Dominion by Fred Saberhagen (spiritual books to read TXT) 📗

lighted room behind him, as if he were standing in a doorway that led to the outside. He didn’t know just what he’d expected to discover about himself, to prove to himself, when he’d started out on this day’s journey into his own past. But certainly the day so far had been even stranger than he’d expected. First the series of visions, half-visions, hallucinations, whatever you might want to call them. And then, a blank of some three hours, including his arrival at the castle. He must have looked bad when he arrived, really out of it, so that someone had suggested he go up to his room and take a nap. It was probably fortunate that he’d agreed.

   The soreness was almost completely gone from his throat muscles now. So nearly gone that he might have been imagining that, too. Hell, he must have been imagining it.

   Simon rather surprised himself by the calm way he was now, after all that, getting ready to go on with the show. It was as if he knew deep inside, basically, secretly, that all this strangeness was really nothing to be alarmed about. As if he’d really been expecting something of the kind to happen all along…

   But now was not the time for introspection. Now was the time to go and put on a performance. Marge was ready, and he was too. One more check of the arrangements in his secret pockets, and Simon switched off his bedroom’s lights and stepped out into the hall.

   He had no more than closed the door behind him when another opened, two rooms down the hall, and Vivian looked out. She was wrapped now in a bulky beach robe of startling white, and her head was swathed in a towel with which she rubbed her hair.

   “There you are, Simon.” Vivian’s voice was bright, energetic, still totally in control. “I was hoping to catch you before you went downstairs. That’s a very handsome costume you’ve got there.”

   “Thanks.”

   Vivian took a step closer, a vaguely conspiratorial movement. Her eyes were innocent and eager; he’d seen them like that before; it might have been a warning to him now, if he’d been in the mood for heeding warnings. She asked:  “I wonder if you could possibly spare me a moment before dinner? My brother’s busy, as usual, and there’s a bit of business to be taken care of. ”

   “Sure.”

   “Great. Also I must admit that I’ve been hoping to get a little time with you alone, to talk about magic. It intrigues me, it always has. But so far today has been just one interruption after another.”

   “Of course. Any time.” Simon moved down the hall (lit only by torches now; daylight had altogether faded from the high, narrow windows) and followed Vivian into her room. Her suite, rather. It was a bedroom-bathroom-dressing room that made Simon’s guest quarters look small, and in a movie would certainly have required at least one maid to go with it. Simon wasn’t sure how these matters were usually managed in reality, but at the moment at least no servant was in evidence.

   “Drink? There’s a little bar there, fix yourself something if you like. And excuse me just one moment while I change. Things are running just a touch behind schedule.” Vivian, still toweling her dark curls, vanished into the adjoining room.

   “I’ll take a rain check on the drink if I may,” Simon called after her.  “Going on duty shortly, you know. Can I fix you anything?”

   “Not just now.” Vivian’s voice remained unmuffled by intervening doors. Simon looking into the adjoining room from where he was could just see one end of a folding oriental screen; presumably she was dressing behind that. Her offstage voice added,  “You’ll find an envelope there on the table. I trust the contents are satisfactory?”

   Propped against a black electric lamp with a white dragon shade that shed a glow almost as soft as candlelight, was a small white envelope. Simon took it up. The flap was folded in but not sealed. It was thickly packed with hundred-dollar bills; with a quick finger-riffle he counted fifteen of them.

   He cleared his throat. “Miss Littlewood?”

   “Call me Vivian, please.” From the other room came a prolonged rustling noise, as of some lengthy garment going on or coming off. “What is it?”

   “Well. It’s just that there’s more money here than I was promised.”

   “Pardon?” Now her voice was somewhat muffled. Women’s clothing and the rituals that went with it were still mystifying to Simon, despite the number of women with whom he’d been on dressing and undressing terms in the past fifteen years.

   He moved a step closer to the doorway between rooms. From here he could see a mirror on the far wall of the inner room, a mirror so placed that if he were to advance one more step it might show him the area behind the screen. It required some effort to refrain from taking another step. He spoke a little louder: “I said, you’re giving me too much money.”

   “Really?” Cloth-rustlings continued, but now Vivian’s voice was clear again. “That’s a complaint one seldom hears.”

   Simon was staring at the envelope. “Gregory told me that the inclusive fee was to be one thousand.”

   “Gregory is an old pinch-penny. That’s not exactly the instruction he had from us.” And now, in a swirl of red-gowned energy, Vivian emerged from behind her screen, to enter the room where Simon stood and pose before him curtseying, as if his approval might be all the mirror she needed.

   He usually had no trouble finding compliments for lovely women. But right now he was speechless. There had been no time for her to give the black curls any treatment except to dry them, and yet the curls looked perfect. There was as usual no sign of makeup on Vivian’s face; it was hard to imagine any that could have effected an improvement.