Free Look For Me By Moonlight by Mary Downing Hahn Page B

stairs. The door opened before I’d even raised my hand to knock. “Come m,” Vincent said, “come in.”
    As I passed him, my shoulder brushed his arm. I tried to hold the tray steady, but the carafe tipped, spilling red wine on the white napkin, like drops of blood on snow.
    â€œLet me have that.” Vincent’s fingers touched mine as he took the tray. He carried it to a small table near the fire and set it down carefully beside a stack of paper, a pen, a bottle of ink, and a pile of books, testimony to his day’s work.
    He lifted the lid covering his dinner plate and pierced the steak with his fork. When the juices ran out, he smiled. “Extra rare, just as I requested. Please give my compliments to the chef.”
    Nervously I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, not sure if I should stay or leave. “Do you want anything else?” I asked, dunking he might like more pepper, a sauce, something I could fetch for him.
    Vincent raised his head and gazed at me. His eyes lingered on my lips and then moved to my breasts. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.
    The air thickened with the smell of burning logs and melting candle wax, of steak and cloves. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the murmur of the wind. My heart pounded, jackhammering against my ribs like a wild thing.
    Vincent smiled as if he heard every beat of my heart, but when I took a step closer, he shook his head. “You mustn’t keep your family waiting.”
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    Vincent came down later for his glass of wine, and he and Dad got into a discussion of politics, a subject I knew little about. While they talked, Susan sewed and I leafed through an anthology of poetry. From time to time, I glanced at Vincent. More than once I caught him staring at me, his eyes dark with promises that made my heart beat faster.
    The conversation went on and on, as relentless as the wind buffeting the inn. Occasionally Susan made a remark, but no one asked for my opinion. My eyelids grew heavy, and my head nodded; the words on the page jumbled, made no sense. When I woke up, the fire had burned low, Dad and Susan were asleep, and Vincent was sitting beside me, smiling as if my confusion amused him.
    â€œI’m afraid my discourse on European economic problems put everyone to sleep,” he said apologetically.
    Taking my poetry book, he turned the pages slowly as if he were looking for something. The paper rustled like silk. “The Highwayman,’” he said, stopping at last. Without taking his eyes from mine, he began to recite:
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The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
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    Vincent paused. “How familiar it sounds. An old inn on a cold moonlit night, a lover seeking ‘the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.’”
    Closing the book soundlessly, he threw his head back and sighed. “What a girl Bess was. Can you imagine loving a man enough to die for him?”
    â€œYes,” I whispered, staring at his face. “I’d do anything for the person I loved.”
    â€œIt’s one thing to sit by the fire and speak of dying for love,” Vincent said, “but to do it, actually to die-No, Cynda, I don’t think many girls would. Not willingly.”
    He reached out to caress my cheek. His fingers were cool, his touch light, but his eyes were dark. “So pretty,” he whispered, “so sweet, so trusting—what a dear girl you are, Cynda. I fear I could fall in love with you.”
    Leaning closer, he brushed my lips with his. Before I had a chance to speak or move, he got to his feet and crossed the room as silently as