half day's journey by horse. And you belong here."

The string music increased in intensity, fragmenting into chromatic chaos.

"I'll walk, then."

The music stopped abruptly, a diminished fifth quivering in the air, embarrassed at its isolation.

"No one leaves," she said.

Adam followed her gaze to the portrait of Korban above the fireplace, that same face that had whispered dream words to Adam about tunnels of the soul. Adam shivered. The house itself brooded, as if the walls were weary of darkness. The air was heavy, and even the blazing fire added nothing to the room's cheer. Adam moved to the hearth and rubbed his hands, trying to drive the remnants of the nightmare from his mind.

He looked down at the broken figurine. A scrap of fabric was tucked into a splintered crease in the torso. Gray cotton, like his pajamas.

"Play on," Miss Mamie said to the Abramovs.

Roth found Spence on the smoking porch, sitting in a hand-carved rocker whose legs seemed to bow outward from the stress.

"How goes the Shakespeare bit?" Roth asked.

The writer already had a drink, scotch, judging from its amber appearance. It was scarcely ten o'clock. Spence was certainly living up to his reputation. Roth had half suspected the writer had affected an alcoholic's indulgence that was as phony as his legendary womanizing or Roth's own accent.

"The best ever, as always," Spence said, face pale and eyes nearly pink from lack of sleep.

"You'd like to feed it to the critics with a shovel, wouldn't you, mate? I mean, they've been bloody hard on you these last few years."

Spence let out a wet sigh, his chins flexing like a grubworm. "There's only one critic I want to nail. My first one."

Roth sat in a swinging seat that was woven from thin reeds. He placed his camera case on the floor. If he worked it around right, a dissipated Spence would make a great addition to Roth's gallery of deceased celebrities. Because Spence was clearly running headlong toward some invisible cliff edge.

"Your old mum, I bet," Roth said. "They can be rather overbearing."

"My mother was a saint. The critic to whom I've alluded is long dead. But I have hopes that a merciful God will bring me face-to-face with her in the afterlife."

Roth grinned. "Yeah, what use is heaven if you can't have a go at all your old enemies?"

Spence took a long swallow of scotch. "You're boring me, Mr. Roth. I loathe boredom."

"Listen here, mate, I had this idea-"

"Let me guess. You have a book you want me to write and we'll split the money after I do all the work."

"Not quite that bald. I was thinking about a coffee table book on Korban. I'll take the photographs, dig up some old archival stuff, convert some of these portraits to digital files. All you have to do is put your name on the cover and type a few pages as a foreword."

"My name isn't what it used be."

"The project's a natural. Some eccentric bloke builds himself a rural empire, then dies by mysterious means. We can even play on the ghost angle. I've no qualms about inserting some transparent orbs or fairy dust on the film."

"Speaking of fairies," Spence said. Through the porch screen, they could see a young man carrying a video camera toward the forest.

"His friend let him go off alone like that? Seemed the jealous and clingy sort." Roth had occasionally been driven to experiment when no birds were available for plucking. Males were a bit too rough around the edges for his taste, but they offered an element of danger that no woman could match. Still, if Spence were that prim about such matters, best to play it straight. He made no comment.