Grass, стр. 101
Rigo woke with gritty eyes and a sour taste in his mouth. For a moment he did not remember where he was; then, seeing the flash of a flick bird across the tall windows and hearing a grass peeper call repeatedly from the grass garden, he remembered Grass. It was the soft, rose-colored curtains blowing in the morning wind that told him he was in Eugenie’s room rather than in his own bedroom adjoining Marjorie’s. The bed beside him was empty.
Eugenie came in like the head of a small tray-bearing comet, billowing hair and silken draperies in a turbulent tail behind her. “The girl doesn’t get here until later, Rigo, so I made you coffee my own self.” She plumped his pillow, sat beside him on the bed, and leaned prettily forward to pour. The cups were pink, curved like the petals of a flower. The cream was steaming.
“Where did you get cream?” he asked. “I haven’t had cream since we’ve been here.”
“Never you mind.” She pouted, flushing with pleasure at his pleasure. “I have my ways.”
“No, really, Eugenie. Where did you get it?”
“Sebastian brings it to me. His wife has a cow.”
“He never said a word to me about—”
“You didn’t ask, that’s all.” She stirred his cup and handed it to him.
“You flirted with him.”
She didn’t deny it, merely smiled through her lashes at him, sipping at her own cup.
He started to say something about flirting, about Stella’s flirting, and the memory came back. The cup dropped from his hand and rolled across the thick carpet and he struggled to get out of the clinging sheets.
“Rigo!” It was a protest.
“I forgot about Stella,” he cried. “I forgot!”
“You didn’t forget,” she told him. “You told me, last night.”
“Oh, damn you, Eugenie. That’s not what I meant.” He went away from her, into the bathroom. She heard water running as she sat staring into her cup, not drinking anymore. If he only hadn’t remembered. For a little while.
He went straight to the kitchen, then to Marjorie’s room, and then Tony’s. Only after finding all three places empty did he think of the tell-me. There he found a message, brief but complete: Tony and his mother had gone. They had taken the horses. They had gone to find Stella. Rigo howled, half in anger, half in pain, making the crystal ornaments complain in icy voices. Where would Marjorie have gone? Tony hadn’t said, but there was only one logical starting point for a search. Bon Damfels’ place.
He flushed, remembering how he had left bon Damfels’ place the day before, begging, pleading with them to help him find his daughter, while Stavenger, at first frostily cold and then heated with anger, had accused him of undisciplined, un-Huntly behavior; while Stavenger and Dimoth and Gustave told him to go home and mourn Stella in private and quit shouting about her; while bon Haunser and bon Damfels aunts and cousins pointed derisive fingers at him. Despite all that, the people of Klive were not at a Hunt today, and he would return to Klive.
In the garage, he found both aircars partially disassembled, with Sebastian hovering over a case of new parts.
“What in the name of God …?”
“Your driver said the stabilizer was malfunctioning yesterday,” Sebastian said, startled. “We’ve had trouble with both of them, and since there is no Hunt today …”
Rigo bit back a roar of outrage. “Is there any other vehicle here? Or in the village?”
“No, sir. I can have this one reassembled in an hour or two. If you must travel before then, perhaps someone from Commons…”
Persun Pollut called his father, but Hime Pollut was out of his shop. No one knew when he would return. Roald Few was not available. Three other persons who Persun called were at the port—a long-awaited shipment had come in. Persun made exaggerated swoops with his eyebrows, indicating annoyance.
As for Rigo, while hours passed, he seethed, barely able to contain his frustration at Marjorie’s passing slowly, slowly away to someplace where he might never find her.
When Marjorie and the others arrived at Klive, Marjorie rode directly to the Kennel Gate. It was the closest place she knew to the first surface, one of the two familiar approaches to the mansion. Above the first surface was the terrace, and fronting on the terrace were the reception rooms. She was halfway across the terrace before someone saw her and moved swiftly to intercept her. Sylvan.
“Marjorie!” His voice was a muffled shout of dismay. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to find out what I can about Stella.” She confronted him, arms folded, half angry, half pleading.
He took her arm, pulled her away from the windows. “You Yrariers do believe in courting danger. For the love of whatever you hold dear, Marjorie, come away from the doors. Let’s go down into the garden.” He turned away, still pulling at her, and she followed him, somewhat unwillingly and too late. The stentorian bellow startled them both. Stavenger had come out the doors and stood towering at the top of the steps, face purple with fury.
“What are you doing here? Fragras! I’m speaking to you!”
His fists were clenched as though he intended to strike her. Her own frustration and fury rose to meet his, all in a moment. She drew herself up, one hand forward, the index finger pointing him out.
“You,” she screamed. “You unholy monster!” Her voice hung on the air like a smell.
He shuddered and drew back, more surprised by her attack than he would have been by any other tactic. He was not accustomed to either defiance or reproach, and he had been so far from sensible thought that it took him