The Magic Cottage

ENTICEMENT

JUST TO ADD to our problems, Kinsella came knocking on the door a few days later.

I don't recall the time exactly, but I know dusk was vignetting into night and Midge and I had finished yet another melancholic meal only minutes earlier—I say another because there had been a marked lack of joy at Gramarye since the weekend, and you can guess why.

God only knows the impression Val Harradine had of us when she left for home later that Sunday, with Bob's strait-jacket antics, my Twilight Zone account of life in the country, and Midge's eventual melodramatic collapse into a weeping heap on the floor of the round room. Real Loony Times stuff. She must have thought—and who could blame her?—that there was something in the breeze down there that induced brainstorms and paranoia.

I'll skip over the recriminations and further tearful scenes that Midge and I went through over the next few days, because they'd bore you (and thoroughly depress me); it's enough to say we barely came through it all with our relationship still intact. I tried desperately to make her face up to the fact that there were inexplicable mysteries about Gramarye and I think she inwardly agreed; but strangely, she would never admit to it openly, as if to do so would mean accepting that the cottage wasn't quite the dream she had so fervently sought and imagined she'd found.

She accused Bob, of course, of destroying her painting, and when I rang him he naturally denied such (denied it pretty strongly, actually). I believed him. Midge didn't.

I went over everything that had happened since arriving at the cottage—especially the rapid healing of my scalded hand (which she persisted in attributing to the wonderful powers of Mycroft)—time and time again, but she . . . well, like I said, you'd get bored. The outcome was that we'd arrived at an uneasy truce for the moment, neither one of us inclined to argue (or reason) any further.

So there we were, facing each other across the kitchen table, in the lull before nightfall, when came the knock on the door (by then we'd taken to keeping the door closed as soon as it began to get dark outside).

We looked at one another in surprise and I rose to answer it.

Kinsella stood on the step, hands tucked into the back pockets of his faded jeans, an easy grin on his too-bloody-handsome face.

"Hi, good to see you two again." He peered past me at Midge. "Hope I'm not disturbing supper."

Midge seemed glad to see him. "Not at all—we finished a few minutes ago." She joined us at the door.

"How's your arm, Mike?"

I begrudgingly held it up for inspection.

"Hey, looks good! Not a goddamn mark.'" His grin was well on the way to touching his earlobes. "No pain?"

I shook my head.

"Boy, that's somethin'." He glanced toward the gate, then turned back to us again. "Look, we don't wanna intrude, but there's someone out here who'd like to meet you guys again. You know who I mean?"

I said "Shit!" to myself and Midge said "Mycroft?" aloud.

She stood on tiptoe to look over Kinsella's shoulder. "He's come here?" she asked.

"Yup. He was kinda taken with you two. We were passing by and he thought it'd be nice to pay his respects, see how you were. Guess he'd like to see how your arm is, Mike."

"Um . . ." I began to say.

"Oh, we'd love to say hello," said Midge. "Please go and fetch him."

Kinsella looked awkward for a moment. "Thing of it is, Mycroft's sorta old-fashioned, y'know? He's got great respect for other people's privacy and doesn't like to poke his nose in. It'd be nice if you invited him in personally, if you wouldn't mind that.'"

"Of course we don't mind," replied Midge, brighter than she'd been all week. "Is he in the car?"

"That's right, sittin' in the back. He'll be glad to see you."

Kinsella stood aside so that Midge could hurry down the path. We both watched her open the gate.

"That's some lady you've got there," the American said, and I'm not sure whether the admiration in his eyes was for me or her. Then he leaned back against the door jamb, hands still tucked behind in his pockets. "So how've things been at Gramarye?" he asked, and I had to wonder at the casualness of the question.

"Wonderful," I responded. "Couldn't be better."

"That's great."

Was he mocking me? Or was paranoia really creeping in?

He pointed a finger. "Don't mind me mentioning it, but you're gonna have to watch those weeds in the garden. Let 'em get a hold and they'll overrun."

I followed his pointing finger and swore under my breath. I hadn't noticed them before, but now I realized there were thin green tendrils spreading through the flowerbeds, a disorganized network of infiltrators, and the more I looked, the more I found.

"Nature has a way of sneakin' up on you," Kinsella confided, and I nodded at his homespun philosophy. "I could get on over anytime, bring a coupla helpers, and give you a hand there, Mike. We'd clear the mothers in no time."

