The House of Velvet and Glass (52 page)

“It can’t be possible!” Sibyl repeated, her voice rising. At the edges of her consciousness she grew aware of stirring as heads lifted from their own chaises in response to her cry.

She twisted the glass again, swiveling it upward this time, and the light inside the orb tumbled over itself, around Harlan’s face, resolving into an image of him still the same age, still with the pistol pressed to his temple, his eyes closed, but now he was in a bar, it looked like, with shattered glass around him on the floor and a rivulet of blood trickling from his hairline along the inside of his nose.

“It can’t be possible!” Sibyl cried, voice growing shrill as she twisted the glass, seeing Harlan back in the office, slightly younger, with different furniture, sunlight streaking into the window at a different angle. His finger started squeezing the trigger, slowly, slowly, and Sibyl screamed, “It can’t be! It can’t be! There must be a way! There must!”

She turned the glass again, but as it moved the image inside exploded in a sudden burst of red.

Sibyl let out a guttural, hysterical wail, wordless, desperate, her head thrown back, hair falling loose around her shoulders, hot tears squeezing out of the corners of her eyes. She felt hands on her shoulders, shaking her, heard voices calling out her name, trying to wake her, but she twisted free, struggling, holding the glass before her eyes for another look, just one more look, she had to see, there must be some alternative, something she hadn’t thought of. . . .

But the scrying glass was deep crimson red, and she turned it, and she turned it, and she turned it, and it didn’t change.

She saw that it never would.

With a cry ripped from deep within her soul, Sibyl hurled the scrying glass into the brick fireplace. It exploded in a tinkling burst of shards, scattering through the embers and across the floor, glittering splinters winking like teardrops, or stars. Sibyl sobbed, moaning, “It’s not possible, it can’t be possible,” sagging into the arms of the people who were trying to restrain her.

She gulped for air, exhausted, weeping, and through the blurred haze of her tears she watched as the color of the shards melted from red, to perfectly clear, and at last back to milky bluish white.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Westmorly Court
Harvard Square
Cambridge, Massachusetts
May 8, 1915

The sound of sparrows rustling about their morning business struck Sibyl as perverse. She looked through eyes blistered with weeping out at a world that was unchanged, and its indifference offended her. The morning light was thin and gray, watery, the beginning of a soft, cool day. A produce cart rolled along Massachusetts Avenue, its nag sleepy and nickering, its driver urging her on with minimal flicks of the reins. A squirrel paused in the grass by the gracious dormitory building where she found herself, rooting at the base of a tree for its cache of nuts. She leaned her cheek on the dormitory’s door, resting. Just for a moment. Then she lifted her hand and beat her palm on the door.

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

She waited, her lips chapped, hair plastered to her forehead with a sickly sheen of sweat. Through the ear pressed to the door she thought she could hear stirring within. She closed her eyes.

Her arrival in Cambridge was unclear. The last thing that she could remember was wailing, deep and horrid keening, and the sensation of hands on her arms and waist, of being pulled from her seat under a rain of admonishments to be quiet. She was hustled down a flight of stairs—had she fallen? Or tripped at the bottom? She wasn’t sure—and then thrust, with force, out onto the street. A coat came flying out the door after her, and she staggered, losing her balance, trying to gather the coat up in her arms. It was impossible to pick up, like trying to carry aspic in her arms, so she reeled away without it. There had been a car—a taxicab? A stranger? No, she would never have accepted a ride from a strange man, at the break of dawn, surely not—and it had taken her here. Why had it taken her here?

She opened her eyes and rolled them up in their sockets, looking at the snarling face of a concrete gargoyle grinning down at her. She lifted her hand, her heavy arm, and beat on the door with her fist.

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

From deep inside the building she thought she heard a youthful male voice cry out, “Christ Almighty!” Then, from a nearer vantage point, she heard the same voice say, “Andersen, you forget your key again?” while fiddling with locks and dead bolts.

