Steven Brust - Agyar

Someone told them that, hidden in this very house, lived the man who had killed a certain Philip Hansen. It took me a bit longer to learn that Philip Hansen had been the night editor for the Plainsman.

I have a guess who told them, too.

Laura Kellem, damn you to hell.

The worst of it is that they saw the light on in the typing room, and, as I understand it, someone even got a glimpse of me in the living room, using some sort of modern binoculars, so they know I’m here. Certainly I can slip past them as often as I want, but Susan cannot; and neither can I bring my luggage with me. Traveling without it will be inconvenient at best. I’ve had to do such things before, and I didn’t like it.

I must consider how to get Susan out of here. Hiding in my alcove is all well and good, but if they know I am somewhere in the house, and they search thoroughly, they could certainly find her.

The easiest thing, I guess, will be to explain the situation to her, and have her convince the police that I was holding her against her will. They will still wonder how I could have gotten past them, but that is hardly my problem. Let them wonder.

I am not looking forward to explaining this to Susan.

I found the cop in charge, a fat man with graying hair who I’d have thought was too short to be a policeman. He and his cohorts were trying to decide if they should go in when the “Tac Group” arrived, or wait until morning, when there was less chance of “a negative incident,” which I took to mean a neighbor getting shot. They spoke of evacuating the nearby houses.

I exerted a little influence, and I think they will wait until morning, by which time I will be gone.

Morning, however, is still many hours away; and the time until midnight is growing short. I must not allow myself to be distracted. First, I will break free of Kellem, then worry about the next step.

I have gathered together everything I will need, including the chefs knife; now I have little to do except record what has happened and wait for midnight.

I still have over an hour to wait, and the time is passing with agonizing slowness. Every few minutes I stop and pick up this paper on which I have scrawled the steps of the spell I am to perform, so that, when the time comes, I will have it firmly in mind, and so that I need not stop to read, but can proceed smoothly from memory. The old woman said that would help.

After all of this, it would be the ultimate irony if I have allowed myself to be fooled by the cigany — if the instructions on this paper are meaningless.

Yet, I think they are not. There is Jill’s example, and what I read corresponds to what I remember.

Speculation is pointless. Soon I will know.

I have run out of things to say; the time for action approaches.

I went down once more to check on all of the items for the ritual and to stretch my legs. Jim was there, looking out the window. He said, “They might try to come in.”

“Not likely,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Trust me.”

He nodded.

Susan was looking maybe a little better. She stirred as I watched her and called my name. I shivered, though I cannot name the emotion that evoked the shiver.

I knelt beside her and said, “I am here, my love.”

Her eyes opened and she smiled, weakly. “I don’t feel-I have had the oddest dreams, Jonathan.” Her voice was very soft, and though she was breathing easier than she had earlier, it still seemed to take some effort.

Still kneeling, I took her hand. It was not as warm as it usually is, and I silently cursed myself for bringing her to this state.

“It’s the house, my love. It brings bad dreams.”

She nodded and brought my hand to her cheek. Then she squinted, staring over my shoulder, and said, “Who is that?”

I followed the direction of her gaze and said, “That is Jim, a friend of mine.”

“Oh. Hello, Jim.”

“Hello, Susan,” he said.

She studied him a little more, then frowned and closed her eyes. “Am I awake?” she said.

“I don’t know,” I told her. “Would you like to be?”

“I’m not certain. I feel like I’m dreaming.”

“Then perhaps you are.”

“Do you love me in my dream?”

“In your dream, in my dream, and when we are awake, I love you the same.”

She smiled and pressed my hand once more to her cheek. “Then it doesn’t matter.” She leaned her head back to rest it against the back of the chair, and breathed deeply. I thought she had gone to sleep again, but she opened her eyes and said, “When you leave, I’d like to come with you.”

“I would like that, too,” I said.

“I’ve been having such odd dreams, Jonathan.”

“Tell me about them.”

“I dreamt that you were dead, and that I was dead, only we both lived.”

“Interesting.” I almost told her then, but I think it will be better to wait until she is at least a little stronger.

She said, “I dreamt that I was dancing for all eternity, and that the more I danced, the more I lived, and the more I lived, the more I wanted to dance.” She grinned weakly. “Dancing is my life, or something.”

“Would you like to live forever, to dance forever?”

She smiled complacently. “If you were there.”

“I will always be there.”

“Then I will dance,” she said, and, with a sigh, she relaxed against the chair. Her breathing slowed a little, and presently she was asleep again. I watched for a moment, then placed her hand in her lap and came back upstairs, almost choking with emotion. Jim, bless his heart, didn’t say anything.

It is almost time. I will go over the steps of the rite once or twice again. I only have another half hour or so to chew my figurative nails. And then…

Words, as they appear on a piece of typing paper, are flat and lifeless when compared to the sound of a voice, or even words written with a good pen. The only expression of emotion, beyond the words themselves, is in the variation of darkness or lightness of each letter, which might give a clue to the state of mind of the writer. One sees the words, but does not know if they flowed effortlessly from the fingers, or if each was the product of wracking consideration; one has no way of telling, from the evidence before him, that perhaps the writer’s hands twitched back and forth a few times, hesitant, tentative, intimidated by the unmarked paper before him and the weight of experiences behind him.

Jim keeps coming in, looking at me, saying a few words, and leaving. He did so twice before I started typing, and once since I set down the paragraph engraved above. I have the impression he is worried about me. It is a good feeling to know that someone worries about you. I worry about Susan, but, as I type, she is safe in another room behind thick walls.

Let us put everything in order, as if the cold, evenly spaced letters were reflections of a calm, well-ordered mind, unmoved by turmoil within or distractions without, and I will note in passing that, were the walls of this house less thick, I might not be able to write at all. And from this, I am given to wonder if it matters, but leave that.

Let me return my thoughts to midnight, an eternity and a few short hours ago, when Jim and I came down to the parlor. Dust had gathered on the oak coat tree, but the maple floor still shone like new. There were a couple of sheets stuck into a corner, as if someone had used them to cover furniture and then abandoned them when the furniture was moved. The ceiling fixture hung in the center, impotent from lack of gas or bulbs.