Dragonfly in Amber 2(393)

She wrote this, he kept thinking. She’s real. Flesh and blood and lips and long eyelashes. And if she goes back through the stone, she’ll burn—crackle and blacken, with her hair lit like a torch in the black dawn. And if she doesn’t, then…I don’t exist.

He shook his head violently.

“You disagree, Mr. Wakefield?” The Director of the Institute was peering at him in puzzlement.

He shook his head again, this time in embarrassment.

“No, no. I mean…it’s only…do you think I could have a drink of water?”

“Of course, of course! Come with me, there’s a fountain just round the corner, I’ll show you.” Dr. McEwan bustled him out of the carrel and down the hall, expressing voluble, disjointed concern for his state of health.

Once away from the claustrophobic confines of the carrel and the proximity of Gillian Edgars’s books and folders, Roger began to feel slightly better. Still, the thought of going back into that tiny room, where all Claire’s words about her past seemed to echo off the thin partitions…no. He made up his mind. Claire could finish with Dr. McEwan by herself. He passed the carrel quickly, not looking inside, and went through the door that led back to the receptionist’s desk.

Mrs. Andrews stared at him as he came in, her spectacles gleaming with concern and curiosity.

“Dear me, Mr. Wakefield. Are ye not feeling just right, then?” Roger rubbed a hand over his face; he must look really ghastly. He smiled weakly at the plump little secretary.

“No, thanks very much. I just got a bit hot back there; thought I’d step down for a little fresh air.”

“Oh, aye.” The secretary nodded understandingly. “The radiators.” She pronounced it “raddiators.” “They get stuck on, ye know, and won’t turn off. I’d best see about it.” She rose from her desk, where the picture of Gillian Edgars still rested. She glanced down at the picture, then up at Roger.

“Isn’t that odd?” she said conversationally. “I was just looking at this and wondering what it was about Mrs. Edgars’s face that struck me all of a sudden. And I couldn’t think what it was. But she’s quite a look of you, Mr. Wakefield—especially round the eyes. Isn’t that a coincidence? Mr. Wakefield?” Mrs. Andrews stared in the direction of the stair, where the thump of Roger’s footsteps echoed from the wooden risers.

“Taken a bit short, I expect,” she said kindly. “Poor lad.”



* * *



The sun was still above the horizon when Claire rejoined him on the street, but it was late in the day; people were going home to their tea, and there was a feeling of general relaxation in the air—a looking forward to leisured peace after the long day’s work.

Roger himself had no such feeling. He moved to open the car door for Claire, conscious of such a mix of emotions that he couldn’t decide what to say first. She got in, glancing up at him sympathetically.

“Rather a jar, isn’t it?” was all she said.

The fiendish maze of new one-way streets made getting through the town center a task that demanded all his attention. They were well on their way before he could take his eyes off the road long enough to ask, “What next?”

Claire was leaning back in her seat, eyes closed, the tendrils of her hair coming loose from their clip. She didn’t open her eyes at his question, but stretched slightly, easing herself in the seat.

“Why don’t you ask Brianna out for supper somewhere?” she said. Supper? Somehow it seemed subtly wrong to stop for supper in the midst of a life-or-death detective endeavor, but on the other hand, Roger was suddenly aware that the hollowness in his stomach wasn’t entirely due to the revelations of the last hour.

“Well, all right,” he said slowly. “But then tomorrow—”

“Why wait ’til tomorrow?” Claire broke in. She was sitting up now, combing out her hair. It was thick and unruly, and loosed swirling on her shoulders, Roger thought it made her look suddenly very young. “You can go talk to Greg Edgars again after supper, can’t you?”

“How do you know his name is Greg?” Roger asked curiously. “And if he wouldn’t talk to me this afternoon, why should he tonight?”

Claire looked at Roger as though suddenly doubting his basic intelligence.

“I know his name because I saw it on a letter in his mailbox,” she said. “As for why he’ll talk to you tonight, he’ll talk to you because you’re going to take along a bottle of whisky when you come this time.”

“And you think that will make him invite us in?”