Christina was standing and talking to a group of people a few yards inside the door, and when she saw Janice she turned away from them and walked toward her with a smile. "You're a doll," she murmured quietly as she took Janice's right hand in a perfunctory handshake. "I could bite pieces out of you."
"I'd wait about a year before I tried to stop you," Janice breathed, a neutral smile on her face as she glanced around the large room. "Looks like a good turn-out of fleecees tonight."
Christina giggled. "A little better than usual, actually. Come on over and mix and blend, baby. I'll introduce you to some of them to get you started, but if you smile at any of the women too much you're going to get your pretty little ass smacked."
"If you like, we could get together later and I'll pull my panties down for you to do that or whatever else you might like."
"Christ! I wish I could, but I have house guests the Campbells. They're thinking about moving back into the area, and I'm helping them look at houses and working my way around to milking them out of a subscription. I wish I could, baby – I really do. I need you like I've never needed anything."
They began walking toward the first group of people, and Janice nodded, the neutral smile still on her face. "There'll be other times. Perhaps when they've gone."
"No perhaps about it."
Christina introduced Janice to a couple of groups of people. There were the usual reactions, inane comments from the women about her title, and slow, speculative stares and too-warm handshakes from the men. Christina was called away by someone a few minutes later, and Janice separated herself from the group where she was standing and walked to the anteroom where the bar was set up. Jannison's familiar form was hunched over near the punch bowl. He tilted his head back and drained a crystal cup of punch, refilled it, and drained it again as Janice walked in.
"Hello, Doctor Jannison," Janice said, giving him a quick, sidewards glance as she picked up one of the crystal cups; he usually wasn't much of a drinker.
"Oh, hello, Doctor Wycliffe. What did you think of the rehearsal this afternoon?"
She filled the cup, sipped it, then swallowed and licked her lips as she looked up at him. "I'd say it was bloody awful."
He nodded glumly. "I'd say the same – they don't seem to have their heart in it or something. And it's going to be worse next week. Wilkinson is leaving us – he's going to Chicago."
She was starting to sip the punch again, and she froze with the cup almost touching her lips. A long moment of silence passed as she looked up at him, then she lowered the cup and cleared her throat. "Next week?"
He nodded again. "Next week."
She sighed. "Well, what next? The gala coming up, and the cello soloist leaves. The cello solos in Symphonie Fantastique are… well, we're in trouble, I guess."
"Do you think there's anyone we can move up?"
She didn't even have to consider it before she shook her head. The other eleven were competent musicians, but not lead celloists. "We'll have to audition and hope we get someone in time."
"You'll have to audition," he corrected her. "I'm going to be on vacation – remember?"
He was granting her one of the conductor's most jealously guarded prerogatives – that of hiring replacement musicians. "Doctor Jannison, I couldn't possibly…"
"You can do it as well as I," he grunted. "A cello that satisfies you will satisfy me. And if a lead cellist doesn't show up for audition, we'll simply have to make do."
"One doesn't make do with a gala."
"Well, maybe we can just take the cello parts out, then," he murmured, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
She chuckled and nodded. "Yes, I suppose I was being stuffy."
"Your point was well taken, though, Doctor Wycliffe. Well, I've put in my appearance, so I think I'll go on home."
"Yes, I'll be leaving before long myself. It's been a hard day, and everything always looks better after a good night's sleep."
He grunted doubtfully and nodded. "See you at rehearsal tomorrow."
"Yes. Goodnight, Doctor Jannison."
She drained her cup, turned back to the bowl and refilled it, and stopped herself as she started to drain it again. Her lips curled in self-amusement. She'd wondered what was wrong with Jannison that he had been gulping the punch, and she'd been on the point of doing the same thing herself. Well, at least she knew why he'd been doing it. And there had been reason enough. A gala coming up, the orchestra sloughing off, and the first cello leaving. Bad.
A couple of people were leaving along with Jannison, moving around and making their farewells, and other people were arriving. The best part of a no-host party was that one could leave at will, a luxury after suffering through countless formal, rigid affairs in Europe. Janice walked back into the main party room, glancing around. Then she looked at the entrance, where other people were coming in. And she froze. And stared.
She was a tiny, child-like Goddess. Long, thick blonde hair which tumbled over her shoulders and down her back in a thick mass with a slight under-roll around the edges. About five feet tall and something less than a hundred pounds. Massive, sparkling blue eyes. A complexion of creamy white and flushed pink. Tiny, thin arms and shoulders. A pale pink party dress which made her look even more childlike, and a small locket around her soft throat. Delicately modeled features which were poignantly beautiful with the slightly blurred look of a truly natural blonde. Small breasts nestled under the bodice of the dress, and shapely calves and ankles below the demure knee-length hem. Janice stood rooted to the spot, unable to move.
And she was looking at Janice, her eyes seemingly drawn to Janice across the distance between them. She was also paralyzed and unmoving as her lips parted damply and her small breasts surged slightly. A flush of color spread up her alabaster throat to her cheeks as she stood transfixed, her large blue eyes gazing at Janice.
Janice came to her senses and turned back into the anteroom with a hissing sigh of exasperation at herself. She filled her cup again, mentally cursing herself. The room was crowded and noisy, and apparently no one had noticed. But she had been a fool to let herself be drawn into a position where she had absolutely no control over herself and had stared at the child like a maniac. And the silly little bitch had stood there and stared back. A room full of people, and she and the child had stood and stared at each other like long lost lovers.
She was with Professor Eckstein from the conservatory, apparently some relative of his, and he was guiding her around and introducing her. The fact that she was here at all was evidence that she was twenty or twenty-one, but she didn't look more than fifteen. And she was the most beautiful woman Janice had seen since Lisa's death. She choked the thought off, filling her cup again, and she turned and went back into the party room.
They were approaching, and Janice could hear them talking to someone else a few feet away. The child had a clear, ringing voice like a tiny bell, and she was French. An exchange student or whatever, but she'd evidently been mistaken in assuming her to be some relative of Eckstein's. Her English was fluent but heavily accented, and the words rushed out in burst between pauses. Very appealing. They were moving again, now toward her, and Janice steeled herself, summoning every ounce of control she possessed and clamping it rigidly down on her reactions and feelings.
"Doctor Wycliffe, I'd like you to meet my niece, Wendy Nelson. Wendy, this is Doctor Wycliffe, the assistant to the conductor of the philharmonic and the orchestra instructor at the conservatory."