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Almost instantly the House sank the merest quarter of an inch as if the night had come upon it or a cloud drifted to weight the high attic roof.
In the attic heights there was a dream inside of a slumber inside of a flesh.
“Who’s there?” he called quietly. “Where are you?”
The attic dust rose and sank in a stir of shadow.
“Oh, yes, yes,” he said at last. “I know it now. Your blessed name.”
He moved to the bottom of the stairs leading up through the moonlight to the waiting attic of the House.
He took a breath.
“Cecy,” he said, at last.
The House trembled.
Moonlight shone on the stairs.
He went up.
“Cecy,” he said a final time.
The front door slowly, slowly drifted and then slid and then very quietly shut.
CHAPTER 23
The Gift
There was a tap at the door and Dwight William Alcott looked up from a display of photographs just sent on from some digs outside Karnak. He was feeling especially well fed, visually, or he would not have answered the tap. He nodded, which seemed signal enough, for the door opened immediately and a bald head moved in.
“I know this is curious,” said his assistant, “but there is a child here …”
“That is curious,” said D.W. Alcott. “Children do not usually come here. He has no appointment?”
“No, but he insists that after you see the gift he has for you, you’ll make an appointment, then.”
“An unusual way to make appointments,” mused Alcott. “Should I see this child? A boy, is it?”
“A brilliant boy, so he tells me, bearing an ancient treasure.”
“That’s too much for me!” The curator laughed. “Let him in.”
“I already am.” Timothy, half inside the door, scuttled forward with a great rattling of stuffs under his arm.
“Sit down,” said D.W. Alcott.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll stand. She might want two chairs, sir, however.”
“Two chairs?”
“If you don’t mind, sir.”
“Bring an extra chair, Smith.”
“Yes, sir.”
And two chairs were brought and Timothy lifted the long balsa-light gift and placed it on both chairs where the bundled stuffs shown in a good light.
