Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (83 page)

 
          
But
Sally Latimer was
—
had been
—
a proper urban child, and Colin had never suspected her of
the least interest in gardening.

 
          
"Dr.
MacLaren!" Sally said cheerfully. "Won't you come in?"

 
          
And
she had never called him "Dr. MacLaren" in her life.

 
          
"You're
looking well, Sally," Colin said, stepping over the threshold into the
kitchen. A large ginger-colored tomcat followed him inside.

 
          
"And
this is Barnabas, I see," Colin said, stooping to extend a hand toward the
cat.

 
          
"That
is Ginger Tom," Sally corrected him crisply, and then, in an obvious
attempt to be more . . . welcoming? said: "I've been working in the garden
all morning and I was just about to put on the kettle. Would you care to join
me in a cup?"

 
          
"I'd
be delighted," Colin said, straightening.

 
          
Sally
waved him over to the table; Colin sat down and looked around.

 
          
Claire
had said the kitchen was filthy, but everything that Colin could see gleamed
with rigorous cleaning. Several batches of herbs were hung from the rafters,
suspended upside-down to dry. All in all, it looked as if Sally had made
herself quite at home here.

 
          
Only
I don't think it's Sally, somehow.

 
          
"How's
the painting going?" he asked.

           
"Oh, I haven't had much time
for that," Sally said airily. "Plenty of work to do in the garden,
and spring all but flown. T'will be many a long year before t'is back in good
order, I fear me."

 
          
No,
this proud woman with the poise and carriage of a queen was not the young girl
he knew, but an adversary far more potentially dangerous. Witch-Sara of Witch
Hill, through life after life for more than three centuries, High Priestess of
the Church of the Antique Rite.

 
          
It
was only a few minutes before the tea was ready. Sally brought the old
stoneware pot to a table already set with cups and a large plate of homemade
sugar cookies.

 
          
"Let
me pour," Colin said, rilling both their cups.

 
          
"What
brings you all the way out here?" Sally asked. "This is pretty far
from Arkham
—
I'm surprised you didn't end up in a ditch."

 
          
"Oh,
I've been paying a social call on Matthew Hay," Colin said lightly.

 
          
Sally's
eyes flashed green as she looked up quickly. "Why?" she demanded
sharply.

 
          
"Now,
Sally, you know I'm interested in folklore . . . and your Mr. Hay seems to be a
goldmine of it. In fact, I've gotten myself invited to your local Sabbat,"
he added.

 
          
While
he must walk softly, it was also important to discover where her loyalties lay
... if anywhere but with herself. He took a cookie and bit into it fearlessly;
whatever else might happen in this house, he didn't think Witch-Sara would
poison him. A dead body
—
or a disappearance
—
would bring far too much
attention down on Madison Corners.

 
          
"So
you'll be at his Sabbat?" she asked. He could tell that the woman opposite
him was startled, in a way that Sally Latimer would not have been.

 
          
"I
wouldn't miss it for anything," Colin said equitably.

 
          
He
watched with great
—
though concealed
—
interest as the woman he
knew as Sally Latimer struggled with herself for several seconds.

 
          
"Don't
underestimate Matthew Hay, Dr. MacLaren," she said in a low voice. He
thought he could see Sally Latimer, drowning there in the depths of Witch-Sara's
green eyes, and his heart ached for the struggle she faced. It was a struggle
she had chosen before this life, but one she was doomed to lose
—
unless he could help her.

 
          
"Believe
me, Sally. I don't underestimate him," Colin said grimly. He could tell
that she was anxious for him to be gone, and Colin felt he'd learned all he
could at Witch Hill this day. After a few minutes more he took his leave.

 
          
But
he'd be back.

 
          
June
vanished in a haze of summer heat, and July followed after. Colin finished up
his lecture term but stayed on, poking into odd archives here and there or
simply keeping up his voluminous correspondence. He was a frequent guest at
the Moorcock Farm, but despite the fact that he came to know both Clarence and
Justin Moorcock well, Rowan remained curiously elusive. She was close to the
age his own students had been, and Colin had always prided himself on his
rapport with the young. It was not that the girl was in ] the throes of one of
those adolescent nervestorms in which every adult was the I enemy
—
in fact, it was impossible
to associate such a mood with Rowan, who approached every person and situation
with the bumptious effusiveness of a Saint Bernard puppy. It was something
more, something that Colin only noticed because he was watching her so
carefully for any sign that she had be-1 come entangled with the Church of the
Antique Rite. She seemed indifferent where she ought to be curious, serene
where she ought to be concerned. But if she were acting a part to mislead him,
Rowan Moorcock was the best actress Colin had ever seen.

