the books brought here by the Mountjoys?”
Mr. Morris shrugged. “Couldn’t say.”
“I’m sure they weren’t,” said Denis. “Wasn’t there some tale about the family that had lived here before? There was the tragic death of the eldest son, or something, and then the parents died, and a lot of stuff was left…or something.”
“Most probable,” said Jonathan knowledgeably. “That is how these things happened. Libraries split up by unforeseen accidents—documents scattered…all the threads to be picked up. Years of searching, wandering.…” He subsided into a vague muttering.
Mr. Morris pushed back his chair, got up, and went to the door. He opened it and peered out.
“Coming down heavy,” he said without surprise. “Like to keep on.”
Mr. Jonathan coughed. “Awkward getting about. Deeper all the time. Perhaps our young friend here—Mr.—er…do you think you’ll be able to reach your home without difficulty?”
There seemed to be a hint in this that Frank ought to be leaving. They stared at him. Denis twitched his eyebrows aggressively, and a flush dabbed upwards from his cheeks towards his sandy hair. He said, sharply: “What about you, sir? When are you planning to go back?”
Mr. Jonathan looked blank. “Back?” he pondered, and then looked amused. “Back?” he repeated. “Well, now. Monday morning, I suppose.”
There was an indefinable arrogance in his manner that jarred on those who were accustomed to the generally harmonious, uncomplicated nature of the small talk in this kitchen. He had struck a foreign note that left them uneasy.
“Very bad weather to be out,” said Mr. Jonathan, as though issuing a command to Frank. “I don’t know how you people find your way about this countryside in the dark, especially when it snows like this. Wonderful instinct you must have.”
“We manage all right,” said Denis.
His father, looking down at his plate and wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth, said: “It’s the men way up in the hills who feel it most. We’re not far from the village, and this is a sheltered spot, below the castle, like. But up there, when the wind blows drifts over the roads—and them not being much as roads to start with—then it’s hard to get anywhere, and the cold gets at the sheep, and…oh, now,” and he wagged his head, “there’s bitter it is up there. We haven’t anything we’d complain of.” He drew his chair up to the fire.
Mr. Jonathan was last to leave the table, twisting himself around the corner as though pivoted on his stomach. There was a moment of indecision, when everyone was standing up and chairs were pulled out at awkward, irrelevant angles. Jonathan looked fleetingly at Frank, then sullenly at his shoes. Denis said: “Well, when we can get the place tidy.…”
Mrs. Morris pounced suddenly on the table. She and Nora removed the crockery and carried it through into the scullery, where a small lamp burned above the sink. Frank made a move to help, but there was something so brisk and methodical about the way they carried tottering plates and saucers, and finally removed the tablecloth with a practised twitch of the hand, that made him feel clumsy and helpless.
“This won’t be much of a weekend for you, Mr. Jonathan,” said Denis, not without a touch of malice.
Jonathan seemed to have recovered his good humour. He smiled enigmatically. “Oh, I don’t know. We’ll see what turns up. We’ll see.”
They drew chairs up to the fire, the cold weather and the lure of the flames forcing them into an apparently sociable huddle. The sound of running water and the jangle of plates came from the scullery. Outside, the wind was rising, but the atmosphere here was warm and seductively comfortable.
“We could play cards,” said Denis, but no one made any reply. His father settled down with the morning paper, which had been delivered very late that morning, and at which he had so far only glanced. After a few minutes he was sound asleep, occasionally grunting and twitching his fingers on the rustling pages.
Frank said: “A fire like this makes you lazy. I ought to be getting up and starting off.”
“But it’s early yet. Half-an-hour’s walk—”
“That’s under good conditions. I mustn’t leave it too late.”
Jonathan perked up.
“Don’t worry,” said Denis. “By the way, did I ever tell you…were you with us, or weren’t you, in Augusta, that time…?”
Jonathan’s petulant expression returned. It was the first thing Nora noticed as she came in, patting her hair into place, and it gave her a swift, unaccountable twinge of unease.
Chairs were scraped back to make room for her. Jonathan said: “Well—hm, perhaps if I could fetch in one of those books, to check up the…ah, the things I came down about.…”
“I’ll get you a light,” said Nora. She took the torch from behind the tea caddy on the mantelpiece.
“And while I’m up,” he said, rising twistedly to his feet, his shadow leaping tortuously away from the lamplight, “perhaps you could show me a window from which I can see the castle.”
“What on earth for?” said Denis.
“A passing whim, if you like. A place of many associations, the castle of Lyomoria—the Tellurian Gate.”
“Never heard it called that before.”
“Nor have I,” said Frank. “It’s been associated with Gwyn ap Nudd, and of course, like every Welsh castle, with King Arthur—”
“Older!” sneered Jonathan. “Much, much older.”
“I’ll show you the passage window,” Nora offered, “but you won’t see anything; it’s far too dark.”
As they left the room, she heard Frank saying: “I really must push along, or I’ll be needing a search party sent out after me.”
She held the torch out, conscious of Jonathan moving beside her, his feet catching in slightly uneven tiles in the passage that she avoided automatically. The window, when they reached it, was a dim grey frame for the deep blackness outside—a blackness spotted by clinging white flakes that were tossed by invisible hands towards the smeared glass.
“It’s up there,” said Nora, holding out the torch to their guest so that, having satisfied himself that there was nothing to be seen from the window under these conditions, he could proceed on his way to the parlour and select the book he wanted, “but you can’t see any of the castle tonight.”
He took the torch from her and it went out, leaving them in darkness. She felt certain that he had thumbed the switch back, and was reminded of Christmas parties when this sort of thing had happened. But this wasn’t Christmas, despite the world outside. He was close to her, and she was for the first time aware of a slight, bitter smell of ammonia that he exuded—rather like a neglected baby. She said: “The light—”
“We can see the castle now.”
“Surely not.”
Nora
