Ghostlight by Marion Zimmer Bradley Page B

cologne filled her nostrils, and for a moment before she dismissed the frivolous thought Truth fancied she could feel the thrill of some electrical pulse where her fingers rested on the warm solidity of his arm. They started down the rest of the stairs together.
    â€œI won’t fling you into the lion’s den alone, Truth,” Julian said with lightly mocking reproof. “But you’ll be meeting the rest of our Circle this evening, at least those I’ve been able to gather so far. The Work requires a Circle of thirteen to do it properly, but it can be managed with fewer.”
    And are you managing it? Truth wanted to ask, but they had arrived.
    Like most Victorian mansions, Shadow’s Gate had a certain bilateral symmetry to it, including matching parlors on either side of the entry hall. Truth had been in one of them—the Blackburn museum—for several hours today. Now she entered its counterpart.
    Nothing could have been more different. Though many of the rooms at Shadow’s Gate held what must be the original furniture, it was plain that Julian had not in any sense created a museum-mansion where the clock was stopped in 1895. The walls of this parlor were a dark shade of Paris green, a color picked up in the brocade curtains and the exquisite Oriental carpets underfoot. But the long sectional couch was entirely modern, its
sleek Italian lines upholstered in butter-soft oyster-colored leather, and the tables were modern constructions of glass-topped bronze.
    Truth was no sheltered simpleton—no one who had any connection with a college’s incessant quest for money could be that innocent of how the world worked—and the sheer amount of money a room furnished in this fashion represented was like a warning flag. The rich, as F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, are different from you and me, and in Truth’s experience, that difference meant the ruthless disregard for the consequences to others of one’s actions that only the sheer power of wealth could make possible.
    She managed to gather a confused impression of half a dozen assorted people standing as if waiting for her before Julian’s hand upon her waist propelled her gently into the room.
    Thrown to the lions …
    â€œLadies and gentlemen,” Julian said. “It is my great honor to present the daughter of Thorne Blackburn—Truth Jourdemayne.”
    Truth flushed exasperatedly. Why had Julian … ?
    â€œShould we applaud?” a male voice drawled. Its owner came forward, glass in hand. He wore a dark vest with his tweed jacket and old school tie, and Truth instantly if unconsciously pegged him as a down-at-heel professor—the man had the moon-pale skin and hollow eyes of one who spent his waking hours indoors in dusty archives poring over obscure texts. He seemed to be somewhere in his forties, his hair dark and in need of cutting. His eyes were gray, and he had the look of an irritated falcon.
    â€œNo offense, dear lady,” he added, with a mock bow in her direction. Truth found herself smiling in sheer relief at the familiarity—just like any boring faculty tea, at least so far.
    â€œOh for God’s sake, Ellis,” Julian muttered. “Truth, allow me to present Ellis Gardner, much as I’d rather not
at the moment. He isn’t usually this bad. Ellis, can’t you—”
    â€œMy dear Hierodule, it is only the sherry that makes me tolerable at all,” Gardner said mockingly. He took Truth by the hand and drew her away from Julian’s side. Though he did smell strongly of sherry, and from Julian’s comments probably was a frequent overindulger, both Ellis’s speech and gait were steady as he conducted Truth about the room and its inhabitants.
    â€œAllow me to introduce the rest of our merry band of seekers after truth. The founder of the feast you already know”—this with an ironic nod toward Julian, whose face was studiously