by Lois Duncan
“You would not dare!” Madame’s eyes were blazing.
“I would! Just wait and see!”
“And so would I.” There was a note of renewed courage in Sandy’s voice. “You’ll never get another poem of mine, starting with this one!”
Before anyone realized what she was about to do, she pulled a wadded paper from her sweater pocket and threw it into the fire. The flames leapt high for a moment and there came a low groan that seemed to rise from all corners of the room at once.
“Was that the one I translated for you?” Ruth asked.
“Yes, and that is just where it belongs—burned to ashes.” Sandy made a grimace of disgust. “Disgusting thing. I feel better already.”
“Stop them!” the professor cried. “We can’t let them do this! What they’re destroying is irreplaceable!”
“They will not do it,” Madame’s voice was a low hiss. “We will simply have to watch them, every minute of every day. We will chain them if necessary and stand over them and remove the work from their hands the moment they are completed. We will not be defeated! The stakes are too high! The work is too important!” She turned to Ruth. “Hand me that notebook immediately.”
“Go and get it!” Ruth cried. Ripping the cover from the book, she lunged forward and hurled the pages into the fireplace. Instantly, the edges turned black and began to curl inward. Madame gave a cry of rage and grabbed for the fire tongs, but Jules moved in to block her.
“It’s too late, Mother, can’t you see that? The experiment’s blown up in your face. This set of girls isn’t going to give in. Let them go. Let me take them out of here. Holding them isn’t going to accomplish anything. It’s just not going to work.”
The pages from Ruth’s notebook burst into a crackling blaze, and from its depths there came a shriek of such agonized fury that it shook the walls. The voice lifted in a scream, and another voice joined it, and another, until the room was filled with a chorus of hate-filled wails.
Suddenly, as though lifted by an unseen hand, the burning pages rose from the fireplace and flew straight out into the room in a shower of flaming segments. Kit instinctively threw up her arms to protect her face as the deadly missiles whizzed past, and she gave a cry of pain as one brushed her arm. All around her she could hear gasps and cries, and when she lowered her hands she saw to her horror that the draperies over the windows were on fire. The great orange flames gobbled greedily at the rich material and in a moment’s time they had spread to the sofa and the overstuffed chair.
“Now see what you have done! You wretched girls have angered them past endurance!” Madame started across the room. “I will call the fire department.”
“You can’t do that!” Jules flung out an arm to stop her. “The phone’s out, remember? Our one chance is to drive to the village for help. Give me the gate key!”
“I know what you intend! You will take the girls with you!”
“Of course I will,” Jules said. “But you don’t have a choice, Mother. This old house is an absolute firetrap! It’s ancient. The wood is dry. There’s nothing to stop it!”
“Damn you! Damn all of you!” Madame glared at them helplessly. Then with a jerk of her hand she reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. “Here, it is the big, square one. Hurry, Jules! Hurry! If they do not come quickly it will be too late.”
“I’ll make it as fast as I can,” Jules told her. “Now come on, let’s get out of here!”
He threw open the parlor door and led the way through the dark hallway to the front door. A moment later they were outside with the wind wild against their faces and the icy rain full upon them.
“We’ll go to my apartment,” Professor Farley called, starting across the lawn. “That’s detached from the house. Unless the wind changes, we’ll be all right there.”
Madame’s black figure fell into step behind him with Lucretia in tow, and Jules caught Kit’s arm and shoved her toward the driveway.
“You and the other girls wait out there. I’m going to get the car.”
“We’re leaving!” Sandy was half-laughing, half-crying. “Can you believe it, Kit, we’re actually leaving! By morning we’ll be on our way home, and we’ll look back on Blackwood and the whole thing will seem like a bad dream!”
“I’ll call my parents from the village,” Ruth said. “They’ll wire me plane fare. I can take the bus to the nearest town that has an airport.”
“Home,” Kit said. “It sounds like heaven.”
And then her heart caught in her chest. She turned and stared back at the house behind them with the flames bright behind the lower windows, and as she watched, she saw a malicious red tongue of fire appear suddenly at the second-floor level, licking up the edge of a bedroom window.
“Sandy! Ruth!” Horror filled her voice. “We forgot—Lynda!”
“Lynda!” Sandy repeated the name, stunned. “Oh no! In all the excitement, we forgot all about her.”
“You wait here,” Kit told her, “and tell Jules where we’ve gone. Ruth and I will go get her.”
“Speak for yourself,” Ruth said shortly. “I don’t plan to commit suicide. Do you see how that fire has spread already? Lynda’s room is around on the side, almost directly over the parlor.”
“You can’t be suggesting we should just leave her there!” Kit exclaimed incredulously. “She’ll be burned alive!”
“And what do you think will happen to us if we go back in to get her?” Ruth shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s tragic, but there’s nothing we can do. Maybe when the fire department gets here—”
“In an hour?” Kit cried. “It will be that long by the time we drive the distance to the village and they round up their volunteers and get back here. By that time the place will be ashes!”
“Well, I’m not planning on being ashes with it,” Ruth said. “Face it, Kit, the fire’s spread all across the front of the house. Look at those windows—they’re glowing with it! We’ll never even get in the front door.”
