Sleepside: The Collected Fantasies by Greg Bear Page A

She’d be a late riser, he thought; a night person.
    Then he realized: whatever she did at night, she had not done this night. This night had been set aside for him.
    He shivered again, thinking of the food and napkins and the eagle claws. Was this room haunted, too? Would things keep watch over him?
    Oliver lay back on the bed, still clothed. His mind clouded with thoughts of living sheets feeling up his bare skin. Tired, almost dead out.
    The dreams that came were sweet and pleasant and she did not walk in them. This really was his time.
    At eleven o’clock by the brass and gold and crystal clock on the bookcase, Oliver kicked his legs out, rubbed his face into the pillows and started up, back arched, smelling bacon and eggs and coffee. A covered tray waited on a polished brass cart beside the bed. A vase of roses on one corner of the cart scented the room. A folded piece of fine ivory paper leaned against the vase. Oliver sat on the edge of the bed and read the note, once again written in golden ink in a delicate hand.
    I’m waiting for you in the gymnasium. Meet me after you’ve eaten. Got something to give to you.
    He had no idea where the gymnasium was. When he had finished breakfast, he put on a plush robe, opened the heavy door to his room—both relieved and irritated that it did not open by itself—and looked down the corridor. A golden arc clung to the base of each tall window. It was at least noon, Sunside time. She had given him plenty of time to rest.
    A pair of new black jeans and a white silk shirt waited for him on the bed, which had been carefully made in the time it had taken him to glance down the hall. Cautiously, but less frightened now, he removed the robe, put on these clothes and the deerskin moccasins by the foot of the bed, and stood in the doorway, leaning as casually as he could manage against the frame.
    A silk handkerchief hung in the air several yards away. It fluttered like a pigeon’s ghost to attract his attention, then drifted slowly along the hall. He followed.
    The house seemed to go on forever, empty and magnificent. Each public room had its own decor, filled with antique furniture, potted palms, plush couches and chairs, and love seats. Several times he thought he saw wisps of dinner jackets, top hats, eager, strained faces, in foyers, corridors, on staircases as he followed the handkerchief. The house smelled of perfume and dust, faint cigars, spilled wine, and old sweat.
    He had climbed three flights of stairs before he stood at the tall ivory-white double door of the gymnasium. The handkerchief vanished with a flip. The doors opened.
    Miss Parkhurst stood at the opposite end of a wide black tile dance floor, before a band riser covered with music stands and instruments. Oliver inspected the low half-circle stage with narrowed eyes. Would she demand he dance with her, while all the instruments played by themselves?
    â€œGood morning,” she said. She wore a green dress the color of fresh wet grass, high at the neck and down to her calves. Beneath the dress she wore white boots and white gloves, and a white feather curled around her black hair.
    â€œGood morning,” he replied softly, politely.
    â€œDid you sleep well? Eat hearty?”
    Oliver nodded, fear and shyness returning. What could she possibly want to give him? Herself? His face grew hot.
    â€œIt’s a shame this house is empty during the day,” she said. And at night? he thought. “I could fill this room with exercise equipment,” she continued. “Weight benches, even a track around the outside.” She smiled. The smile seemed less ferocious now, even wistful; younger.
    He rubbed a fold of his shirt between two fingers. “I enjoyed the food, and your house is real fine, but I’d like to go home,” he said.
    She half turned and walked slowly from the stand. “You could have this house and all my wealth. I’d like you to have