Tammy reached out and took the paper from Zeffer's hand. None of this was proof, of course. But it was more than a simple fabrication, that much was clear. And hadn't she seen enough in her time in the Canyon to be certain that whatever was at work here was nothing she could explain by the rules she'd been taught in school?
She opened the letter. The hand it had been written in was exquisite; the ink, though it had faded somewhat, still kept an uncanny luster, as though there were motes of mother-of-pearl in it. She scanned it, all the way down to the immaculate and elaborate Lilith that decorated the bottom portion of the page.
"So," she said, handing it back, her fingers trembling slightly. "What does it say?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Yes."
Zeffer began translating it without looking at the words. Plainly he had the contents by heart.
"Husband, she writes, I am finding myself at ease in the Fortress Goga, and I believe will remain here until our son is found—"
"So she didn't tell him?"
"Apparently not." Zeffer scanned the page briefly. "She talks a little about the work she's doing on the Fortress . . . it's all very matter-of-fact... then she says: Do not come, husband, for you will find no welcome in my bed. If there is some peace to be made between us I cannot imagine it being soon, given your violations of your oath. I do not believe you have loved me in many years, and would prefer you did not insult me by pretending otherwise."
"Huh."
Whatever the source of the letter, its sentiments were easily understood. Tammy herself might have penned such a letter—in a simpler style, perhaps; and a little more viciously—on more than one occasion. God knows, Arnie had violated his own vows to her several times, shamelessly.
Zeffer folded the letter up. "So, you can make what you want of all this. Personally I think it's the real thing. I believe this woman was Lilith, and that she stayed in the Fortress to work on her revenge, where neither God nor her husband would come and bother her. Certainly somebody created that room, and it was somebody who had powers that go far beyond anything we understand."
"What happened when she was finished?" Tammy asked.
"She packed up and disappeared. Got bored perhaps. Went back to her husband. Or found a lover of her own. The point is, she left the Fortress with the room still intact. And with Goga and his men still in it."
"And that's what you bought?"
"That's what I bought. Of course it took a little time to realize it, but I purchased a little piece of Hell's own handiwork. And let me tell you—to make light of all this for a moment—it was Hell to move. There were thirty-three thousand, two hundred and sixty-eight tiles. They all had to be removed, cleaned, numbered, packed away, shipped and then put up again in exactly the same order that they'd been assembled in. I timed it so that the work could be done while Katya was off on a world tour, publicizing one of her pictures."
"It must have driven you half crazy . . ."
"I kept thinking about how much pleasure Katya would derive from the room when it was finished. I was oblivious to the human cost. I just wanted Katya to be astonished; and then, to look at me—who'd given her this gift—with new eyes. I wanted her to be so grateful, so happy, she'd fling herself into my arms and say I'll marry you. That's what I wanted."
"But that's not the way it turned out?"
"No, of course not."
"What happened? Did she dislike the room?"
"No, she understood the room from the beginning, and the room understood her. She started to take people down there, to show the place off. Her special friends. The ones who were obsessed with her. And there were plenty of those. Men and women both. They'd disappear down there for a few hours—"
"These were people she was having sex with?"
"Yes."
"You said both men and women?"
"Preferably together. That's what she liked best. A little of both."
"And did everybody know?"
"About her tastes? Of course. Nobody cared. It was rather chic at the time. For women anyway. The nancy-boys like Navarro and Valentino, they had to cover it up. But Katya didn't care what people thought. Especially once she had the room."
"It changed her?"
"It changed everyone who went into it, myself included. It changed our flesh. It changed our spirits."
"How?"
"All you have to do is look at me to see how I changed. I was born in 1893. But I don't look it. That's because of the room. It has energies, you see, painted into the tiles. I believe it's Lilith's magic in the tiles. She used her infernal skills to lock the Duke and his men and all those animals into the illusion: that's strong magic. The monks knew that. But they had the good sense to keep their distance from the place."
"So did everyone who went down there stay young?"
"Oh no. By no means. It affected everyone a little differently. Some people simply couldn't take it. They went in for a minute, and they were out again in a heartbeat."
"Why?"
"It's the Devil's Country, Tammy. Believe me, it is."
Tammy shook her head, not knowing what to believe. "So some people left, because they thought the Devil was in there?"
"That's right. But most people felt some extra burst of energy when they went in the room. Maybe they felt a little younger, a little stronger, a little more beautiful."
"And what was the price of it all?"
"Good question," he said. "The fact is, everyone's paid a different price. Some people went crazy because of what they saw in there. A few committed suicide. Most. . . went on living, feeling a little better about themselves. For a while at least. Then the effect would wear off, and they'd need to come back for another fix . . .
"I knew a number of opium addicts in my life. One of them was a Russian designer, Anatole Vasilinsky. Ever heard of him?" Tammy shook her head. "No real reason why you should. He worked for the Ballets Russes, under Diaghilev. A brilliant man. But completely enslaved to 'The Poppy' as he used to call it. He came to the house only once, and of course Katya showed him the room. I remember the expression on his face when he came out. He looked like a man who'd just seen his own death. He was stricken; clammy-white, shaking. 'I must never come here again,' he said. 'I don't have enough room in my life for two addictions. It would be the death of me.'
"That's what the room was, of course: an addiction. It addicted the flesh, by making you feel stronger, sleeker. It addicted the spirit, by giving you visions so vivid they were more real than real. And it addicted the soul, because you didn't want any other kind of comfort, once you'd been in the room. Prayer was no use to you, laughter was no use to you, friends, ideals, ambitions . . . they all seemed inconsequential in that perpetual twilight. When you were here, you thought all the time about being there."
Again Tammy shook her head. There was so much here to try to make sense of. Her mind was reeling.
"Do you see now why you must leave, and forget about Todd? He's seen the room. That's where she took him."
"Are you sure?"
"He's down there right now," Zeffer said. "I guarantee it. Where else would she take him?"
Tammy got up from the table. The food had done her good. Though she still felt a little light-headed, she was considerably stronger.
"There's nothing heroic about sacrificing yourself for him," Zeffer pointed out. "He wouldn't do it for you."
"I know that."
Zeffer followed her to the kitchen door. "So don't. Leave, while you can. Tammy, I beg you. Leave. I'll lead you out of the Canyon and you can go home."