The Opal-Eyed Fan by Andre Norton
Lydia simply stared for a long minute as if she did not believe her in the least. Then she smiled, a little unpleasantly.
“What he means, of course, is that you are to play companion so I can’t see Ralph. That was not particularly clever of him. I,” her chin lifted and her jawline was as firm and stubborn looking now as her brother’s, “intend to do as I please in this matter. If Crewe thinks he can keep me shut up on this Key until he picks out a husband for me, that is his plan, not mine. And—“now the look she turned to Persis was close to hostile, “I would suggest that you mind your own business!”
With a last flirt of her full skirts she was gone, and the door closed behind her as firmly, if not as loudly, as if it were slammed.
Wearily, Persis arose and went once more to look out of the window. For some reason Lydia’s visit brought back her preoccupation with the fan. It was almost as if some thought beyond her control connected the girl with that sinister find. Could Lydia have been the one who had disinterred that and put it in the chest drawer? But why?
Lydia was certainly linked with Ralph Grillon and determined to go her own way in spite of any restraint her brother tried to provide. She had been shrewd in her quick appraisal of what might lie behind his suggestion of shell hunting. Persis determined that she would play no part at all in the intrigues existing between the Bahamian and her hostess. If Crewe Leverett wanted a watchdog for his sister, let him look to his own household for such a one.
“No–”
Persis swung hastily back to the bed. Was Molly fast in another nightmare?
The maid’s eyes were closed; Persis was sure she was asleep, but her hands moved back and forth across the light sheet which covered her body.
“Safe—safe—” she repeated the words as if trying to reassure herself of something. “Must have dropped it when the bed was made. But the lock—it is safe—”
Persis came again to the side of the bed. There was so much uneasiness in those gabbled words that she felt she must discover the source of this new troubling dream.
“Molly,” she spoke softly, “what is safe?”
“The portfolio.” To Persis’ surprise the maid answered as if she were awake and fully cognizant of what she said. “It was on the floor. But now—it is safe. Must have fallen out when the bed was made—the only way—”
The portfolio! Persis had half-forgotten she had given that to Molly for safekeeping.
She slipped her hand now under the upper narrow featherbed, groping for the familiar feel of the leather. With Molly ill it was best she took it in charge again. Her fingers closed on the edge of the leather and she drew it slowly to her, taking care not to disturb the sleeper.
“Safe?” Somehow that one word held the note of a plea.
Persis clasped the portfolio tight against her. She leaned closer and said, hoping that her assurance would reach the other’s mind no matter how deeply guarded by slumber:
“Safe, entirely safe, Molly.”
The sleeper sighed, her head turned on the pillow, away from the girl. And as Persis watched her closely it was apparent that the maid was now deep asleep, as if her nightmare had so worn out her energy that she must rest to make up for what the fear had done to her. Persis began to go over the papers—the will, the letters, the depositions from the two privateersmen who witnessed the death of James Rooke in the sea battle. Everything was present. Only she could not now believe that they had not been searched for—read–
Why? To her knowledge no one under this roof, save herself, Molly, and Shubal had any interest in Uncle Augustin’s affairs. Ralph Grillon’s story—had some servant secretly in his employ made a report, giving him that ammunition he had used to try and force his bargain on her? That seemed very fantastic, like some strange device of a novelist. But that the papers had been perused, perhaps for a second time, Persis somehow had no doubt at all.
Where could she hide them? Or need she hide them again? If they had been inspected and left to her, there would be no reason to try to protect them now. She longed to awaken Molly fully and ask her more concerning what she had murmured about the portfolio. But she could not do that.
Persis found it hard to sit still. What she had always been told was her greatest fault of character possessed her, growing stronger by the minute—her impatience. She wanted to plunge into action, to do something. Only reflection kept saying, “What?” And to that she had no answer. There was no one under this roof to whom she could go with her questions, her—her imaginings. But she felt haunted by something which she tried to tell herself was merely the result of her disturbed night—by the impression that just beyond the edge of her comprehension, forces were in action which vitally affected her but which she could not understand.
There was Crewe Leverett. Oddly her thoughts kept coming back to him. But what utter stupidity it would be to pour out to him two—no, three dreams (counting Molly’s)—and the fact that she believed, without adequate proof, that her private papers had been twice rifled. And she wanted no interference from an outsider.
There had always been Uncle Augustin. Now she understood fully how much she had depended upon him. Not that she could have gone to him with any dreams or fantasies either. She could guess what his response would have been to such vaporing on her part. But the responsibility he had left her—that she would not have needed to concern herself with.
Persis had always believed most firmly in her own judgment, her own strength of character. Had she done that just because such qualities had never been put to the test before? That question left her shaken, but she would not yield to it.
She had duties—to Uncle Augustin, who at the last had trusted her, whether forced by circumstance or no—to Molly and Shubal—and last of all, to herself. She must make decisions and steer them all into the future.
