Gravelight by Marion Zimmer Bradley Read Free Book Online Page A

door of the wardrobe.
    There were dresses inside—plain cotton housedresses of the sort that could be ordered from a catalog, their timeless unfashionability nearly unchanged in thirty years. The drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe proved to contain women’s underwear; Wycherly retreated hastily.
    When he straightened up he was dizzy, and the room
spun giddily around him. He backed up, holding on to the brass bed for support. What was all this stuff still doing here? Even if Evan’s “Miss Rahab” had had no heirs, in Wycherly’s experience, anyone would steal—and what could be easier than stealing from the dead?
    This is weird , Wycherly thought with the serenity of drink and lingering exhaustion. But he didn’t actually care much.
    And that, Wycherly thought to himself, clutching the bed frame for support, was the bottom line, as Kenny Jr. was so fond of saying. Wycherly didn’t care what was going on, how many women had died here, or if they’d all been murdered by Charles Manson. Kenny’d said he was selfish. His father’d said he was weak. They could both be right for once, and he hoped it would make them happy: The only person Wycherly was interested in was Wycherly Musgrave, and Wycherly Musgrave needed a place to hide.
    And a drink.
    He pushed open the door to the main room.
    Someone had been busy, though no one was here now. The front door to the rustic cabin was open, and Wycherly moved reflexively to shut it, although the only trespassers he was likely to get would be squirrels. But squirrels—or even raccoons—could not be responsible for the condition of the cabin as it was now. The table was covered with a clean, bright red and white cloth with a wooden bowl of wildflowers and four gleaming hurricane lamps on it. He smelled the scents of white vinegar and pine soap. Little trace remained of the dust and eerie abandonment that still filled the bedroom.
    Coals and kindling heaped beside the iron stove, pots and pans on the wall, canned goods on the shelves. Two wooden settles flanked the wood stove, a table and chairs in the middle of the room, cups and plates filled with grey dust still upon it … A flash of recollection appeared and was gone. Someone had cleaned here while he slept. Was it that mountain girl, Luned?

    The notion disturbed him deeply, though Wycherly had lived his entire life against a backdrop of invisible service. From buying the groceries, to preparing the food and a thousand other tasks, there had always been unseen hands to take care of it. Wycherly had never been called upon to perform any of the common chores of daily living, yet having someone else do it bothered him deeply.
    Hunger made its presence faintly known. A drink would take care of that.
    Wycherly walked over to the battered white refrigerator on the far wall. But when he opened it, all that greeted him was room-temperature air and a faint smell of bleach. Where was the beer? He’d brought at least two six-packs up with him. He looked all through the refrigerator, but found nothing other than dry cleanliness.
    His attention was momentarily distracted by the calendar on the wall beside the sink. It was curled and faded, a promotional calendar from some supplier of bottled gas. The date was 1969, the month was August. A bad omen. August, his birthday—the anniversary of Camilla’s death—was always a bad time.
    He turned away, and saw a yellowed newspaper on top of the pot-bellied cast-iron stove in the other corner. Wycherly picked it up. It was yellowed and crumbling, but he could clearly see the masthead: THE PHARAOH CALL AND RECORD, PUBLISHED WEEKLY FOR LYONESSE COUNTY, INCLUDING THE TOWNSHIPS OF PHARAOH, MORTON’S FORK, LA GOULOUE, BISHOPVILLE, AND MASKELYNE; AUGUST 4, 1969.
    No one had been here, even to steal, for nearly three decades. For a moment, Wycherly was distracted from his search for the missing beer; despite his professed disinterest,