be easier if you told them to go away. She … she upsets them. I can control her more easily if they’re gone. She won’t run away, not from her mother.”
“Yes,” Rowan said. “We’ll dismiss them.”
Michael was unsure.
But then he nodded. “We are in this … together.” The voice of Morrigan called out again. The music surged. Mona slowly turned and left them.
* * *
Late in the night, he could hear them laughing still, and the music now and then, or was it a dream of Stuart Gordon’s tower? Then the keys of the computer tapping away, and that laughter, and the soft rumble of their running feet on the stairs. And the sound of mingled voices, young and high and very sweet, singing that song.
Why try to sleep, but then he was gone, too tired, too needy of rest and of escape, too hungry for the simplicity of cotton sheets, and Rowan’s warm body against his. Pray, pray for her. Pray for Mona. Pray for them….
“Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come—”
His eyes opened wide. “Thy kingdom come. No.” The feeling of sudden distress was too vast, yet elusive. He was too tired. “Thy kingdom come.” He couldn’t think it out. He turned over and buried his face in the crook of Rowan’s warm neck and shoulder.
“Love you,” she whispered, a murmured prayer out of the depths of sleep, perhaps, more comforting than his prayer had been.
Thirty-four
THE CLEAN MONOTONY of snow, of meetings without end, of phone calls, of the sheets of faxes full of statistics, summaries, of the business of life which he himself had made, reaching for the gold and dreams.
At midday he put his head down on the desk. It had been a full five days since Michael and Rowan had gone home, and they had not called him, or written even a note. And now he wondered if his gifts had somehow made them sad or been the wrong thing, or if they were blotting him out the way he tried to blot out the memory of Tessa, of Gordon dead on the floor, of Yuri stammering and wringing his hands, of cold winter in the glen, and the jeers of Aiken Drumm.
What do we seek? What do we need? How can we know what will make us happy? It was a simple thing to pick up the phone, to call Rowan or Michael, to ask if they were all right, if they had recovered from their journey.
And what if their voices were brittle and indifferent, and he was left with the instrument in his hand, and the wire gone dead after careless farewells? No, that would have been worse than nothing.
Or more truly, it was not what he wanted.
Just go there. Just see them. Without lifting his head, he pressed the button. Prepare the plane. Fly away from the city of bitter cold, to the lost land of love. Just look at them, see their house with its warm lights, see through the windows they so lovingly described, and go away without a sound, without begging for their eyes to meet yours. Just look at them. There will be a comfort in that.
Once all dwellings were small and shut up, windowless, fortified. And you couldn’t see the beings within. But now it was different. One could gaze upon a perfect life as if peering at a painting. Sheer glass was enough to shut one out, and demarcate the secret turf of each one’s love. But the gods were kind, and you could peep inside. You could see those you missed.
It will be enough. Do it. And they’d never know. He wouldn’t frighten them.
The car was ready. Remmick had sent the bags down. “Must be good to be going south, sir,” he said.
“Yes, to summerland,” he replied.
“That’s what Somerset means, sir, in England.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “I’ll see you soon. Keep my rooms warm. Call me at once if … Well, don’t hesitate if there is anything.”
A speaking twilight, a city so wooded still that the creatures of the air sang the songs of dusk. He slipped out of the car blocks from the house. He knew the way. He had checked his map, and now he walked past the iron picket fences, and vines of florid pink trumpet flower. Windows were already full of light, yet the sky stretched radiant and warm in all directions. Listen to the cicadas’ song, and are those starlings who swoop down