House of Masques by Fortune Kent

you,” he said and strode to the house, followed by Mrs. Lewis.
    Kathleen knelt on the grass and removed the lid from the jar. The fireflies crawled to the rim and launched themselves hesitantly into the air. All except one which crawled deep into the jar where Kathleen could see him darting this way and that. “You’re as lost as I am,” she said.
    The plaintive song of a mandolin rose above the voices from the porch. The talk and laughter died down, then stifled, and she heard a man singing, the words slow and melancholy—
    â€œTenting tonight,
    Tenting tonight,
    Tenting on the old campground.”
    Kathleen felt a nostalgia, a longing for all days gone by. She stood alone on the dark lawn listening, the jar in her hands, surrounded by the fireflies flickering like a thousand stars.

Chapter Eight
    Trees arched over the barns and stables. Kathleen passed into their shadow, leaving behind the fireflies as, when she was young, she closed a book of fairy tales to return to the reality of her upstairs room where she would watch the branches writhing in the wind outside her window.
    She walked by the barn with its neighing, stamping horses. A rumble came from far behind the mountains, causing her to look for lightning in the sky, but she saw none. The dark outline of the servants’ quarters rose before her. Was this Edward Allen’s door? She knocked, wishing she had remembered to bring a light. A hush followed in which even the night noises quieted. No sound came from within, and she could see no lights.
    She turned from the door to grope her way to the side of the building. Gravel crunched beneath her feet and she realized she was on the path to the stable where she had strolled earlier in the day. A light from a window above her head threw a pale rectangle on the ground, the soft glow reminding her of the night of her arrival at the Worthington Estate. She tried without success to erase the image of the empty coffin from her mind.
    What was that? She stopped, listening. Was someone following her? She held her breath, pulse racing, a tremor coursing up her legs. The moon had not yet risen and the night was dark. She heard nothing, could see nothing. Why am I so foolish? she wondered. What have I to fear?
    She searched for another door but found none, so she left the graveled path and walked with one hand touching the side of the building. Another corner. Kathleen paused, hesitating to go to the back of the building, the side farthest from the main house. She sensed a presence near her yet could not be sure. Should I go back for a candle? she asked herself. Should I wait until tomorrow?
    â€œWho are you?”
    A scream rose in her throat. She hid the cry with her hand, cringing away from the figure barring her path.
    â€œI-I-I’m—” she began. The rough siding of the building pressed sharply into her back. She heard a scratching, a light flared, and for a moment all she could see was the flame and the hand holding the long match. The light dimmed to reveal an unshaven face, dark clothes, a rifle held in one hand. She sighed in relief, recognizing the man who had stepped aside on the trail during her walk with Charles. The guard.
    â€œSo it’s you,” he said. His face was expressionless. Weighing? Deciding? “I’ve followed you for the last five minutes. What brings you here?”
    â€œOur coachman. Edward Allen.” The words tumbled one over the other. “I must find him.”
    The guard did not speak, but she noticed a smile touch the corners of his mouth.
    â€œAch!” The match fell from his fingers. He ground the stub into the dirt with his boot.
    The impulse to justify her presence was almost overwhelming. No , she thought, I don’t need to, I have a right to be here. “Do you know where his room is?” she asked.
    The man grunted, whether he meant a yes or a no she could not tell. “A young lady like yourself shouldn’t be