Winds of Nightsong. V. J. Banis

understand you,” Susan said. “That’s why I will not have you spoiled rotten by her.”

      “Then I’ll run away and get married,” Lorrie threatened.

      Her father turned to his wife in surprise, then frowned at Lorrie. “Get married? To whom, in heaven’s name?”

      “I’m old enough to marry anyone I please. And there are a lot of boys who would ask me if I encouraged them.”

      Susan was shocked. “Lorrie, you aren’t serious?”

      “I’m fifteen. Lots of girls get married before fifteen.” She gave her mother a straightforward look. “And they don’t have to, either.”

      Little Petie asked his older brother, “Why would they have to?”

      David, who thought himself quite an adult at eleven, whispered, “I’ll explain it to you later.”

      Susan glowered at her daughter. “You are becoming just a little too corporeal, Lorrie. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit lax about supervising your social life.”

      “Really, Mother, don’t be so primeval. This is 1912, not the Dark Ages.”

      Susan and Sean exchanged glances.

      Later, when he and Susan were alone in the drawing room, Sean said, “Perhaps we should think about my taking Lorrie with me to California. New York may be just a bit too wild for a girl her age. Your mother would be able to communicate with her better than you or I. They speak the same language, and I know your mother is a stickler for propriety. She might be just what Lorrie needs now.”

      Susan shook her head but didn’t choose to tell him about the night she’d walked into Ramsey’s rooms and found her mother and Ramsey naked on the bed. “I don’t know, Sean. Let me think about it. I must admit, though, that Lorrie is becoming quite a handful.”

      “If she’s even hinting about getting married, then there must be somebody in the background she hasn’t told us about. I think we should get her out of New York before she does anything stupid.”

      “Yes, perhaps you’re right.”

      “The girl’s an extremely pretty little thing. I’m sure there are dozens of boys trying to get at her. I’d feel better if she were away from her friends for a while. I just didn’t like the way she was talking at dinner tonight. There’s something gnawing at her.”

      “You may be right, Sean. Maybe she should go to Mother’s, just for a short while.” She put aside the glass of port she’d been sipping, thinking that her mother was older now and still mourning her husband. “Incidentally, what’s taking you to California?”

      He grinned. “Well, I’ve been thinking about opening up a new distillery out there. And there’s something else: I’ve had a couple of offers to go in on those new moving pictures.”

      “Moving pictures? You’re not serious?”

      “Dead serious. There are an awful lot of people going to the Nickelodeons. They even say that within the next decade they’ll be making talking pictures.”

      “You’re crazy,” Susan said with a laugh.

      “Just getting in on the ground floor. Now don’t get all riled. I’m only going to check things out, have a look around. I want to see what kind of money they’re bringing in before I invest a penny.”

      “Moving pictures,” Susan said, more to herself than to him. The idea was simply unthinkable. However, Sean had always had a very good eye for profitable business investments.

      Susan said, “Take my advice, darling, and don’t mention this to Lorrie. The next thing we know she’ll be wanting to become one of those moving-picture sirens.”

      “Fat chance,” Sean laughed. “Our Lorrie is too intent upon becoming Queen of England.”

      CHAPTER SIX

      In Paris, Marcus Nightsong sat in a quiet little cafe just off the Rue de la Paix, sipping his morning coffee. Things had become so confused in his mind since he’d gone to San Francisco and learned the truth about his real parents. He’d been happy to hear that Lydia was his mother and Peter MacNair his father. Marcus had never liked his supposed mother, April, and had never really known his supposed father, Raymond Andrieux.

      “You’re twenty-one now, Marcus,” Lydia had told him. “I think you’re entitled to know the truth about yourself.” And then she’d explained the circumstances of his birth.

      Raymond Andrieux was dead now, murdered by Marcus’s real father, Peter MacNair. Peter was dead now, too, and Marcus regretted never having known his own father. In fact, he now felt he didn’t even know himself any longer. Who am I? he wondered.

      “A vagabond,” he said to himself. “A nomad who’s been living in Paris and dreaming about racing automobiles.”

      He didn’t want to be a vagabond forever, though. He wanted to marry Amelia Wilson, and she wanted to marry him. But Marcus couldn’t stop thinking of racing motorcars. He wondered at times if he cared more for the fast machines than he did for Amelia. He knew no one, including Lydia, approved of his love for fast motorcars.

      “They’re far too dangerous, Marcus,” Lydia had warned.

      “Racing cars don’t kill people, Mother. It’s only the drivers who kill other drivers. I’m a good, careful driver. Nothing will happen to me.”

      She didn’t believe him. No one did. Amelia sympathized with him, but he often thought she too was set against his getting behind the wheel of any racing machine.

      He had no idea where his sister was but he and Caroline had never been very close. He could understand that now. She wasn’t really his sister, not even his half-sister. They were from different parents entirely. Such a mixed-up family, Marcus thought as he finished his coffee. No wonder he felt so mixed up himself.

      Marcus looked very much like his father: the same thick sandy hair that spilled carelessly over his forehead, the same dark brown eyes that turned black when he was angry; and he had his father’s square, stern chin, along with the ruddy complexion of a true Scotsman, flawless and manly.

      Marcus rather liked the idea of being Peter MacNair’s son; he doubly liked being his grandmother’s son...Lydia’s son. It had been easy, strangely enough, to call her “Mother.” The transition was quick and natural. Almost immediately he stopped thinking of April as his mother. That, he told himself, was because she had never really been much of a mother to him.

      Now that he was of age and free to be the man he chose to be, he was glad to disassociate himself from that half-crazed woman who’d been the first to gloatingly tell him the truth about his birth. He was equally content to have no father to deal with, only a very concerned mother who loved him because he was her son by Peter MacNair.

      Yet, now that he was so free and unencumbered, he was anxious to get on with the rest of his life. He wanted to marry Amelia and yet he didn’t—not right now at least. He knew it was her sexuality that made him want her. He was more eager to become her lover than her husband. There was too much excitement going on in the world for him to start thinking of settling down and raising a family.

      He was terribly in love with Amelia. There wasn’t a single doubt of that. And he would marry her, just not for a while. First he had to satisfy all his dreams of speed and adventure. Amelia would understand that, because she was the only girl he’d ever met who truly understood him. She would wait for him, and he would never marry anyone else but her. This solemn promise he made to himself as he paid for his coffee and left the little cafe on the Rue de la Paix.

      It would be a sweltering day, Marcus decided as he felt the heat of the late morning sun on his way back to his pension. He hadn’t wanted to stay in a hotel, as his mother had insisted he do. He wanted to feel Paris, the real Paris with real Parisians. His French had improved to the point where he could now converse with any of the locals, could ask the most difficult questions