when she moved, the coat fell open, revealing the flash of white breasts and belly. There was another woman, entirely naked except for boots and stockings, and a young, blond boy, not more than five or six, in a loose white flannel gown.
Gryf closed his eyes and opened them again. He took a step backward, but the abbess blocked his movement. From somewhere, she had procured a birch, and she pointed with it, drawing his attention back into the room. “There’s your naughty boy,” she said, giving him another little push as she pressed the rod into his hand.
Gryf’s fingers closed autothatically around the birch, then dropped it as his eyes focused on the silent silhouette standing in the shadows beyond the foot of the large bed. The figure held another rod, thicker and more menacing than the rest. The face was hidden beneath the eerie blankness of a full white mask; only the eyeholes glittered, inhuman wells of darkness.
With a terrible clarity that penetrated the alcohol haze, Gryf knew exactly who that specter was. He made a sound, an incoherent protest that was all his numbed tongue could manage.
“Another pretty gentleman,” the figure whispered. “Come in.”
The abbess pushed at Gryf again. He set his feet against her. “No.”
“Come in,” came the whisper again. “I have a bad boy here for you.” One black-gloved hand gestured toward the child, and the volunteer shoved him forward.
The boy made a small sound that might have been excitement or distress. He cast an apprehensive glance at the stick which the volunteer brandished; she wriggled it at him, and he climbed quickly onto the bed. The other stepped forward with a length of cord and began to tie his hands to the bedpost.
Gryf felt nausea rise in his throat. The dark spell that had bound him broke; he shut his eyes on the picture and turned, stumbling blindly for the door. He blundered into the corridor, tore off the mask, and strode down the hall, bewildered by the maze of stairs and doors, unable to bring himself to open one for fear of finding another such scene. When at last he broke into the parlor where Eliot had left him, it was to come face to face with the two fancy toughs who had first escorted him inside.
They arranged themselves meaningfully in front of the door to the central hall. Gryf looked at them, weighed probabilities, and sat down with a groan. He buried his face in his hands, fighting sickness. A long interval passed, silent except for the ringing in his ears. The turmoil in his belly subsided slowly, leaving him drained and sobered. When there was a movement atthe door and Eliot’s cold voice spoke to Gryf, he was able to stand and look without wavering into those icy blue eyes.
“Don’t be an ass, Everett.”
Gryf glanced past him. The toughs had left. Eliot stood alone by the door, adjusting his cuff with cool meticulousness. “Are you quite scandalized, my country puppy?”
Gryf waited, without answering, his mouth taut.
Eliot sighed. “My mistake, dear boy. I had hoped you might enjoy the more…sophisticated pleasures.” He cocked his head, and looked at Gryf with a peculiar, predatory narrowing of his eyes. “I see that my own predilections misled me. I have a treacherous weakness for golden hair.” He pursed his lips. “My lamented cousin Lord Alexander had hair just the color of yours. I doted on that man as a child—God knows why, for he turned out to be a fool. Left me.” He gave a short laugh. “Went off and got himself murdered.”
Gryf’s hands closed into fists.
“I needn’t remind you not to mention this little episode to your acquaintances?” Eliot strolled farther into the room. He stood out of Gryf’s path and motioned toward the door. “You had better go home—I’m sure it’s past your bedtime.”
Gryf cast him a level glance, answering the veiled sneer with stony silence. Eliot’s smile faltered slightly, and Gryf strode past, heading gladly for the door and his own kind of
Gryf closed his eyes and opened them again. He took a step backward, but the abbess blocked his movement. From somewhere, she had procured a birch, and she pointed with it, drawing his attention back into the room. “There’s your naughty boy,” she said, giving him another little push as she pressed the rod into his hand.
Gryf’s fingers closed autothatically around the birch, then dropped it as his eyes focused on the silent silhouette standing in the shadows beyond the foot of the large bed. The figure held another rod, thicker and more menacing than the rest. The face was hidden beneath the eerie blankness of a full white mask; only the eyeholes glittered, inhuman wells of darkness.
With a terrible clarity that penetrated the alcohol haze, Gryf knew exactly who that specter was. He made a sound, an incoherent protest that was all his numbed tongue could manage.
“Another pretty gentleman,” the figure whispered. “Come in.”
The abbess pushed at Gryf again. He set his feet against her. “No.”
“Come in,” came the whisper again. “I have a bad boy here for you.” One black-gloved hand gestured toward the child, and the volunteer shoved him forward.
The boy made a small sound that might have been excitement or distress. He cast an apprehensive glance at the stick which the volunteer brandished; she wriggled it at him, and he climbed quickly onto the bed. The other stepped forward with a length of cord and began to tie his hands to the bedpost.
Gryf felt nausea rise in his throat. The dark spell that had bound him broke; he shut his eyes on the picture and turned, stumbling blindly for the door. He blundered into the corridor, tore off the mask, and strode down the hall, bewildered by the maze of stairs and doors, unable to bring himself to open one for fear of finding another such scene. When at last he broke into the parlor where Eliot had left him, it was to come face to face with the two fancy toughs who had first escorted him inside.
They arranged themselves meaningfully in front of the door to the central hall. Gryf looked at them, weighed probabilities, and sat down with a groan. He buried his face in his hands, fighting sickness. A long interval passed, silent except for the ringing in his ears. The turmoil in his belly subsided slowly, leaving him drained and sobered. When there was a movement atthe door and Eliot’s cold voice spoke to Gryf, he was able to stand and look without wavering into those icy blue eyes.
“Don’t be an ass, Everett.”
Gryf glanced past him. The toughs had left. Eliot stood alone by the door, adjusting his cuff with cool meticulousness. “Are you quite scandalized, my country puppy?”
Gryf waited, without answering, his mouth taut.
Eliot sighed. “My mistake, dear boy. I had hoped you might enjoy the more…sophisticated pleasures.” He cocked his head, and looked at Gryf with a peculiar, predatory narrowing of his eyes. “I see that my own predilections misled me. I have a treacherous weakness for golden hair.” He pursed his lips. “My lamented cousin Lord Alexander had hair just the color of yours. I doted on that man as a child—God knows why, for he turned out to be a fool. Left me.” He gave a short laugh. “Went off and got himself murdered.”
Gryf’s hands closed into fists.
“I needn’t remind you not to mention this little episode to your acquaintances?” Eliot strolled farther into the room. He stood out of Gryf’s path and motioned toward the door. “You had better go home—I’m sure it’s past your bedtime.”
Gryf cast him a level glance, answering the veiled sneer with stony silence. Eliot’s smile faltered slightly, and Gryf strode past, heading gladly for the door and his own kind of
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