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

Thursbys simply got frightened. But I’m astonished you asked no questions on your account.”

He shook his head and stared at the portrait. “The questions will come later on. I haven’t got them ready yet. By the way, Edith, that’s Millicent over the fireplace. He’s been trying to tell me something ever since we came into the house; what you call a speaking likeness. Now I’ve got it, and he’s trying to smile.”

“I wish you wouldn’t go on like that, Jack. Please don’t.”

“It’s nothing in the world to be nervous about. This sort of thing is going on all the time around all of us. Some see it, and others don’t.”

“But how did you know?” she asked nervously.

“Can’t tell you that; it’s not a matter of reason or information. Some people call it the influence of the inanimate, which is rather a bald way of putting it. I’ve got the idea that it’s the permanence of things that are universally put down as lost, or at any rate as only transient. Just imagine, for instance, that nothing is really lost, but that everything, every act and motion, and even word, is registered in some kind of extraordinarily delicate vibration, so delicate that it is quite imperceptible to the average person. But the record is there nevertheless; in fact the entire universe is throbbing and quivering with such records that he who can may read, or at least perceive. Go a little further and admit that the more tense the act or word the more keen the pitch of the ethereal record, and one begins to appreciate what is really implied by what we call coincidence, and how it is that often, after many years, mysteries are solved that long baffled any approach to solution. It really means that someone was sensitive enough to decipher the record that was always there. I’ve an idea it may turn out like that in the case of Millicent. And when you ask me how I knew someone died suddenly in this room, I can’t answer in any other way than this. I just knew; that’s all.”

Edith felt utterly confused. She was a practical girl, with a healthy dislike of anything that might upset the normal progress of everyday affairs, and for years had stood between her brother and the drab realities of life, in order that his fancy might have untrammeled swing. Imagination, either on her own part or that of others, had never heretofore caused her any discomfort. She admitted its value, but the process by which it worked was beyond her. Now, however, she experienced a sudden distaste for her new surroundings. Derrick’s eyes had taken on an intense, far-pitched stare as though he were probing things beyond her own ken. He seemed to be moving away from her.

“I wonder if I’m going to like this house,” she hazarded.

He pulled himself together and laughed. “Buck up, old thing, and you mustn’t mind if I wander a bit. It’s too late to take exceptions after signing a year’s lease.”

She glanced at him seriously and a little anxiously. “It’s only that you’ve been in a sort of half-world ever since we got here. Now I must settle this matter of Perkins.”

“Right! And I’ve got to find a gardener. And look here, Edith; speaking of half-worlds, isn’t it possible that that’s about all we get in any case⁠—the obvious half?”

“Don’t be so introspective, and see if you can’t find something cheerful outside. And, Jack, will you ask Perkins to see me here?”

He kissed her and strolled to the door. “If I may make a foolish manlike suggestion it would be that when you’re talking to Perkins you try to imagine this place without her. I’ve tried and failed. I’ll send her in.”

She sat for a moment, deep in thought, till very soon it seemed there was nothing to be anxious about after all. Her brother’s fanciful mind had merely unearthed something which he must inevitably have discovered before long. The mystery might hold him for a few days, till his restless imagination moved on elsewhere. It had always been like that in the past. The fact that Millicent died here two years ago could mean nothing to new tenants. All houses were built to live and die in. Beech Lodge was charming and well arranged, and they had leased it on nominal terms. It was true that the terms were, perhaps, suspiciously nominal, but she pushed this thought aside to make room for others more helpful and constructive. She confessed to being piqued with herself for giving any evidence of discomfort, and would in future take less notice of her brother’s whimsical ideas. Then she looked up and saw Perkins.

“You sent for me, madam?”

Miss Derrick regarded her with absorbed interest. How old was this woman? At first appearance she seemed never to have been young, but her smooth skin and straight figure suggested that she could not be much past forty. It was the grave, inscrutable face that baffled. It carried no trace of expression and revealed no play of the mind. In the dark eyes moved a kind of secret light, quickening at times into a fleeting gleam that was instantly extinguished. In these moments Perkins appeared to receive communications from a source privy to herself, messages that illumined a nature of which the outer world knew but little; and, save for these occasional and passing glimpses, her face was like a mask. Miss Derrick, held for an instant voiceless by something she could not understand, wondered what sort of private life had been led by a woman who looked like this. The pause lengthened, but Perkins stood, passive and undisturbed.

“I’ve had a talk with Mrs. Thursby,” said Edith rather stiffly, “and she mentioned you. It was quite satisfactory.”

“Yes, madam.”

The flatness of her tone announced that it was immaterial what Mrs. Thursby might have said. Obviously the latter meant nothing to Perkins. There was no superiority in her manner; just a total lack of interest.

“So if you