"That's okay. I'll make a start tomorrow. It'll give me something to do."

"You not writing?"

"Uh, I've had other things on my mind lately."

"Well, the offer stands; just call on us any ol' time."

Midge was coming back through the gate, Mycroft following, two others behind. It was beginning to look more like a deputation than a friendly visit. Mycroft waved a hand in my direction as he approached and I realized the two figures accompanying him were Gillie and Neil Joby.

As he drew nearer, the Synergist leader examined the cottage—somewhat intently, I thought, like a surveyor searching for faults. And when he was only a few feet away

I had the feeling his composure was not quite as placid as his demeanor indicated. It was in his eyes, you see—they were too active, never settling on any one thing for long. Even when we shook hands he couldn't stop himself looking past me into the cottage. Then, not yet having said a word, he lifted my left hand and examined the fingers and lower arm, turning it over to study the other side. The rest of this amiable bunch gathered around and all but oohed and aahed.

They were making me so aware of my supposed debt to Mycroft, I wondered if I should offer a fee.

Mycroft fixed his gaze on me. "The human will with the Divine Spirit, Mike," he said quietly by way of an explanation for my unmarked arm.

"And a little help from that stuff you soaked it in?" I suggested.

"A sterilizing fluid only. I hope our intrusion isn't inconvenient?"

I shook my head out of politeness.

"Won't you come in?" piped up Midge. "We've been on our own since the weekend and some new conversation might be refreshing."

I was dismayed by the barely-concealed barb; that wasn't like her at all.

"That would be very nice," replied Mycroft, needing scant persuasion. "This is rather impromptu, otherwise we would have bought some wine."

"We still have a bottle unopened that Hub gave us on his last visit," said Midge. "We'll drink that, unless you don't enjoy your own brew."

Her small joke was appreciated by the group, Midge laughing with them. I suppose my grin was rather sickly.

She pushed between Kinsella and me, inviting Mycroft to follow, and he prepared to do so. But he faltered. He stood on the step and abruptly stopped. I'm sure, although the light wasn't too good by now, that he paled, just momentarily.

"It would be of great interest to me if I could see around the outside of this wonderful place before entering," he said quickly—almost too quickly. "These steps look fascinating."

Fascinating? Worn stone steps?

"Perhaps we could then use the other door," he added, and gazed up appreciatively at the white walls. He clanged the bell hanging outside for fun, and his brood dutifully chuckled.

Midge came back out and if her smile was anything to go by, the troubles of that week had evaporated. I began to wish I had some of Mycroft's charisma.

"I'm glad you like Gramarye so much," she said, flushed.

He touched her shoulder for a moment. "It's a house of great joy."

Midge glanced uncertainly at me and I kept my mouth shut.

"The steps might be a little bit slippery, so please be careful," she warned them.

Mycroft promptly linked his arm in hers. "Then we'll rely on each other." He said it lightly, but his eyes were unblinking and serious.

"I'll, er, take the less scenic route," I said as they mounted the steps. "I'll bring the wine and some glasses up, okay?" They ignored me, Midge engrossed in pointing out Gramarye's charms. "Carry on, Jeeves," I muttered to myself.

"Hello, Mike." Gillie hadn't followed the others. Instead she stood on the path, long, patterned skirt and matching gypsy shawl blending in with the garden behind. She wore open-toed sandals, thin leather thongs tying around her ankles. As she came closer, I noticed she was wearing the tiniest amount of make-up, just enough to enhance her already pretty face. "Can I help you with the wine?" she asked.

"Sure, if you don't want the Cook's Tour of the grounds."

"I feel I know Gramarye well enough by now. It's the most peaceful place I've ever visited."

"Not lately it isn't." The words came out before I could stop them.

She frowned and I smiled back at her.

"Domestic problems," I explained lamely.

"Oh. Then we've come at a bad time."

I sighed, still smiling. "No, maybe we needed some extra company about now." I didn't add that even so, Mycroft and his clan wouldn't have been my first choice. Still, Gillie was a little different from the rest of them; I liked her simple gentleness. She'd have been very fashionable in the flower-power era.

"Let's hustle wine, shall we?" I said, turning away and going inside.

Gillie followed and stood on the threshold, the darkness in the kitchen now that nightfall was so close making her hesitant.

"I'll get the light," I said, and crossed the room to flick the switch. I shivered; a chill was settling with the darkness.

