austere furnishings and strange air of vacancy, it reminded Peter of the black-floored room they'd already seen. There was a long rectangular glass-topped table on iron-gray legs, with perhaps a dozen straight-backed chairs drawn up around it. Along one wall stood a cumbersome wooden sideboard. Attached to one of its legs Peter saw a red paper tag. Leah immediately answered his unspoken question.
“The tax people were here a couple of days ago—Mr. Kennedy said they had to check the inventory in the will. A lot of things in the house have those tags now.”
“So they beat us to it, after all.”
“At least they left it long enough for us to see it,” Meg observed. “Be thankful for small favors.”
From the dining room, Leah led them into a wide, high-ceilinged hallway punctuated by abbreviated white columns modeled like those outside, then past a couple of smaller rooms which seemed to contain only the odd armchair or old-fashioned sofa. In the last of these rooms, however, Meg and Peter peered in at an ornately crafted billiards table, surrounded by walls ofpolished oak; at the far end of the room, as if for seating spectators, there was a raised, red leather banquette.
“Your grandfather liked to play this game,” Leah said.
Who with? Peter wondered. He sure as hell couldn't see Nikos squeaking around in here in his black rubber boots.
Leah had already moved on, into the main foyer of the house—a rounded atriumlike space with a grand, sweeping staircase on one side and a cavernous fireplace on the other. Carved into the mantelpiece, two slender nymphs, fully three feet high, their hair and dresses flowing as if caught by violent currents, stretched their arms out longingly to each other. From the heel of each dangled a tiny red tag.
“Oh, look at them,” said Meg, brushing the tag back from one figure to see it unsullied. But Peter was looking down and wondering what to think of the ornate circular mosaic on which he found himself standing. He could feel the rough pebbles it was made of through the soles of his sneakers. He quickly stepped back, as if he'd found himself atop a tombstone, and surveyed the design in its entirety.
On the left of the medallion, a young man wearing only a cloak restrained three bounding dogs with a leash tightly wound around his wrist; to the right, a naked woman, attended by two crouching maidens—who appeared to be alarmed at the sight of the man and his dogs—held one arm across her bosom and with the other reached for a two-handled urn. Peter assumed it was some scene from an ancient Greek myth, but which one he had no idea. The pebbles were all light brown, gray, or white, and certain portions of the figures—the naked woman, in particular—were outlined by very fine strips of what might have been bronze or copper. As he looked at it, the colors suddenly, though almost imperceptibly, altered, thetans becoming browner, the whites losing their luster, and the metal bands their sheen.
“It does that,” said Leah, once more anticipating his thought. “It's the light from overhead,” and she indicated the squared-off open space above them. “There's a balcony up there, and when the sunlight changes, it sometimes seems, I think, that the picture does, too.”
“Do you know what it's a picture of?”
“A story,” she said uninterestedly, “an old story, I suppose.” She gestured up the staircase. “Would you like to see the upstairs now?”
They dutifully followed her up the broad, curving stairs, lighted by one of the narrow windows they had observed from the front, and at the top found themselves looking down again at the foyer mosaic. Behind them, along a wide, white hallway adorned with only an occasional vase or antique sculpture, were five or six doors, all of them closed. Leah briefly opened each one, to reveal a bed with no blankets or linens, a chest of drawers, a rolled-up Persian carpet; at the last, in the center of the hall, she stopped and
“The tax people were here a couple of days ago—Mr. Kennedy said they had to check the inventory in the will. A lot of things in the house have those tags now.”
“So they beat us to it, after all.”
“At least they left it long enough for us to see it,” Meg observed. “Be thankful for small favors.”
From the dining room, Leah led them into a wide, high-ceilinged hallway punctuated by abbreviated white columns modeled like those outside, then past a couple of smaller rooms which seemed to contain only the odd armchair or old-fashioned sofa. In the last of these rooms, however, Meg and Peter peered in at an ornately crafted billiards table, surrounded by walls ofpolished oak; at the far end of the room, as if for seating spectators, there was a raised, red leather banquette.
“Your grandfather liked to play this game,” Leah said.
Who with? Peter wondered. He sure as hell couldn't see Nikos squeaking around in here in his black rubber boots.
Leah had already moved on, into the main foyer of the house—a rounded atriumlike space with a grand, sweeping staircase on one side and a cavernous fireplace on the other. Carved into the mantelpiece, two slender nymphs, fully three feet high, their hair and dresses flowing as if caught by violent currents, stretched their arms out longingly to each other. From the heel of each dangled a tiny red tag.
“Oh, look at them,” said Meg, brushing the tag back from one figure to see it unsullied. But Peter was looking down and wondering what to think of the ornate circular mosaic on which he found himself standing. He could feel the rough pebbles it was made of through the soles of his sneakers. He quickly stepped back, as if he'd found himself atop a tombstone, and surveyed the design in its entirety.
On the left of the medallion, a young man wearing only a cloak restrained three bounding dogs with a leash tightly wound around his wrist; to the right, a naked woman, attended by two crouching maidens—who appeared to be alarmed at the sight of the man and his dogs—held one arm across her bosom and with the other reached for a two-handled urn. Peter assumed it was some scene from an ancient Greek myth, but which one he had no idea. The pebbles were all light brown, gray, or white, and certain portions of the figures—the naked woman, in particular—were outlined by very fine strips of what might have been bronze or copper. As he looked at it, the colors suddenly, though almost imperceptibly, altered, thetans becoming browner, the whites losing their luster, and the metal bands their sheen.
“It does that,” said Leah, once more anticipating his thought. “It's the light from overhead,” and she indicated the squared-off open space above them. “There's a balcony up there, and when the sunlight changes, it sometimes seems, I think, that the picture does, too.”
“Do you know what it's a picture of?”
“A story,” she said uninterestedly, “an old story, I suppose.” She gestured up the staircase. “Would you like to see the upstairs now?”
They dutifully followed her up the broad, curving stairs, lighted by one of the narrow windows they had observed from the front, and at the top found themselves looking down again at the foyer mosaic. Behind them, along a wide, white hallway adorned with only an occasional vase or antique sculpture, were five or six doors, all of them closed. Leah briefly opened each one, to reveal a bed with no blankets or linens, a chest of drawers, a rolled-up Persian carpet; at the last, in the center of the hall, she stopped and
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