Molly was sleeping now, lying quietly and without any of the distress she had shown. Persis, still holding the portfolio to her, took a quick turn up and down the room. Above all, she wanted to get this to her own chamber again. She wanted a chance to think (if she could ever control the random dart of thoughts which now struck at her calm—or what should be her calm consideration of the future).
But she had promised to stay and Persis kept her promises. What if Molly slid once more into one of those nightmares and she was not here? What if—?
There was a faint tap on the door and Persis started as if she fully expected the menace which had earlier filled the darkness for her to enter. But it was Mrs. Pryor who opened the door very quietly, moved with firm purpose to the bed and rested her hand for a brief moment on the narrow bit of forehead showing below the ruffle of Molly’s nightcap. She nodded competently.
“The fever has broken, she is sleeping quite naturally,” she observed. She glanced at Persis as if she wondered what the girl was doing there.
“Molly—she had a very bad dream. I promised I would stay with her—wake her if it came again.”
There was very little expression on Mrs. Pryor’s face. If she thought Persis oversolicitous and even rather silly, she betrayed none of that conclusion. Instead she said something which the girl found remarkable, coming as it did from such a manifestly sensible woman.
“Dreams are very odd at times. But the herb tea she took might well have been the cause. Askra told me once that her tribe in the old days took a much stronger mixture of the same properties (that is, their wise men and women did) to induce visions. Only I have never used such proportions. But—yes, dreams can be most strange. I have heard of warnings which came in dreams and because they were not heeded, the dreamer later faced misfortune.”
She had not looked at Persis when she spoke. But was there a subtle warning in what she said? That was another question Persis dared not ask now. Meanwhile, Mrs. Pryor was continuing.
“You need not worry about her dreaming again, Miss Rooke. This is a very natural and deep sleep—not the kind which gives birth to such disturbing fancies. And,” for the first time she fac
“But Molly—” Persis was torn between her own fatigue and her promise.
“I shall get my darning, Miss Rooke, and sit right here. It is cool with the sea breeze coming in. And you may rest assured I shall call you if anything occurs which needs your presence.”
There was such authority in that it was plainly a dismissal. To counter it might well awaken some suspicion. Reluctantly, Persis agreed. It was true that Molly seemed to be resting now without any unpleasant effects. But she stood by the bed watching her narrowly until Mrs. Pryor returned with a large drawstring bag. The housekeeper drew the chair a little closer to the window and settled herself as if perfectly willing to spend some time there.
Back in her own chamber Persis discovered that Sukie—or someone—had indeed left a covered tray on the bureau top. And after she had stowed the portfolio under her pillow, much as Molly had tucked the Bible she believed would keep her from evil, Persis lifted the napkin, realizing she was indeed very hungry.
There were some slices of cold roast chicken, cut a little thin, to be sure, but still enough. Also a plate of bread and butter with a small side dish of the jam made from some of the exotic fruit Dr. Veering brought from Verde Key for Mrs. Pryor to experiment with, and a custard, firm and lightly browned on top–just the way which would satisfy the stomach. There was also a small jug from which Persis poured what seemed to be a fruit drink.
She ate hungrily, but drank more sparingly, for she found the slightly strange taste of the liquid not quite to her liking. Perhaps the sweetness of the custard made it seem a little bitter. For the rest, she finished most of what had been provided.
Though Persis was sure she could not sleep, not with her mind invaded by all those unanswered questions, she did pull the upper coverlet back on the bed, take off her dress and her slippers, and stretch out fully expecting to now be able to think things through calmly and rationally.
The bed appeared unusually soft and pleasant. She closed her eyes and relaxed without realizing until she did so how tense she had been for hours. So soft a bed–it was like resting on a cloud—a big, drifting billow of cloud—far above the earth and all its problems.
Just to rest so was wonderful—wonderful—wonder—
13
P ersis awoke slowly, reluctantly. Around her the room was dusky. How long had she been asleep? Memory filtered back into her mind. At least this rest had not been plagued by dreams. Or if they had come she could not remember them—for which she was very thankful.
But–
As she sat up she was aware that her right hand was closed about something. Persis looked down. And the dim light of the room was not dull enough to hide what she held. The false fan!
She dropped it quickly as if the very touch of the carved and jewel-inlaid wood burned her fingers. Who–?
The drawer where she had hidden it was closed this time—she could be sure of that even through the gloom. She stared back down at that—that impossible thing.
However this time—Persis could not understand what moved in her. She did not will the action certainly, but her hand went out, to close once more about the pseudo-fan. And also, without any conscious desire for such action, she gave the slight turn which freed the blade, drew it forth.
The distaste, even horror, she had for that eerie weapon no longer possessed her. Instead—instead she felt a desire to keep it close to her—that it was a promise of safety for her against formless, nameless evil.
Fancies—imagination—! Persis stared about the very ordinary room. There was nothing here, nothing at all to suggest danger. Yet her breath was coming faster, the palms of her hands were sticky wet; so that she put down the dagger to wipe them back and forth across the sheet.