“We can go through the kitchen,” Kit said. “There hasn’t been time for it to have gotten that far. Ruth, this is Lynda, your best friend!”
“I’m sorry,” Ruth said again. “I honestly am. It’s just that there’s no chance in the world of our getting up to that second floor and back down again. We wouldn’t be saving Lynda, we’d be throwing our own lives away for nothing.”
“I’m afraid she’s right, Kit,” Sandy said shakily. “Our best bet would be to get under Lynda’s window and yell up to her. Perhaps we could get her to jump.”
“She’ll never hear us through the noise of the storm.”
“We could throw stones up against the glass.”
“Do you really think she’d react to that when she won’t even answer us when we call through the door?”
“It’s a chance, isn’t it?” Ruth said. “It’s better than nothing.”
“Not much better than nothing,” Kit retorted. “You can go throw stones if you want to. I’m going to try to get inside through the kitchen.”
“You can’t! You’ll get trapped in there!” Sandy grabbed for her arm.
Kit shook her off impatiently.
“I’m not going to let Lynda die up there if there’s any possible way to get her out!”
Leaving the other girls behind her, she started on a run around the side of the house. As she rounded the corner the wind struck her full force, whipping the raindrops against her as though they were pellets of steel.
Somewhere to her left lay the pond, but she could not see it through the darkness and the driving sheet of rain. Her feet found the familiar gravel path as dried stalks from the long-dead garden raked her ankles and a rosebush threw out a thorny arm to slash her cheek.
“Kit! Wait!” Sandy’s voice echoed behind her, far away.
“I can’t wait,” Kit called back. “There’s no time to wait!”
At the back of the house her way was easier, for the planting was less dense and the eaves
offered some protection from the rain. She floundered on through the heavy blackness, ran into the incinerator, reversed herself, and found the path that led to the kitchen door. For one panicky instant she was afraid that it might be locked, but it opened easily, and a moment later she was inside, groping her way through the dark kitchen. She reached the far side, shoved open the door into the dining room, and staggered back, choking, under a great rush of acrid smoke. Letting the door swing closed again, she leaned weakly against the edge of the counter, gasping for breath and wiping the stinging fumes from her eyes.
She would have to mask her face, but how, in the darkness? Frantically she tried to recall the exact layout of the kitchen. There was a drying rack by the sink where Natalie used to hang the dish towels, but did Lucretia use it now that Natalie was gone?
Working her way back along the counter, Kit kept one arm outstretched, even with the wall. Her hand moved across the smooth tile, found the sink, the faucets, and felt the soft touch of cotton cloth.
“Thank god,” Kit breathed as her fingers closed over the towel and pulled it from the rack. She felt for the faucet and turned it on. The water ran cold, and when the towel was drenched she covered her head with it, letting the front fall forward over her face like a veil, and returned to the dining room door. Now, when she opened it, she could face the smoke, at least long enough to reach the stairway. It was not until she was halfway across the room that she realized that she was no longer walking blind. The faint glow of light from the hall beyond should have prepared her for what she would see there, but it didn’t. Emerging from the dining room, she felt the heat strike her in one great blast. At the far end of the hall, the wall that had once enclosed the parlor was a solid panel of fire.
The hall was thick with smoke, but through it she could make out the curve of the stairway leading to the second floor. She reached the first step and began her ascent, only to stop at the landing, horrified, as a second wall of flame leapt up wildly in front of her.
“But it can’t be!” she gasped, and then in shaken relief realized that this was only the mirror playing yet another of its devious tricks on her, catching and throwing back the image of the hall below in a blazing reflection. Continuing her way forward, she reached the second-floor hall. Here it was cooler than on the lower level and the smoke was thinner. The only light was the reflection from the mirror, wavering and pale, but it was enough for her to see her way to Lynda’s door. She reached for the knob, twisted it, and gave a cry of frustration. How could she have forgotten that this door would be locked? There was no way to open it. By the time she could reach the carriage house to get the key from Madame she would not be able to return through the downstairs hall.
Making a fist, she began to pound upon the door.
“Lynda?” she shouted. “Lynda, are you awake in there? Do you hear me, Lynda?”
There was no sound from the room within. Kit pounded more loudly.
“Lynda, answer me! I know you’re in there—you have to be. Lynda, there’s a fire! Blackwood is on fire! Do you hear?”
Was it her imagination or was there a faint rustling sound, a movement, a gasp of understanding? Kit began to kick, crashing her foot time and again upon the wood of the lower panel.
“Blackwood is on fire! Blackwood is burning!”
“Who?” The voice on the far side of the door was small and tentative, half-dazed, as though the speaker were just waking from sleep. “Who is that?”
“It’s Kit! Kit Gordy!” Kit ceased her pounding and brought her face down to the level of the keyhole. “Lynda, listen! You have to get out of there! The door’s locked and I don’t have the key to open it. The only way is by the window. You’ll have to drop from the window.”
“From the window?” Lynda echoed blankly. “But I can’t do that. It’s too high.”