Pointing to the sideboard, I told her that glasses were kept in the cupboard beneath. I went to the larder next door and took out a bottle of wine. Gillie was putting the glasses on the table when I returned.

"I'll open this down here," I said, pulling out a cupboard drawer and reaching for the corkscrew. "The wine's not properly chilled, but I don't suppose anybody's gonna mind. D'you brew much of this stuff at the Temple?"

"Enough for ourselves, but not to sell in bulk. We don't have a license for that."

I got to work on the cork. "Don't mind me asking, but how do you make money for your organization? Those baskets and things can't bring in much."

Her answer came easily, like the cork I was pulling. "Mycroft is a very wealthy man in his own right. He once owned a huge manufacturing company in the United States that had subsidiaries in many other countries."

"Yeah? What did he make?"

"Toys."

"You're kidding me."

She shook her head, enjoying my surprise. "His company produced dolls, puzzles, building blocks—all kinds of things for the very young."

"Ah, so that's why he's so interested in Midge."

She stared at me blankly.

"As an illustrator of children's books," I went on. "In a way, they're in the same business."

She gave a small laugh. "Oh, I see what you mean. But Mycroft renounced all commercial attitudes toward life once he founded the Synergist Temple. He's fond of telling us how the world's children helped him reach his Chosen

Children, his Fosterlings, by providing the financial bedrock."

"But the Temple still has to make money to survive, doesn't it? You still make trinkets to sell."

That amused her. "Not enough for us to live off, Mike. They provide a small amount of revenue, but we really use selling as a way of meeting people, of letting them know of the movement."

"Then how . . . ?"

"I told you: Mycroft is a wealthy man, the sale of his business and its subsidiaries ensured that. And of course, just as Mycroft himself donated everything he had to the Temple, so have his followers. Anything is welcomed and rejoiced over, even if it's only a few pounds. Fosterlings will give up any material possessions to cleanse themselves before our Temple."

That sounds like a good deal for Mycroft, I thought, sniffing at the open bottle to disguise any expression of cynicism. Still, it appeared that he'd ploughed his own wealth into the sect. I was curious, though. "What did you give up, Gillie?"

"Oh, a few pounds, hardly anything at all. And I was welcomed as much as anybody else."

"No, I meant, what did you give up? Your home, your family?"

"Outside influences have to be rejected if an Adoptive is to fully embrace the doctrine."

A nice bit of jargon, that. "An Adoptive?"

"That's what we're called at our initiation."

Her finger circled the brim of one of the wine glasses on the table. I could hear footsteps and muffled voices over our heads, the others obviously having entered Gramarye through the door on the next level.

"You don't see your family any more?" I persisted.

"There's no need to. I quit college to join the Synergists, and I don't believe they've ever forgiven me for that. They did their best to prevent me, Mike, and all they succeeded in doing was to sever family ties completely."

"How can you say that about your own parents? Christ, they must have been worried sick, probably still are."

She looked uncomfortable, as if the conversation wasn't going the way she'd planned. That didn't deter me.

"How about someone like Kinsella?" I asked, changing tack. "How did he become a Synergist and what did he throw away?"

"It isn't like that. We don't throw away anything—we give in order that we receive."

Even better jargon.

"So what did he give?"

"We don't know what others bring to the Temple. Only Mycroft and his advisers are aware of that."

"His financial advisers? So he employs accountants."

"Yes, just as other churches do. As any large or moderate-sized organization has to."

If the counter was meant as a rebuke, it was put very mildly.

She moved closer and her fingers touched my wrist. "Are you interested in our Temple, Mike? Is that why you're asking questions?" She sounded hopeful and her fingers felt warm.

"Not interested enough to join," I replied.

Her hand slipped away, but her eyes peered intently into mine. "You'd find a great deal of happiness with us," she said. "You'd gradually become aware of many things that others aren't privileged to understand."

"What kind of things?"

Now she averted her gaze. "I'm only a Fosterling. Only the Selected have the authority, and the right, to instruct."

"Kinsella?"

"And others. I could help you, though, Mike. Each Adoptive is allowed a spiritual companion." Her fingers found my wrist again, but this time there was pressure, a firmness in her grip. "We could talk at any time about matters that needn't relate to the essential doctrine. I could meet you . . ."

Don't think I wasn't tempted. She was an attractive girl, and lately I'd been feeling something of an outcast as far as Midge was concerned. And the steady but soft firmness of her grip implied there was more than just talk involved, that being a "spiritual companion" meant other aspects were included in this special relationship. Or was it all in my own imagination?

