The figure was herself, and the word:
"Michael."
Twenty-One
Mary woke to find herself in a strange bed, with monogrammed sheets
and a broad, crimson canopy. She lay still and tried to realize all
that had happened. It was impossible. Her recollections of the night
before were so confused. . .and her present surroundings in such flat
contradiction to the naked exposure she felt. . .that the aura of
unreality remained.
She let out a bewildered breath, and pressing her fingers to her
temples, tried to reshape in some logical pattern the events of her
journey, and later installment in this room. Images came to her in
sharp detail, but would not arrange themselves to any firm order or
conclusion.
She saw again the pale interior of the carriage. Then through the
window, the grim Castle looming upon the promontory: above the mists,
beneath the moon
. She saw the drawbridge raised again behind them, and the spiked
portcullis lowered in the arch beyond. And then the great, hulking
form of a man, seated as if in Judgment upon a raised throne of oak at
the head of a long reception hall, hung with bright banners and fading
tapestry.
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