The door opened inward, and Sibyl fell inside, collapsing into the surprised arms of a tall blond boy in striped pajamas and robe. “Wha—holy cow!” the boy exclaimed.

“Harley,” Sibyl murmured, her hand pawing at the air. Her head lolled on her shoulders, and she tried looking into the boy’s face, but his features were blurry. She was dimly aware of the sound of pounding footfalls, and another boy’s voice saying, “Great Scott, Lester, who’ve you got there?”

“Why, I dunno,” the boy holding her up said. His arms felt spindly and young under her weight, and she tried to get her feet organized enough to pry herself off of him, but they weren’t obeying.

“What well have you been wishing at, I’d like to know?” the second boy asked with a laugh. “She looks a sight, though, doesn’t she.”

“Yeah. I think you’d better get the professor,” the first boy said.

“I think you’re right,” the second one said, and his feet thumped away.

“Miss?” her rescuer said, loudly, into her ear. “Miss? I’m going to help you to this bench, all right?”

“Mmm,” Sibyl said. “Harley.” She felt herself being moved, her feet dragging along behind her.

“Huh?”

“Harley,” she said again, her head flopping forward, chin on her chest.

“What, Harley Allston? You know him? Why, he doesn’t live here anymore. Got sent home.” Then, as an afterthought under his breath, he added, “And I can see why.”

The sound of more feet, and the second boy saying, “Right over here, Lester’s got her.”

“And you don’t have any idea who she is? On the level, now, Cooper. You’ve got to tell me the truth,” an older male voice said. A voice that sounded familiar. Sibyl tried to force her eyes to work, but the faces all swam together.

“Honest, we neither of us ever saw her before in our lives,” said the second one, Cooper.

Then the older voice said, “Oh, my God.”

“Why, Professor Derby! You know her?”

Benton. Sibyl redoubled her efforts to make herself understood, but she was having trouble controlling her limbs, and her tongue lay in her mouth like a foreign object.

“Boys,” Benton said, without commenting on whether he knew her or not. “You did the right thing. Here, help me get her upstairs. I’ll call for a doctor.”

Sibyl felt her arm lifted over a broad pair of shoulders, with another hand or two at her waist, helping her down a long hallway. A door opened, her feet were dragged along a richly patterned carpet, before she was lowered onto a couch. A wonderful brocade couch. She sank onto it with a sigh of immeasurable relief, resting her cheek against its nubbly surface.

The voices around her faded into a background drone of murmurs and discussion. Doors opened and closed. Sibyl rooted her cheek against the brocade, covering her face with one hand. She felt herself loosen and begin to drift. Then she sank into a delicious, perfectly deep sleep.

“Well, I can see why you were concerned, but I think she’ll be all right,” someone said. Sibyl’s eyes flew open, instantly alert.

She saw Benton standing a little ways off, in conference with a spectacled man holding a black leather bag. Benton? Why would he be there? Where was she? Her eyes roved over the room where she lay, shoes off, stretched out on her side on a brocade couch. It was a dark-paneled drawing room, lined with books. Deep leather armchairs, a Wardian case full of ferns under a leaded glass window. An antique globe, yellowed with age, over in the corner. A brass telescope trained out the window. A side table, on wheels, holding an assortment of Scotch, glassware, and a cut crystal seltzer bottle. Over the fireplace, a small, rather bizarre painting, all jagged edges that half suggested the shape of a guitar. It was a well-appointed, masculine room, small and comfortable, unassuming. Benton’s room. How on earth could she have gotten to Benton’s rooms?

“Just needs some rest and something warm to eat, I should think. But I can take her over to the hospital if you like. Just to be sure.”

“No, no,” Benton said. “Unless you think it’s really necessary.” He lowered his voice, angling his body away from her, and said, “I’m a friend of the family. As you can imagine, I think they’d prefer to avoid any notice.”

“Of course,” the doctor said, glancing at her over Benton’s shoulder. “I understand completely. I think the young lady should be fine in a few hours. Although—” He paused, and then lowered his voice to match Benton’s. “I don’t think I need to point out to you that this is worrisome behavior. The family should be informed. Should they wish, I can refer them to a very fine sanitarium. One that’s accustomed to dealing with such situations. With discretion.”

