“You aren't old, mother,” the young man said, crossing to them. “Just — gracious.”
Lydia laughed and put her arm around his shoulder. “He has his father's way with words. He's a liar, but I don't mind those kind of lies.”
“Do you prefer being called Katherine or Kathy?” he asked.
He was as handsome as Michael Harrison had been, but in an altogether different manner. He was as tall as Harrison, with the same erect carriage and a sense of power — though he was somewhat slimmer. He was not fair-complexioned like Michael, but dark, perpetually tanned as if he might contain a drop of gypsy blood or less romantically and probably more accurately, some Latin ancestry. His eyes were dark, darker than his mother's eyes, almost black. When he looked at Katherine, she had the feeling that he was staring directly through her at some alien landscape beyond. His lips were thin, almost ascetic, his chin firm but not so much like carved granite as Michael Harrison's chin was. His voice was smooth, like oil, the words rolling forth seemingly without effort. He could have been, Katherine decided, a matinee idol anytime from 1920 to the present, with but a few minor changes in dress and hairstyle to conform with the dictates of each decade.
“I prefer Katherine,” she said, “though everyone thinks I must be a snob or something when I say that.”
“Not at all,” Alex said. “I think Katherine is a lovely name.”
“I do too,” Lydia said. “And I can see at a glance that you're certainly not a 'snob,' my dear.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Lydia clapped her hands together now and said, “But you must be starved by now!”
“The drive in used up a lot of energy,” Katherine admitted. “I was on the edge of my car seat the whole way — not to mention the tension in the Land Rover with Mr. Harrison.”
“He didn't show-off too badly, did he?” Alex asked.
She detected a distinct note of disdain in Alex's voice when he spoke of Harrison, though he presented the same outward appearance of mild curiosity and friendly interest.
“The waitress at the cafe in town rounded him up for me,” she said. “She warned him to be on his best behavior.”
“Sometimes,” Alex said, “he drives that thing like a child on a toy of some sort. He can be downright dangerous.”
“Don't exaggerate, Alex,” Lydia said. “I think Mike is a fine young man.”
“You think everyone's fine,” Alex said without rancor.
“Well,” Lydia said, “the nearest bath is straight down the corridor the way you came, under the grand staircase, if you'd like to wash up for dinner. We can show you your room afterwards, if that's all right.”
“Fine,” Katherine said.
“The dining room is at the far end of the corridor, beyond the stairs. We'll wait for you there.”
The bathroom under the staircase surprised Katherine, for she had thought of it in terms of a simple powder room. More than anything else so far, it gave her a sense of being among the very wealthy, for it was terribly lavish, though in good taste. It included a shower stall, a sunken, marble tub, thick, red shag carpet, a double sink, a revolving mirror between the sinks, a television set in a wall recess and a case of bath oils, perfumes and powders. It was nearly as large as the average living room.
By contrast, she was surprised at how small the dining room was, for it was no larger than the bath, with a table to seat four, buffets along two walls, two out-sized oils on the other walls, and just enough room to sit down and eat and be served in comfort. When she commented on what appeared to be an architectural mistake or eccentricity, she elicited smiles from both Lydia and Alex.
“It's the smallest of three dining rooms in Owlsden,” Lydia told her.
“Three?”
“They were never meant to be used simultaneously, though,” Alex said, grinning.
Lydia said, “This is the intimate room for small dinners, while the dining area across the hall is meant to service anywhere from eight to twenty. Upstairs, on the second level, a grand dining room for large affairs has not been used in a great many years. It can comfortably seat a hundred people, a hundred and twenty in a pinch. But I'm not much for entertaining. In fact, I'm not really that crazy for Owlsden itself. I thought it was a monstrosity of poor taste when I was a little girl, and I've never changed my opinion. I am, however, fond of the place, since so much of my life and the meaning of my life has been formed in these rooms.”
As the dinner was served — beef stroganoff over rice, a salad and two kinds of wine, as Lydia said, “to help you taste the food more completely" — she was introduced to Mason and Patricia Keene, a middle-aged couple who took care of the kitchen, meals, serving and all related household chores. The woman was slim and attractive with large, round eyes like circles of soft gray velvet, while the husband was balding and somewhat like a stereotyped high school English teacher. Both seemed quiet and even withdrawn, though very polite and efficient.
The conversation flitted from topic to topic as they ate and was never marked by an embarrassing silence. Indeed, Katherine thought, it was almost as if the three of them had known each other for years and were accustomed to spending many evenings together immersed in conversation.
Dinner finished, they retired to the drawing room again where they were served coffee by Mason Keene and tiny fruit-nut cakes by Patricia. Somehow, without later being able to recall just what had lead her into it, Katherine mentioned the strangled, tortured cat and the Satanic markings she had found on the barn floor.
“How awful!” Lydia said. “It's the worst possible welcome I can imagine.”
“Michael Harrison warned me to be careful of such things,” she said. “He said that if I ever came across anything like that I was not to hang around it for fear the Satanists would return.”
“Silliness!” Lydia said. “What would they return for?”
“Perhaps they wouldn't appreciate my mucking around in their chalk drawings and disturbing the body of their sacrifice—”
“Don't listen to Harrison,” Alex said. The disdainful tone had come back into his voice, stronger than it had been before. “These so-called Satanists are probably a few local teenagers playing some silly games to keep the adults up in the air.”
“But killing animals is more than a game — that's ugly mischief.”
“Still, some teenagers can be ugly when they want,” Lydia said.
“I suppose.”
Lydia picked up one of the last pieces of cake and took a dainty bite from it. When she had chewed and swallowed, she said, “Anyway, even if it isn't a prank, one can hardly take Satanists seriously. I mean, all those ghostly chants at midnight, drawing chalk circles and trying to summon demons, selling their souls… It's so absurd that it's nearly funny.”
“I guess,” she said, though she did not like the way they were so quick to belittle the notion of danger.
“Don't let Harrison upset you,” Alex said, smiling at her over the last of his coffee, white trails of steam rising in front of his face so that it looked, at odd moments, as if he were staring at her through an ethereal veil. “He never has been one for responsibility. His approach to the Satanists pretty much matches his irresponsible behavior in other ways.”
“Really, Alex,” Lydia said, “you don’t have to be that hard on the boy, do you?”
“I don't like him,” Alex said flatly. His dark eyebrows pressed together over his nose as he frowned, and his lips were compressed as tightly as two pencil lines.
“I think he seems a fine, capable young man,” Lydia said imperiously, as if the subject were now closed.
“You're generous with everyone,” he said. “Far too generous.”