"You're nice, Gillie," I said after a pause, "but I can only take one spiritual companion at a time, and she's upstairs at the moment. Grab a coupla glasses, will you?" I lifted the bottle and gripped the stems of three wine glasses between my fingers.

If she felt rejected she didn't show it, and again I wondered if I hadn't imagined the come-on.

"I understand what you're saying," she said, holding a glass in each hand, "but if you ever do feel a need . . ."

She deliberately left the rest unsaid and naturally my imagination continued to indulge itself. She turned away, but not before smiling at me with her eyes, not mockingly, not even seductively, but as if she understood a lot more than I did. Probably she was right.

"Tell me one other thing," I said, bringing her to a halt. "Why here?"

She looked puzzled.

"Why did Mycroft base his Synergist Temple here? He's American, and from what I gathered when I was at the Temple, so are quite a few of his followers, so why bring his organization all the way over to England?"

"Because this is the—"

"Gillie."

The voice was calm enough, yet the girl's head spun around as though she'd been lashed.

Kinsella stood on the bottom stair, hands inevitably tucked into back pockets. He was smiling amiably, but I thought I detected just a hint of irritation filtering through his expression.

"We were wondering what had happened to you both," he said agreeably.

"On our way," I responded, holding the wine and glasses aloft. "Gillie was just filling in on some of the Synergist background, although I've gotta own up, I'm not much wiser."

"Well, the man himself is under your roof, Mike. Mycroft can explain better than any of us. But you know we've never wanted to thrust any of this down your throat before, that's not our style."

"I'm not that curious. Just making conversation."

"Sure. Lemme give you a hand with those glasses."

"I can manage. You lead the way."

Kinsella glanced around the room as if looking for something before retreating up the stairs.

Again I asked myself what it was about Gramarye that made him so nervous.

"The limits of the human mind are those imposed by ourselves."

Mycroft looked from face to face, examining the effects of his statement on both the initiated and the uninitiated— the latter being Midge and myself. He was seated in the round room's only armchair, while Midge and Gillie sat on the sofa, with me on the sofa's arm; Kinsella and Joby lounged on the floor, sipping wine and watching their leader intently. A single lamp lit the room and outside the windows there seemed to be nothing but blackness.

"Civilization itself has served to dull our minds' intrinsic faculties," he went on, "the new material and scientific knowledge increasingly diminishing our self-knowledge. It's not by chance that the child without so-called matured wisdom has a greater psychic capability than the adult."

"I understand what you mean," I said, "and it's hardly an original theory." (I didn't mind being rude—we'd already sat through nearly twenty minutes of Mycroft's proselytizing and I was steadily becoming bored.) "But look, knowledge tells me I can't fly: not believing that, or being unaware of it, doesn't alter the fact."

"No, Mike," he replied patiently. "SW/-knowledge informs you that you can't fly. But in even that, you've learned to think merely in terms of your physical body, and not of your consciousness. Ultimately there is nothing that can restrict your own psyche. The force that's within us all— the psychic energy, if you wish—cannot be bound by the physical aspects of our lives. Unless we, ourselves, dictate otherwise."

Somehow he no longer looked so bland. Maybe the shadows cast by the lamp gave depth to his features where none had been apparent before; or maybe it was the intensity in his eyes.

Midge spoke up, and I noticed she was hugging herself as though cold. "If this energy is there inside every one of us, why can't we reach it? Why can't we use it?"

"First we have to discover the ability within ourselves. We must become fully aware of the source, must realize and accept its presence. And we have to learn to control and keep fettered all knowledge that isn't relevant to our true selves. For that we need guidance." He smiled indulgently at Midge, but to me it was like the grin a spider saves for a fly. Why was it that the more I saw of these people, the less I liked them? Could be, I mused, that I had a natural antagonism against anything that smacked of fanaticism. And for all their quiet, amicable ways, the Synergists had that fanatical air about them.

"The Synergist Temple," Mycroft continued, his language becoming less matter-of-fact and more high-flown by the moment, "is no more than a foundation in which we seek our truth, where both the conscious and subconscious minds learn to combine with the omnispirit that governs us all, the spirit that exists within yet is apart, is individual yet is greater than the individual."

My eyes were beginning to glaze over. This was worse than Sunday sermon (as far as I could remember).