There was an odd metallic taste in her mouth—like the lingering bite of that drink she had not completely finished. How long had she been lying there? It had not been just an afternoon nap to so hold her. Surely the hour was well into twilight.
There were—forces—
Persis looked around her, studying each portion of the shadowed room. For all her call upon sensible thinking and calm, she could not lose that feeling of impending trouble.
Now, turning a little, she thrust her hand under her pillow, seeking the portfolio. That was—Persis snatched up the two pillows, looked upon the spread of sheet. That was gone!
Pushed off on the floor during some restlessness on her part while asleep? The girl struggled off the bed to look first on one side and then the other. Striking the tinderbox, she lit the candle and got down on her knees, lifting the fall of covers, draping back the netting, to see under the bed. There was nothing there.
Persis tried to think. Who knew she had taken the portfolio back from Molly? Mrs. Pryor had certainly seen her carry it from the room. But she could conceive of no interest the housekeeper would have in it. Unless she was acting for someone else—
Though the room still held the enervating and muggy heat of the day, and no breeze stirred through the open windows, Persis shivered. She was cold—cold with a chill which was born inside her and not reaching her from without.
And the house—there seemed to her an unnatural quiet in this room—as if something waited—
She wanted company, she had to have it—now!
But she moved jerkily, as if her body had less courage than her will, must be driven into action by determination. This time she was going straight to Captain Leverett. This was no dream, but the reality of a loss which might be bitter for her.
Setting down the candle she hastily put on her dress, thrust her feet into her slippers. Then, as if moved by something outside herself, she fitted the hidden blade back into the mock fan and that she hid away down the front of her bodice, feeling the dig of it between her stays and her skin. Never in her life had she known a need to lay hand on any weapon with the thought of protecting herself. Now—
She had done this once before—? No, she had not! But still haunting her there came a fleeting memory of such a need and that this very hidden blade had provided safety.
The cold continued to lap her around as Persis took up the candle and went to the door. Opening that a crack, the girl listened. The utter silence which enfolded her was not natural. And this was no dream.
But it took all the will she could summon to make her open that door wider, venture into the hall, where the tiny glow of her single candle was nearly eclipsed by the growing dark. Again she paused to listen. Not even those creaks which were a part of the house sounded now. It was far too quiet.
She pushed away from the wall, crossed the strip of carpet to Captain Leverett’s door. Again it required a vast amount of will to raise her hand, rap on the surface. While that rap seemed to echo and re-echo hollowly up and down.
Persis bit down on her lower lip. She—she had to see, to talk to someone! She had to!
Turning her head toward the stairs she could perceive no glimmer of light below. Though at this hour the lamp in the hall, other candles and lamps should have been, according to routine, burning enough to make the stairway clearly visible.
Once more she rapped. But there was not a single murmur of voice from within. Because she could not stand this eerie feeling of disaster any longer, Persis tried the latch. That gave easily under her hand, the door itself swung open as if in invitation.
But the chamber beyond was utterly dark. Which was wrong. Even if Captain Leverett had been asleep there should have been a well-shaded nightlight such as had burned all through his illness. With a catch of breath Persis took one step and then another, holding out her candle to illumine the bed.
She blinked; it took her a second or two to realize that was empty. The curtains of net were pushed back on one side; she could still see the impression of a body against the heaped pillows which had kept t
Persis was sure of that before she made the rounds of the room. And she believed that only some dire emergency would have taken him from his bed. Dr. Veering had warned him, in her own hearing, against any exertion which might again throw out the shoulder.
She turned and ran. Lydia’s room was next. She pounded on that door. The very force of her fist against those panels sent it flying open as if it had never been latched at all. There was no one there. Somehow she had not really expected to find the other girl.
The feeling that danger crept in this house so tightened her throat Persis could not have cried out any name no matter how much she wanted to. As she moved she felt giddy, so she had to stand with one hand braced against the wall for a moment or two to steady herself.
Molly—and Mrs. Pryor!
Back she went, wavering a little, to the second staircase. She climbed, not as fast as she wanted to, but as swiftly as her increasing light-headedness would allow, holding the candle with one hand and the narrow banister with the other.
This time she did not rap at the door she sought. She dreaded the sound of that hollow noise, just as she tried to hold up her full skirts so that they would not brush the carpet and betray her passing. Betray her to who—or what?
Once more she looked into darkness, but this time she heard heavy breathing. Her relief was so great she could have cried out, save that same inner need for silence kept her gagged.
Molly lay on the bed. And apparently the maid still slept. But—Persis’ candle revealed something else. Mrs. Pryor still sat in the chair. Only her capped head had fallen forward so that her full chin rested on her breast, and she was snoring also. A stocking with a needle still thrust into it lay under one hand. The other had fallen limply to her side. As Molly’s, her face was flushed, her mouth a little open to let the breath whistle in and out.
“Mrs. Pryor!” Persis hurried to the housekeeper’s side, dropping her hand on the woman’s shoulder. As she had done to awaken Molly out of the nightmare, she shook her gently. But somehow she already knew that Mrs. Pryor was in no natural sleep.