laborer. He must have done most of the work himself, and a formidable job it had been, to judge from his description of its condition. Every room packed to the rafters with crumbling newspapers, rotting cartons, filthy clothes . . .
"Well, that's it," he said. "Want to make me an offer?"
His tone made it a joke, but she wasn't deceived. Of course he hoped to sell her the house. He had watched her intently; he must have observed that her initial antipathy had faded as they went on. The most unpleasant part of the house was the central block; the rooms in the outspread wings were almost cozy by contrast, low-ceilinged and sunny, with big fireplaces.
All the same, it wouldn't be easy to find a buyer. The house was too big, too isolated, and still in need of extensive repairs. But if it was Ismene's house ... If she could prove it, if the book turned out to be a critical success . . .
"There are the cellars, of course," Hayes went on. "But I would rather not show them to you; they're probably flooded, they always are after it rains, and I promise you, there's nothing down there. I cleared everything out of the house."
"What about the attic?"
"You don't want to go up there."
"Why not? Wasn't that where the manuscript was found?"
"That's right. In a trunk under a pile of old clothes. But there's nothing there now except dust and cobwebs. Everything is in storage."
"Everything?"
"Yes. Including," he* added tantalizingly, "a few boxes of papers and photo albums and miscellaneous junk I kept out of the sale. Despite my greed I draw the line at putting family mementos on the auction block."
"You wouldn't get much for them at auction."
He gave her a knowing smile. "If you want to look through them we can probably come to an agreement."
"I do want to look through them, but not today. Just promise you won't sell them to Bill Meyer."
"Done."
"I'd still like to see the attic. You don't have to come with me, I know you must be anxious to get to work. Just point me in the right direction."
He didn't respond immediately. Then he said slowly, "I guess it's all right. A waste of time, as I said. You won't enjoy it. I haven't had a chance to clean the place, and there are mice."
"I like mice." Karen smiled sweetly. "Adorable little furry creatures."
He was not amused. "Come on, then, if you're determined."
He left her at the foot of the attic stairs, with a look that dared her to go on. The prospect was certainly not enticing. The narrow enclosed stairwell was a dusky dark, and she heard small scuttling sounds above. The mice were not visible, though, when she reached the top of the stairs. They must have run for cover when they heard the door open.
No wonder the place was so dark. There were windows high under the roof, but they were small and opaque with crusted dirt. The first board she stepped on sagged and groaned. She stopped, squinting into the shadows and trying to orient herself. The stairs she had climbed had been in the west wing. This space, though extensive, could not extend over the entire house; that wall of roughly mortared brick on her left must mark the end of the wing, with the central block beyond. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she saw the outlines of a door.
Slowly, testing each board before she put her weight on it, she moved toward the door. Creaks and groans accompanied each step, but the floor seemed solid enough. The door was solid too, a massive structure of rough boards. The heavy latch was of metal, red with rust that coated her palm and fingers when she took hold of it. The hinges screamed in protest when she forced the panel back.
Ahead lay a narrow passageway with closed doors along one side. That was all she saw before the cold leapt out at her like an imprisoned animal desperate for freedom. It was far more intense than that first wave of icy air, not the absence of warmth but a positive force, active and malevolent. Black cold, cold darkness, heavy with despair. It gripped her
"Well, that's it," he said. "Want to make me an offer?"
His tone made it a joke, but she wasn't deceived. Of course he hoped to sell her the house. He had watched her intently; he must have observed that her initial antipathy had faded as they went on. The most unpleasant part of the house was the central block; the rooms in the outspread wings were almost cozy by contrast, low-ceilinged and sunny, with big fireplaces.
All the same, it wouldn't be easy to find a buyer. The house was too big, too isolated, and still in need of extensive repairs. But if it was Ismene's house ... If she could prove it, if the book turned out to be a critical success . . .
"There are the cellars, of course," Hayes went on. "But I would rather not show them to you; they're probably flooded, they always are after it rains, and I promise you, there's nothing down there. I cleared everything out of the house."
"What about the attic?"
"You don't want to go up there."
"Why not? Wasn't that where the manuscript was found?"
"That's right. In a trunk under a pile of old clothes. But there's nothing there now except dust and cobwebs. Everything is in storage."
"Everything?"
"Yes. Including," he* added tantalizingly, "a few boxes of papers and photo albums and miscellaneous junk I kept out of the sale. Despite my greed I draw the line at putting family mementos on the auction block."
"You wouldn't get much for them at auction."
He gave her a knowing smile. "If you want to look through them we can probably come to an agreement."
"I do want to look through them, but not today. Just promise you won't sell them to Bill Meyer."
"Done."
"I'd still like to see the attic. You don't have to come with me, I know you must be anxious to get to work. Just point me in the right direction."
He didn't respond immediately. Then he said slowly, "I guess it's all right. A waste of time, as I said. You won't enjoy it. I haven't had a chance to clean the place, and there are mice."
"I like mice." Karen smiled sweetly. "Adorable little furry creatures."
He was not amused. "Come on, then, if you're determined."
He left her at the foot of the attic stairs, with a look that dared her to go on. The prospect was certainly not enticing. The narrow enclosed stairwell was a dusky dark, and she heard small scuttling sounds above. The mice were not visible, though, when she reached the top of the stairs. They must have run for cover when they heard the door open.
No wonder the place was so dark. There were windows high under the roof, but they were small and opaque with crusted dirt. The first board she stepped on sagged and groaned. She stopped, squinting into the shadows and trying to orient herself. The stairs she had climbed had been in the west wing. This space, though extensive, could not extend over the entire house; that wall of roughly mortared brick on her left must mark the end of the wing, with the central block beyond. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she saw the outlines of a door.
Slowly, testing each board before she put her weight on it, she moved toward the door. Creaks and groans accompanied each step, but the floor seemed solid enough. The door was solid too, a massive structure of rough boards. The heavy latch was of metal, red with rust that coated her palm and fingers when she took hold of it. The hinges screamed in protest when she forced the panel back.
Ahead lay a narrow passageway with closed doors along one side. That was all she saw before the cold leapt out at her like an imprisoned animal desperate for freedom. It was far more intense than that first wave of icy air, not the absence of warmth but a positive force, active and malevolent. Black cold, cold darkness, heavy with despair. It gripped her
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