I stole a glance at Midge, and her face was serious, her eyes fixed on Mycroft's.

"How is it achieved?" she asked, and I shifted awkwardly on the arm of the sofa; she was spoon-feeding him all the right questions. "How does a person learn to combine with this spirit?"

Mycroft let his smile wander among his followers, and they smiled back as if they shared the secret. "It takes time," he said, returning his gaze to Midge, "and it requires a great deal of humility. Adoptives must surrender their thoughts, their wills. They must let the Founder have responsibility for all they do."

Even Midge, in her present state of blind fascination, blanched at that.

"That's asking a lot of someone, isn't it?" I remarked.

"The rewards are impressive," he countered smoothly.

"What would they be?"

"Oneness in spirit."

"Sounds terrific."

His flicker of annoyance was barely discernible.

"A regeneration of the mind's powers."

I nodded as though checking off a list.

"A harnessing of earthly thaumaturgic potency."

Now that did sound impressive, whatever the hell it meant. I felt it only right that I should ask.

"Unless you subjected yourself to each stage of the Synergist development," he said by way of an answer, "you could not hope to understand. Would you acknowledge now, for instance, that vast sources of power lie beneath our feet?"

I caught some anxious expressions directed at him from the others in the room, but Mycroft remained impassive.

"Of course," I replied. "Everybody accepts there's huge energy resources in the earth. There's nothing astounding about that proposition."

"I'm referring to a power much more intangible, Mike, but equally real. Something incorporeal, yet vast in its reserves. And we, mankind, have almost—almost— forgotten how to avail ourselves of that force."

Self-knowledge, oneness, regeneration, potency, thaumaturgic (thaumaturgic?), intangible, incorporeal (always a good one), and now of course, mankind—all those profound (and cliché) words you find in books on religion or the occult which sound great but leave you scratching your head wondering what it's all about.

"You've lost me completely," I said flatly.

He smiled maddeningly again and I think my dumb incomprehension came almost as a relief to him, as though my provocation had led him into giving away too much, and now he was able to draw back. His philosophy obviously had to be administered in much smaller doses.

But Midge was more persistent. "Is that how you healed Mike's hand so quickly, somehow combining your will with this special force? Is this power the spirit, the Divine Spirit, that you've mentioned before?"

I took a large swallow of wine.

"Ah, so young and so perceptive," Mycroft patronized. "But not entirely correct. The human will can be extremely potent by itself."

She looked confused and I wanted to draw her close. I wondered how she'd react if I invited our guests to take a hike.

Something struck a window from outside—probably t bird, or maybe even a disorientated bat—and Kinsella spilled his drink. He and his friends turned toward the window, but Midge's attention remained on the Synergist leader.

"When we . . . when we spoke before, last week at the Temple, you told me that our individual spirit never loses its potential even if the body dies and even if the spirit has been neglected during the body's life."

He nodded slowly.

"And you said that we, ourselves, could reach those spirits of the dead."

"With guidance," said Mycroft. "But why so cautious? Why are you so afraid to voice your hopes? We spoke of your parents and I assured you then that the souls which existed within them can be touched, and heard, once more. That part of us will never expire."

"Then will you help me . . . ?"

"Midge!" I didn't want her to go on with this.

"No, Mike. If it can happen, then that's what I want. More than anything!" She turned back to Mycroft.

"What good will it do?" I demanded. "You're only opening yourself up for more heartache, don't you see that?"

"I understand your concern for Midge," Mycroft interrupted. "And it's precisely because of your love for her that you should support her in this matter. I know you're aware that she feels a deep need to be reconciled with her parents."

"Reconciled?" I stared at her and she lowered her face.

Mycroft was watching her too. He opened his mouth in an unvoiced "ah" of comprehension, then settled back in the armchair.

"What's he talking about?" I leaned over and cupped her chin, forcing her to look at me.

"Mike, I . . ."

She pulled her head away.

"Would it be easier if I answered for you?" said Mycroft. "I had no idea that you hadn't confided your feelings to Mike, but now I understand. Sometimes it's easier to reveal oneself to a sympathetic stranger than a loved one."

"Midge, if there's something I should know, I'd rather it came from you," I insisted. "And I'd rather we were alone when you told me."

Gillie put her hand on Midge's, and it was Kinsella who spoke up: "This is sounding more dramatic than it really is, Mike. In our view, Midge's guilt is unfounded, but it needs to be dug out and tossed away before real damage is done. We can help her do that."

