Night of the Candles by Jennifer Blake Page B

the hall. Theo looked at Amanda as if gauging her reaction to Sophia’s ushering Nathaniel away, then he slanted a glance at Jason. “I could do with a drink,” he said tentatively.
    It was a moment before Jason gave any sign that he had heard, then with a curt nod to Amanda he turned and walked out, leaving Theo to follow if he chose.
    It became plain as soon as Marta returned that she had heard the argument. “You must rest, liebchen. Close your eyes while I go down for your supper tray. I know how exhausting having a quarrel raging around your ears can be. Many are the time when I’ve heard … but no matter. I keep out of the way. For someone like me there is nothing else to be done. Stay and be quiet and you are accused of being nosy and sly. Stay and give your opinion and the wrath of all descends. Either way, you are out of a position. It is best to go away until the storm is over, then employ oneself in soothing the wounds. Would you like a cup of tea?”
    Amanda smiled as she declined the palliative. “I haven’t any wounds,” she said.
    “No, no, I didn’t mean it to sound so,” Marta exclaimed, clasping her long thick white fingers together. “I only thought after such a … a trying experience you would like the calming effect of a nice, hot cup.”
    Amanda could see that Marta wanted to pamper her, perhaps in part because she felt that she should not have stayed away from her patient during the fracas. With good grace, she gave in and admitted that she would enjoy the tea if Marta would be so kind.
    Marta had been gone only a few minutes when she heard footsteps outside in the hall. They were so loud that she glanced at the door realizing that Marta had not pulled it quite shut behind her. Listening, she thought the footsteps sounded like Nathaniel and half expected him to stop in and see her, but after only a momentary hesitation he passed on by.
    A wry smile touched her mouth. She was being ridiculous to feel slighted. It was not as if she wanted him dancing attendance on her.
    Her thoughts were broken off by the slamming of a door followed by raised voices.
    Sophia and Theo again, she was almost sure. Why did people have to flail at each other with words? What was so important that they must tear at each other, hunting verbally for the most vital spot? Was there something lacking in herself that there seemed to be little worth the agony of that mental rending?
    Though the voices were muffled, unintelligible through the thick walls, Amanda wanted to cover her ears to shut out the vicious spate of words that went on and on.
    Marta brought her tea on a tray with her own small pot covered by a knitted cozy. As she placed it on the washstand and gently poured the tea into the cup, their eyes met, then they looked away. They were not eavesdropping, but it was impossible to ignore the noisy altercation.
    Marta was just handing her the cup when there came the sharp crack of flesh on flesh. Amanda jumped, spilling the tea into its saucer. Then before they could move or speak, they heard another slap and a woman’s cry of mingled rage and surprise.
    For a second Marta’s lips compressed into lines of disapproval, then her expression turned carefully blank.
    “Marta! It was Theo … and Sophia … wasn’t it?” Amanda could not have said what made her ask the question, but it seemed important.
    “I couldn’t say,” was her answer.
    “The voices … they came from across the hall, didn’t they?”
    “It seemed so.”
    Irritation with the short, noncommittal answer made her tone sharp. “Then whose room is it?”
    “It belongs to Herr Theo, fraeulein.”
    “Then it must have been he and his sister.”
    Marta did not answer. She made a great show of replacing the tea cozy and examining the rug to be certain that no tea stained it.
    Amanda was left with a sense of dissatisfaction. Sipping the brew Marta had gone to so much trouble to bring, she found herself breathing quietly so she could listen. As