The other part had to do with that girl in the graveyard, the one who stared a little too long at the grave of Rachel Faye Hartley.
"You'll be joining her soon enough," Sylva whispered to the laurel thicket around her. "If Ephram will let you, that is."
The sun was sinking by the time Anna climbed back over the fence, full of vinegar for such a sick person. Anna didn't know the old ways, was weak in the power of charms and such. The girl wouldn't understand the power of the healing roots, bone powder, and special ways of spelling. But maybe the talent was only buried in her, not lost forever. Because blood ran thick, thicker than water. And magic ran through tunnels of the soul, Ephram always said.
But Ephram was a liar.
Both before and after he died.
A screech owl hooted, a sound as lonely as a night winter wind. Sign of death, for one to hoot during daylight. But lately signs of death were everywhere, coming at all hours. Sylva said a spell of safe passage and slipped into the woods, hurrying home as best she could before the sun kissed the edge of the mountains.
CHAPTER 11
"Honey?"
Spence pounded on the typewriter keys, pretending not to hear her.
"Jeff?" Bridget put a hand on his shoulder.
He stopped typing and looked up. "You know not to bother me when I'm working."
"But you didn't even come to bed last night."
He hated the plaintive note in her voice, her eagerness to please. He despised her concern. Mostly, he was annoyed by the distraction.
"I hope the typewriter didn't keep you awake." He didn't really care whether it had or not. He was making progress, chasing the elusive Muse, and that was all that mattered.
"No, it's not that," Bridget said. "You just need your rest."
"There will be plenty of time for rest after I'm dead. But at the moment, I'm feeling particularly and effusively alive. So be a dear and let me continue."
"But you missed lunch. That's not like you."
Spence wondered if that was some kind of barb at his weight. But Bridget never criticized. She hadn't the imagination to attack with words. Spence was the reigning master of that genre.
"It's also unlike me to interrupt my work to have a little romantic chat," he said, then stretched his vowels out in his Ashley Wilkes accent. "Now, why don't ya'll make like Scahlett and get yosef gone with the wind?"
"Don't be mean, honey. I'm only trying to help. I want you to be happy. And I know you're only happy when you're working on something."
"Then make me ecstatic," he said. "Leave."
A small sob caught in Bridget's throat. Spence ignored it, already turning his attention back to the half-finished page and the thirty other pages stacked beside the Royal. He would do some revision, he knew, but it was excellent work. His best in many years. And he didn't want it to end.
The door opened and he called to Bridget without looking. "I'll see you at dinner," he lied.
The door closed softly. Spence smiled to himself. She didn't have enough self-esteem to slam the door in anger. She would be apologizing by this evening, thinking the little scene was all her fault.
She was by far the most enjoyable of Spence's corruptions, out of all the English majors and married professors and young literary agents and assistant editors who thought they'd fallen in love with him. But, in the end, they were nothing, just meaningless stacks of bones, scaffolds to prop him up when the loneliness was unbearable. When he was working and working well, he needed no one's love but his own.
"And yours, of course," Spence said to the portrait of Korban, lest his creative benefactor frown.
Spence picked up the manuscript and began reading. The grace of the language, the tight sentence structure, the powerful description were all superb. He'd never been shy about patting himself on the back, but now he had topped even his own lofty literary standards. He would shame them all, from Chaucer to Keats to King.
He didn't question the origin of the words. That was a mystery best left to those whose livelihood was derived from the scholarly vivisection of the humanities. But he'd never before written with such ease as he had last night and today.
Automatic writing. That's what it felt like.
What Spence always called, during those few occasions when the ink flowed so freely, "ghostwriting." As if the paper and typewriter themselves were sucking words out of the air. As if his fingers knew the next word before his brain did. As if he were not even there.
Appropriate to the manuscript, to call it ghostwritten, he thought. It had a Gothic feel, somewhat darker than the southern-flavored literature that had once made him the darling of New York. And then there was the protagonist, the handsome, bearded, and odd man whose name he still hadn't decided upon. That was strange, to be so far along in the manuscript and not even know the main character's name.
He caught himself looking, for the tenth time, at the painting of Korban that hung on the wall above the desk. Then he closed his eyes. After a moment, he resumed ghostwriting.
"Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"A thumping sound."
Adam strained his ears. Paul was probably just being paranoid. He had slipped outside and smoked a joint after dinner. Paul was two things when he was stoned, paranoid and horny.
"Probably that fat writer banging his chippy in the room below us," Adam said.
"If it is, they're the most uncoordinated couple in the history of the human race. Quickest, too."
"All I care about right now is us," Adam said, resting his head on Paul's shoulder. "Thanks for the good time."
"No, thank you."
"And I promise not to bring up the subject of adoption for at least a week."
"You just brought it up."
Paul. "Forget I said anything."
Adam pulled the covers up to his chin and curled his body against Paul's warmth. Adam was afraid he'd have trouble sleeping. The mountaintop estate was too quiet for a city boy, and Adam had never experienced such near-total darkness. He still missed the bright lights, traffic, and aggravation.
"Do you feel like getting out the radio?" he asked.
"Did you bring batteries?"
"Yeah. Figured we might need a little contact with the outside world. The radio's in my bag."
"I'd have to crawl over you to get it."
"I won't bite."
"I'm too tired, anyway. 'Fagged,' as that phony-assed photographer would say."
"You just drank too much wine, that's all. And you know what pot does to you."
"Tonight was for fun. Tomorrow, I'm going to be working again."
Adam collected the radio, brought it back to bed, and switched it on. He twisted the dial, switched bands from FM to AM. Nothing but weird static. "I guess radio waves get blocked by the mountains."
"Or else cool-freaky pop gets censored up here."
They lay for a moment in the darkness. The house was still and hushed. The embers had grown low in the fireplace, and Adam didn't feel like fumbling for a match to light the oil lamp on the bedside table.
"I've been thinking," Paul said.
"News flash. Stop the presses."
Paul elbowed Adam in the ribs. Adam tickled him in return.
"But seriously," Paul said. "I'm thinking of doing a documentary on this place."
"This place?"
"Korban Manor. It's pretty unique, and I could get a lot of scenic footage. Ephram Korban's history sounds pretty interesting, too. An industrialist with a God complex."
"A historical documentary?"
"Something like that?"
"What about all the footage you've already shot, all those weeks in the Adirondacks and the Alleghenies?"
"I'll keep it in the can. I can use it anytime."