"Guilt? What the fuck are you talking about?" I looked around at them all, bewildered, exasperated, and pretty angry, too.

Midge abruptly shifted round to me, her hands clutching my leg. "On the day of my father's funeral, when I left Mother in the house—I knew, Mike, I knew she would take her own life! She'd spoken of it so many times, before his death even, hating the burden she'd become to both of us. When he died, suicide was on her mind more and more, something she mentioned every day and every night! But calmly, never hysterically, never emotionally. She was so sad, Mike, but she never indulged in self-pity. All she cared about was that her misery shouldn't ruin my life! And when I left her in the house that morning—alone in that cold, empty house—I felt it so strongly, so overpoweringly, but I never went back. I never tried to stop her!"

I shook my head despairingly.

"Midge, you couldn't know she would kill herself. Okay, you might have had the notion because she was so desperately unhappy and suffering physical pain, but you didn't hand her those pills, you didn't tie that plastic bag around her head! I can't believe you've been blaming yourself all these years."

"I realized if the opportunity arose Mother might—"

"Might! That isn't the same as knowing for sure. It was her choice, don't you understand that! And what was so bad about that, for Chrissake? Don't you think your mother suffered enough? All she did was show herself a little mercy."

"It's not that simple."

"Nothing ever is. But even if you did feel so guilty, why go to these people, why tell them? Jesus, Midge, what was wrong in telling me?"

"I'd kept . . . I'd kept it hidden for so long." Her grip tightened on my leg. "That knowledge has never weighed so heavily on me until recently, Mike. It was only when I talked with Mycroft that I realized the guilt had been with me for so long."

Friend Mycroft. I eyed him coolly.

And received some satisfaction from observing that he actually looked unsettled. Mistakenly, I assumed he was becoming wary of my anger.

Nevertheless, he wasn't short of words. "I merely sought to understand the nature of Midge's deep-rooted grief, possibly to expose her self-doubts. Can't you see that she needs our guidance?"

"I can see that you've made her believe that. Any help she needs, she can get from me."

"Not in the way that we can help."

He'd become distracted, peering around the room.

"What can you do?" I retorted. "Hold a séance, is that how you'll help her?"

"She has a unique gift . . ."

His voice trailed off when someone moaned. On the floor, Neil Joby was tugging at his shirt collar as if he found the atmosphere stifling. It did feel close in the room, but not uncomfortably so.

"Mike, you've got them wrong." Midge was looking up at me with earnest eyes. "Synergism is an answer if it's used correctly. If—"

"Jesus, you're really falling for this shit."

She sprang away as though I'd struck her.

I quickly modified my tone. "Listen to me: if there was any guilt over your mother's death locked up inside you, then it was minimal. Christ, I know you better than anyone, and that's something you could never have concealed from me. All this guy's done . . ." I stabbed a finger in Mycroft's direction ". . .is made you exaggerate the guilt in your own mind. Can't you see how he operates? It's nothing new—most religious nuts work on people's own self-imposed shame."

She kept shaking her head, refusing to hear the words.

"You're wrong," she said, "you're so wrong . . ."

Something made me glance at Mycroft then, and I just caught the hint of triumph in his smile. The smile instantly turned into one of well-practiced friendliness, forgiving me for my folly.

"Fuck you," I said quietly.

A glass tipped over and wine spread on the carpet. Kinsella watched the liquid soak in before turning toward his leader and mentor.

And now Mycroft himself didn't look so bright.

The windows rattled in their frames and attention was diverted toward them. I noticed that Joby was deathly pale and still appeared to be having trouble catching his breath.

Rafters overhead creaked.

The sharpness of the sound startled Gillie so much that she stood and peered up at the ceiling.

"There's a wind blowing up outside," I said, feeling no particular antagonism toward her. "Don't worry, the roof'll stay on."

She seemed uncertain.

I pointed at Joby and addressed my next remark to Mycroft. "I hope he's not going to puke on the carpet."

Now the front door across the hallway shook in its frame.

Mycroft rose and walked over to the younger man, placing a hand on his forehead. He mumbled a few words and I strained to hear, but the words were spoken too softly.

Joby noisily cleared his throat and recovered enough to push himself to his knees. Kinsella, looking shaky himself, grabbed his friend from behind and helped him the rest of the way up.

Even Gillie swayed uneasily on her feet.

