Moon Garden. V. J. Banis

be described, and she would not take well to the idea that it was crumbling into dust. And if she knew that Aunt Minna had another house guest, a single man who was young and good looking, and a writer, well....

      What she told her mother was that she had arrived safely, she found house and aunt both charming, and was feeling very much at peace already. That, she felt confident, was what her mother would need to hear.

      She addressed the envelope and, sealing it, took it downstairs with her. Her aunt was not about, but Bondage was scurrying along the hall on one of her errands, and Ellen asked her what to do about mailing the letter.

      “Just leave it with me miss,” Bondage said. “I’ll see Pomfret takes it down to the station with the other mail.”

      “Does he go regularly?” Ellen asked, thinking she ought to know if there was a schedule, so that she could suit her letter writing to it.

      “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Elliott does a lot of mailing, to do with his book, I suppose. Pomfret goes just after lunch every day.”

      “I’ll remember, and thank you,” Ellen said, handing the letter over.

      “You’re welcome, I’m sure.” Bondage bobbed her head and smiling cheerfully, went on her way.

      It was not yet lunchtime. Ellen felt very much on her own. She wandered through a few of the downstairs rooms. They were very grand and spoke of a life that was much more elegant than todays. In her mind’s eye, she saw these rooms filled with ladies in crinoline. An army of servants would post and speed, while outside, the Terrace would be lined solid with fine carriages.

      She laughed at her reveries. Someone, she forgot who, had said that one’s reverence for the past was just in proportion to one’s ignorance of it. It was probably quite true. If she had really been here in such a scene as she had been imagining, it would probably have been quite different, and far less romantic.

      And what of her aunt? She lived in the past, although she could hardly be said to be ignorant of it. She dwelt in this old house as if under glass. What if that fragile shell were to be shattered?

      Well, she herself knew all about fragile shells. She hid within one herself, knowing that it was scant armor, yet still seeking refuge within it.

      Was she so different from other people, though? What of all those others, all the vast multitudes that made up the race of men, each wearing his own delicate armor, walking about carefully, trying to avoid bumping into one another, lest the glass shatter? And, yes, sometimes one got too close

      She had come to the end of the hall. The door opened onto a small back terrace, overhung with bougainvillea and from the terrace she could see a path running into the trees. This, she decided, glancing around to get her bearings, would be the path down to the river.

      She took it, strolling idly. It was shady, and when the summer heat was really up it would be a delight to escape it here. Fallen leaves from other seasons made a soft, thick carpet underneath, and the air had a damp, earthy smell that was soothing. She thought that it must have been from here that she had heard those voices and seen the light during the night.

      If, she thought, frowning, there had been any voices, or any light. Or had they too been a part of her strange dream?

      The path twisted through the trees, breaking for a moment at a clearing lush with honeysuckle. Here the way divided, one fork running uphill, the other continuing down.

      The one that went up, she thought looking in that direction, must go up to the yellow cottage she had seen through the trees, though she could not see it from here. She continued on the path down to the river, past a magnolia tree. A blossom seemed to pause briefly in its descent from tree to ground.

      The carpeting of leaves made her steps silent. She came in sight of the water, a small inlet, a miniature cove that branched off the river. A crude little dock, the wood old and gray, had been built into the water from the muddy bank.

      The water too was gray, and deep green, and dappled with yellow where the sunlight broke through the trees. The perfumes of honeysuckle and magnolia, and the ripe earth, blended with a river scent, assaulting the nostrils. The stillness was broken by the trilling of a bird somewhere in the trees, and a gentle lapping of water against the wooden pilings.

      She was not alone after all. There was a man on the dock, his back to her. A young man, slim, with muscles rippling over his back where his shirt was stretched taut. His hair gleamed a silvery-yellow in the sun. He knelt at the end of the wooden planking, bending far forward to look at something.

      He did not hear her, of course, because her approach was so noiseless, and because he was so absorbed in whatever it was he was examining. Since he was so quiet, she herself could not think to make any noise, or announce her presence. She came on down the path, watching him, thinking he might be some splendid river god, just a minute before having risen up from the waters to dry himself in the sunlight.

      She stepped onto the rotted wood of the dock, and then he heard her, or perhaps, felt her presence. His reaction was sudden and startling. He seemed in one violent movement to stand and turn, like a skater making a stupendous leap.

      He was suddenly facing her, but it was not that alone that startled her. It was the way he was facing her. He was crouched slightly, ready to spring, and his hands at his side were half clenched. He was an animal, surprised in his lair, ready in an instant to defend against attack.

      She was nearly as surprised to see him. She looked at that long, oval face with the pale blue eyes that seemed to blaze with a light from within, and recognized him at once.

      She had seen him only a few days before, in Cincinnati. Then, he had been following her across the fountain square, watching her so closely that he had collided with another woman.

      CHAPTER SIX

      It was a strange way to meet. She did not know which was the most awkward, that sudden attitude of hostility, or the air of embarrassment that followed it.

      She felt quite foolish, as if she had done something wrong but did not exactly know what it was. She gazed into those blue, blue eyes, the most striking she had ever seen, and could think of nothing to say. Something about the moment made her shiver.

      It passed. He relaxed, and grinned too brightly. “Hello,” he said. “You must be Miss Miles’ niece.”

      She nodded, wishing she could think of a clever reply. She had always admired women who could do that with ease. She felt all hands and feet.

      He, however, seemed to have no difficulty. He moved away from the spot where he had been standing, coming closer to her, so close that it looked as if he meant to embrace her, and stopped just in front of her.

      “I’m Ken Parker, he said. “A neighbor, sort of. I rent the Creighton’s guest house up the hill there. The little yellow house.”

      “We’ve met before,” she said, “in a manner of speaking.”

      He lifted an eyebrow. “Have we? I don’t recall.” With a smile, he added, “And I’m sure I would remember you.”

      “It was only a few days ago. We didn’t really meet, we just saw one another across the square. In Cincinnati.”

      He looked puzzled. “I don’t think so.”

      She felt embarrassed. She saw how he or anyone else would see it. He had not even noticed her, just another girl crossing a square, who happened ever so fleetingly to catch his eye. While she, poor foolish creature, acted as if the scene were emblazoned on her heart.

      “It was very brief,” she stammered, feeling increasingly foolish with each word. “You ran into a woman with her arms filled with packages. Perhaps you didn’t even see me, but I saw you.”

      He shook his head. “Cincinnati, you say? Then you must be mistaken. I’ve never been to that city, that I recall. Certainly not in the past few days.”

      He smiled apologetically. She looked mortified. “But it was...,” she began, and