“Yes?” The man had a deep, sonorous voice.
“Do you know which way toArchmont Lane? My map is no help at all.”
The insect catcher raised one bony finger and pointed upward.
Lakelooked up. There, above the insect catcher’s light, was a sign forArchmont Lane.Lake stood onArchmont Lane.
“Oh,” he said. “Thank you.”
But the insect catcher had already shambled on into the fog, little more than a shadow under a lantern that had already begun to fade…
From there, it was relatively easy to find45 Archmont Lane — unlike the other entrances to left and right, it suffered few signs of disrepair and a lamp blazed above the doorway. The numerals “4” and “5” were rendered in glossy gold, the door painted maroon, the steps swept clean, the door knocker a twin to the seal on the envelope — all permeated by a sudsy smell.
Reassured by such cleanliness, Raffe’s advice still whispering in his ear,Lake raised the doorknocker and lowered it — once, twice, thrice.
The door opened a crack, light flooded out, andLake caught sight of a wild, staring eye, rimmed with crusted red. It was an animal’s eye, the reflection in its black pupil his own distorted face.Lake took a quick step back.
The voice, when it came, sounded unreal, falsified: “What do you want?”
Lakeheld up the invitation. “I have this.”
A blink of the horrible eye. “What does it say?”
“An invitation to a—”
“Quick! Put on your mask!” hissed the voice.
“My mask?”
“Your mask for the masquerade!”
“Oh! Yes. Sorry. Just a moment.”
Lakepulled the rubber frog mask out of his pocket and put it over his head. It felt like slick jelly. He did not want it next to his skin. As he adjusted the mask so he could see out of the eyeholes that jutted from the frog’s nostrils, the door opened, revealing a splendid foyer and the outstretched arm of the man with the false voice. The man himself stood to one side and Lake, his vision restricted to what he could see directly in front of him, had to make do with the beckoning white-gloved hand and a whispered, “Enter now!” He walked forward. The man slammed the door behind him and locked it.
Ahead, through glass paneled doors,Lake saw a staircase of burnished rosewood and, at the foot of the stairs, a globe of the world upon a polished mahogany table with lion paws for feet. Candles guttered in their slots, the wavery light somehow religious. On the left he glimpsed tightly stacked bookcases hemmed in by generous tables, while to the right the house opened up onto a sitting room, flanked by portraits. Black drop clothes covered the name plate and face of each portrait: a line of necks and shoulders greeted him from down the hall. The smell of soap had faded, replaced by a faint trace of rot, of mildew.
Lake turned toward the front door and the person who had opened it — a butler, he presumed — only to find himself confronted by a man with a stork head. The red-ringed eyes, the cruel beak, the dull white of the feathered face, merged with a startlingly pale neck atop a gaunt body clothed in a black-and-white suit.
“I see that you are dressed already,”Lake managed, although badly shaken. “And, unfortunately, as the natural predator of the frog. Ha ha. Perhaps, though, you can now tell me why I’ve been summoned here, Mister…?”
The joke failed miserably. The attempt to discover the man’s name failed with it. The Stork stared at him as if he came from a foreign, barbaric land. The Stork said, “Your jacket and your cane.”
Lakedisliked relinquishing his cane, which had driven off more than one potential assailant in its day, but handed both it and his jacket to the Stork. After placing them in a closet, the Stork said, “Follow me,”
and led Lake past the stairs, past the library, and into a study with a decorative fireplace, several upholstered chairs, a handful of glossy black wooden tables and, adorning the walls, eight paintings by masters of the last century: hunting scenes, city scapes, still lifes — all genuine and all completely banal.
The Stork beckonedLake to a couch farthest from the door. The couch was bounded by a magnificent, if unwieldy, rectangular box of a table that extended some six feet down the width of the room. It had deco rative handles, but no drawers.
AsLake sat, making certain not to bang his gimp leg against the table, he said, “Who owns this house?”
to the Stork’s retreating back.
The Stork spun around, put a finger to its beak, and said, “Don’t speak! Don’t speak!”
Lakenodded in a gesture of apology. The master of the house obviously valued his privacy.
The Stork stared atLake a moment longer, as if afraid he might say something more, then turned on his heel.
LeavingLake alone in his frog mask, which had become uncomfortably hot and scratchy. It smelled of a familiar cologne — Merri must have worn it since the festival and not cleaned it out.
Claustrophobia battled with a pleasing sense of anonymity. Behind the mask he felt as if he would be capable of actions forbidden to the arrogant but staidMartinLake. Very well, then, the newMartinLake would undertake an examination of the room for more clues as to his host’s taste — or lack thereof.
A bust of Trillian stared back at him from a far table, its white marble infiltrated by veins of some cerise stone. Also on this table lay a book entitled The Architect of Ruins, above which stood the stuffed and bejeweled carcass of a tortoise. Across from it, upon a dais, stood a telescope which, in quite a clever whimsy, faced a map of the world upon the wall. Atlases and other maps were strewn across the tables, butLake had the sense that these had been placed haphazardly as the result of cold calculation. Indeed, the room conveyed an aura of artificiality, from the burgundy walls to the globe-shaped fixtures that spread a pleasant, if pinkish, light. Such a light was not conducive to reading or conversation. Despite this, the study had a rich warmth to it, both relaxing and comfortable.
Lakesat back, content. Who would have thought to find such refinement in the midst of such desolation?
It appeared Raffe had been right: some wealthy patron wished to commission him, perhaps even to collect his art. He began to work out in his head an asking price that would be high enough, even if eventually knocked down by hard bargaining, to satisfy him. He could buy new canvases, replace his old, weary brushes, per haps even convince an important gallery to carry his work.
Gradually, however, as if the opening notes of a music so subtle that the listener could not at first hear it, a tap-tap-tapping intruded upon his pleasant daydream. It traveled around the room and into his ears with an apologetic urgency.
He sat up and tried to identify the source. It came neither from the walls nor the door. But it definitely originated from inside the room… and, although muffled, as if underground, from somewhere close to him. Such a gentle sound — not loud enough to startle him, just this cautious, moderate tap, this minor key rap.
He listened carefully — and a smile lit his face. Why, it was coming from the table in front of him!
Someone or something was inside the table, gently rapping. What a splendid disguise for the masquerade.Lake tapped back. Whatever was inside the table tapped back twice.Lake tapped twice, answered by three taps.Lake tapped thrice.
A frenzied rapping and smashing erupted from the table.Lake sucked in his breath and pulled his fist back abruptly. A frisson of dread traveled up his spine. It had just occurred to him that the playful game might not be a playful game after all. The black table, on which he had laid his invitation, was not actually a table but an unadorned coffin from which someone desperately wanted to get out!