And in his mind, in his weariness, he began to hear, not Sylvie's voice, but an orchestra. And to see, not the light from the worklamp, but the light of a hundred candles in sconces on the walls, in three great chandeliers overhead. Around and around the room, great sweeps of movement, and Sylvie's dress swayed as if there were a bustle under it, exaggerating the movements of the dance. So did all the other dresses in the room, all the men in tails, whirling, whirling. No faces, Don couldn't see any faces because everything was moving so fast; nor could he see the musicians, though he caught the movement of a bow, the flash of light on a trombone slide every time he passed the bandstand against the wall separating the ballroom from the serving room. Servants moved in and out of that room with drinks on trays, hors d'oeuvres on platters. Onlookers smiled and laughed, and Don wasn't just imagining it, they did look up whenever he and Sylvie danced past them. Thank you for this party, they were saying with their silent eyes. Thank you for inviting us. For the lights, the food, the champagne, the music, and above all the grace of the dancers, skittering over the floor as lightly as the crisp leaves of autumn, around and around, caught in a whirlwind, making a whirlwind, churning all the air of the world...
And then they clung to each other, no longer dancing. The room still turned dizzily around them, but then even that held still. The music was over. The orchestra had disappeared, and all the onlookers, and the other dancers. Only Sylvie and Don remained, holding each other in the middle of the room. Don looked at the windows and saw that a gray light was now showing.
"We danced until dawn," he said.
She said nothing. He looked down at her and saw tears in her eyes. "They danced again in their house tonight," she said.
"And the house is strong," he said.
She nodded. "It's the Bellamy house again. It has the right shape for its real name."
"And you," he said. "You're strong, too." Her face so ethereal, her skin so pure, so translucent. Her lips still caught in the memory of a smile. He bent and kissed her lightly. She laughed, a low chuckle deep in her throat.
"I felt that," she said.
He kissed her again.
"I felt it to my toes," she whispered.
He wrapped his arms around her, picked her up, spun around and around. Her legs swung away from his body. Like a child, around and around, flying. Then he carried her to the threshold of the front door. Reached down and opened it.
"Don," she said.
"This is the only test that matters, Sylvie," he said.
"No, it's the one that doesn't matter."
"If you can leave, then you're alive," he said.
"Isn't it enough that I'm alive inside?"
"No," he said. "It's enough for me, but it's not enough for you. Unless I can give you back what Lissy took from you."
"You can't," she said. "Put me down, Don."
"Flesh and bone," he said. "Heart's blood and mind's eye."
"Oh, Don," she said. "Is it true?"
In answer, he opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. It wasn't true dawn yet. Just the faintest of the early light. No lights shone in the neighborhood except the streetlights, and they were shrouded in the morning mist. Don stepped down, one, two, three steps. Onto the mown weeds of the yard. Out toward the junkpile, out toward the street. She clung around his neck.
And then she didn't.
There was nothing in his arms.
"Sylvie!" he cried out.
Almost he let his arms drop, because he couldn't see her. But he knew: If she was anywhere, she was here, in his arms. He had to get back to the house. "Sylvie, hold on to me! Hold on!" He ran back.
"Don!" he heard her call. As if from a distance.
He looked and couldn't see her. Not in his arms, not anywhere.
"Don, wait!"
He retraced his steps, felt with his arms. Brushed against something. Nothing he could see, but something. "Hold on to me," he said.
"Slow," she whispered. It sounded like her voice was in his ear. "Slow."
Trying to gather her like wind, he walked backward, slowly, toward the house. And the closer he got, the more he could feel her. Her hands, clawing at his sleeves, her feet dragging in the weeds. Now he could get his arms around her. Could hold her. Draw her along, then get his arms under her, lift her up again, carry her up the stairs. He could do that, he did it, he brought her to the front door and took her inside and closed the door and then they collapsed on the floor, exhausted, clinging to each other, crying, laughing in relief.
"I thought I lost you," he said.
"I thought I was lost," she said.
"The house can't make you real except inside."
"That's enough for me," she said.
"Not for me," he said. "Not while she's alive."
"Who, Lissy?"
"She killed you with her bare hands. Not just one blow struck in anger. It takes a long time to strangle somebody to death, five minutes of tightly gripping your throat. She could have stopped any time, Sylvie. But she never stopped. She hung on even after you were unconscious. She hung on till she knew you were dead."
"So what can we do about it?" she said. "We have this house."
"I want you to have your life back."
"How?"
"I don't know," he said. "But I know who might, if anyone does." He got up and walked to the door.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Next door," he said. "The Weird sisters." He turned away, started through the door, then stopped, turned back inside.
"Please," he said. "Be here when I get back."
"Cross my heart," she said.
17
Questions
Don walked around the fence, then slogged through the damp mass of leaves that covered the front lawn of the carriage-house. Autumn had struck with a vengeance. He was a little surprised they didn't have the door open for him before he mounted the porch. What, were they slacking off on their spying?
He rang the doorbell. Nothing. Knocked. No answer.
He waited, knocked, rang, knocked again. Nothing.
Around the back it was the same. The curtains were drawn. No sign of life within. These were elderly women. Was something wrong? He tried the doorknob, just to peer in. It was locked.
Back to the front porch. That door was also locked. He knocked again, louder, rattling the windows. "Miss Judea!" he called. "Miss Evelyn!"
Then he realized. It was barely dawn. Old people didn't sleep all that much, he knew, but maybe they still slept past first light. And he couldn't keep shouting, he'd wake the neighbors. He shouldn't be here. And yet he had to ask them what they knew. What they understood about the house. What hope there was for Sylvie cutting loose from the place.
One last ring of the doorbell, and he turned away to head back to the Bellamy house. Naturally, that was when he heard the door being unbolted behind him.
It opened only a crack. No one peered out at him.
"Go away," said an aged, weary voice. He couldn't be sure which of the Weird sisters it was. It didn't sound like either of them.
"I need to talk with you," he said. "You told me if I had any questions—"
No answer.
"About getting somebody free of that house. I have to talk to you."
"Talk," she said scornfully. Now he knew the voice. Miz Evelyn. Probably. Maybe.
"Are you all right?" asked Don.
"What do you care?" she asked.
"Of course I care," he said. "Can I get you something?"
"Are you really that stupid?"
No. It was definitely Miz Judea.
Her voice came again, a whisper now, fierce but broken. "Don't you know you're killing us?"
The door closed. The deadbolt turned.