Free Shannon by Frank Delaney Page B

cup. She drank and Robert did the same, tipping his cup back to the last drop, as did Miranda, and she nodded her approval.
    She took the empty cup from him and laid it on the table, put her thumb in her mouth, took his hand, and led him out of the greenery. The rain, sudden to start, had been sudden to stop. This time they walked in the opposite direction and soon emerged on a neater and more cultivated part of the estate.
    An old farm building with graceful ruined walls stood beneath some trees. Silently she took him inside the ruin and pointed to a bench with old blankets, then made an elaborate gesture which he took to mean that she sometimes rested there. She also showed him a small wooden chest with, inside, two dolls asleep in a little bed.
    Outside again, they walked on and reached the rear of the main building. Miranda, her bright hair gleaming beside Robert's elbow, opened a door. They stood on the large gray and black stone flags of the castle hallway. Sunlight polished the air, and Robert caught a seminary odor of beeswax. His eyes widened with delight. A mahogany table, dark and rich, stood against one wall. Carved swags of fruit dripped from beneath its edges; the top shoulder of each leg bore a confident sculpted face; each ball-and-claw foot dominated its sector of the floor. Sometime, somewhere, a god had feasted at this table.
    The walls of the hallway wore the color of mushroom; tall mirrors glittered on some, and on one wall hung the painting of a woman in an ornate yellow gown; she had chosen not to smile for the artist. In a corner stood a marble statue on a pedestal, a draped lady, cool and reserved, wishing to be alone. On the floor by each of the six doors stood jade vases mad with dragons, and serene porcelain urns. Other pottery and china sat in random little sets around the hall, on tables and on windowsills.
    From where he stood, Robert could glimpse distant rooms. As alluring as jeweled caves, they had brilliant glass jars, long tapestries, chairs of velvet and chintz. He began to move in their direction, but Miranda commandeered his hand again. She led him firmly up a staircase andalong a creaking passageway. Here the walls carried maps of riverside lands and boating charts; they might have been drawn by orderly spiders whose legs had been dipped in brown ink.
    Miranda pointed to a yellow door and then to herself and made the same sleep indication that he had seen in the ruined building outside: hands under her cheek, head to one side, eyes closed. Then she pointed to Robert and, still using the same gesture, showed him a green door, as much as to say,
And you will sleep in here.
    She led Robert through the green door into a room of green walls, where curtains fell from the ceiling to the floor in great swags of green and yellow, partly obscuring the windows. Pointing to the bed, she walked backward to the door, waved her fingers, and disappeared, closing the door. Robert would not have been surprised to hear a bolt slam home.
    He hauled the rocky haversack off his back and sat in a deep armchair. Too tired for the moment to address the puzzle of this establishment, he looked all around the room and then gazed out on the river. The place had a draping peace— and yet the child had seemed disturbed. A clock somewhere chimed noon. He leaned back in the chair and fell immediately into a deep sleep.
    Did he dream? Since being in France, Robert Shannon had dreamed almost every time he'd fallen asleep. When he had first come to the O'Sullivans’ house, he'd hoped in vain that the dreams might stop, to give him ease from their fractured sights. Over the days and nights, though, they grew somewhat lighter. True, he still saw the fangs of war, but he also had mornings when he awoke more calmly, throbbing to softer melodies.
    Had he been more aware, more astute about his own emotions, he would have identified the fact that the quality of his dreams had a connection to his level of exhaustion. Now, in