 
          
No,
he could not impute any corrupt impetus to her behavior, and Colin finally
decided that if there were a mystery here, it was not one he was meant j to
unravel. But he still wondered about it in idle moments, and so was more than
happy to accept Claire's invitation to drive down to
Glastonbury
with her and Rowan.

 
          
Rowan
would be starting school here in September, and with the worsening situation
in Madison Corners, Claire and Justin had decided that she should come early.
Claire had friends that Rowan could stay with until the dorms opened.

 
          
If
Rowan had objections to being swept out of the way in this fashion, Colin had
not been privy to them. He thought the relocation was an elegant solution. And
in any event, it was an excuse for Colin to check a few things at the Taghkanic
library.

 
          
And
to visit old friends.

 
          
Though
it was almost ten years since he'd last been here, the Taghkanic cam-1 pus
seemed untouched by the passage of time. Colin felt a pang of homesick- j ness
for the place that held so many happy memories.

 
          
He
dropped Claire and Rowan off at Administration
—
Claire intended to|
introduce Rowan to a few of her old friends on the faculty and give her an I
early tour of the campus before settling in
—
and took a moment to stop in
and say hello to
Eden
. Taghkanic's distinguished president also seemed unchanged
by the passage of time; she greeted Colin warmly, and for a moment or two they
talked about old times.

 
          
"So
what brings you back to us, especially at this time of year? I suppose! it's
too much to hope that you're staying long enough to take a few lectures?"
1
Eden
asked hopefully.

 
          
"Not
this year," Colin said with regret. "I actually came to have a look
over! the library. I'm lecturing up at Miskatonic, and they had a break-in last
/ month and are missing several books from the locked shelves, including one I
need to consult."

 
          
"I'm
sorry to hear that,"
Eden
said. "Book thieves are a major problem j for
libraries, especially those with rare book collections
—
as we know to our cost. But
please, make yourself at home. And of course you'll stop by the institute
—
Miles would never forgive
you if you didn't stop in and see him."

 
          
*       
*        *

 
          
"Colin!
You old fraud," Viv Aillard said. "Come back to see how the inmates
are doing?"

 
          
Now
well into her fifties, Vivianne Aillard's once-flaming red hair had turned the
color of cinnamon-sugar. She took Colin's arm and walked with him back into the
office area of the institute.

 
          
"I
thought I might
—
since I was in the area," Colin answered, smiling.

 
          
"After
the way you deserted us, I wonder that you had the nerve," she shot back
teasingly. "But you left us some good people
—
Dylan! Come see Colin!"

 
          
Dylan
Palmer leaned out of his office, his boyish open face breaking into a grin as
he saw Colin. "Professor MacLaren!" he said.

 
          
"Please,"
Colin said. "I'm a private citizen, now. Hello, Dylan. How do you find
life after grad school?"

 
          
"I'm
enjoying it," Dylan admitted. "And I think my students are surviving
my efforts."

 
          
Dylan
Palmer had been heading toward a career in parapsychology when Colin had been
director of the Bidney Institute
—
he'd been a classmate of Hunter Greyson's
—
and Colin was glad to see
that the young man had pursued his dream.

 
          
"Colin!"
Miles said, coming out of his office. "
Eden
just called. What brings
you eastward? I hope you're planning to come back to us."

 
          
'"Fraid
not. I'm up at Miskatonic doing a series of lectures on folklore. I'm pretty
well fixed out in SF, but sometimes a change of scene is nice," Colin
said. Miles Godwin had been his handpicked successor, and seeing the institute
flourishing under his guidance eased any lingering sense of guilt Colin might
have had
—
and it was very small
—
about leaving the institute
to devote his time to Simon Anstey and the Bay Area occult community.

 
          
"You
ought to come to some place that
has
scenery, then," Miles said jokingly.

 
          
"Miskatonic?"
Viv Aillard asked. "Isn't that the little cow-college in Arkham? That
whole area's haunted," she added with envious relish.

 
          
"That's
part of the reason I'm there," Colin said. "Most ghost tales are just
campfire yarns, but here and there there's a grain of truth that's worth pursuing.
Besides, Claire's got relatives in Madison Corners that she hasn't seen in
years
—
she
has a young cousin making the rounds here today."

 
          
"Well,
we'll look forward to seeing her around the institute," Miles said, making
the obvious assumption.

 
          
The
impromptu visit soon degenerated into a sort of a party. Everyone was eager to
tell Colin all the campus gossip, not that it had changed much.

 
          
"Betram
had his eyes on the prize last week
—
he really thought his TK was
going to be able to cut it," someone said.

 
          
"With
Bertie around, who needs a fifth column?" someone else replied, in
reference to the one-million-dollar prize that still remained unclaimed more
than half a century since the institute's founding.