Free Lilith by J. R. Salamanca Page B

foyer while she closed the door and stood for a moment with her laced hands dangling in front of her, regarding me with a look of curious, genial, concern.
    “My goodness,” she said. “You look like you’re upset about something. You’ve got blood on your hands. Did you know that?”
    I nodded abjectly. “I killed my horse,” I said. “He broke his leg and I had to kill him with a rock.”
    “Oh, my Lord!” She clicked her tongue with dismay. “Oh, that must make you feel terrible! Why don’t you come on back in the kitchen and let me wash them off? It’ll make you feel a little better.”
    “No, that’s okay,” I said. I looked down at my hands and rubbed the bloodstain between my fingers with my thumb. “I’m sorry to trouble you like this. Maybe I ought to come back some other time.”
    “It’s no trouble at all,” she said. “You come on here in the living room and sit down for a minute while I look for that order slip.” She laid her hand gently against my back and guided me into the living room. On a side table beside one of the overstuffed dark armchairs there was a decanter of wine and a half-empty glass.
    “You sit right down there,” she said. “And I’ll just see if I can find that order slip.” She moved across the room to a mahogany secretary that stood against the wall and tugged open a drawer. “I keep most of my records in here. Let me just see now.” She took a sheaf of papers from the drawer and turned back to me. “What is your name, young man?”
    “Vincent,” I said.
    “Vincent. Oh, that’s a lovely name. You have the name of a saint, did you know that?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” I said.
    “And I suppose you have a saintly nature, isn’t that right?”
    “No, ma’am,” I said.
    “You
don’t
? Well, I’m surprised to hear that. When you were here the other day you certainly
behaved
like a saint. I was afraid I might have offended you, the way you took off from here.”
    “No, ma’am, you didn’t offend me.”
    “Well, I’m glad to hear that. Because I think what might do you a lot of good right now is a little glass of wine. Being as upset as you are about your horse.”
    “I don’t drink wine, ma’am,” I said.
    “You mean you never
have
drunk wine, or you don’t
intend
to drink wine,
ever
?”
    “I never have drunk any,” I said.
    “Well, why don’t you have just a little sip of it, right now, to sort of steady your nerves? I think you might like it.”
    She came across the room toward me, shoving the file of papers into the picket of her negligee and bending down to take hold of the neck of the decanter.
    “I’m afraid I only have this one glass, but why don’t we share it?” she said. “We can have a little loving cup.” She poured the glass full and handed it to me. “Now, you try that. I think it’ll make you feel a lot better. Go ahead, take just a little sip. It’s zinfandel, a very sweet wine. I think you’ll like it.”
    I took the glass from her hand and after staring into the pale red wine for a moment I sipped it uncertainly, then tilted back my head and drank the wine to the bottom of the glass with a defiant, desperate haste. It was cool and sweet, and almost instantly I felt the glow of it in my belly.
    “Now, isn’t that better?” she said. She took the glass from me and poured it full again, gazing solemnly into the wine for a moment.
    “I know how you must feel,” she said. “Having to do such a terrible thing. When I was a little girl I had a little dog that I loved more than anything in the world, and he ran out into the street one day and got hit by a car. I just didn’t think I’d ever get over it. I don’t think I ever
have
got over it. I know how much children suffer. And I know much their suffering is misunderstood, or dismissed, by others. I know how sensitive they are.” She sipped from her glass and gazed at me over the rim of it. “I have a very great love of children,” she said. “They are the