would do so yesterday, tomorrow, at once, very soon.
This was a spell, as Lindsay was aware. She could sense its power in the air, but it was important, indeed vital, that effective spells be correctly wound up. Accordingly, she touched wood three times; she crossed and uncrossed her fingers three times, but these actions seemed insufficiently solemn—she felt, obscurely, that some offering or sacrifice needed to be made. And so, hoping neither Markov nor Jippy could see her actions, she opened her small evening bag. Inside it, folded small, was a note written by Rowland McGuire. It was not a long note, nor were its contents—they concerned work—of any great significance, but it was the only specimen of Rowland’s handwriting she possessed, and she had been carrying it around like a talisman for nearly three years. A small square of paper: ‘Dear Lindsay,’ this note began. If she read it, she knew she would weaken, so she did not read it—anyway, she knew its four-line contents by heart. Leaning over the balustrade, she let this charmed piece of paper fall. It eddied towards her, then away; some current of air caught it, and it settled on the water like a pale moth; she watched it be carried away by the tide.
The gesture made her sad, but she also felt immeasurably lighter, she found. She floated back up the path, arm in arm with Markov and Jippy, Markov grumbling about the cold and Jippy’s quiet gaze resting on the flagstones ahead. It was at this point in the evening, perhaps a little belatedly, that Lindsay, glancing at Jippy, wondered if he might have been influencing her once more. It was Jippy, after all, who had suggested Markov procure her the invitation to this party; it was at Jippy’s urging that she had kept that invitation, and she began to suspect now that it was Jippy’s influence that had weighed with her when she finally decided to come. It was odd, was it not, she thought, that he and Markov had been in the garden all evening, as if they had been waiting for her there. With Jippy, mainly because his presence was so silent and unobtrusive, it was always easy to forget he was there; it was only after her meetings with him were over that Lindsay sometimes suspected he had influenced her in some shadowy way, with some invisible sleight of hand.
Now, drifting back through the garden to the stairs, she had, most strongly, the sensation that Jippy had possibly been guiding her, and that he was certainly guiding her now. This was superstition on her part, she told herself; Jippy did not do anything to which she could have pointed in evidence—at least not for a little while. Even so, the impression grew; it was imprecise and hazy, yet it was strong. Jippy’s grip on her arm was light; he guided her back along that white corridor, Markov forging ahead of them both now, and he guided her back through the tides of that party crowd. Lindsay could sense both that he wished to speak and was as yet unable to do so, and that he had a destination in view for her; looking at his pale, set face, she felt sure this destination was close, perhaps just the other side of those entrance doors.
Their passage through the party was not the easiest of odysseys. Caught up in the swirling currents, they were buffeted towards that lipstick-red couch with its limpet men and siren girls; negotiating that, they were accosted, several times, by various ancient mariners wishing to tell various tales. Jippy guided them past these hazards; he paused briefly as paleface and ponytail hove into view, lamenting the latest news, which was that treacherous Lulu Sabatier had organized simultaneous Hallowe’en parties in New York and Los Angeles to celebrate Diablo, and that—ultimate treachery!—Tomas Court was now rumoured to be at one or the other of these.
‘But which , my friend, which ?’ the ponytail cried.
‘I don’t know ,’ paleface responded. ‘I don’t fucking well know .’
‘If I find Lulu, my friend, I
This was a spell, as Lindsay was aware. She could sense its power in the air, but it was important, indeed vital, that effective spells be correctly wound up. Accordingly, she touched wood three times; she crossed and uncrossed her fingers three times, but these actions seemed insufficiently solemn—she felt, obscurely, that some offering or sacrifice needed to be made. And so, hoping neither Markov nor Jippy could see her actions, she opened her small evening bag. Inside it, folded small, was a note written by Rowland McGuire. It was not a long note, nor were its contents—they concerned work—of any great significance, but it was the only specimen of Rowland’s handwriting she possessed, and she had been carrying it around like a talisman for nearly three years. A small square of paper: ‘Dear Lindsay,’ this note began. If she read it, she knew she would weaken, so she did not read it—anyway, she knew its four-line contents by heart. Leaning over the balustrade, she let this charmed piece of paper fall. It eddied towards her, then away; some current of air caught it, and it settled on the water like a pale moth; she watched it be carried away by the tide.
The gesture made her sad, but she also felt immeasurably lighter, she found. She floated back up the path, arm in arm with Markov and Jippy, Markov grumbling about the cold and Jippy’s quiet gaze resting on the flagstones ahead. It was at this point in the evening, perhaps a little belatedly, that Lindsay, glancing at Jippy, wondered if he might have been influencing her once more. It was Jippy, after all, who had suggested Markov procure her the invitation to this party; it was at Jippy’s urging that she had kept that invitation, and she began to suspect now that it was Jippy’s influence that had weighed with her when she finally decided to come. It was odd, was it not, she thought, that he and Markov had been in the garden all evening, as if they had been waiting for her there. With Jippy, mainly because his presence was so silent and unobtrusive, it was always easy to forget he was there; it was only after her meetings with him were over that Lindsay sometimes suspected he had influenced her in some shadowy way, with some invisible sleight of hand.
Now, drifting back through the garden to the stairs, she had, most strongly, the sensation that Jippy had possibly been guiding her, and that he was certainly guiding her now. This was superstition on her part, she told herself; Jippy did not do anything to which she could have pointed in evidence—at least not for a little while. Even so, the impression grew; it was imprecise and hazy, yet it was strong. Jippy’s grip on her arm was light; he guided her back along that white corridor, Markov forging ahead of them both now, and he guided her back through the tides of that party crowd. Lindsay could sense both that he wished to speak and was as yet unable to do so, and that he had a destination in view for her; looking at his pale, set face, she felt sure this destination was close, perhaps just the other side of those entrance doors.
Their passage through the party was not the easiest of odysseys. Caught up in the swirling currents, they were buffeted towards that lipstick-red couch with its limpet men and siren girls; negotiating that, they were accosted, several times, by various ancient mariners wishing to tell various tales. Jippy guided them past these hazards; he paused briefly as paleface and ponytail hove into view, lamenting the latest news, which was that treacherous Lulu Sabatier had organized simultaneous Hallowe’en parties in New York and Los Angeles to celebrate Diablo, and that—ultimate treachery!—Tomas Court was now rumoured to be at one or the other of these.
‘But which , my friend, which ?’ the ponytail cried.
‘I don’t know ,’ paleface responded. ‘I don’t fucking well know .’
‘If I find Lulu, my friend, I
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