“Ruth and Sandy are standing down below,” Kit told her. “They’ll break your fall. Besides, it’s lawn beneath you, not the driveway. You’ll have to do it, Lynda, you don’t have a choice. There’s no other way.”
“But my paintings!” Lynda exclaimed. “I can’t leave them!”
“You’ll paint new ones.” The statement was flatly untrue, but she felt no guilt in uttering it. “Don’t waste time talking, get over to the window. Go on, now! I’ll stay here until I know you’re all right. Go look—are the girls down there?”
There was a moment of silence. When Lynda’s voice came again it was faint with increased distance.
“Yes, they’re there. Sandy and Ruth and Jules. Jules is there with them.”
“Open the window!” Kit called. “Hurry, get your legs over the sill! If you can lower yourself from the ledge you won’t have as far to drop.”
“It’s raining,” Lynda said wonderingly. “I didn’t know it was raining. I can see them down there under the window. They’re waving and holding their arms up to me. How is it I can see them when it’s night?”
“It’s the firelight shining from the windows!” The smoke in the hall was getting heavier and the cloth across her face had dried. “Jump!” Kit cried. “Please, Lynda, you have to! I can’t stay here much longer!”
There was no answer. Did she do it? Or was she standing still by the window, staring down at the fire-lit figures awaiting her below?
Kit rattled the knob.
“Lynda?” she called again.
There was no sound from within. Blackwood lay silent except for a steady crackling noise which, Kit realized suddenly, she had been hearing, half-consciously, for some time. She drew a breath and began to cough uncontrollably. The soles of her feet felt hot. Bending, she pressed her hand against the hard wood floor and snatched it away again as quickly as though she had laid it against a hot griddle.
She could wait no longer.
“Good luck!” she called to Lynda, hoping the girl was not there to hear her, and, turning, she started back along the hallway to the stairs.
The hall seemed brighter now and the heat more intense, and in the mirror she could see herself emerging from the darkness like some grotesque apparition, with her rain-dampened clothes molded to her body and the dish towel draped across her head. She reached the top of the staircase, and as she gazed down a low moan escaped her.
“There’s no way,” Kit whispered. “No way.”
Ruth had been right about the impossibility of this mission. In attempting to rescue Lynda, she had sacrificed herself. This staircase was the only way down from the second floor, and the fire in the hall below had spread almost to its base.
Then this is how it ends, Kit thought, and somewhere at the edge of her mind she heard someone laughing, a malicious chortle that began softly and rose in a howling frenzy.
“Too good for us, were you?” the dream man cried. “Too good to waste your precious life recording our music! And now, what use will that dear life be to you?”
“It’s my own!” Kit shouted back to him, finding strength in defiance. “At least it’s my own life, right to the end!”
She began to cough again and, half-blind with smoke, she pressed her arm across her eyes, feeling the bravado fall away in the horror of reality.
“Mom!” she murmured helplessly. “Daddy, help me! What am I going to do now?” It was force of habit, to call upon those two names. A hundred scenes rose from memory to flash upon the screen of her mind—her parents, strong, sure, arms outstretched to her, hands open to catch her own, eyes warm with concern, faces gentle with love. Her mother, regarding her worriedly. “Kit, dear, you will be happy here, won’t you? I’d never enjoy a moment of our trip if I thought you weren’t.” Her father in that strange final visit, standing silent by her bed, gazing down at her—
“Kit, open your eyes.” The voice was low and steady, a never-to-be-forgotten voice, gruff with affection. “You’ll never get out of this place with your head in your arms.”
I’m dreaming, Kit thought, and yet she knew that she wasn’t. Slowly she raised her head and opened her eyes and stared
up into the square, strong-featured face so much like her own.
“Dad!” Kit said softly. “Dad, it’s you?” For an instant longer the vision held, so real that she might almost have reached out and laid her hand against the sun-browned cheek. Then it blurred and was lost as hot tears flooded her eyes.
I’m so glad you’re here! I won’t be so afraid with you here with me. I should have known you’d come, that you wouldn’t let me die alone.
She did not speak the words aloud, but she did not need to. She could feel her father’s presence so strongly that he was almost a part of her. When his voice answered it came not from the hall before her but from somewhere within the depths of her own mind—You are not going to die!
But there’s no way out, Kit began, the fire—it’s everywhere! No one could make it through that hall.
You must try.
Firm words, spoken in a tone that allowed for no argument. A command that must be obeyed.
Kit found herself responding as she had as a child to those words, to his voice.
“All right. All right, Dad. I’ll try.”
She descended the stairs. Later she would try to remember the way it had been, the slow step-by-step progress with the acrid smoke filling her lungs and the walls of Blackwood rising above her to the great arched ceiling, but the memories would not hold true. They would come in fragments. The trip down the stairs. The blazing hallway. The smoldering pit that had once been the parlor. The pressure upon her head—
Bend down. Get as low as you can—the air will be better.
The dining room where the chandelier swung madly above a flaming table, throwing back a million orange lights. The kitchen again.
You must go to the gate. Do not stop for anyone. Go straight to the gate, and when you reach it, the Rosenblums will be waiting.
“The Rosenblums? But how—?”
