The Jade God by Alan Sullivan (snow like ashes series txt) 📕

as little as possible. And,” she added genially, “please don’t fill your head with fancies about never having been alone.” II Perkins

Miss Derrick left the room, and Perkins stood motionless as though she welcomed its silence. Her eyes took on a strange expression as she scanned this apartment, with every least detail of which she was utterly familiar. The paneling ran nearly to the ceiling, and was topped by a narrow shelf. The west wall was dominated by the fireplace, and in the corner, placed at a slight angle from the wall itself, was the big desk. Sitting there, one looked not out through the French window, but almost directly at the door from the main hall. The desk was already littered with Derrick’s manuscript, and toward it Perkins moved as in a dream.

She put one thin hand on the smooth leather surface, then bent over the massive frame, searching, it seemed, in the manner of one who hopes she may not find. Her attitude suggested that she had done this many times before, and always with the same result; but it did not affect the swift and silent touch with which she fingered the heavy mahogany corners and deep, carved molding of its intricate design. Presently she shook her head with a sort of patient resolution and turned on the portrait a look of extraordinary inquiry, as though Millicent’s eyes, peering from the pigment, could have directed her⁠—if they only would. The picture might have been alive, so keen was her regard, so expectant of an answer.

Evening had drawn on, and the study became peopled with soft mysterious shadows in which she stood like a priestess before some half-veiled shrine. She made no movement toward the lamp but in the gloom progressed without a sound from point to point, with here and there a lingering touch to furniture and woodwork. These intimate caresses blended her the more completely with all that surrounded her till she was merged and absorbed into the bodily human presentment of wood and stone. Finally she came directly under the portrait, bent her head in an attitude of profound thought, and remained quite motionless. She was standing thus when the front hall door opened and Derrick’s whistle sounded cheerily outside.

At that the maid smiled to herself with sudden pleasure, crossed the room swiftly, and became occupied with the tea-tray. Derrick entered. He did not see her at first and started at a slight rattle of china.

“Jove, Perkins, you made me jump! I thought you were part of the room.”

She did not answer. He sent her a quick searching glance, stood by the mantel, and, taking out his pipe, watched her silently. How amazingly she fitted into everything! No, he could not imagine Beech Lodge without this woman.

“You will want to work now, sir?”

He nodded. “Yes, I think I will;” then, suddenly, “I say, how did you know I wanted to work?”

She gave a queer, twisted smile, the first he had seen on that ageless face⁠—a strange and almost grotesquely communicable look, with which she stepped at once from the role of servant and became a sort of administrator of something yet to be explained. But there was no lack of respect in her manner.

“I thought perhaps you might, sir.”

She took out the tray and, returning in a moment, adjusted the heavy curtains over the French window. He watched her light the desk-lamp and turn it low, feeling rested and soothed by every deft and noiseless movement. His senses were comforted by the indescribable certainty of her touch, which gave him an extraordinary feeling of confidence⁠—in something. And Perkins must know what this was. Presently he went to the desk and fingered his manuscript. It struck him that what he had already written was a little unreal and undirected. It didn’t go deep enough.

“Shall I make up the fire, sir?”

“No, thank you. It’s not worth while till after dinner. But I’d like the lamp higher.”

She came slowly toward him. “Have you really seen this room by firelight, sir?”

He looked at her curiously and instantly pictured this ancient chamber with warm shadows flickering over its mellow casements. Depth and warmth; that’s what it would be, had always been. He knew this much.

“Perhaps you might make up the fire after all. Good suggestion!”

She obeyed, and he watched the effect⁠—more fascinating than he had imagined. The study took on a new and ghostly beauty. Its dancing shadows were populous with fantasy that died and was born while he stared. There were tenants of the past here that no change of ownership could ever displace; reminders of spoken things that had drifted from vanished lips; echoes of songs whose lilt had never become silent. It had ceased to be a room. It was a palace of dream and vision. And in the background stood Perkins.

“By George!” he said under his breath.

“I thought you’d like it, sir.”

She was half invisible, and he started violently. “It’s wonderful, but I expected that.”

“Yes, it’s strange how one can tell.”

He glanced at her, as though he had known her all his life. “There is something about this room, and I felt it the first time I came in. How old is it?”

“It has no age, sir.”

Derrick did not seem surprised. “I thought you’d say that.” He paused; then as though resuming some previous talk, “Who else has felt it?”

“Only Mr. Millicent since I came here, and his daughter. It was different with Mrs. Millicent, and she was frightened.”

“I think I understand that, too. Was this his favorite room?”

“Yes, that is his desk. I think that at the end he was frightened as well.”

“And you found him. How was that?”

She made an indefinite gesture. “They sent for me.”

Again he felt nothing of surprise. “Yes, because they had seen and knew. But why did you stay here after it happened?”

Perkins took one long, uncertain breath. “I did go away for a week, but I couldn’t stay. It was all silent in London where I