Mycroft positioned himself before Midge, studying her with eyes that were now hooded. Had I really once thought his face was bland? It wasn't only shadows making his countenance creepy now, but his expression also. Mr. Hyde was showing through.

His words were slow and penetrating, said in a low voice. "Remember, we can help you. Believe in the regeneration of the spirit, understand that there are few barriers to the human will."

I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd handed her his business card.

He took his eyes from her and surveyed the room once more, lingering on the windows, resuming the scan, taking in everything.

A different noise came to us, and it was from above our heads, a muffled pattering, almost a soft vibration, rising and swaying in volume and rhythm.

A frantic beating of small wings.

I knew where the noise was coming from and who was making it, and I began to get as nervous as our guests.

"Mycroft," said Kinsella, a hint of pleading in his tone. "It's time to go."

Joby, sagging visibly, seemed in agreement. In fact, the three young Synergists looked as if strength was gradually draining from them. They were all very pale.

The windowpanes shook so hard I thought they might shatter. This time I was the one who jumped to his feet. Only Midge remained sitting.

"I'll see you out," I told the Synergists.

Mycroft turned to me, no hostility in his gaze, only a cool appraisal.

"You mustn't stand in her way," he said to me.

"What I can't figure," I replied, starting to feel a bit trembly, "is why you're so interested in Midge. D'you always take this kind of trouble to convert a new face?"

On the surface, his manner was easy, almost casual; but the giveaway was his eyes, which were constantly moving, flicking this way and that, like those of a jungle explorer waiting for the first poison dart.

Midge, hunched forward on the sofa, hands clasped together on knees, spoke up: "Would you please stop talking about me as though I'm not in the room? Mike, there are certain things that you obviously have no interest in, nor comprehension of, so please don't interfere. These people are my friends—our friends—and all they care about is my peace of mind."

"Don't you think I care too?"

"Then show me! Help me!"

"We'll talk about it when they're gone," I said more calmly than I felt.

"Yes, you should," said Mycroft, the condescending bastard. "Mike has a right to his opinions. It isn't difficult to appreciate his skepticism given the usually poor and biased publicity that sects such as ours attract. Misguided though they are, these prejudices are accepted and tolerated by our members. We've learned to have patience."

Mine had just run out. I strode across to the open door and stood by it, my meaning fairly evident.

Mycroft smiled, but I could see the grimness there. He reached down and touched Midge's forehead in the same manner he'd touched Joby's earlier.

The frantic, if dulled, drumming from overhead was becoming hard to ignore, and the air in the room seemed too warm, too thick, despite the wind outside rattling the windows.

My head shot around when the door across the hallway rampaged against its lock and hinges.

Alarmed, I backed away, but at least the Synergists were galvanized into action. The three younger members grouped together and Mycroft indicated that they were to follow him. They came toward me like a worried Scout pack looking for the way home, Kinsella and Gillie supporting their companion between them. I observed, not without pleasure, that even the Synergist leader was wilting slightly under the heavy atmosphere.

The bats in the attic were working themselves up into a frenzy by now and I wondered if the cause of their upset was the freak gale skimming through the roofs eaves, creating some kind of maelstrom in the loft. I thought I could hear their faint peeping shrieks, but put it down to overstretched imagination.

Mycroft paused at the door to the hallway, and for a moment I thought he might take the downstairs route out; instead he turned back to Midge and said, "I'm ready to be your ally whenever you need me, whenever you find your courage. You'll find only by seeking."

She stared at him, a small, lost figure, her hands still clutched together on her knees; but she didn't say anything in return.

Then Mycroft marched into the hall and yanked at the outside door, pulling it open without hesitation.

I expected the wind to come howling in and steadied myself for the blast. But there was nothing. Not even a breeze to ruffle our hair.

He stepped into the night, the others crowding behind him as though anxious to keep close, and I hurried across the hallway to shut the door again. Before I did so, I watched them make an unsteady descent of the stone steps, the gloom out there making progress slow. If it wouldn't have proved inconvenient for me, I'd have cheerfully hoped that at least one of them would break a leg.

They disappeared around the curve and I relaxed a little, more than relieved to see them gone. But I blinked at the night, mystified as to how it had calmed so suddenly. As far as I could tell, not a blade of grass stirred, not a leaf was tossed. The air was mild and fresh and pleasant to breathe.

And when I went back inside, closing and locking the door behind me, even the bats had settled, not a sound coming down from above.

Only the strong musty odor was left to unsettle me.