House of Masques by Fortune Kent Page A

abroad this time of night,” he said. I was right , she thought, I’ve satisfied him. “They’re watching,” he went on, “watching all the time. Waiting for their chance. Not in the daytime so much, I don’t feel them lurking about during the day. In the night, though, it’s different. I can tell they’re hiding out there in the night.” She looked at the enclosing woods and shivered.
    â€œWho are they?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he replied. “I wish I knew who they are and what they want, but I don’t.”
    The guard lit another match. “Come with me,” he told her. “Look, you go through this doorway and up the stairs and to the right. You’ll find your coachman’s room there.”
    She thanked him, pushed open the door, and climbed the steep steps. A slit of light shone from beneath a door a few feet along the hall. She knocked. “Who’s there?” asked a muffled voice.
    â€œKathleen,” she answered. When there was no reply she raised her voice. “Kathleen, Kathleen Stuart.” The door inched open wide enough for her to see the side of his bearded face.
    â€œCome in,” Edward Allen said. He showed neither surprise nor pleasure nor irritation. She had expected one of these reactions, and was annoyed at his seeming indifference. Behind Edward the room, lit by a lone kerosene lamp on the table, was gloomy.
    â€œSit you down,” he said. Again he surprised her. She thought he would sprawl in his chair as he had at the inn. Instead he held a chair for her, waited until she was seated, then sat with his hands clasped on the table. He had been writing. Or drinking. Or both. Arrayed before him was a glass, an unlabelled bottle holding an inch of golden-brown liquor, an ink well, a quill pen, and scattered papers covered with writing in a neat, precise hand.
    â€œBrandy?” he asked. “A liquor lauded by eminent physicians for its medicinal qualities. No?” He poured more into his own glass. Kathleen was puzzled by both his speech and manner. He did not seem the Edward Allen of a few days before.
    â€œYour humble servant,” he said, raising his glass to her. His hazel eyes roved from her face to the square neckline of her dress, then followed the curve of her body downward. She shifted uncomfortably and her eyes left his to glance about the room.
    She saw more papers bundled in an open trunk on the plank floor, a rumpled bed along the wall, a scarred chest of drawers with pitcher and basin on top, a wardrobe closet, and trunks and boxes piled in the far corner. Through the window came the chirrup of the cicadas. Only one decoration interrupted the sameness of the brown walls—a set of two bronze-colored masks. She recognized the ancient Greek symbols of comedy and tragedy.
    Her gaze returned to Edward Allen sipping from his glass, while he continued to observe her over the rim. She felt a sense of unease, of foreboding. The masks. She looked at them again, more closely than before, and grimaced. The faces leered dark and bulbous, the noses small, the lips thick, the eyes staring blankly. Grotesque.
    â€œDon’t you like my friends?” She shook her head.
    â€œAt first I felt the same,” he said, “but I’ve become accustomed to them. Repulsion changes to acceptance, which in turn gives way to affection of a sort. Which, if you think on it, is not unlike the plot of many of our romantic dramas.”
    â€œI know nothing of the stage.”
    â€œâ€˜All the world’s a stage,’” he quoted.
    â€œAnd I know very little of the world,” she added.
    â€œIf ever you desire instruction, I await your pleasure.”
    â€œI have need of something more immediate.”
    He raised his eyes.
    â€œMy gun,” she said.
    â€œSo, the purpose of your visit is revealed. I’m disappointed. I thought you’d come to ask about the ball. You are going,