“That’s good of you,” Benton said, ushering the doctor to his door. “I’ll be sure to mention it.”

“It’s quite common, you know, Professor Derby,” the doctor said as he readied to leave. “You should tell them that. Nothing to be ashamed of. It’s happened to some very fine people.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Benton said. The two men parted at the door with the customary thanks and assurances, and then the doctor was gone.

Benton moved back into her field of vision, settling with a grunt in one of the leather armchairs, crossing his ankle on his knee. He rested his chin on his fist and looked at her.

She focused her eyes on him and gave him a wan smile. He was in a crewneck sweater over an oxford cloth shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, the sleeves pushed up on his forearms. She didn’t think she’d ever not seen him in a suit. The quality of the light suggested midmorning. She raised herself up on an elbow.

“Benton,” she began.

He returned her smile, with tired eyes, and held up a hand. “Would you like some coffee? I was just going to make some.”

“Why, yes,” she said, rubbing her fingertips over her eyelids. “I would. Thank you.”

He nodded, getting to his feet and vanishing down a hallway. She heard cheerful morning kitchen sounds, clattering and water running. A whistling kettle. Sibyl waited, enjoying lying there, watching the sunshine lengthen into the room.

When he reappeared, he carried a tray holding a silver pot, two cups and saucers, spoons, and two bowls of oatmeal with butter and brown sugar. Sibyl struggled into a seated position. Wordlessly he fixed up her coffee with sugar and two precise droplets of milk, then passed her the cup. He must have noticed her idiosyncratic coffee-doctoring habits at some point, as he didn’t even inquire. She accepted the cup gratefully, and sipped. Its warmth started to bring color back into her cheeks, and she sighed with pleasure.

He started to pass her the bowl of oatmeal, and out of habit she said, “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly.”

He scowled. “I know you were awake while the doctor was here. And that means that I know that
you
know that this is not optional. Eat it.”

“But I . . .” She trailed off, looking at the oatmeal. The sugar had melted into a delectable puddle of brown syrup. She felt saliva spring into her mouth.

He gave her a sharp look. “Don’t think I don’t know what this is about. But you can’t be in control of everything all the time, Sibyl. Now come on. Eat it. It’s only oatmeal.”

Abashed, unaccustomed to being seen through, Sibyl reached for the bowl and took a small bite. It was delicious.

They sat for some time, breakfasting, drinking coffee, avoiding discussing the state in which Sibyl had appeared on his doorstep. She had forgotten that he was in residence in the same dormitory where Harlan used to live. Or perhaps, in some cobwebby corner of her mind, she hadn’t forgotten. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to arrive home in such a state. A flush of shame crept over Sibyl’s cheeks. She set down her coffee cup and looked away.

“Sibyl?” Benton asked.

She shook her head, face hidden behind her hand.

He got up from his seat and moved to join her on the couch. Sibyl emitted a pathetic sniffle, and Benton slid his arms around her. She buried her face in his neck, hot tears dampening his sweater.

“Oh, Ben,” she sobbed.

“Shhh,” he whispered into her hair. She felt his hand on the back of her head, his fingers in her hair, stroking her, soothing. She coiled her arms around his waist, not caring anymore what he might think of her, abandoning herself to her grief.

When her sobs subsided he gently disengaged from her hold and sat back, looking at her.

“Are you ready to tell me what happened?” he asked. There was no judgment in his voice.

She looked at him, then down at her hands in her lap. She nodded.

Quickly, with nervous glances from under her eyelashes to weigh his reactions while she spoke, Sibyl recounted her conversation with her father. When she told him that Lan had used a variation on the scrying glass himself, in fact had become addicted to it from a young age, he rubbed a distracted hand through his hair but said nothing. She finished by describing what she had seen of Harlan’s future, his inevitable early death, in misery and dishonor.