Wizard and glass - By Stephen King Page 0,219

Cordelia had smelled what was on her palm.

“Does thee smell it, Aunt? Paint! We used it on rice-paper for colored lanterns!”

The tension had slowly gone out of the wrist in Susan’s hand. The eyes looking into hers regained a measure of clarity. “Aye,” she had said at last. “Paint.” A pause. “This time.”

Since then, Susan had all too often turned her head to see a narrow-hipped figure gliding after her in the street, or one of her aunt’s many friends marking her course with suspicious eyes. When she rode on the Drop, she now always had the sensation of being watched. Twice before the four of them came together in the graveyard, she had agreed to meet Roland and his friends. Both times she had been forced to break off, the second at the very last moment. On that occasion she had seen Brian Hookey’s eldest son watching her in an odd, intent way. It had only been intuition . . . but strong intuition.

What made matters worse for her was that she was as frantic for a meeting as Roland himself, and not just for palaver. She needed to see his face, and to clasp one of his hands between both of hers. The rest, sweet as it was, could wait, but she needed to see him and touch him; needed to make sure he wasn’t just a dream spun by a lonely, frightened girl to comfort herself.

In the end, Maria had helped her—gods bless the little maid, who perhaps understood more than Susan could ever guess. It was Maria who had gone to Cordelia with a note saying that Susan would be spending the night in the guest wing at Seafront. The note was from Olive Thorin, and in spite of all her suspicions, Cordelia could not quite believe it a forgery. As it was not. Olive had written it, listlessly and without questions, when Susan asked.

“What’s wrong with my niece?” Cordelia had snapped.

“She tired, sai. And with the dolor de garganta.”

“Sore throat? So close before Fair-Day? Ridiculous! I don’t believe it! Susan’s never sick!”

“Dolor de garganta,” Maria repeated, impassive as only a peasant woman can be in the face of disbelief, and with that Cordelia had to be satisfied. Maria herself had no idea what Susan was up to, and that was just the way Susan liked it.

She’d gone over the balcony, moving nimbly down the fifteen feet of tangled vines growing up the north side of the building, and through the rear servants’ door in the wall. There Roland had been waiting, and after two warm minutes with which we need not concern ourselves, they rode double on Rusher to the graveyard, where Cuthbert and Alain waited, full of expectation and nervous hope.

3

Susan looked first at the placid blond one with the round face, whose name was not Richard Stockworth but Alain Johns. Then at the other one—he from whom she had sensed such doubt of her and perhaps even anger at her. Cuthbert Allgood was his name.

They sat side by side on a fallen gravestone which had been overrun with ivy, their feet in a little brook of mist. Susan slid from Rusher’s back and approached them slowly. They stood up. Alain made an In-World bow, leg out, knee locked, heel stiffly planted. “Lady,” he said. “Long days—”

Now the other was beside him—thin and dark, with a face that would have been handsome had it not seemed so restless. His dark eyes were really quite beautiful.

“—and pleasant nights,” Cuthbert finished, doubling Alain’s bow. The two of them looked so like comic courtiers in a Fair-Day sketch that Susan laughed. She couldn’t help herself. Then she curtseyed to them deeply, spreading her arms to mime the skirts she wasn’t wearing. “And may you have twice the number, gentlemen.”

Then they simply looked at each other, three young people who were uncertain exactly how to proceed. Roland didn’t help; he sat astride Rusher and only watched carefully.

Susan took a tentative step forward, not laughing now. There were still dimples at the corners of her lips, but her eyes were anxious.

“I hope you don’t hate me,” she said. “I’d understand it if you did—I’ve come into your plans . . . and between the three of you, as well—but I couldn’t help it.” Her hands were still out at her sides. Now she raised them to Alain and Cuthbert, palms up. “I love him.”

“We don’t hate you,” Alain said. “Do we, Bert?”

For a terrible moment Cuthbert was silent, looking