Ghosteria Volume 2: The Novel: Zircons May Be Mistaken, Tanith Lee [classic fiction txt] 📗

Ghosteria

Volume Two: the Novel

Zircons May Be Mistaken

Tanith Lee

Ghosteria Volume Two: The Novel:

Zircons May Be Mistaken

By Tanith Lee

© 2014

Ebook Edition through KDP 2014

This is a work of fiction. Allthe characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and anyresemblance to real people, or events, is purely coincidental. All rightsreserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, inany form.

The right of Tanith Lee to beidentified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordancewith the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.

Cover by Danielle Lainton &Storm Constantine from an idea by Tanith Lee

Layout by Storm Constantine

New (future) Author Web Site, asthe original has been stolen: http://www.tanith-lee.com

An Immanion Press Edition

http://www.immanion–press.com

info@immanion–press.com

Books by Tanith Lee

A Selection from her 93 titles

The Birthgrave Trilogy (TheBirthgrave; Vazkor, son of Vazkor, Quest for the White Witch)

The Vis Trilogy (The Storm Lord;Anackire; The White Serpent)

The Flat Earth Opus (Night’sMaster; Death’s Master; Delusion’s Master; Delirium’s Mistress; Night’sSorceries)

Don’t Bite the Sun

Drinking Sapphire Wine

The Paradys Quartet (The Book ofthe Damned; The Book of the Beast; The Book of the Dead; The Book of the Mad)

The Venus Quartet (Faces UnderWater; Saint Fire; A Bed of Earth; Venus Preserved)

Sung in Shadow

A Heroine of the World

The Scarabae Blood Opera (DarkDance; Personal Darkness;

Darkness, I)

The Blood of Roses

When the Lights Go Out

Heart-Beast

Elephantasm

Reigning Cats and Dogs

The Unicorn Trilogy (BlackUnicorn; Gold Unicorn; Red Unicorn)

The Claidi Journals (Law of theWolf Tower; Wolf Star Rise, Queen of the Wolves, Wolf Wing)

The Piratica Novels (Piratica 1;Piratica 2; Piratica 3)

The Silver Metal Lover

Metallic Love

The Gods Are Thirsty

Collections

Nightshades

Dreams of Dark and Light

Red As Blood – Tales From theSisters Grimmer

Tamastara, or the Indian Nights

The Gorgon

Tempting the Gods

Hunting the Shadows

Sounds and Furies

Also Published by Immanion Press

The Colouring Book Series

Greyglass

To Indigo

L’Amber

Killing Violets

Ivoria

Cruel Pink

Turquoiselle

Ghosteria Volume 1: The Stories

The grave’s a fine and private place,

But none I think do thereembrace.

To His Coy Mistress

Andrew Marvell

(1621 - 1678)

PART ONE

1

The Scholar

Elizabethhas said we all live in a yellow submarine. At the time, the young faces ofCoral and Laurel looked blank. And the Knight, as ever, just looked bemused,knowing it was nothing he would ever comprehend, although he didn’t care solong as Elizabeth kept talking. I’m afraid I too didn’t grasp her reference fora minute or so. I’m that foolish combination, both too old a man – and too young– always to comprehend. Then I recalled it was a Ringo Starr song, a Beatlessong, from way back, that fine band who reintroduced the world of popular musicto many wonderful and, to my mind, classical musical modes, chords andreferences.

But, aside from all else,Elizabeth’s statement is completely wrong in so many ways. Since it isn’t asubmarine, it’s a house, though yellowish, I suppose, like a fading autumn leaf.Part of it, obviously, in the distant past, was the old fortress-castle thatonce stood alone here on the hill. (I hazard too ‘fortress-castle’ is tautology.Maybe not, in this case.) And we don’t exactly live here, either. ‘Bivouac’might be a better word. Perch in mid-flight, between catastrophes, yearn and wait.But for what had we waited, we five, all this while? For Now, I think. Forexactly Now.

Egomaniacally,I’ll explain about myself, first. If you will permit.

I did not, originally, residehere, but in a frankly bloody awful ‘flat’ in London – one room withkitchenette, and a lavatory in a cupboard – ‘shared bath’ down the hall. (Sharedbath? I never shared a bath with anyone, except the tin one with my tinybrother, when I was nearly as tiny, he two and I four. We used to laugh andsplash each other and swim ducks made of – was it? – rubber. While our verynice mother laughed too, and we were all happy. Dear little Eddy, my sibling,died when he was ten. Meningitis, rare and often wrongly diagnosed then, butstill a possible. Then it was a bath of tears. Our mother died only three yearsafter. Where did they go, these, my darlings? Insane, isn’t it. I am here.But where are they?

However, although well into myninety-sixth or seventh year, (I can never quite recall now which), I was stillpretty hale and healthy, and despite being evicted at seventy from my post asAdvisory Librarian at Murchester, (where I had had a much nicer flat of threespacious rooms, with kitchen and bathroom, plus the service of a cleaner calledMr Timp), I kept up my services when they were required. Mine was ofteninteresting work, and besides augmented my rather frugal pension.

I arrived at this house in thespring of 2011, and anticipated being here about three to four months, as thelibrary is a large one. It lies, of course, in that smaller part of the housethat is still solid, and until recently well-maintained. A curious combinationinside of ancient show rooms, kept almost as when they had first been created,in the sixteen or seventeen hundreds, if not, actually, quite perfectlyreplicated. But also there were modern rooms, centrally heated and withdelightful clean running water, flush lavs and electric kettles. Oh, those werethe days.

By the second week I was wellinto my work, and enjoying myself enormously, sorting out the rambling libraryduring the morning and the evening, taking time before lunch to walk the – thenelegant – gardens, or cautiously to explore the more ruinous other premises.The whole place was said to be haunted. I must say I’d never, at that time Iwas originally ninety-six or seven, ever seen a ghost. Nor did I, during thosetwo weeks. But there were plenty of tales about them, even in some of thereference works I had been cataloguing. A man in a green coat upstairs, while awarrior in chain mail, he from around the 1300’s, was said to roam the ruins,maintaining sentry-go; he had even been spotted now and then over in the more –to him – futuristic areas, staring about him, it was said, in apparent puzzledfascination, at the real 17th century armchairs and the faux 18th century statues.A very young girl – or two of them – in perhaps Victorian dress were also saidto appear from time to time in a corridor, or on the big stair that led fromthe hall. But I never