with time to spare.”
The group fell silent for a few minutes, then the door opened and a cheerful greeting was called out: Boris and Willhelmina King had arrived. He was a blocky man of fifty-two, more used to smiling than frowning, dressed in English worsted and a long, heavy, knit cardigan under a grey trench-coat, which he shrugged out of as he and his wife came into the room; he had been a musicologist at the University of Virginia for twenty-two years, and she, a comfortable figure of a woman of forty-eight, in a long, dark-gray jacket over a funnel-necked sweater and women’s trousers, who, until sixteen months ago, had taught high school science.
“And Washington will be along in a moment; he came in with us,” Willhelmina announced, smiling eagerly. “Good evening, everybody.”
Before there could be much of a response to her friendly greeting, the door opened again to admit Jesse Praeger; he had taught political science at Northwestern, and his wife Elvira, who returned the greetings from the group in an unenthusiastic manner, but at least they smiled. They were among the younger members of the Coven, both of them in their late twenties. Each was in conspicuously American clothes, for both of them wore blue-denim jeans under winter sweaters, like grown-up versions of Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls.
Once again the door swung back, but it was not Washington Young who opened it: Moira Frost held the door so that her husband Tim could maneuver his wheelchair into the room. “Good to see you all,” said Moira. She shoved the chair over toward the fire, for Tim was often cold, which was revealed in his clothing; he was looking more as if he intended to go for a sleigh-ride than a car-ride; Moira wore a frock-coat jacket in mauve wool over a silk, high-necked blouse, and a straight skirt with a deep pleat in the center of the front.
“It’s like parking a bus,” Tim said by way of apology to Julia Bjornson, who had moved her chair over to accommodate Tim’s wheeled one.
Washington Young was the next into the room—a tall, square-shouldered, clever-eyed black man of forty-seven, a printer by trade and a Wobbly by conviction, he produced The Grimoire quarterly for the Coven. He offered a lackadaisical wave to the group, and half a smile as he made for the chair on the far side of the fireplace, where he always sat. His overcoat showed wear at the collar that had been neatly repaired. As he hung his coat on the rack, he revealed his jersey beneath was topped by a leather vest, and his ink-stained trousers were made of grey canvas. He wore serviceable boots. “Where’s Allanby?” he asked of no one in particular.
“Not here,” said McCall, getting up to go to add another cut length of wood to the fire.
“A lot of us are running late tonight,” Mary Anne remarked.
The late arrivals jockeyed for seats, and gave orders to Dudon for wine and coffee, then took out their notebooks and pens, preparing to begin.
“I know we’re late; sorry. There’s a good reason,” said Charis as she came through the door, Szent-Germain close behind her. “Someone was following us, and we had to approach this place by an indirect route.”
“Are you certain?” Nugent asked.
Before Charis could answer, Szent-Germain said, “I’m certain. A man in a dark-blue Renault.”
The assembled Coven stared at them, their expressions running the gamut from curiosity to consternation.
Charis stood still while Szent-Germain helped her out of her coat, saying as soon as she selected a chair for herself, “You don’t have to worry about him: this is Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain, and the publisher of Eclipse Press. Some of you have already seen the Eclipse submission protocols. He’s on our side, as I told you last meeting. He’d like to talk to you tonight. And I think some of you will want to talk to him after you hear him out.” She could not help but smile at the relief that went through the Coven.
Russell McCall
The group fell silent for a few minutes, then the door opened and a cheerful greeting was called out: Boris and Willhelmina King had arrived. He was a blocky man of fifty-two, more used to smiling than frowning, dressed in English worsted and a long, heavy, knit cardigan under a grey trench-coat, which he shrugged out of as he and his wife came into the room; he had been a musicologist at the University of Virginia for twenty-two years, and she, a comfortable figure of a woman of forty-eight, in a long, dark-gray jacket over a funnel-necked sweater and women’s trousers, who, until sixteen months ago, had taught high school science.
“And Washington will be along in a moment; he came in with us,” Willhelmina announced, smiling eagerly. “Good evening, everybody.”
Before there could be much of a response to her friendly greeting, the door opened again to admit Jesse Praeger; he had taught political science at Northwestern, and his wife Elvira, who returned the greetings from the group in an unenthusiastic manner, but at least they smiled. They were among the younger members of the Coven, both of them in their late twenties. Each was in conspicuously American clothes, for both of them wore blue-denim jeans under winter sweaters, like grown-up versions of Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls.
Once again the door swung back, but it was not Washington Young who opened it: Moira Frost held the door so that her husband Tim could maneuver his wheelchair into the room. “Good to see you all,” said Moira. She shoved the chair over toward the fire, for Tim was often cold, which was revealed in his clothing; he was looking more as if he intended to go for a sleigh-ride than a car-ride; Moira wore a frock-coat jacket in mauve wool over a silk, high-necked blouse, and a straight skirt with a deep pleat in the center of the front.
“It’s like parking a bus,” Tim said by way of apology to Julia Bjornson, who had moved her chair over to accommodate Tim’s wheeled one.
Washington Young was the next into the room—a tall, square-shouldered, clever-eyed black man of forty-seven, a printer by trade and a Wobbly by conviction, he produced The Grimoire quarterly for the Coven. He offered a lackadaisical wave to the group, and half a smile as he made for the chair on the far side of the fireplace, where he always sat. His overcoat showed wear at the collar that had been neatly repaired. As he hung his coat on the rack, he revealed his jersey beneath was topped by a leather vest, and his ink-stained trousers were made of grey canvas. He wore serviceable boots. “Where’s Allanby?” he asked of no one in particular.
“Not here,” said McCall, getting up to go to add another cut length of wood to the fire.
“A lot of us are running late tonight,” Mary Anne remarked.
The late arrivals jockeyed for seats, and gave orders to Dudon for wine and coffee, then took out their notebooks and pens, preparing to begin.
“I know we’re late; sorry. There’s a good reason,” said Charis as she came through the door, Szent-Germain close behind her. “Someone was following us, and we had to approach this place by an indirect route.”
“Are you certain?” Nugent asked.
Before Charis could answer, Szent-Germain said, “I’m certain. A man in a dark-blue Renault.”
The assembled Coven stared at them, their expressions running the gamut from curiosity to consternation.
Charis stood still while Szent-Germain helped her out of her coat, saying as soon as she selected a chair for herself, “You don’t have to worry about him: this is Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain, and the publisher of Eclipse Press. Some of you have already seen the Eclipse submission protocols. He’s on our side, as I told you last meeting. He’d like to talk to you tonight. And I think some of you will want to talk to him after you hear him out.” She could not help but smile at the relief that went through the Coven.
Russell McCall
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