She stroked his thick fur. “I never knew a cat that would follow you like a dog before,” she said. “What breed is he—if cats have breeds? I don't know.”
“You never knew any cat like Grim before,” said Niall. “As to his breed, I have a theory—a fancy, my mother would say, like all my theories. Look at his colour; look closely.”
Clare did so, and noticed in that cold white light something that had escaped her before. The cat's coat was not a uniform black: within its glossy darkness there were darker markings still, a kind of ghost pattern of blotches and stripes which were invisible in most lights and at a little distance.
“You see?” said Niall. “Well, now, observe his build —the breadth of his head, the strength of his body and this great bushy tail. He's different from most breeds of tame cats, isn't he? Where he came from I don't know. I found him—or he found me—in the wood. He took a lot of persuading to come to the house, but he did come in the end, and I suppose we gave satisfaction, and he condescended to retain our services. Well, my theory is that Grim is descended from wild ancestors. There must be some tame blood in him, of course, to give him his black coat, but I believe the dominant strain is Felis Silvestris Grampia—the wild cat of old Britain.”
“But there couldn't be any wild cats in Brackenbine wood, could there?” Clare asked.
“Oh, not now. But I like to think of Grim as a true native of these woods. I can imagine a time—oh, two hundred, three hundred years ago, when the oaks of Brackenbine went all the way to Wales—this wood of ours, you know, is one of the last remnants of the primaeval forest of Britain: no Saxon felled and no English squire planted it; that's why the Captain settled here, I think. Well, three hundred years ago there were still wild boar in England and wolves in Scotland; would it be so strange if there was still a wild cat or two lingering on in Brackenbine? Say there was but one pair in my ancestor's day; one of them is killed—there's an old wheel−lock fowling−piece among our lumber that might have done the very deed—and the survivor lives on until one day a sleek black pussy walks out of the house, as they will, you know, and meets him. Well, that's fancy, perhaps, but my Great−Uncle Jabez used to tell me that his father's keepers used to shoot what they called wild cats in the wood every now and again. I can't help but think the old strain stuck to Brackenbine, however watered down, and this is its latest representative.”
“But do you know that Captain Trethewy kept cats?” Clare asked. “How do you know that he had a sleek black pussy?”
Niall threw back his head and laughed.
“You mustn't examine the products of my imagination so critically,” he protested. “If it's a good story it's unfair to ask for proof. When I tell a story I permit my fancy its sleights, just as my hands have their sleights when I bring my dolls to life. I hope you won't examine them so critically.”
“Oh, but I should like to see how they work? Can't I?”
“How they work? Perhaps I don't work them—only create the illusion in you. You must come half−way and believe what the showman wants you to believe.”
Clare jumped down from the rock.
“I had rather believe you are a true magician and not a showman. You will have gathered herbs to touch my eyes with when I come tonight.”
They parted and he watched her hurry away through the fading winter light until the brown trees hid her.
It was a little before midnight when Clare slipped once again out of the Prefects' Room window. It was a clear night with a half−moon just rising and beginning to shine on the thin crust of snow which crunched loudly under her feet. She ran across the light field of snow until she reached the shadow of the copse by the wall and there stood a moment to regain her breath. The night was quite windless. There was not a murmur from Brackenbine wood. She groped her way behind the beech−tree and felt for the snow−covered ledges of the buttress. It was very dark under the trees on the other side. She raised herself on to the coping and peered about for a sign of Niall. She had scarcely straddled the walltop when a feeble ray of lamplight shone out just below her and a low voice said: “Well done! Punctual to the minute!”
She saw that a short roughly−made ladder had been placed against the wall. In a moment she was down and Niall was pushing the woollen cap back from her forehead and laying his cold cheek against hers.
He led her by the hand, winding swiftly among the trees, finding his way without the aid of the lantern. He went with such swiftness and sureness through the dark wood, and, drawn on by his strong arm, Clare seemed to move with so little volition of her own, that her course was like those she had made through the Captain's wood in her dreams, and she half−looked to see the darkness change to a dream light and show her that these trees whose thin fingers stroked her were the girls of her dream spreading their foliage−tresses about them.
The darkness did lighten; they had mounted by a slanting path some way up the hillside; the trees receded and the sky was open above them; near at hand Clare saw an even slope of snow glittering in the frosty moonlight. It was some moments before she realised that the regular, smooth incline was the roof of Brackenbine House. Niall laughed softly.
“We'll not disturb my mother. I'm taking you in by the skylight.”
He scrambled up the slope and disappeared through the skylight, which was propped open. Then his head and shoulders reappeared and he held out an arm. Clare grasped his hand and clambered up. He guided her feet as she turned and wriggled through the opening, and she found herself standing beside him on a low table which was set below the skylight. Wood embers still glowed on the hearth at one end of the studio and the air was warm.
Niall stepped down and opened the shutter of his dark lantern and threw the yellow beam up and down the long room as though making sure that all was in order. Clare came down from the table looking about her, a little puzzled and disappointed to find that the room was exactly the same as when she had seen it before: there were no special preparations for the show. Niall lit one of the reading lamps and blew out his lantern. He carried the lamp forward to the end of the room where the curtained window was and set it down on a stool there. Then he turned and beckoned to Clare.
“I kept the fire in,” he said, as she came and stood near to him. “You'll not be cold?”
There was a curious, suppressed excitement in his whisper which communicated itself to her so that she could not trust herself to speak, but only shook her head. Very gently he unwound the scarf from her throat and unbuttoned her coat. His fingers seemed nervous and clumsy; but when she had slipped out of her coat and pulled off her cap he took her in his arms with his old sureness.
“You've not forgotten?” he asked. “I said I would perform a ceremony—a ceremony of bondage. Do you want me to?”
She nodded.
“No, but you must say you do,” he insisted. “It is a ceremony of great power. Unless you undergo it willingly, gladly, it is no use. It will fail.”
It seemed to Clare that her willingness or unwillingness was without meaning. She had no will, and wanted none; his firm embrace about her was all she wanted; but it was delightful to obey him and so, when he repeated his question, urgently: “Are you willing?” she smiled and answered, “Yes, I am.”
With one hand he drew aside the curtain and revealed the window and the deep wooden seat below it. He moved her towards it and seated her there with her back to the window. Then he stepped between her and the lamp and bent over her. She felt a keen breath of night air on her neck and shivered. “It's only a moment,” he whispered. With a firm pressure of his left hand he bent back her head until she felt the edge of the opened window−frame just behind her left ear. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him pick up with his right hand from the window−seat a small instrument that glinted. His right hand brushed her cheek and she felt a sharp prick in the lobe of her left ear. She uttered an exclamation of pain in a startled, little−girl voice, but he caught the hand she lifted and held it fast.