Where the Summer Ends - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,85

smiling faintly at the many pages of entries that filled the diary, each progressively dated, each penned in the same neat hand as the entry she had just completed.

Cassilda sat at her dressing table in her room. It was night, and she had removed her outer clothing preparatory to retiring. She gazed at her reflection— the gauzy paleness of her chemise, stockings and knickers was framed against Camilla’s black maid’s uniform as the blonde girl stood behind her, brushing out her dark hair.

Upon the dressing table she had spread out the contents of a tin box she had found in one of the drawers, and she and Camilla had been looking over them as she prepared for bed. There were paper dolls, valentines and greeting cards, illustrations clipped from magazines, a lovely cutout of a swan. She also found a crystal ball that rested upon an ebony cradle. Within the crystal sphere was a tiny house, covered with snow, with trees and a frozen lake and a young girl playing. When Cassilda picked it up, the snow stirred faintly in the transparent fluid that filled the globe. She turned the crystal sphere upside down for a moment, then quickly righted it, and a snowstorm drifted down about the tiny house.

“How wonderful it would be to dwell forever in a crystal fairyland just like the people in this little house,” Cassilda remarked, peering into the crystal ball.

Something else seemed to stir within the swirling snowflakes, she thought, but when the snow had settled once more, the tableau was unchanged. No: there was a small mound, there beside the child at play, that she was certain she had not seen before. Cassilda overturned the crystal globe once again, and peered more closely. There it was. Another tiny figure spinning amidst the snowflakes. A second girl. She must have broken loose from the tableau. The tiny figure drifted to rest upon the frozen lake, and the snowflakes once more covered her from view.

“Where is Constance Castaigne?” Cassilda asked.

“Constance... became quite ill,” Camilla told her carefully. “She was always subject to nervous attacks. One night she suffered one of her fits, and she...”

“Camilla!” Mrs Castaigne’s voice from the doorway was stern. “You know how I despise gossip—especially idle gossip concerning another’s misfortunes.”

The maid’s face was downcast. “I’m very sorry, madame. I meant no mischief.”

The older woman scowled as she crossed the room. Cassilda wondered if she meant to strike the maid. “Being sorry does not pardon the offense of a wagging tongue. Perhaps a lesson in behavior will improve your manners in the future. Go at once to your room.”

“Please, madame...”

“Your insolence begins to annoy me, Camilla.”

“Please, don’t be harsh with her!” Cassilda begged, as the maid hurried from the room. “She was only answering my question.” Standing behind the seated girl, Mrs Castaigne placed her hands upon her shoulders and smiled down at her. “An innocent question, my dear. However, the subject is extremely painful to me, and Camilla well knows the distress it causes me to hear it brought up. I shall tell you this now, and that shall end the matter. My daughter suffered a severe attack of brain fever. She is confined in a mental sanatorium.”

Cassilda crossed her arms over her breasts to place her hands upon the older woman’s wrists. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“I’m certain you can appreciate how sorely this subject distresses me.” Mrs Castaigne smiled, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

“I shan’t mention it again.”

“Of course not. And now, my dear, you must hurry and make yourself ready for bed. Too much exertion so soon after your illness will certainly bring about a relapse. Hurry along now, while I fetch your tonic.”

“I’m sure I don’t need any more medicine. Sometimes I think it must bring on evil dreams.”

“Now don’t argue, Cassilda dear.” The fingers on her shoulders tightened their grip. “You must do as you’re told. You can’t very well perform your duties as companion if you lie about ill all day, now can you? And you do want to stay.”

“Certainly!” Cassilda thought this last had not been voiced as a question. “I want to do whatever you ask.”

“I know you do, Cassilda. And I only want to make you into a perfect young lady. Now let me help you into your night things.”

Cassilda opened her eyes into complete darkness that swirled about her in an invisible current. She sat upright in her bed, fighting back the vertigo that she had decided must come from the tonic they